The Complication (The Program #6)(2)

“Help me,” I cried, getting one arm free to reach out to him, still entangled in the handler’s grip. “Don’t let them—”

The handler smothered my mouth with his palm, muffling my words, and began to back me toward the door. The helplessness was horrific, suffocating. I fought harder; I fought for my life.

And then my grandfather was there, grabbing my arm as he tried to physically pull me away from the handler, causing a tearing pain in my shoulder. My grandmother came running into the foyer, holding a wooden broom, and poked at the handlers like they were wild animals. She was wearing her housecoat, her hair in rollers.

“Leave her alone!” she screamed in a shaky voice, swatting them again.

But then the gray-haired handler grabbed her violently by the sleeve of her housecoat, startling her so badly that she dropped the broom with a loud clatter. My grandfather let go of my arm and raced over to his wife, untangling her clothing from the handler’s fist. He put his arm protectively around her shoulders.

The handler who was holding me took his hand from over my mouth. “Be smart,” he growled near my ear. “You’re making this worse.” But I wouldn’t listen to him.

“Pop, please!” I begged, outstretching my hand to my grandfather again.

And when he looked at me, his blue eyes were so sorrowful that it made my legs weaken. The handler steadied me.

Pop knew I was lost; he couldn’t help me. That was what his eyes told me. My grandmother cried quietly next to him, and she turned into the collar of his pajama top to hide her face.

The handler began moving me toward the door again, and although I still fought, my strength had left me. I would die. The Program would end me.

And no one—not even my grandparents—could save me.

? ? ?

Reality floods back, and I look up, my eyes wide and terrified. The classroom is a blur as I take it in. My entire body is shaking, but my headache fades quickly. I just had a crashback of memory.

Oh, God. It’s all true.

Fresh tears spring to my eyes, and my nose begins to run. I swipe under it, but when I look down, I see it’s a streak of blood. I quickly use the back of my hand to clear it away, relieved when the bleeding stops almost immediately. The shock of seeing my own blood pushes the memory off—letting me focus. I can’t fall apart here. Not in front of the monitor. I ache for my grandparents, horrified by how scared they were. How helpless they were in their misery.

The monitor’s in the back of the class, and I figure she must not have seen my bloody nose. It might be a giveaway that I’m a returner, and I’m not ready to face what happened to me. What will happen to me if she finds out. But as I look forward again, I find Weston still watching me, his expression disturbed. He witnessed my memory crashback. Did he realize what was happening to me? Does he care? Does he care the way he used to?

Weston Ambrose is the love of my life. I loved him before he was taken into The Program, and I loved him again when he returned and was changed. But he has no idea who I am anymore.

And maybe that’s why I can trust him more than anyone else in my life.

I press my mouth into a smile, letting him know I’m okay—even though I’m so clearly not. He watches me for a moment longer, doubtful, and then his lips part like he might call out to me.

Instead, Wes raises his hand and spins around in his seat. Everyone looks at him, and I have a spike of panic, worry that he’s going to report me. That’s the sort of thing people did to each other when they feared The Program—anything to save themselves.

The teacher stares at Wes, seeming unsure. The routine is being changed. Normally, we all sit here in active silence, refusing this assessment. The change clearly surprises Miss Soto, as well.

“Yes?” she asks tentatively. Wes waves her off and points to the monitor, who has rounded the room. Almost amused, Dr. Wyatt smiles at Wes and tilts her head.

“How can I help you, Mr. Ambrose?” she asks.

“Hi,” Wes says, and holds up one finger as if he’s about to ask an important question. “I’m sorry if this was already covered while I was gone, but I was just wondering”—he grabs the assessment—“what the fuck is this, and what does it have to do with anything?”

Garcia Bobadilla bursts out laughing and quickly covers his mouth. Lynn Mosiac snorts. Behind me, Nathan shifts in his seat, and his desk presses against the back of my chair.

I quickly look at Dr. Wyatt, wondering how she’ll respond. Wondering what she’s thinking. Does she know about the Adjustment or that Wes had it done? Does she know he’s been erased again? She doesn’t give anything away, though, as she motions to the classroom door.

“In my office, Mr. Ambrose,” she says curtly, and starts in that direction.

Wes stands, gathering his notebook. “Is it because I said ‘fuck’?” he asks loudly, making more people laugh. I smile—mostly in shock—as he follows Dr. Wyatt. At the door, he glances back over his shoulder at me before walking out.

It’s a jolt to my heart—the familiar way he looked at me. Is it possible he did that to save me from her scrutiny? Could he . . . remember me?

The Adjustment—a procedure where I donated memories of our relationship to help trigger a controlled crashback—was supposed to help Wes remember everything The Program had erased. But the memories I donated were corrupted, and because of it, Wes became unwell.