The Treatment (The Program #2)(8)

James pauses and then nods. “Yes.” He breathes out. “I guess I would.”

“No hesitation?”

He scoffs, getting on his elbow to look down at me. “Sure I’d hesitate. This is dangerous stuff. But The Program took my life— our life together. It couldn’t have been all bad. I want to know who I was, and I want to know what happened to land me in The Program.”

I close my eyes, ready to cry. “Then you should take it,” I whisper. James wants his life back, even if it means he could get sick again. He’s willing to run the risk, so who am I to hold him back?

I’m giving him the same choice Realm gave me, right or wrong.

“Sloane,” James says, putting his hand on my cheek until I look at him. “I can’t take the pill. Not without you. And if you weren’t here, well . . . I don’t think I’d give a shit about anything at all. So let’s stop dreaming up stupid scenarios in which one of us evaporates and the other has to soldier on. If you want to take the pill, then let’s talk about the risks. Otherwise, we’re just going to hold on to it and see how this whole rebellion thing works out. Deal?”

James’s skin is flushed, his eyes wide with vulnerability. He’s lying; he wouldn’t hesitate before taking the pill. He’d swallow it down dry, to hell with the consequences. But he’s also stubborn—he would never take my choice from me. And for that, I love him madly. So I press my lips into a smile and draw him next to me once again, snuggling close until we both drift off.

Chapter Three

THOUGH THERE ARE NO WINDOWS, THE HARSH

overhead light from the bulb slowly draws me awake. James is turned away, calm and quiet with sleep. I’m not sure what time it is, but my body is restless. I get up and take the pill from my back pocket, staring at it through the plastic Baggie.

If there were two, would we take them? How could we when a possible side effect is death? Besides, aren’t James and I happy now? Would memories really be worth the risk of our lives? If only I could talk to Realm, I think I’d understand more.

But Realm ran away, he left me.

I close my eyes and compose myself, shaking off the bad vibes. I stride over to the dresser and stuff the pill in the top drawer, tossing in a few pairs of underwear on top of it. Then I grab a knit sweater and leave to wander alone down the hallway.

The place smells like cardboard and packing tape, but it’s better than the medicinal smell of The Program. I pass the kitchen and I see Dallas standing at the counter, pouring a cup of coffee. I stop, and then make a point of shuffling my feet so I don’t startle her.

“Hello, Sloane,” she says without looking up. “If you need to take a shower”—her dark eyes drift to mine—“and it looks like you do—there’s a bathroom off the main room.” I nod a thank-you and take a seat at the table. Dallas sips slowly from her coffee before smiling, the gap between her front teeth charming, her lips a natural bright red. She takes out another cup and fills it, then sets it front of me. I’m surprised, and touched, she’d make even this small offering. I know I’m not imagining the tension between us. She takes the chair across from me and scrolls through her phone, resting her elbows on the table.

“So how long have you and Prince Charming been together?” she asks without looking up.

“We just—” I pause. “I don’t know, actually. I can’t remember.”

Dallas lifts her head, an apology crossing her lips. “I know how that is. When I first came back, I didn’t feel right. My hair”—she picks up a dread—“was dark and thick—sort of like yours now. My clothes were stiff and scratchy. My mother died right after I was born, I still knew that, but my dad’s an ass**le. You’d think The Program would have changed him if they wanted my return to be successful.” She stops to take another drink. “And when he punched me in the face after he came home drunk one night, my tooth wasn’t the only thing to fall out. So did a few memories.”

I nearly drop my cup. “Wait, your dad . . . You have memories?” I’m not sure which question to ask first, but Dallas holds up her hand for me to wait.

“My father went to jail,” she says. “I got extra therapy. I didn’t tell the doctors about the memories because it dawned on me where they were from. How I kept them.” She waits a long moment, reading my expression. “I take it you’ve met Roger too.”

“Roger was the handler who took me,” I say, lowering my voice as shame—shame I know I don’t deserve—sickens me.

“And in The Program he was making trades. I gave him a kiss in order to keep a memory, one that led me back to James.”

“A kiss?” Dallas laughs bitterly. “Roger is the epitome of everything evil in this world. Everything I despise. He was in my facility too. But he didn’t ask for just a kiss.” Red blotches dot Dallas’s chest and neck as she starts to wring her hands in front of her. “Bare skin or nothing,” she says, mimicking his voice so perfectly it chills me.

“Oh my God,” I murmur. “Dallas, I’m so sorry—”

“By the time it was over,” she continues, ignoring my con-dolences, “I had six memories. But that’s not enough. I want more; I want all of them. Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m a real person—I don’t like what’s left.” She smiles sadly. “And I’m so damn angry. I want them to pay.”