The Treatment (The Program #2)(47)
Author: Suzanne Young

“Then you’re stupid for believing The Program. You’re stupid for thinking they’d ever let us walk out of here. And what about Realm? What did you do to him?”

Cas furrows his brows, confused. But then my handler is back, opening the door and pushing me onto the seat. He buckles me in place, leaving me helpless with my hands bound.

From outside the van, Cas watches on in horror. “I have no idea where Realm is,” he says before they slam the door shut.

There’s a spike of fear that Realm isn’t waiting in the woods at all. That maybe Roger already found him and did something to him. I’m so overwhelmed. I’m so completely buried in despair, I don’t think I’ll ever find the way out.

Up front two handlers climb onto the seats. The driver reports our location, and over the scanner the operator asks if Roger is dead.

“Not sure,” the handler responds. “Ambulance is in route.”

“If Roger survives,” I call out in a raspy voice, my entire body trembling, “I’ll finish the job. I’ll kill every single one of you.”

The handler turns, his brown eyes wide, as the other guy glances at me in the rearview mirror. They have the balls to actually look concerned. I rest my head against the seat, rocking with the bumps of the road, thinking I’ve come undone. All hope is lost now.

I’m going back to The Program.

PART III

NO APOLOGIES

TEENS TAKEN INTO CUSTODODY

The Program is reporting that they’ve taken a group of teens hiding near Lake Tahoe, Nevada.

The names are being withheld at this time, but there’s speculation that the suspects include Sloane Barstow and James Murphy.

The two teens, first reported missing last month, have led authorities on a multistate manhunt. Exactly why Barstow and Murphy were running has never been made public, but the effectiveness of The Program has come into question.

Arthur Pritchard, creator of The Program, has stepped down amid the controversy, and his lawyer will be making a statement later in the week. He is currently unavailable for comment.

—Reported by Kellan Thomas

Chapter One

THERE ARE VOICES, BUT I CAN’T MAKE OUT THEIR

words. Not at first. My eyelids are heavy as I try to open them, letting in small slivers of light when I blink. The voice next to me is only an echo.

“Is there anybody in there?” she asks again more clearly.

My lips are numb as I turn my head lazily to the side. My head is throbbing from where I hit it on the pavement. “Help me,” I whisper to the waiting nurse. I try to reach out, but my wrists are fastened down. I’m surrounded by stark white walls with the smell of bleach thick in the air. The nurse leans closer, and I recognize her from my first stay in The Program. Nurse Kell places her hand on my shoulder.

“We are going to help you,” she says, an earnest smile on her thin lips. “But first we have to cure the infection.” She takes a syringe from the pocket of her fuzzy blue sweater and uncaps it. “Now don’t move, dear,” she says, pushing up my shirtsleeve,

“or this will really hurt.”

I hitch in a breath, choking on it as I start to whimper.

“Please, Kell,” I say. “I’m not sick. I’m really not.”

“That’s what they all say.” Her manners are sweet but firm.

And when I feel the pinch and burn of the needle, I openly sob.

A handler walks in. He’s tall, a bit unkempt compared to the others. He’s the same one who put his hand on Cas’s shoulder back at the parking lot. My heart breaks and I shake my head, trying to rid myself of Cas’s memory. Pretending the past few weeks with him never happened. I can’t reconcile in my mind that the guy who looked out for us is really the one who turned us in.

The handler comes over, talking quietly with Kell. When they finish, they unfasten me from the bed and drop me into a wheelchair, securing me to the armrests. The burn from the needle has turned to a tingle, and then it’s like warm bathwater. A sense of calm stretches over me, even though I know logically it’s not really there. The drug is numbing my panic, but it can’t mask everything. I won’t let it. I kick my legs, trying to buck my body out of the chair, but I’m too lethargic. I end up flopping like a fish, gasping for breath, and by the time I’m out in the hallway, I’m too tired to fight anymore. I melt into the chair, feeling the trickle of tears slide down my cheeks.

“Where are we going?” I mumble as Nurse Kell walks hurriedly beside me, her hands in the pockets of her sweater.

“To see the doctor, Sloane. They need to determine if you’re a candidate for continued therapy.”

My heart skips. “And if I’m not?” I ask. Kell doesn’t answer me, just smiles as if it’s a silly question. We’re passing patients in the hallway, flashes of lemon-yellow scrubs streaking my vision.

But it’s the last face I see before I’m pushed through the double doors that sinks my hope.

Lacey Klamath stares at me from a chair near the window, her eyes wide and doelike. Her blond hair is styled in a short pixie cut, and her serene expression gives no sign of recognizing me, gives no hint of emotion. I almost call out to her but stop short when I see a nurse appear at her side, placing a small Dixie cup in her hand. Obediently and without complaint, Lacey swallows whatever’s inside, and goes back to staring blankly ahead.

When the handler pushes me through the doors marked THERAPY WING, I turn to face forward again. She’s here—Lacey is here. Although I’m glad to know she’s safe, it’s obvious she’s . . . different. I don’t know what they’ve done to her, but I have to lock the thought away. I’ll come back for her.

Just like I pray James will come back for me.

They don’t free my arms once I’m inside the doctor’s office.

I sit on the wrong side of a huge oak desk that’s cluttered with papers. This isn’t The Program I was in before, even if Nurse Kell is still playing the role of Nurse Ratched. Since I left Oregon, other facilities have opened up around the country. There’s no way to tell what state I’m even in.

Unlike the hospital feel in the hallways, this office is homey, yet masculine. There are rows of bookshelves lining the hunter-green walls, a heavy maroon rug under the ornate chair they’ve fastened me to. This reminds me of someone’s high-end man cave, complete with a standing globe that could be filled with liquor bottles.

Are they trying to create a false sense of comfort? Normalcy? Doesn’t matter, I guess. I have to find Dallas and make sure she’s okay. She’s always been the one to get information for us, but now it’s my turn.