The Program (The Program #1)(65)

“What’s the deal with the Wellness Center?” I ask. “Can I go there tonight?”

“The Wellness Center was developed by The Program as part of the aftercare, a way for you to interact with others—including nonreturners—in a safe, monitored environment. If you’d like to check it out, I think that would be okay. Let’s just be sure you’re not overdoing it. Too much stimulus can disrupt the healing process. In fact . . .” Kevin slips a pill box out his pocket, taking out the white pill. “Here. You haven’t had a dose since this morning. You might start feeling on edge if you don’t.”

I consider it. What happens if I don’t do exactly as I’m told? Would refusing be considered messing up—especially on the second day? I glance around the room, wondering if the other returners felt this lost when they first came back. But I learn nothing, as they all grab their backpacks and dump their trash, heading for their classes.

And so I swallow the pill.

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN MY HANDLER DROPS ME OFF AT HOME, SAYING he’ll be back at six thirty, I immediately start on my homework. Although I feel as if I know the answers, some of the questions get muddled in my head. Especially when it comes to math. It’s as if certain rules were erased, leaving me with partial answers. Eventually I get frustrated and slam my book shut before turning on the television.

I’m not surprised to see a Dateline special about The Program—it seems to dominate every channel. Even on MTV, what used to be ruled by trashy reality shows is now filled with inspirational stories of teens being saved by The Program. I half wonder if The Program is sponsoring the network now.

Just then the interviewer from Dateline walks into the facility, the same facility that I was in. I sit up straighter, my heart pounding. I think I see Nurse Kell dash out of the corner of the screen and then the view is filled with security guards.

“You can’t be here,” the security guard says, pushing the camera away with his hand. “You have to leave.”

The interviewer continues arguing until the sound is promptly shut off. The screen is black and I wait, wondering what happened. Instead the interviewer is behind a desk, shaking his head. “When asked to comment, the president of The Program, Arthur Pritchard, released this statement: ‘The effectiveness of the treatment—which is still at one hundred percent—is dependent on the privacy of our patients. Any interference could jeopardize the life of the minors, and therefore we cannot comment on the treatment or allow common access to our facilities at this time.’”

I click off the television, wondering what it was like when those reporters tried to get into The Program. Were Shep and Derek around? It had seemed so isolated when I was there. Maybe things are changing.

And for a second I’m afraid. If they stop The Program, leaving us as the only ones changed, what will happen? Will we be discriminated against forever? Does that mean there’s something wrong with us? I start to panic when, all of a sudden, the warm water is splashed over me again, and I take a deep breath. The fear is gone, and instead I just close my eyes and lean my head back against the couch cushion.

Something about sitting here in my familiar living room is comforting, and yet I can’t help but think I should be doing something different. As if this is real, and at the same time . . . not. I’m relieved when my mom gets home with groceries, and I help her unpack them, thankful for the distraction.

• • •

“So how was the first day back?” my father asks from across the dinner table. His eyes are bright, and he’s smiling as he takes a bite of steak. The way my parents watch me is like I’m a miracle returned from the grave. They hang on my every word.

“It was good,” I tell him. “A little scary at first, but I made a friend.”

My mother beams, and she sets down her silverware. “You made a friend already?” She and my father exchange an eager glance. It makes me feel like a huge loser that my parents could be so happy about me making one friend.

“Her name is Lacey,” I say. “She sat with me at lunch.”

My mother pauses, then puts a large cut of steak into her mouth. I wait for her to ask questions, but she doesn’t. I stare down at my plate, and near my glass is another white pill. I decide that I don’t like this fog anymore. I decide I’m not going to take it.

“I’m meeting Lacey tonight at the Wellness Center,” I add quietly, taking a sip from my water. “The handler said it was healthy for me to socialize.”

“I agree,” my father says, sounding a little too upbeat. I’m struck with a sensation, an . . . outsideness. My parents are acting weird. Or maybe I’m the one who’s weird now.

I want to excuse myself to my room, but my mother starts talking about The Program again. She tells me that in the UK, they had their first class of patients released. She seems so proud of that fact—as if returners are elite somehow. I nod along, my mind racing. I try to remember my life just before The Program, but all I get are repeats of old memories: my father taking me and Brady for ice cream. My mother sewing a Halloween costume. The repeating starts to make my temples pulse, and I stop trying to think back, worried I might be doing damage.

Dr. Warren had been adamant about maintaining. She warned me that too much stimulus could affect the reconstruction they’d done on my mind. She said it could result in a break in reality, cause permanent psychosis.