The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(27)

My brain notes difficulty sleeping, but my heart swells because he’s asking for help. I study his thumbnail image, the vibrant ideal of the boy I met last night. I swallow nervously, and then type back.

IT WON’T ALWAYS FEEL LIKE THIS, I tell him, immediately biting my nail after I hit send. He’s typing. Then stops. Starts typing again.

I MISS HER.

I lower my arm, welling up with sadness as I imagine him sitting at his computer, frayed from lack of sleep and overwhelmed by his loss. I KNOW, I respond. I’M SORRY. The cursor blinks, neither of us writing. My training is trying to eclipse my sympathy.

I CAN HELP, I write. IF YOU LET ME.

HOW?

TALKING. WE’LL JUST TALK, ISAAC. I CAN HELP YOU FIND A WAY TO DEAL WITH THIS. HELP YOU GET OVER IT. I’m starting to sound clinical, and I immediately regret mentioning him “getting over” the love of his life. I should have just listened. Right now he needs someone to listen to him—any therapist could have told me that.

YEAH, NO THANKS, he responds, and I can taste his bitterness. I expect him to log off, but he doesn’t. We’re both sitting at the computer, waiting.

OR MAYBE YOU CAN WRITE AND I WON’T RESPOND WITH SOME HORRIBLE THERAPY-LIKE ANSWER. I try a new approach, hoping to gain his trust with a little bit of humor.

YOU’RE NOT EVEN A REAL PERSON, he responds. YOU’RE JUST A REPLACEMENT. HOW CAN I POSSIBLY TALK TO YOU?

Sickness sweeps over me. He’s not entirely wrong, but I’m insulted anyway. Each second that passes echoes his sentiment, deafeningly loud in my head. This is how some of the public sees us—cold and empty. Closers are nonpeople to them. We’re a threat.

I HAVE FEELINGS, YOU KNOW, I write back, without considering what Marie would think of me engaging. But Isaac’s words have brought tears to my eyes, an ache in my chest. Try living your entire life as different people, I think. How would you f*cking feel? Having to watch families lose everything, losing it with them over and over and over. I have no more grief, Isaac, but I can still hurt like a real person. I hurt all the time.

Warm tears rush down my cheeks, and I slam the computer screen shut. I am real. I just lost my parents a few days ago. I lost my other parents not even two months ago. I lose everyone. Everything.

I curse and swipe my hands roughly over my cheeks, my mind spinning. When I look down, there’s a smear of foundation across my fingers. I stare for a moment, realizing I didn’t wash off the makeup from last night. Last night? Confused, I glance around the room, a mix of complicated memories flooding my head. I’m Catalina Barnes. But then there’s also Emily Pinnacle and Rosemund Harris. There’s my mother with dark hair lying in a hospital bed.

A headache starts behind my eyes, and I grind the heels of my palms into them. I get up from the desk, accidentally knocking my chair to the floor. I’m searching for Quinlan McKee, but I can’t be certain of my memories. I’m adrift in my mind, trying to ascertain which thoughts are mine. It was too soon. I need a tether.

An image pops in my mind, and I rush to the closet to find the backpack I came in with. I drop to my knees next to it, rummaging through until I turn it over and dump all of its contents onto the floor. Then I find it: the folded and slightly crumpled piece of paper. I fall back against the wall and slowly open it, smiling my relief as I examine the picture of me that Deacon drew. Quinlan. With a shaky finger, I trace the lines of my cartoonlike features, relieved that I can find myself through his eyes when I can’t find me on my own. That’s why Deacon was a great partner; he anticipated what I needed. He knew me better than anyone. I stare at my name, and slowly my life floods back.

* * *

The first time I met Deacon Hatcher, he was sitting at my kitchen table, eating pancakes and talking with my father. I thought I’d walked in on the wrong family, and I stood in the doorway—wearing pj’s and bed-dreads—staring at them. Deacon looked up first, paused midchew, and then stabbed another bite of pancake without a word and continued eating.

“Dad?” I said, making my father turn around.

“Oh,” he replied good-naturedly. He jumped up from the table and joined me in the doorway to observe the random teenager he’d brought home. “Glad you’re up,” my father said. “I want you to meet someone.”

“Clearly,” I responded. For his part, Deacon continued to eat as if we weren’t talking about him at all. I have to admit, I sort of liked how blasé he was about the whole thing. I turned back to my father. “But first maybe I could . . .” I motioned to my clothes, proving that I was still in my pajamas.

“It’s fine,” my father said with a shake of his head. “Deacon, this is my daughter,” he told the stranger first. Deacon held up his fork in greeting and then smiled, acknowledging in his subtle way that yes, this was weird. And yes, I was definitely still in my pajamas.

I was a little charmed. “Well, it’s certainly nice to meet you, Deacon,” I responded with sarcastic politeness, and then spun to my father. “Can I go now?”

My father tsked, and took my shoulders to turn me toward the stranger again. “Quinn, this is Deacon Hatcher. He’s our newest closer, but more important, he’s your partner.”

My stomach dropped. “What?” I demanded. “What about Marie?”

“Marie will continue on as your advisor, but a new safeguard has been put into place,” my father explained. “Deacon will check in with you throughout your assignment, find out any info you need. Extract you and then assimilate you when the assignment is up. You’ll do the same for him.”