The Treatment (The Program #2)(27)
Author: Suzanne Young

“What are you going to do?” I ask. What sort of action is The Program proposing? How much more can they take from us?

“No,” the doctor states. “Not me. I may have created The Program, but I lost control of it months ago. It’s a corporation, bought and paid for by the U.S. government—and they expect results.”

Could The Program be worse than we thought? Is that even possible? Next to me Realm remains quiet, but his turned shoulder looks less like protection now. He doesn’t want Arthur Pritchard to notice his face. Secrets. Realm is full of secrets, and I don’t think I can take anymore at this point.

“What are they planning?” I ask the doctor. The fight has gone out of my voice, replaced with fear.

“Mandatory admittance,” Dr. Pritchard responds. “Everyone under the age of eighteen will go through The Program.

That means, before graduation, every person will be erased and recreated as a well-balanced, well-behaved individual. Complacency. An entire generation lost—as I’m sure you feel now, Miss Barstow.”

Mandatory admittance for people who aren’t even depressed is like mass brainwashing. Some sick and twisted version of utopia. There’s no way the public would let that happen. Right?

The doctor continues. “The Program is trying to jump-start new polices. They’ve shown they are one hundred percent effective, proven their preventative measures work. And so now everyone under eighteen will be changed—for better or for worse—against their will. Think of what they can do with that much control,” he says. “Think of what they can create from a society without any experience, any learned mistakes. People without connections.”

“Then stop it,” I say forcefully. “If you tell the government what’s really going on with The Program, they’ll put an end to it.”

“And there lies my dilemma,” the doctor says, clasping his hands together under his chin. “Like everyone who work for The Program, I have a gag order—a binding contract that gives them the right to take my memories—to wipe the slate clean if I violate the confidentiality agreement. Only they won’t stop there—not with my security clearance. They’ll lobotomize me,” the doctor says. “The Program considers some returners, and others like me, beyond help. When brought back into The Program, a patient’s evaluated. And if erasure isn’t an option, they’re subject to a lobotomy. It’s the last resort of an otherwise flawless operation. It’s how The Program keeps their success rate at one hundred percent.”

Realm’s hand closes around mine, but I can barely feel him. It’s like the edges of my reality are breaking apart. “Then what?” I ask weakly.

“Their entire personalities are stripped and they’re insti-tutionalized. They’re wiped off the map, my dear. Evaporated into thin air.”

No, it’s too cruel. It’s too cruel to be a real possibility. “How can any rational human being inflict this on another? How can this happen in a civilized world?” I ask.

“Haven’t they done it before?” the doctor asks. “Years ago, when physicians didn’t know how to treat the mentally ill, they began shock therapy, and in extreme cases—lobotomies. They would poke holes in their brains, Miss Barstow. Human beings are cruel creatures. And what we don’t understand, we tamper with until we destroy it. The epidemic is forcing the world to focus on mental disease, but they’ve twisted it into something to be feared, rather than treated. I’m afraid the public support is not behind you on this. We’re in the middle of an epidemic killing our children. You have no idea how far the world will go to stop it.”

He’s right. I know he’s right, but all I want to do is scream that he’s a liar. I want James to burst in and call, “Bullshit!” and punch him in the face. But that doesn’t happen. Instead loneliness and terror bind together to consume me.

“We make no difference compared to the many they can save,” Arthur Pritchard says. “And if I go to the press, give The Program any indication that I’m no longer on their side, they will neutralize me. I need to complete my work before they do.” I lift my eyes to his, my vision hazy from the gathering tears. “What sort of work is that?”

“A pill,” he says. “One that can counteract the effects of The Program and prevent erasure. It’s called The Treatment.” My hand slips from Realm’s and I immediately glance at Dallas. She has no noticeable reaction as she twists a dread around her finger. Oh God. Please don’t say anything, Dallas.

“I need to locate The Treatment,” Dr. Pritchard says. “I plan to analyze it so it can be reproduced. If I can prevent The Program from erasing others—then it will be obsolete.” My mouth has gone dry and I feel as though there’s a spot-light on me. Does he know Realm gave me the pill? Is that why he’s here?

“Say you do bring all the memories back,” Realm says quietly. “Not everyone can handle them—what will you do to stop them from killing themselves?”

The doctor’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks Realm up and down. “People will still die, son. I can’t claim otherwise. But after we restore the original memories, we’ll treat the depression as best we can with traditional therapy. We’ll work through the issues, rather than avoiding them.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He’s actually making sense, but I’m scared this is all an act. No, I’m sure it’s all an act. But how can he say these things and not see the truth in them? At the same time, how did the doctor know about the pill? Realm said it was the last one and that The Program thought it’d been destroyed.

Who’s the bigger liar here—Realm or Arthur Pritchard?

“They tried that,” I say, facing Dr. Pritchard. “In the beginning they tried regular therapy, but it didn’t work. Why should I think yours will be any different?”

“The problem was that they didn’t—I didn’t—give therapy enough time to be effective. We moved forward too quickly.

And now it’s time to set things right. I believe The Program itself is adding to the pressure, leading to more suicide attempts.

You live in a pressure cooker. It’s not right.”

“It’s not,” Dallas agrees, drawing all our gazes. “But tell me more about this pill you’re looking for, Arthur. Where did it come from? I’ve heard only rumors.”