The Program (The Program #1)(27)
Author: Suzanne Young

After a quick trip to the bathroom, I return, and the nurse gathers my hair into a ponytail. I don’t stop her because it feels like sandbags are attached to my arms. She slides on my slipper socks and wraps my robe around me. “Okay, honey,” she says. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”

I blink slowly and walk beside her as she leads me into the hallway. It’s empty except for the dark-haired handler leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He tilts his head down as I pass. “Good morning, Miss Barstow.”

I don’t respond, and instead tighten my grip on the nurse’s arm. The handler is always there, always lurking. I’m afraid I’ll never get away from him again.

“What time is it?” I ask the nurse, my voice raspy and thick with sleep.

“You have the first appointment of the day. Six a.m.,” she responds.

I think that six in the morning is way too early to expect people to bare their soul, but maybe it’s also a time when I’m more vulnerable. I clench my jaw, trying to fight back the fear as we pause in front of a wooden door. I don’t know what’s behind it. I don’t know what they’re going to do to me.

The nurse opens the door, and I hold my breath, waiting. She ushers me into a small office, clean and white. There’s a comfortable-looking chair poised in front of a large wooden desk. The woman behind the desk rises and smiles at me.

“Good morning, Sloane,” she says. Her voice is deep, authoritative and protective at the same time.

“Morning,” I mumble, taken aback by how normal the room is. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it definitely involved a much scarier scenario—electric-shock machines maybe.

“Thank you, Nurse Kell,” Dr. Warren says to the nurse and then offers me a seat. As I collapse in the oversize maroon chair, I spy a glass of water on the good doctor’s desk. Next to it is a bright-red pill. Doubt it’s for her.

My eyes drift up to hers, and she presses her lips into a sympathetic smile. “You’re angry,” she says.

“You think?”

“Why?”

The question seems so absurd that I don’t know how to answer at first. I stare at her. She’s wearing thin, wired glasses, her dark wavy hair falls perfectly to her shoulders. Even her makeup looks flawless, as if she’s not real at all. Just an actress on a set.

“I don’t want to be here,” I say.

“You tried to kill yourself, Sloane.”

“Because the handlers were there,” I shoot back. “I figured if they were going to take me, they may as well get a show, too.”

The doctor nods with a disappointed expression and glances at the pill. “I think you should take this before we begin.”

“And if I don’t?”

She tilts her head. “Then you don’t. This isn’t a trick, Sloane. I want to help, but you’re really on edge.”

“No, I’m pissed. I want my life back. I want to go home.”

“And you will,” she says, leaning forward. “You will.” She sounds so earnest that my first instinct is to believe her. People can’t fake caring like that. Or at least they shouldn’t be able to. “Please,” she adds, motioning to the medication. “It really will make you feel better. All I want to do is talk.”

I want to go home. I want my bed. I don’t want to give in to the therapy. But if the pill will take away the sadness that is crushing my chest right now, maybe I’ll take it this one time. Just to get me through. So I nod, and I pick up the little red pill and swallow it.

• • •

Dr. Warren adjusts her glasses and smiles at me. It’s been twenty minutes since I took the medication, and I have to say, my body feels pretty good. My legs are over the side of the chair as I rest my head against the back. My muscles that have been clenched for days are finally relaxed and loose.

“I know that missing James is a main source of pain for you right now,” Dr. Warren starts. “Maybe it would help if we talk about him.”

“And why would I tell you?” I ask dreamily, and look past her to where the sun is shining outside the large windows. “You don’t care about us.”

“Of course I do. I’m here to help you, Sloane. I’ve devoted my life to helping stop this epidemic.”

“Right.”

“I’d love to hear how you and James met,” she pressed again.

“He was best friends with”—I pause, a moment of raw emotion capturing me—“with my brother,” I finish.

“The brother who committed suicide?”

I nod, and slowly the warmth of the medication seeps back in and washes away my pain. I’m so numb it’s almost euphoric.

“Do you blame yourself for Brady’s death?”

I flinch when she uses my brother’s name. The fact that she even knows his name unsettles me. I don’t want to talk about Brady, and yet I find myself answering anyway. “Of course,” I say.

“Why?” Dr. Warren leans her elbows on the desk.

“I was there,” I say, trying to explain. “If I knew how to swim . . .”

“Does James feel guilty too?”

“Yes.” I remember how many nights I held James’s head in my lap, watching him cry. Listening to him tell me that he’d let Brady down. Let me down. I hate the image and I try to push it away, but it’s stuck on a continuous loop that I can’t stop. Like how I can’t stop myself from telling the doctor this, even though I don’t want to. I’m compelled to spill my guts—my ravaged, emotional guts.

“So you both took the blame,” she says. “Took the loss hard. I bet that built quite a bond between you and James. Is that how you got together?”

“No. We’d started dating before that.”

The doctor leans forward. “Tell me about it.”

Even though something in my head tells me not to talk about him, my emotions overwhelm me. I miss him, and I want to remember what it was like before. For the first time in so long, I’m allowed to cry. I’m allowed to let it out. So I close my eyes and lean my head back into the chair.

And I tell her about the first time I realized I had feelings for James.

“Let me get this straight,” the doctor says when I finish. “James tried to avoid the relationship at first?”

“Passive-aggressively, yes. We both loved my brother and didn’t want to piss him off.”