The Program (The Program #1)(26)
Author: Suzanne Young

“I’ve seen the returners,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes. “I see exactly what you take.”

When my hands are free, I sit up and rub my wrists, amazed at how much less vulnerable I feel now. But I’m in hospital scrubs, and I shiver, thinking that the dark-haired handler might have undressed me.

Dr. Francis pulls his eyebrows together with concern. “Everyone who comes into The Program is very unwell.”

“That’s not the point,” I say. “We should have a choice.”

“But how can a proper decision be made when the mind is clouded with disease? It’s an infection, Sloane. A behavioral contagion. And we’re the only cure.” He pauses as if just realizing how cold he sounds. “I apologize,” he says. “You should get settled first. I’ll have the nurse come in to check on you.” He nods to me before leaving the room.

I’m still shaking from the shot the handler gave me, but I can’t help wonder if the doctor is right. Maybe I’m sick and don’t realize it. I lie back in the bed, looking at the gauze wrapped around my wrist and remembering how desperate I felt.

But I can also remember the look on the handler’s face when he came to get me—his predatory stare. He’d been waiting for that moment, waiting to get me here.

No. The Program isn’t the cure. It’s the end of me.

• • •

“And this is the leisure room,” the nurse says, motioning ahead. She’s grandmotherly, even wearing a knit sweater over her scrubs. But I think it’s purposeful, that she’s here to trick me somehow. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, my head still fuzzy, and shuffle behind her into the large room.

I’m dressed in lemon-yellow hospital scrubs with a matching robe, sunny slipper socks on my feet. I’d prefer something more depressing—maybe black, but I suppose that’s why they picked yellow.

The leisure room doesn’t look the least bit relaxing. Unlike the Wellness Center, this space has no color. It’s stark white and bland, like a black-and-white movie with splashes of yellow. There are about twenty people in here. The Program takes patients between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, but most appear to be on the older side. There’s no ping-pong table or chessboard. Instead there’s a TV on one side with a couch in front of it. A few tables and chairs are poised near the windows—which I’m sure are sealed—looking over a lawn. There are a couple of computers with signs that read NO INTERNET ACCESS. The only thing that looks even slightly appealing is the game of cards going on at a table in the corner,

Three guys are sitting there, one chomping on a pretzel stick like it’s a cigar. The way they interact—as if they’re friends—floods me with a sudden longing for James and Brady. We used to play cards like that.

“Which facility is this?” I ask, feeling sick. There are three buildings that The Program uses. I wonder if this is the same one James was sent to.

“Springfield,” she says. “Roseburg and Tigard are nearing full capacity. We can only handle forty patients at a time, so we’re a tightly knit group here.” She smiles and touches my shoulder. “We have about an hour before dinner. Why don’t you try to make some friends?” she asks. “It’s good for your recovery.”

I throw her such a hateful glance that she backs up. Friends? They are about to erase my friends. With a nod, the nurse leaves me there, her grandmotherly facade falling away as she goes about her other duties.

I think then that maybe everything here is fake. They offer us a false sense of calm, but there is no such thing. This is The Program. I know how dangerous that is.

The guy across the room with the pretzel cigar laughs loudly, tossing down his cards. I’m so stunned to hear the laughter that I just stare, wondering how someone could laugh in a god-awful place like this.

Just then he glances over and notices me, his smile faltering a little. He tips his head in acknowledgment. I turn away.

I walk to the window and sit in the chair there, pulling my knees up to wrap my arms around them. How many people tried to jump out of these windows before they decided to seal them?

I’ve never been a fan of heights. Back when we were kids, my parents took us to an amusement park, and Brady convinced me to go on the Ferris wheel with him. I was probably eight or nine, and when we got to the very top, the cart stopped, frozen there. At first Brady joked around, rocking the cart back and forth. But he cut it out when I started crying.

“You must be afraid of heights, Sloane,” he said, putting his arm protectively around me. “I’m sorry.” He paused then, looking out over the park. “It’s not good to have fears like this. It only makes it more likely that you’ll die that way—a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

I wiped at my face. “What?”

“I read it in a book once. So if you keep being afraid of heights, you’ll probably die falling from something.”

I grip the bar tightly, my breath starting to quicken. Brady chuckled.

“I don’t mean today. I mean eventually. It’s like the river, Sloane. You’re afraid of swimming—so chances are, if you ever fall in, you’ll probably drown. Your mind will make it happen.”

I pause now, looking out on the lawn of The Program facility. I didn’t drown in the river, even when I tried. But my brother did. Was it my fault because he knew I feared it?

“You look like somebody kicked your dog.”

The voice startles me, and I look up to see the guy from the card table standing there. “What?” I ask, putting my feet on the floor.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “They probably just erased its memory. Good point.” He smiles. His dyed black hair is shaggy and long, sticking out in random directions, but not in an entirely bad way. The shadows are heavy under his eyes. On his neck, just below his jawline, is a jagged scar. I swallow hard and meet his dark eyes.

“Not really in the mood to joke around,” I say. “Maybe another time.” I turn toward the window, hoping he’ll go away so I can retreat back into my memories. So that I can think of James.

“Okaaaaay,” the guy says, taking a step back. “See you around then, sweetness.” He shakes his head as he leaves, possibly surprised that I didn’t want to chat. But I’m not going to do that here. I’m not interested in making friends. I’m interested in getting out.

CHAPTER TWO

IT’S EARLY WHEN THE NURSE COMES IN THE NEXT morning, the warm smile back on her face. I slept heavily, which I have no doubt is due to the medication they gave me before bed. “Time for you to meet your therapist, Dr. Warren,” she says, taking my arm to help me out of bed. I feel groggy and sway on my feet for a second. “You’ll really like her,” she adds. “Fantastic doctor.”