The Program Page 0,38

my hair again. “I’ll be seeing you around, Sloane.”

My stomach twists when he says my name. I try to turn my body away, but my hands are tied down with leather straps, buckled to the bed. As I move, my wrist hurts, and I remember how I cut myself in my room before they took me.

I clench my jaw tighter, listening to the sound of the handler’s feet shuffling across the floor. When I hear the door close, I open my eyes and look around.

The room is white, just white. The walls are smooth and unmarked, and there is a chair next to my bed. Everything is clean and smells like rubbing alcohol. My heart pounds as I wait. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. If it’ll hurt when they get inside my head.

I lie back against the pillow, letting the sorrow seep in for a second. My parents betrayed me. I hate them, even though I know I shouldn’t. They thought they were saving me, but instead they’ve condemned me to a half-lived life. I’m losing everything.

A tear tickles my cheek as it runs down, and I curse myself for not holding it in. I turn my head into my pillow to wipe it and then sniffle, staring at the ceiling. It’s quiet—so quiet that the only sound is my breathing. I wonder if the silence alone can drive me mad.

The door opens with a quiet click. I freeze, not sure I want to look.

“Good evening,” a deep voice says. It has the slightest hint of a British accent and it’s calm. Almost inviting. I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m Dr. Francis,” he says, and I hear chair wheels squeak as he sits down.

I’m afraid to move, but when his warm hands touch my arm, I flinch. Then I realize he’s undoing my wrist straps. I look suddenly to my side, where his fingers work to release me.

“I am sorry about this,” he says as he unbuckles. “It’s a precaution we have to take for all incoming patients.”

“I don’t want to be a patient,” I reply.

Dr. Francis pauses, his green eyes searching my face as he studies me. His brown hair is clipped short and he’s clean shaven. “Sloane,” he says kindly. “I know you’re scared, but we really only want to help. You don’t see it, but you’re sick. You even attempted suicide.”

“No, I didn’t. I just didn’t want them to take me.” I don’t mention how I tried to drown in the river.

“We’re not going to hurt you.” He stands and walks around the bed, pausing at my other strap to undo it. “We’re going to remove the sickness, Sloane. That’s it.”

“I’ve seen the returners,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes. “I see exactly what you take.”

When my hands are free, I sit up and rub my wrists, amazed at how much less vulnerable I feel now. But I’m in hospital scrubs, and I shiver, thinking that the dark-haired handler might have undressed me.

Dr. Francis pulls his eyebrows together with concern. “Everyone who comes into The Program is very unwell.”

“That’s not the point,” I say. “We should have a choice.”

“But how can a proper decision be made when the mind is clouded with disease? It’s an infection, Sloane. A behavioral contagion. And we’re the only cure.” He pauses as if just realizing how cold he sounds. “I apologize,” he says. “You should get settled first. I’ll have the nurse come in to check on you.” He nods to me before leaving the room.

I’m still shaking from the shot the handler gave me, but I can’t help wonder if the doctor is right. Maybe I’m sick and don’t realize it. I lie back in the bed, looking at the gauze wrapped around my wrist and remembering how desperate I felt.

But I can also remember the look on the handler’s face when he came to get me—his predatory stare. He’d been waiting for that moment, waiting to get me here.

No. The Program isn’t the cure. It’s the end of me.

• • •

“And this is the leisure room,” the nurse says, motioning ahead. She’s grandmotherly, even wearing a knit sweater over her scrubs. But I think it’s purposeful, that she’s here to trick me somehow. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, my head still fuzzy, and shuffle behind her into the large room.

I’m dressed in lemon-yellow hospital scrubs with a matching robe, sunny slipper socks on my feet. I’d prefer something more depressing—maybe black, but I