The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(14)

My father isn’t in the kitchen, and I’m about to call for him when I realize that it’s Thursday. He’s probably at the hospital. My days are mixed up, and I’m only half aware of what I’m doing as I pull out the box of Frosted Flakes and the milk.

“I’m Quinlan McKee,” I murmur, repeating Marie’s words from last night. “I live at 2055 Seneca Place in Corvallis, Oregon. I’m seventeen and I drive a beat-up old Honda that my father won’t replace.” I sit at the table and stare down at my bowl. “I’m Quinlan McKee,” I whisper.

CHAPTER FIVE

MY FATHER WORKS UNTIL NINE on Thursdays, so around six—after a well-deserved nap—I pull on the black Rolling Stones T-shirt and a pair of jeans to head over to Aaron’s apartment. I’m feeling altogether miserable at the thought that this will be my last time hanging out for a while. It’s hard for a noncloser to understand how difficult our lives can be. Tomorrow I give up my life for someone else’s. The first time I’ll talk to a friend will be when Aaron calls to check on me, and then again when he sets up my extraction. Aaron is supposed to be my first contact because we try not to change the variables of real life. These sorts of things always have to stay the same. Soon Quinlan McKee won’t exist. That’s my life—half the time I don’t exist.

I grab my keys off the entry table and go outside to start my car. When the check-engine light comes on, I sigh, and then back out of the driveway. The day after one of us returns, Aaron, Deacon, and I usually meet up to talk about anything other than our assignments. We eat and drink and act stupid to feel normal. Tonight I’m far too logical, but I’m willing to go through the motions. I do my best to put on my happy face when I park in front of Aaron’s apartment complex. I toss my car keys into my bag and head up to the second floor.

On the open landing, I glance around. The sky is still bright, not even dusk. Right now it feels like I’m in an hourglass filling up with sand, waiting to be flipped over. I knock on the door before opening it and walking in.

“There she is,” Deacon announces the minute I appear in the entry. He’s on the couch in the living room, and he holds up an oversize blue plastic cup in cheers. He takes a sip, his eyes trained on me like he can already tell something’s wrong. The girl next to him casts a curious look in my direction and then laughs and touches his thigh to get his attention. Deacon flinches, but turns to her and smiles—charming as ever. A little farther down the wall I find Aaron, his phone in his hand as Myra sits beside him, prattling on about something close to his ear. Aaron hits a button and music starts to play. He notices my shirt and snorts, and I offer him a sarcastic wave. Awesome—guess I’m fifth-wheeling it. Aaron could have told me Deacon had a girl tonight.

Without speaking out loud, I turn and stroll down the hallway toward the kitchen. There’s a pizza box, empty except for two partially devoured crusts. Several two-liters of soda are open, along with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. I don’t want to risk a hangover, so I don’t bother with the alcohol. I pour some Sprite into a cup and take out my phone, check for any messages. I don’t have any, of course. The only people who would call me are sitting in the other room.

This time last year, Deacon, Aaron, and I were at Deacon’s, hanging out on his back porch. It was unseasonably warm, and Aaron busted out a small camping grill he’d picked up at the convenience store. It could only cook one hamburger and a few hot dogs at a time, but we didn’t mind. There were cold drinks in the cooler, the smoky smell of fire signaling the upcoming summer. Deacon and I were dating then, and he was sitting on the stair below my feet, the side of his head resting on my thigh as we listened to Aaron talk about a new band he’d gone to see. That night seemed to last forever, the three of us hanging out and normal—or as close to normal as we could be. What I wouldn’t give to have that back for even a second.

I take another sip of soda and then rest my hip against the granite counter. Normally I’d be in there with them, but right now I’m feeling a bit abandoned. I haven’t been home twenty-four hours and I’ve already got another assignment. I’m not even fully me again.

“Hey, sad face,” Deacon says from the doorway, startling me. I plan to roll my eyes or do something equally uninterested, but when I turn to him, he reads my misery too quickly. Deacon drains what’s left in his cup and sets it on the counter before starting toward me. Tears sting my eyes, and I turn away so he won’t see. I don’t want to go.

Deacon wraps his arms around me from behind and rests his chin on the top of my head. He sways me to the awful song that Aaron’s playing in the other room, soothing me by distraction. Deacon’s body is warm, strong—a tether to my real life.

“What’s all this about?” he asks, sounding worried. “You’re home now.”

“I wish,” I murmur, putting my hands on his forearms to keep him close. “I have another assignment.”

Deacon stills; both of us know the implications of taking back-to-back cases. He tightens his arms around me. “No,” he says simply. “Your father can’t send you out again. It’s too dangerous. Tell him you need therapy instead.”

“Not a chance,” I respond. Deacon knows I would never volunteer for therapy. Closers covet their privacy, me especially. He also knows I’ve already made up my mind about this assignment or I wouldn’t have told him in the first place. But there’s no point in dwelling on tomorrow—this is my only night home. “Besides,” I tell him in a lighter tone, “only the really screwed-up people go to therapy. Look how you turned out.”