The Complication (The Program #6)(18)

I open the door to my grandparents’ bedroom and peer inside. I’ve obviously been in here hundreds of times before, but everything takes on a new meaning now. Their room is part of their deception. Strangers live here.

I walk past the bed and immediately go to the armoire. One half is filled with drawers while the other has a stack of wool sweaters stashed away for the upcoming summer. The space smells like wood mixed with a light scent of Gram’s perfume. It makes me nostalgic, lonely. I push away the feeling and begin to go through the drawers.

There are envelopes with receipts going back to Christmas nearly ten years ago. I scan them quickly and pull open the bottom drawer. My grandfather has saved newspaper clippings, yellowed now with age. They’re his first stories, and I have a swell of pride as I look through them.

My grandfather had retired from the paper, but a few months ago, he decided to go back to work to help conduct research on the Adjustment. I thought it seemed like a good idea, but it only resulted in him warning me to stay away. I should have listened.

When I find nothing useful in the armoire, I go to the closet and open the bifold doors. There are rows of boxes on the top shelf, just out of my reach. One in particular stands out—an old moving box, wilted with age. I get on the tiptoes of my sneakers, and as I reach up, my phone slips out of my back pocket and hits the floor. I grab it and set it on the dresser.

I stretch again, getting my fingertips under the box and slowly working it off the shelf. When I get it down, I set it on the bed. There’s a coating of dust on the lid, and I run my palm through it to read the label on the box.

My heart beats faster. A date, a few months off from my birthday, is scrawled across in faded black marker.

I carefully take the lid off the box. This could be it. This could be everything. I’m surprised to find a small stuffed dog. I take it out, my fingers shaking. Something about it is intensely familiar, and I bring it to my nose, expecting a certain scent. But it only smells like old cardboard.

Longing begins to nag at me, a shadow in the back of my mind, and I clutch the stuffed dog to my chest. Comforted by it, but wondering why it’s in a box with the wrong birthday written on the top.

The doorbell rings downstairs, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I glance at the clock on the nightstand and see it’s not even two. Everyone should still be at school.

I quickly put the dog back in the box and stash it in the closet. I walk down the stairs as whoever is at the door begins to knock. Fear claws at my throat. It could be someone to collect me. Collect me like a box of memories.

My breathing becomes erratic. I press my palm against the door and lean in to look through the peephole. My relief is immediate. I pull open the door and find Foster standing there, looking impatient.

“What the hell, Tatum?” he says, and then immediately starts coughing—the sound deep in his throat. He hits his chest to clear it up. “I’ve been calling you,” he adds wearily.

“You should probably be in bed,” I tell him, opening the door wider and ushering him inside. Foster looks awful—swollen eyes, a hunched walk that makes me think he’s probably still feverish.

“Then you should have called me back,” he says. He rounds the couch and collapses. He throws his arm over the side and rests his head back against the cushion. “I was worried,” he adds.

“I’m sorry,” I say, coming over to sit next to him. I debate telling him what Nathan told me during class. Nathan said Foster didn’t know I was in The Program—he’d been out of town. But . . . when he came back, did he at least notice something different about me? It’s horrifying to think he wouldn’t. Like no one really knows me at all.

“It’s fine,” Foster says. “I went to school looking for you during lunch. Did you know Wes came back today?”

I smile. “Obviously.”

He laughs. “I guess you would. Anyway, I talked to Arturo while I was mostly coherent, and he mentioned that he saw you in the office with Dr. Wyatt. Wanted to know if you were okay.” He coughs and waits a beat before continuing. “You didn’t mention over text that you’d been in to see that witch,” he adds. “What was Wyatt about today?”

I shouldn’t be upset that he’s asking, but I don’t like being watched, seemingly by everyone. “Wes was in there with her,” I explain, “and when I went to check on him, Dr. Wyatt dragged me into the meeting. She’s seriously unhinged.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“She demanded to know what was wrong with Wes. I couldn’t tell her about the Adjustment, but I also couldn’t say anything that would affect Wes’s memory. Dr. McKee warned me not to bring up the past, but that monitor . . .” I shake my head. “She was getting worked up.”

“So what did you do?”

“I told her to stop, grabbed her arm when she got in his face.”

“Damn,” Foster says, proud.

“Yeah, well, she scared the shit out of me. It was either that or run for it.”

“I’m glad you were there,” Foster says. “What did Nathan say about all this?”

Tension settles in my neck, and I pretend to pick at my fingernails. “I, um . . . I haven’t talked to him about it. Did you see him when you were at school?”

Foster watches me suspiciously and sits up a little straighter. “I did, in fact. And he was acting like a weirdo too. Especially when I told him you thought you were being watched by handlers.”