The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(12)

“We’re making an exception. Quinn, I can’t tell you how important this assignment is. If there was anyone else . . .” He stops, pink rising on his cheeks. His response makes me pause. He doesn’t think this is a good idea either.

“You know this is dangerous,” I say. “Why is Catalina Barnes so important? She’s not the first dead teenager in Oregon, Dad.” Ouch. The words are insensitive, and I wince at my own callousness. Although I try not to get attached to my assignments, I know more than anybody the gravity of their situation. They’re not coming back. Their lives are over, and it’s a tragic thing.

My father’s shoulders stiffen, and he pushes the papers back into the folder and closes the file. “You’re right,” he agrees. “But this request is coming from beyond the department, from my boss. If you don’t think you can help the Barnes family, we’ll contact the other advisors again. See if another closer can be brought in in time. But it’s not likely. This one is flagged for immediate intervention.”

The words echo through the room. It’s rare that my father’s boss asks a favor. Only Deacon has ever met Arthur Pritchard, and he quit soon after. “This is dangerous,” I repeat quietly. “So why me?” I’m scared of losing myself, but I’m also scared of failing the family. Failing my father.

“You’re the best.”

“But I’m your daughter.”

My father lowers his eyes, his expression tightening as he struggles with the same thought. When he looks at me again, all I can see is how much he cares about me. How I am his pride and joy—his greatest achievement. His belief in me never wavers.

For the last eleven years, I’ve completed every assignment he’s given me without fault, except for the occasional taken item. I don’t screw up. My father is truly devoted to his patients, devoted to their well-being—and he counts on me to help them. He’s a good man, and I’m ashamed of my selfishness, guilty now that my father has made it clear what’s at stake. I swallow hard, nodding that I understand.

“Why two weeks?” I ask. “Why so long?”

“It’s all in the file.” He taps the closed folder. “Quinn,” he says, leaning into the table. “I know I sprung this on you, but I promise you’re strong enough. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

“Is this why Marie was asking Aaron about my state of mind?” I ask, realizing now the purpose of the new line of questioning. “Did she tell you I was fit for the job?”

He nods. “She did. I wanted to make sure before I sent you in. Look, I have no doubt you can do this, but it’s a big commitment. One I hope you’ll never have to repeat.” My father stands up and pushes in his chair.

“It’s gotten late,” he says. “Why don’t you take the night to think about it and we’ll talk more in the morning.” He leans down to kiss the top of my head, but I stare straight ahead, overwhelmed by my responsibility. I murmur a “good night” right after he walks out, and then look down at the file waiting on the kitchen table. Look at the life I’m about to finish.

* * *

After tossing my uneaten burrito in the trash, I grab my backpack and go upstairs. I take a quick shower to wash the red dye out of my hair, and then head to my room. When I walk in, I’m temporarily displaced by its familiarity. My tall queen bed—not made, never made—with dark wood frame. My pale pink walls dotted with a white and silver pattern that Deacon designed. I told him it looked like a flower—he told me it was a cricket. Either way, it’s pretty cool. I set the file on my vanity table and cross to the walk-in closet, my backpack heavy on my shoulder. My jaw clicks when I yawn.

The closet is filled with everything I could need for an assignment. Wigs along the top shelf—different colors and lengths. An organizer with drawers for extensions and contacts cases. From the file picture, it looked like Catalina had short blond hair in a shade lighter than mine. I scan the wigs, thinking I’ll have to adjust the length once I find the right color. I reach into my bag and pull out the hair extensions, combing my fingers through them to smooth them out. After I untangle them, I open the drawer and lay them next to the others, and drop my bag on the floor.

Again I yawn, my eyes too heavy to keep open much longer. I’ll have to read through Catalina’s file to see what sort of clothes she wore—what kind of makeup. Sometimes the photos are outdated, so each assignment takes a careful case study. But there’s not much time for that. I click off the closet light and run my fingers along my wall, touching the raised pattern as I walk. I pull the first pair of pajamas I find out of my dresser drawer.

“Catalina Barnes,” I murmur out loud. I wonder what her voice sounded like, if it’ll be easy to mimic. If she had any quirks or interests that I can’t master. I switch off the overhead light and lie in bed, staring up at the glow-in-the dark stars still stuck to my ceiling from a time I can’t remember. Each blink lasts longer, and just before I close my eyes completely, I whisper, “What happened to you?”

* * *

I’ve never needed an alarm clock. I wake early every morning no matter what time I go to bed, like my body automatically dispenses a bucket of caffeine into my circulatory system. My internal clock is permanently set at seven a.m., no matter how much sleep I get the night before. Still, by afternoon I’ll probably crash and end up napping.