The Treatment (The Program #2)(54)
Author: Suzanne Young

I swallow hard and shake my head to keep from screaming.

I’m burning up with fury, but that kind of emotion isn’t going to help. I need to think clearly. I have to figure a way out. But no sooner does the rage come that it’s replaced with a shock of warmth spreading over my chest. The medication must contain an inhibitor that settles my frazzled nerves. I remember it from my first days after The Program.

Without supervision I climb down from the bed, moving slowly to test my limbs, afraid to make any sudden movements.

When I’m steady, I change into the fresh set of scrubs that were laid out on my bed. I leave my room, tentative and anxious, looking over my shoulder. There are voices down the hall, and I head in that direction.

There’s a waiting room, a smaller version of the leisure room. There are four other patients in there, watching the television mounted on the wall—an infomercial on The Program, it looks like—and two others sitting by the window and staring. I see that one of them is Lacey.

I smile reflexively but then temper my expression down as I approach her. I don’t want to scare her. I pause. Can I scare her?

Will she even know what’s going on? I crush the heartache that comes along with that thought.

“Hi,” I say in a scratchy voice when I’m standing next to her. Lacey continues to stare out the window without any noticeable reaction to my words. I check for a scar, but I don’t see one. I’m not sure how they perform lobotomies; I never really thought to research it.

Suddenly Lacey turns to me. She drifts her gaze over my features, and her lips part slowly. “Is it time for breakfast?” she asks in a too-soft voice. Deep sadness burrows through my chest, but I try my best to smile.

“Not yet,” I tell her kindly.

“Oh.” She turns back to the window, her thoughts seemingly a gentle breeze in her mind, no urgency, no fear, no anxiety. I try to think of what I can say, what I can tell her to let her know that I care about her. I’m so sorry I didn’t save her from The Program. I’m so sorry this happened to her.

“Sloane?” The sound of Nurse Kell’s voice startles me, and I glance over my shoulder to where she stands in the doorway. Her expression is steeped in suspicion, and when she calls my name again, scolding me like a child, I know my time with Lacey is up.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” I say to my friend, trying to com-municate in my tone that I hope to see her again. She offers one more uninterested look and then goes back to enjoying the view of the courtyard instead.

My heart is heavy as I approach Nurse Kell. I wilt under the accusation in her expression and quickly try to explain. “I didn’t know where to go when I woke up,” I tell her as soon as I’m close enough. “You weren’t there.”

She takes my arm to lead me from the room. “Asa should have left you restrained then. Sloane, you aren’t ready to interact with the other patients yet. You’re a threat to them.” I turn to Nurse Kell as we walk back toward the prison of my room. “Are you going to tie me down?” I ask, finding it impossible to control the rage bubbling up. “Because I thought I was being pretty cooperative so far.”

“Oh, honey,” she says in a patronizing voice. “You are. But it’s just not healthy for the other patients to interact with you.

You’re still too sick. You can start a whole new epidemic in here.

Give it another week. The time will fly.” In a week I’ll be lobotomized. Nurse Kell must know this, and yet she’s talking to me like I should be thankful. Any cama-raderie she’d tried to build evaporates right then. I gnash my teeth together, saying nothing.

“I left your breakfast in your room,” she says. “I thought you’d be more comfortable there.” She stops just outside my door and motions for me to enter ahead of her. I see the metal tray on a rolling cart next to my bed. The food is covered with tan plastic bowls to keep it warm. I think back to something Lacey once told me—that they put sedatives in the food. I’m starving right now—ravenous really. Can I handle a little bit of medication to get some nutrients? Is it worth the risk?

I step inside my room, walking toward the tray, when I hear the door shut behind me. I turn and hear the click of the lock.

My heart dips, and I rush over to try the handle.

Kell just locked me in. I look around the room for something, anything, to pick the lock with. But The Program is careful. The sharpest thing in my room is the plastic spoon that came with my breakfast. Trapped, I go over to my bed and sit, lifting the lid to my food and finding happy face pancakes.

I stare at them a long moment, the irony—or cruelty—of them too much. And then I flip the tray, sending it to the floor with a loud clank, and curl up on my side, staring out the window.

Dr. Beckett doesn’t ask to see me, and the hours alone in my room stretch on until I feel the psychosis. Murmuring to myself, imagining shapes in the wood grain of the door, I start to doubt anyone will ever come for me again, not until they’re ready to take me to the gray room.

At lunch Nurse Kell comes to drop off my next meal. The minute I see her, I’m at her side, begging her to let me out. I think I might lose it completely if I don’t at least get out of this room. But Nurse Kell only glances at me on her way to the overturned tray of breakfast food.

“Sorry, Sloane,” she says. “You can’t come out yet. I’m sorry.”

The news is devastating, but it doesn’t seem to bother her as she sops up the spilled orange juice that’s turned sticky on the floor.

“What am I supposed to do for the rest of my time, then?

Is this another version of solitary confinement?” Nurse Kell exhales and then stands to look me over. “Dr.

Beckett was called away for the afternoon. He’ll see you when he gets back. For now he wants you to stay in your room and out of trouble. There’s no sense in getting worked up. Now eat your lunch.”

I glance down at the sandwich, surprised by how appetizing it looks. I don’t remember the last time I’ve eaten—maybe not since I arrived here. My stomach growls in agreement. I drop helplessly on my bed and pick up my sandwich, taking a tentative bite. I wait for a chalky or bitter taste, something to prove that I’m being drugged. But it just tastes like turkey.

“Under the plate there’s some paper,” Nurse Kell says, coming over to shake out a napkin to lay over my lap. “Dr. Beckett thought you might want to write out some of your thoughts for your next session—to help move things along. It seems like a positive way to combat the boredom.”