The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(98)

We’ll have to find a new home, but I don’t even know what that means anymore. For the past eleven years I’ve been an experiment, a homegrown remedy created by my father and Arthur Pritchard. I want to know who I was, where he found me. But first I’ll have to find Virginia Pritchard and discover her role in all of this. And then I’m going after her father.

As if sensing my swirling thoughts, Deacon takes my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine again. Warmth floods me, and I give his hand a reassuring squeeze. Then I open the package of Twizzlers and pass him one.

He takes it, smiling softly. He rests back in the seat and slips the earbuds into his ears, turns up the music. Roseburg is about two hours away, and Deacon and I settle into a comfortable silence, tired and hazy—worn down by our emotions.

I can hear the hum of Deacon’s music while he stares out the windows across the aisle. There is a quiet buzz, and I glance down to his open bag at our feet. His phone, casually tossed on top of his clothes, is lit up with a message. I’m about to tell him, but I catch the words on his screen. Words that prickle their way over my skin until they stop my heart dead in my chest.

I shift my eyes to Deacon, but he hasn’t noticed. He’s as serene and beautiful as ever. He’s perfect—like always.

By the time I glance back at the phone, the message has faded to a black screen. But I know what I read. A question from a number I don’t recognize. A thought that will haunt me because now I really don’t know who to trust.

HAVE YOU FOUND HER YET?

I swallow hard and turn to face the smudged bus window at my side. My heart kicks alive again, pounding against my ribs as the enormity of my situation closes in. I haven’t escaped the grief department, escaped my life as the remedy for a sick world. I’m here with Deacon, but now I have to wonder:

Who else is looking for me?

EPILOGUE—EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER

ARTHUR PRITCHARD PAUSES AT THE end of the table, undoing his jacket button before sitting in the hard metal chair across from Deacon. “Mr. Hatcher,” he says in greeting. Deacon stares blankly at him, unimpressed with his appearance. “I’m here to talk to you about Quinlan McKee,” Arthur continues smoothly. His tone unnerves Deacon, and the closer shrugs like he has no idea who the doctor is referring to.

“I understand you’re close,” Arthur says.

“Depends. What do you want?”

The doctor leans his elbows on the table, a movement meant to signify a bond forming between the two men. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Arthur says good-naturedly. “I’ll get to the point,” he says. “There’s something special about her.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Deacon says.

Arthur Pritchard laughs softly. “Beyond the obvious, Mr. Hatcher. You see, Quinlan is a special case for us. We’ve taken extra care with her, trained her differently. I need eyes on her to make sure she’s progressing. To find out if there have been any . . . setbacks in her behavior.”

Deacon’s purposefully empty expression starts to falter, patches of red brightening on his cheeks. “What are you talking about?” he asks. “Trained differently? How?”

Arthur holds up his hand as if urging patience. “It’s very complicated.”

“Well, I’m very smart.”

Arthur nods. “Yes, you are. You’ve tested through the roof in intelligence. Shame you dropped out of high school.”

“Not really,” Deacon says. “After I’m done with this contract I’ll be set. At least for a while.”

“Would you like to be set for life?”

Deacon’s expression darkens. “Why am I here, Pritchard? What do you want from me, and what does it have to do with Quinn?”

“I want you to monitor her, note her behavior, and report back to me. Quinlan McKee has undergone an untested behavior modification: memory manipulation.”

Deacon jumps up so fast, his chair clatters to the floor behind him. Arthur rises slowly, his eyes carefully trained on Deacon in case he decides to attack him.

“What have you done?” Deacon demands.

“We’ve fixed her,” Arthur says. “I’ve fixed her. All I need now is for someone to keep tabs on her. I’m sure you’ve noticed that her attachments are growing, both to you and to her assignments. But her condition is precarious, and overstimulation or a traumatic event could cause a break with reality. A meltdown, if you will. You would see to it that this doesn’t happen. I have no time to test another subject. Quinlan is my case study. I need to know everything about her.”

“Case study for what?”

Arthur straightens his back and adjusts the buttons on his jacket. “Things are changing, Mr. Hatcher,” he says, sounding suddenly clinical. “There is a shift going on in our society, one with momentum. An epidemic. I can’t control it. I can’t stop it. At least not yet. I need to know if this is a viable course of treatment.”

Deacon scoffs, incredulous that this man came to him in the first place. Arthur closes his eyes, sighing heavily before steadying his gaze on Deacon once again.

“I want what’s best for her,” Arthur says. “And I know you do too. All I’m asking is for you to watch her and let me know if there are any changes. This is privileged information, so I would need you to sign a confidentiality agreement. In return, I will pay you the full amount of your closer contract along with a lump-sum payment.” Arthur takes out a small notepad from his jacket, a pen from his front pocket. He writes a number on the paper and rips it off. He outstretches his hand to Deacon.