They don’t free my arms once I’m inside the doctor’s office. I sit on the wrong side of a huge oak desk that’s cluttered with papers. This isn’t The Program I was in before, even if Nurse Kell is still playing the role of Nurse Ratched. Since I left Oregon, other facilities have opened up around the country. There’s no way to tell what state I’m even in.
Unlike the hospital feel in the hallways, this office is homey, yet masculine. There are rows of bookshelves lining the hunter-green walls, a heavy maroon rug under the ornate chair they’ve fastened me to. This reminds me of someone’s high-end man cave, complete with a standing globe that could be filled with liquor bottles.
Are they trying to create a false sense of comfort? Normalcy? Doesn’t matter, I guess. I have to find Dallas and make sure she’s okay. She’s always been the one to get information for us, but now it’s my turn.
Doors open behind me, and I clench my muscles. I half expect Dr. Warren to walk up, her brown hair in a cute ponytail—so nonthreatening and relatable. But the figure who rounds my chair is not Dr. Warren. I watch as a man sits in the leather chair on the other side of the desk.
He looks up after opening my file and smiles warmly. “Hello, Sloane,” he says. His voice is clipped as if he’s spent years getting rid of an accent. He has a manicured salt-and-pepper beard, highlighting what would be a handsome face—except for the scar that splits through his top lip. Even still, it doesn’t make him unattractive, just a little edgier than the sterile doctors I’m used to. I look him over, my thoughts honest because of the drugs coursing through my veins.
“My name is Dr. Beckett,” he says, and pulls a pair of thin wire-rimmed glasses from his front pocket. He puts them on, studying me. “I see they’ve already given you the medication.” He jots something on the paper in my file. “That’s unusual.”
“I would say most of this is unusual.” My voice is hoarse, and Dr. Beckett puts his elbows on the desk, leaning closer.
“I tend to agree, Sloane. You’ve already been through The Program. What could have happened to land you here twice? Has the depression set in again?”
“Are you joking?” I ask. “I’m here because I tried to get away. Because you’re all a bunch of psychopaths!” My outburst is immediately met with another rush of warmth, and I curse as my head lulls to the side. I don’t want to be relaxed. I want to tear this place apart.
The doctor nods his head solemnly. “Seems you’ve grown delusional. It’s not uncommon.” He jots down a note in my file. “When suicidal, patients often misinterpret the world around them. They grow paranoid. Think everyone’s out to the get them. It’s too bad you feel so alone. We were all really rooting for you.”
“I’m sure.”
“Oh, come now,” he says, waving his hand. “Use your common sense, Sloane. You can’t really believe we wanted you to fail. In fact, Nurse Kell personally requested this assignment. We want you to be successful. Think of your potential. You could have been such a help to the community—a poster child. Pretty, smart, flawed. The public would have embraced you as a motivational speaker. You would have convinced kids to volunteer for The Program instead of us having to seek them out. But you didn’t follow your doctor’s instructions. Or your handler’s.” He pauses, and folds his hands in front of him. “I am sorry to hear about Kevin. He was a good man. We worked together in another facility.”
Although the medication should keep my calm, at the mention of Kevin I sit up straighter; the ties on my wrists squeeze in protest. “What did you do to him?”
Dr. Beckett shakes his head as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “Me? No, my dear. He became sick again because of you. Because of the stress you and James Murphy inflicted on him. Kevin took a dive from the St. Johns Bridge shortly after you skipped town.”
It’s a crushing blow, and I lower my face. Pain, sharp and jagged, rips into me before the medicine can try to mask it. Kevin isn’t in The Program. He’s dead. “You killed him,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Don’t be silly,” the doctor says with a twinge of annoyance. “We wanted to help Kevin, but he chose another way. They do that sometimes—the sick ones. My question is”—he takes off his glasses—“what will you decide? Given the chance, would you kill yourself, Sloane? Would you go that far to keep your infected memories?”
Yes. I think my short answer is yes—but why is this the question? Why are there no other viable options? I want to be strong. I shout inside my head that I have to be strong, but really I start to fall apart. Kevin—my handler, my friend—is dead. The Program could have thrown him off the bridge for all I know, but even if he did jump, he did it to protect us. The Program pressured him into it. And when they start to exert that same force on me, what will I do? Everything is gone. They’ve changed Lacey. They’ll change me. Is life worth living?
“Do we have to keep you restrained for your own protection, Sloane?” Dr. Beckett asks gently.
“Yes,” I respond, defiant and angry. “Yes, you do.”
Dr. Beckett exhales and then falls against the backrest of his seat. “That’s too bad.” He presses a call button on his phone. “Have Nurse Kell stand by with the next dose,” he says, shooting me a wary look. He takes a moment to compose himself, folding up his glasses before tucking them into his pocket. I have a thought that he wears them only to appear more official. We’re apparently skipping that stage of our relationship.
“We can be friends,” he tells me in a soft voice, “if you want. But there is one definite to our equation: You will never, ever, leave this place with your memories. We just can’t allow it. Try and understand our position.”
“You’re monsters.”
“Are we? Or are we the cure for a worldwide epidemic? All vaccines came with an initial loss. Aren’t you willing to die for future generations?”
“No. Are you willing to kill me for them?”
“Yes. Simply, the answer is yes.”
I don’t remember my time in The Program. Were they always this blunt? This terrifying? Or has my current situation stripped away the niceties? Part of me wishes he’d lie to me, say something to placate the fear. Then again, his honesty will keep me grounded, keep my purpose renewed.
“Now,” Dr. Beckett says, “I know you’ve been under extreme duress. Have any memories resurfaced?”
There’s a jab of grief that comes with the knowledge that I’ll once again lose the pieces, lose Miller. But if I hope to get out of this alive, I’ll have to play along—at least for a little while. “Yes,” I say. “But not negative ones. I’ll . . . I’ll tell you about them, no fighting. No lying. But first you have to do something for me. I need to know that Dallas is okay.”
The doctor smiles, seeming pleased that I’m willing to participate in my recovery. “Ah, yes. Dallas Stone. Seems her illness is fairly progressive. They don’t expect her to survive the night without extreme measures. She’s in solitary until further notice.”
“What? You can’t just lock her up. She’s not an animal!”
“She was ripping out her own hair. She’s a danger to herself and others. For God’s sake, she stabbed a handler.”
“He deserved it!” I shout.
“She’s gone completely mad. She’ll kill someone.”
“Let me talk to her. Please.” I yank on my restraints, wishing I could clasp my hands in front of me to show him how sincere I am. Dr. Beckett tilts his head, seeming to weigh his options. “She’s my friend,” I plead. “I can calm her down.” Dallas is my friend, one I would fight for. I wish I would have realized this sooner, gotten us out that house before The Program showed up.