The Program (The Program #1)(52)
Author: Suzanne Young

“I’ll try my best,” I say, looking at the clock on the wall and knowing that my parents will be here any minute. I’m leaving. I’m really leaving.

Dr. Warren stands then, walking around her desk to embrace me. We hug awkwardly, and when she lets me go, she rests her hand on my shoulder. “At first,” she says almost in a whisper, “you may be a little distant—a little numb. But that will eventually go away. You will feel again.”

I meet her eyes, doing a quick evaluation of my emotions. I’m complacent and calm, but I wonder how I should really feel.

There’s a quick knock at the door, and Dr. Warren says to come in. Nurse Kell stands there, her cheeks rosy. “Your parents are here, Sloane.” She beams, looking proud. “And the boys wanted me to give you this.” She holds out a small wrapped package, and my eyes water.

“Why didn’t they give it to me themselves?” I ask, walking over to take it from her hands. Both Derek and Shep are still here, but Dr. Warren promised me they’d be going home soon.

She laughs. “Because they said you would probably cry.”

I unwrap the paper and smile at what’s inside. It’s a deck of cards, but the back design says BULLSHIT. I reach out to hug Nurse Kell. “Tell them thank you for me.”

It’s all so surreal. I stand for a moment looking around the office, the time I spent in here a complete fog. I don’t know what I was like before, but I feel okay now. I guess The Program works.

I say good-bye to Dr. Warren and follow Nurse Kell out, a handler trailing us with a small duffel bag. I don’t remember what I wore when I came into the facility, but The Program has provided me with a few outfits—ones I didn’t pick out—to send me home with. Right now I’m wearing a yellow polo shirt, the collar stiff and itchy.

The halls are empty, but I hear a spirited game of cards being played in the leisure room, new members taking our places. When we get out onto the lawn, I see my dad’s Volvo parked near the gate. He steps out, my mother scrambling to get to his side. I pause, looking at them from afar.

“Good luck, Sloane,” Nurse Kell says, brushing my hair behind my ear. “Stay healthy.”

I nod to her, and look at the handler who tells me to go ahead. And then I run across the grass. When I get close enough my father rushes forward, swooping me up into his arms, tears streaming down his face. Soon my mother is hugging both of us and we’re all crying.

I’ve missed them. Missed my dad’s smile and my mom’s laugh. “Dad,” I say when I can finally pry myself away from him. “First things first—let’s get ice cream,” I say. “I haven’t had any since I’ve been here.”

He laughs, a painful sort of sound, as if he’s been waiting to do it for a long time. “Anything, sweetheart. We’re just so happy to have you home.”

My mother touches adoringly at my hair. “I love this,” she says earnestly, as if she hasn’t seen me in years. “You look just beautiful.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I hug her again. My father takes my bags from the handler and puts them in the trunk as I have one last look back the building—back at The Program.

Something catches my eye, and my smile fades. There’s a girl in the window, sitting on a chair with her arms wrapped around her knees. She’s pretty and blond, but she looks lonely. Desperate. And I can’t help thinking that she reminds me of someone.

“Here we go,” my father says, opening the back door for me. I tear my eyes away from the window and climb into the car, the smell of it bringing me back to the times when Brady and I used to argue over who got to pick the radio station. My brother’s gone now, but we’ve made peace with that. Our family got through it and now we’re all better. I’m better.

My parents climb into the car, glancing back at me as if they expect me to disappear at any moment, and I smile. I’m going home.

PART III

WISH YOU WEREN’T HERE

CHAPTER ONE

I HAD TROUBLE SLEEPING THE FIRST NIGHT HOME. The house was too quiet, the sounds in my head too loud. I missed Realm, missed playing cards with the boys. I missed the freedom and the restrictions of the facility. In a weird way, I’d been on my own.

After we’d stopped for ice cream, my mother came home and cooked a big dinner, chatting away about what I’d missed. Apparently The Program has been picked up in three more states, and France and Germany are adapting their own versions. I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that so I stayed silent.

The minute I wake up the next morning, my mother is waiting with the tiny white pill that Dr. Warren prescribed to help me get through my day—to relax me. As I sit at the kitchen table, my mother flips pancakes, humming a song I can’t quite place. My father has left for work. I sit at the small, round table and stare at the empty seat my brother used to claim. I almost feel that at any second he’ll come bounding into the kitchen asking for Lucky Charms.

But Brady’s dead. Dr. Warren told me that his accidental death was traumatic for me, so they had to erase it. Now, I don’t even know what happened to my brother. In my head it’s like he was here, and then he was gone with nothing in between.

At the end of my therapy at The Program, Dr. Warren tried to help me line up my memories sequentially, filling in some of the blanks. She said my family was devastated by my brother’s death, but that now that I’m cured, we’re all okay. I don’t remember a time when we weren’t okay, so I’m glad. I hate the idea of not having my family.

When my mother—still smiling—puts food in front of me, I thank her. But the thought of eating is far from my mind. Dr. Warren had said that I wouldn’t know anyone at Sumpter High—that they would have been erased even if I had known them because they were infected too.

So I’m starting over. It’s like a new life. It’s like a new me.

When Kevin, my handler, shows up, he’s polite, and almost kind, on my front porch. I have a sense that I should be uncomfortable around him, but he takes my backpack from me and holds the door. So I chalk it up to the confused feelings that Dr. Warren predicted.

Kevin looks to be just a little older than I am, but we don’t say much as he drives us to Sumpter. But then again, my head feels too foggy to ask anything relevant. I think it’s the medication.

When we get there, I see that Sumpter is a large, white building—sort of intimidating. Kevin parks in the back lot, taking a minute to radio in that I’ve arrived. Several students walk past us toward the entrance, some laughing, some alone—and I wonder if I’ve met them before. A feeling of déjà vu creeps over me, and I look away, feeling unsettled.