"Yes."
"Well, some job you did." She was winding up into a panic, working her nails into her scalp at the hairline. "Who sent you? Will?"
"And your mother."
"Will's a dick."
"Yeah. He kind of is."
Her forehead crinkled. "So what are you doing here?"
She pointed at the first bed, and Tim unpacked a few shirts into the drawer beneath it. "I'm here because your situation is important to me and I want to find out more."
"And because my parents hired you to be here."
"No. I wasn't hired. I'm here as a favor to an old friend who knows them."
"You're wearing his watch." She yanked off her sweatshirt and tossed it. Purple bruises flowered along the backs of her arms, so dark Tim mistook them at first for tattoos.
"What happened there?"
She glanced down, covering her arms self-consciously. "None of your business." She retrieved her sweatshirt and pulled it back on, glaring at him.
He tugged a little too hard on the next drawer, and it came off its tracks. "I started this because of your parents. But it's become personal."
"Bullshit. You're a liar."
"I did lie to you, yes. I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
She took a step back and sank to the thin mattress of the opposing bed. He stuck his hand behind the discharged drawer and felt along the underside of the frame.
"I don't think I've had an adult apologize to me in my entire life." She remembered her indignation. "I love The Program. It's changed my life. This is where I belong. This is right for me."
"I'm not trying to take anything away from you."
"But you don't agree that this is right for me. You believe you know better. That you have the answers to what I need." She waited, arms crossed. "No lying, remember?"
"I don't think I have the answers. But no, I don't believe this is right for anyone. Except for TD."
"Stay here and I'll make you see it for yourself."
"That's a deal. You give me your perspective, I'll give you mine. We answer each other's questions. That's all I ask."
"We're not here to waste time on Off Program topics. If you cheat The Program, you're just cheating yourself."
"Then why didn't you turn me in? You've had plenty of opportunity. You could go tell TD now, in fact."
She seemed agitated and dismayed, at cross-purposes with herself, as if he'd just called a bluff she hadn't even known she'd made.
Someone banged on the door. A cheery female voice proclaimed, "Time for the Orae. Let's rock and roll to Growth Hall!"
"We don't want to be late. Put down your stuff and let's go. Not there – that's my nightstand."
"We're sleeping in the same room?"
From outside, "Move it, slowpokes!"
"We have to go."
"Not unless you agree on the deal. You proposed it." Tim extended his hand. Leah stared at it. "What's threatening about that? If I'm misguided, you should be able to set me straight. That's your job as my Gro-Par."
A manic thumping on the door made Leah jump. "Come on, guys!"
Leah seized Tim's hand, pumped it once, and threw it aside. "Now, let's go."
Outside, streams of Pros poured from the cottages. Tim and Leah joined the wake, climbing the hill. "Damn," Tim said. "I forgot my glasses."
"Forget it." Leah grabbed his arm, but he tugged free. "We don't have time."
"Keep walking." Tim turned, jogging backward. "I'll catch up to you."
She threw up her hands, exasperated.
He sprinted back to his room and ripped out his bag's lining, revealing a thin stack of papers. The padded tote strap encased five protein bars and a watch face, and beneath the Velcro hid a coiled-rod flashlight the diameter of a pencil. He yanked out the bed drawer and wedged the light, watch face, and four protein bars on the brief ledge beneath the frame. The papers he folded up and stuck into a Program pamphlet, which he left in plain view on the bed. He grabbed his glasses and zipped the bag back up, leaving the tab a finger's width from the stop. Wolfing down the protein bar, he banged into the bathroom, ripped up the wrapper and torn bag lining, and flushed the shreds down the toilet.
He raced back up the hill and caught Leah in line before the double doors to the Growth Hall. She looked nervous as they filed in.
Inside, everyone trod softly with mute reverence. Stanley John lethargically beat a kettledrum in the back. Using low-signature flash-lights like movie ushers, Pros directed incomers to sit on the floor in neat rows. When Zarathustra inevitably spake, Tim felt a Pavlovian dampness beneath his arms – an unsettling response conditioned into him at the colloquium. The theme music's timpani reached a crescendo, a sheet of radiance rose from the footlights, and there was TD, a dark silhouette splitting the light.
"Here in this room, right now, we're part of the awesome human experience man has striven for since the Egyptians raised the pyramids." TD adjusted the head mike, bending it closer to his mouth. Stanley John's drum began to beat again, so soft as to seem a mere vibration. "Lie flat on your backs and close your eyes. You want to focus on your feet…"
With a serene and deep-toned voice, he took the group under almost immediately.
Sensing the weight of his own face, which seemed to have a numb, post-Novocain droop, Tim comprehended for the first time how The Program applied layers of compliance. Even his guarded participation in the colloquium had implanted submissive behavior somewhere beneath his consciousness – now TD was presenting the cues to unlock it.
Bodies melted; heads lolled. Leah's breath hissed faintly when she inhaled; faint blue veins webbed through her fluttering lids. One row back, Lorraine whimpered and stuck a thumb in her mouth. The drum continued, heartbeat regular, a deep, soothing vibration that they'd known in their bones when they were still fetal-curled and breathing water. The room grew hot and damp – jungle weather, a climate of infinite possibilities. Tom Altman surely felt the allure; Tim himself was in danger of being pulled under.
"You're hovering above a new planet, in a distant solar system. Drift closer. See the red sands. The soft arcs of the dunes. You've never been to this planet before. No one has ever been to this planet before. It's impossible that anyone could ever get to this planet. See a single trail of footsteps leading over one of the dunes. Those are TD's footsteps."
Feeling encroaching drowsiness, Tim tuned out the drums and TD's voice. Biting his cheek, he let pain clear his head. Tom fell under the sway, letting his face and limbs go slack, but Tim remained vigilant inside him, calling forth an image of a locked safe and letting it expand until it blotted out sound and sensation. It was Tim's and Tim's alone, and no amount of prying at his senses would open it. He stayed with the safe for an hour, maybe two, aware of TD's voice only as a distant drone, the drums muffled like underwater reports. At one point, booted feet passed within inches of his face -Randall gliding through the dead-sprawled forms, a mortician taking roll. The feet paused – perhaps Tom's eyelids weren't flickering to code? – then finally moved on.
When at last Tim sensed the bodies around him pulling upward toward consciousness, he relinquished his hold on the safe and broke for the surface.
The drums faded, faded, stopped. Torsos rose. Arms stretched. Eyes blinked groggily. To Tim's left, Chad rubbed a knot out of Wendy's neck.
"In The Program, we defy inhibitions," TD said. "Inhibitions are lies implanted by society to hold you back. How many of you have ever been gripped with the urge to jump up on your school desk and scream? Or get up from your office chair and tell your boss to fuck off? Well, why haven't you done it? Worried what others will think? Worried about consequences? Denunciation? Ridicule? Shame? This retreat is your place free from all that. We are who we are, and we never apologize for it. The only thing we don't tolerate in The Program is fakeness. False behavior, intended to gratify. Intended to please others. To ingratiate."