The Program Page 0,7
in the country. So in some sick and twisted way . . . I guess The Program works. Even if the result is a life half lived.
James pulls up beside my window in his father’s beat-up Honda. He smiles when he sees me, but it’s too wide, too normal. He nods at Miller.
“Your boyfriend looks worried,” Miller mumbles as we watch James pull ahead to park. “That’s never a good sign. James never worries about anything.”
I don’t answer because I know it’s not true. But I’m the only one who gets to see that side of James. Otherwise he’s our rock. Our steady.
Miller opens the door and climbs out, leaving me sitting for a moment in the warming sun that’s filtering through the windshield. Outside, a bell rings, signaling the end of the returners’ day, and I swallow hard.
I open the passenger door and walk toward where James and Miller are talking, and I glance over my shoulder at the school as a few students and handlers begin making their way to the parking lot. Sumpter is small, with about two hundred students altogether. But that number grows every week, with five schools filtering kids through The Program. And since doctors claim a fresh returner’s brain is like Swiss cheese, with holes where memories used to be, patients need continued aftercare in a safe environment. Now returners stay here until graduation, which makes me doubt their “life without interference” claim.
Back when the treatments first started, returners were sent into the general population to start over. But after they started having meltdowns—like total brain-function-drooling-on-themselves meltdowns from the overstimulation—they opened Sumpter and assigned them a temporary babysitter with a white coat and a Taser.
Even so, handlers aren’t the only thing to fear. Fresh returners are a threat in themselves. In their confusion, they might inadvertently turn you in for harassing them, getting you sent away. So no one goes near them.
At least, not until now.
The minute I reach the guys, James smiles at me reassuringly. It’s time. Miller lowers his baseball cap and puts his phone to his ear as he wanders away, pretending to talk. My heart pounds in my chest as people walk past us. I used to know some of them.
Other than at Sumpter, returners aren’t seen around town much. Our community opened a Wellness Center a few months ago in order to create a “safe environment” for returners and normals to interact. It’s The Program’s belief that assimilation is the key to a full recovery—only it has to be on their terms, like watching us closely at a rec center that’s really just an extension of treatment. But while all students in the district are forced to complete three credit hours a semester there, most of the returners want to go. Obviously they don’t know any better.
James forges passes and skips the Wellness Center, calling it all Program propaganda—a science fair with returners as the main exhibit. Really, I think the Wellness Center was set up to prove that returners aren’t freaks. That they can blend with society post-treatment. But no amount of commercials showing kids with smiling faces playing foosball is going to ease our fears.
I haven’t completed any of my Wellness credits for this semester yet, but from what I’ve heard, returners go to the center with their handlers. That alone highlights how different they are. They’ve been reset—both emotionally and socially.
James must sense my anxiety because his fingers find mine and intertwine for a second before he lets me go. “Whatever happens,” he says, “just play along.”
“Not reassuring.”
“We’re going to pretend to be on a field trip.”
I raise my eyes to his. “Seriously?”
“Well, I’d let you slap me in a jealous rage to get attention, but that sort of hostile behavior is frowned upon.”
“James, I still don’t—”
“What are you two doing here?” a deep voice cuts in. I jump, but James is collected as he turns sideways to the handler glaring at us. Several returners stop, noticing us. Their eyes are wide and curious—innocent expressions that makes me feel sorry for them. Dana Sanders stands in the background, not remembering that she dated my brother for over a year.
I keep my mouth shut and let James do the talking.
“School project,” he says smoothly, reaching into his pocket. “Dr. Ryerson said that we could monitor the parking lot to see how well-adjusted the returners are. He’s really proud of the strides The Program has made in behavior modification.” James takes out a paper, signed by “Dr.