The Treatment (The Program #2)(68)

I murmur a good-bye and then follow Asa. He escorts me out more like a punished child than a rebel trying to break out of a brainwashing facility. When we get into the hallway, Asa spins and I take a startled step back.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demands in a hushed voice. He still smells of cigarettes, and his eyes have taken on dark circles. He’s worried about something.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” I say, and his glare chills me.

“Do you want to be lobotomized? I’m trying to save your life, Sloane. Asking Lacey questions about escape . . . God!” He balls his hand in a fist like he wants to punch something.

He takes a step away and then comes back, clearly frustrated.

“Look,” he says, “I need you to be smart. Dallas won’t listen and now she’s scheduled for surgery.”

“What? When?” They’re going to turn her into one of those people. They’re going to switch her off. “You have to stop them!”

“I can’t,” he says, coming close to my face. “She’s being taken to the surgeon tomorrow. I can’t compromise myself or I’ll end up just like her and Arthur Pritchard.”

“Then what do we do? I can’t let that happen. I have to save her.”

“Sloane,” he says, sounding desperate. “You have to save yourself. I can’t help her now, and neither can you. Just play the game. Realm is doing everything he can to get to you, I promise.”

Again Realm’s name gives me an odd mix of feelings that is quickly covered up by the medication. It washes over me, and in just a few seconds my mind is going fuzzy. Asa curses and then he takes my elbow to lead me toward my room.

“It’s the red pill. It has a sedative that works while it erases your memories,” he says, continuingly checking behind us.

“What are they erasing?” I ask, although I can hear the slurring at the end of my sentence.

“I’m not sure. It depends what you told them.”

“They want to find Realm,” I say, just as Asa gets me into the room. “They want to know why he wasn’t at the farm when they came to take us.”

Asa helps me into bed and then stares down. “And what did you tell them?”

“The truth.” My blinking slows, making Asa appear and disappear in longer intervals. “I told him I didn’t know.” Asa smiles and then my eyes stay shut. “Good girl.” I’m sitting in Dr. Beckett’s office, feeling more alone than ever.

I can’t believe I actually agreed to take this pill—a pill that will attach to my memories, clarify them, and then target them for erasure. I never thought I could voluntarily do something like this, but right now it’s my only chance to buy more time. I have five days left, maybe four. Without another thought, I swallow the yellow pill and then close my eyes, waiting for the first wave.

Across from me, Dr. Beckett’s chair groans as he adjusts his position, settling in for a long session. There is a quick panic that my subconscious may really know where Realm is, but I push past the worry. I’ve already taken the pill—there’s no more hiding inside my head. Maybe part of me thinks he deserves to be caught.

Five minutes later my eyelids flutter open. I feel calm, but unlike the sedative, it’s not groggy. It’s alert, clear, and peaceful.

I stare at Dr. Beckett for a minute before he notices I’m looking at him. He’s writing down notes in a pad, flipping between pages. He doesn’t have a wedding ring; he’s wearing a soft brown blazer with a T-shirt underneath—like something a hip TV star would wear to an awards show. Is he really that casual? Is this part of the image he wants to portray? He’s shaved today, and it makes him look younger. He must be in his forties, but he could pass for twenties without his beard. I think he’s a walking lie—a false image in his entirety.

He looks up. “Ah, I see the medication has kicked in.” I nod and settle into the chair. It’s more comfortable than I remember, or maybe I’m just feeling really cooperative. “What are you writing?” I ask.

He smiles, seeming embarrassed to know I was watching him. “Decisions need to be made,” he says. “Some patients are beyond our help, Sloane. I’m the one who has to make the tough calls. I’m sorry to tell you”—he purses his lips, and looks away—“Dallas isn’t going to make it. She’s being scheduled for surgery.”

I swallow hard, a mix of anger and grief exploding inside of my chest before it’s washed away. “What will happen to her?

This is cruel, even for The Program.”

“I assure you, it isn’t as terrible as you think—not for someone like her. We’ve perfected our techniques for a lobotomy. It’s not like it was back when they were first popular. Lobotomies were for the criminally insane. They were never meant to cure patients—

only to make them easier to manage. Here we have a purpose.

Dallas’s frontal lobe will be disconnected from the nerves that are sending her infected signals.” He folds his hands in front of him in a practiced doctorly move. “We will insert a metal rod behind her eye and sever the nerves. When it’s done, Dallas will have no physical scars, but she’ll no longer want to kill herself.”

“She won’t be able to think either,” I snap.