The Treatment (The Program #2)(66)

I step inside my room, walking toward the tray, when I hear the door shut behind me. I turn and hear the click of the lock.

My heart dips, and I rush over to try the handle.

Kell just locked me in. I look around the room for something, anything, to pick the lock with. But The Program is careful. The sharpest thing in my room is the plastic spoon that came with my breakfast. Trapped, I go over to my bed and sit, lifting the lid to my food and finding happy face pancakes.

I stare at them a long moment, the irony—or cruelty—of them too much. And then I flip the tray, sending it to the floor with a loud clank, and curl up on my side, staring out the window.

Dr. Beckett doesn’t ask to see me, and the hours alone in my room stretch on until I feel the psychosis. Murmuring to myself, imagining shapes in the wood grain of the door, I start to doubt anyone will ever come for me again, not until they’re ready to take me to the gray room.

At lunch Nurse Kell comes to drop off my next meal. The minute I see her, I’m at her side, begging her to let me out. I think I might lose it completely if I don’t at least get out of this room. But Nurse Kell only glances at me on her way to the overturned tray of breakfast food.

“Sorry, Sloane,” she says. “You can’t come out yet. I’m sorry.”

The news is devastating, but it doesn’t seem to bother her as she sops up the spilled orange juice that’s turned sticky on the floor.

“What am I supposed to do for the rest of my time, then?

Is this another version of solitary confinement?” Nurse Kell exhales and then stands to look me over. “Dr.

Beckett was called away for the afternoon. He’ll see you when he gets back. For now he wants you to stay in your room and out of trouble. There’s no sense in getting worked up. Now eat your lunch.”

I glance down at the sandwich, surprised by how appetizing it looks. I don’t remember the last time I’ve eaten—maybe not since I arrived here. My stomach growls in agreement. I drop helplessly on my bed and pick up my sandwich, taking a tentative bite. I wait for a chalky or bitter taste, something to prove that I’m being drugged. But it just tastes like turkey.

“Under the plate there’s some paper,” Nurse Kell says, coming over to shake out a napkin to lay over my lap. “Dr. Beckett thought you might want to write out some of your thoughts for your next session—to help move things along. It seems like a positive way to combat the boredom.”

Bullshit. He wants information on The Treatment. On Realm. But he’ll get none of that from me. “Maybe I can write to my parents,” I suggest, just to see Kell’s reaction. She smiles warmly.

“Well, that sounds wonderful,” she says sincerely. “I’m sure The Program has already told them that you’re here, but they’ll probably appreciate an update from you. You’ve given them quite a scare.”

Has The Program told my parents that they have me? It wouldn’t make much sense, not if they plan to lobotomize me. Looking at Nurse Kell, she seems honestly impressed that I’d want to write to my parents. I’m not sure she knows what happens to the people who leave this facility. I don’t think anyone does.

My parents. If The Program hasn’t told them, where do they think I am now? Did my father tell my mother that James had called? Do they think he’s keeping me safe like he promised? If only they knew that The Program was planning to lobotomize me. Make me well-behaved. Is that how they want me?

I’m quiet as Nurse Kell finishes tidying up the room, saying she’ll be back in an hour for my plates. I don’t eat any more and instead find the paper and bendable pen she left for me to write with.

I move the dishes off the tray and set it up as a desk. But as I stare down at the paper, vast in white and blankness, I can think of nothing to write. Really, I think of James. And how likely it is that I’ll never see him again—at least not as myself.

Closing my eyes, I imagine what I’d write to him, not daring to put it on paper. I let myself think back on the good times, some of the bad. Our promises.

I love you, I write to James in my mind. In another life we could have stayed together, fought, gotten back together. Our existence wouldn’t have been anyone’s concern. Maybe I would have learned to swim. Maybe we would have had children.

James, we didn’t fail each other. You took The Treatment and now you’ll always remember me. My tears drip onto the blank paper. But I won’t remember you. I won’t remember how you make me laugh or make me furious with your stubbornness. James, I won’t remember you.

But I’ll always love you.

I lie on my side, and the paper falls from the bed, swaying in the air until it lands somewhere on the floor. I’ll never be able to tell James how I feel—not unless I find a way out of this.

But each second that ticks by reminds me how little time I have left. No one’s coming for me. Except the surgeon.

Chapter Five

“TELL ME YOUR LAST MEMORY OF THE FARMHOUSE, before the handlers came to collect you,” Dr. Beckett says. He’s back in his leather chair, and I’m in the seat across from him, my hands no longer bound. My head is heavy as the medication the doctor gave me to calm me down winds through my body, twisting and turning and setting me at ease.

“I was with James,” I say with a smile. “I had a dream about us, and I was telling him about it before we heard Dallas scream from downstairs. Then we ran through the woods.” I close my eyes and tell him about the chase. About Arthur getting Tased, and Dallas stabbing Roger. He listens intently, never interrupt-ing. But when I’m done, he licks his lips as if he’s been waiting with a question.