The Treatment (The Program #2)(35)
Author: Suzanne Young

“Dallas?” I say, earning a quick look from Realm. “Have you heard anything on James?”

She turns, but doesn’t meet my eyes. “Nothing yet, Sloane.” She sounds more apologetic than I would have expected. But then I remind myself that Dallas likes James. Maybe his safe return is a priority for both of us.

“Where exactly are we headed now?” Realm asks.

“Away from the city,” Dallas says, speaking to him for the first time. “Middle of nowhere—center of nothing.” She grins at him, her gap-toothed smile disingenuous. “You wanted us to disappear, so we are. Hope she’s worth it.” And then she turns around and puts on the radio, filling the silence.

Cas tells us the drive is too long and we’ll have to stop. It’s dark when we end up at a seedy motel a few turns off the highway.

The vacancy sign is only half lit up, and Realm heads toward the glassed-in booth to book the rooms. Dallas rolls down her window.

“Book a separate room for me and Cas,” she calls coldly.

“I’m not sharing a bed with you this time.” Realm stops but doesn’t respond. It isn’t until Dallas’s window is closed that he goes to the booth, talking to the person behind the glass.

“Dial it down,” Cas mutters, tapping his hands impatiently on the steering wheel. “None of us wants to be in the middle of your lovers’ quarrel.”

Dallas turns to him. “You didn’t hear what he said,” she snaps. I feel my gut sink, afraid I’ll be dragged into the conversation. “I f**king matter,” she tells Cas, her cheeks growing pink. “He has no right to tell me I don’t.” Cas reaches to put his hand on her shoulder, trying to pull Dallas into a hug, but she jerks away. “I’m fine,” she says. “I wish he’d just vanish again.” She glances quickly back at me.

“And he can take her with him.”

I want to yell that I don’t love Realm and I never have. I want to remind her that James—my James—is missing, and her little pity party isn’t making any of our lives easier. But it’s dark, and Dallas is tired. And really . . . I don’t blame her for being angry with Realm. He brings out the worst in all of us.

Once Realm raises the keys to show us the rooms are set, we grab our bags and head up to the second floor. The place is pretty dingy, with peeling yellow paint and ugly green doors. I curl my lip and Cas nods his agreement.

“It was a good choice,” Realm says to Cas when he notices our exchange. “They accept cash and don’t require ID.” He stops in front of room 237 and uses the key—like an actual motel key with numbered chain, and opens the door. Immediately the smell of stale smoke hits my nose; the multicolored comforters on the beds are ratty and flat.

“Gross,” Dallas says, looking in.

Realm holds out a key to her. “Dallas, I—” Dallas takes the key and walks next door. She doesn’t shout at him or repeat the things she said in the car. Cas looks weary as he follows her into their room, and I wait to see if Realm will go after Dallas and talk it out. But he just goes inside the room and disappears behind the bathroom door. Great. I’m starting to wonder if any of us will ever be light again, ever laugh, ever . . . live.

I close the front door and slide the chain over the lock. I’m feel like I’m in an eighties slasher flick, and I click on the lamp next to the bed. My belongings all fit inside the duffel bag, and I open it, peering in at James’s file. I can’t bring myself to read it, not without James.

The door opens and Realm comes out, his expression unreadable as he goes to the opposite bed and lies down. He folds his hands behind his head and stares up at the ceiling. I lie on my side, too tired to wash my face or change my clothes.

“So,” Realm says, sounding exhausted. “What happened at the gas station earlier?”

I never told anyone about the first night I met Kellan, how he knew my name. I’m not exactly sure how to frame the story.

“Have you ever been approached by a reporter?” I ask.

“No.” Realm scrunches his nose like it’s a bizarre question.

“Have you?”

I take Kellan’s business card from my pocket and stretch it over to Realm. His eyes widen, and he grabs it quickly. He looks it over and then swings his legs to the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Sloane, how the hell do you know this guy?”

“I met him at the Suicide Club. He looked like everyone else . . . but he knew my name before I told him. At first I thought maybe he was a handler, like the embedded ones Arthur Pritchard told me about. But when we stopped at the gas station on the way here, he showed up. I was terrified. He gave me this card, said he was a reporter for the New York Times following my and James’s story. He wants information on The Program. I think he can see what they’re really doing to us.” Realm runs his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up when he drops his arm. “I don’t like it,” he says. “We shouldn’t talk to anyone outside of the rebels. At least not yet.

He could be working for The Program.”

“I guess.” I sit back in the pillows, thinking it over. “But we didn’t believe Arthur, and he was picked up by The Program.” I turn to Realm. “Do you really think they’ll erase him?” Realm considers my question for a long moment. “There’s a chance this is just a stunt to draw us out,” he says. “I mean, he’s the creator of The Program. Could they really do that to him?”

“I hope not,” I murmur. If I could rewind, I’d talk to Arthur longer, find out what else he had to say. If I could rewind time, I’d do so many things differently. My bottom lip quivers and I bite down on it. “Tell me James is okay,” I whisper.

“I can’t. But if James loves you, he’ll find you.” Realm turns to me. “I found you.”

James does love me, even though Realm always tries to dis-pute that fact. But it’s now been two days since James left—two days without a word from him. He was so angry the last time I saw him. I hope he knows how sorry I am. At that thought, I reach to click off the light, submerging the room in darkness. I lie back on the bed, curling up in the loneliness.

“Sloane,” Realm says, his voice low. “Remember in The Program, when you would sneak into my room with me?” he asks. “We’d snuggle. Platonically, of course.” I used to spend time in Realm’s room, talking—although I don’t know exactly what we talked about anymore. I do remember what it felt like to let him stroke my hair, to let him whisper his stories near my ear.