The Program Page 0,79

so I’m glad. I hate the idea of not having my family.

When my mother—still smiling—puts food in front of me, I thank her. But the thought of eating is far from my mind. Dr. Warren had said that I wouldn’t know anyone at Sumpter High—that they would have been erased even if I had known them because they were infected too.

So I’m starting over. It’s like a new life. It’s like a new me.

When Kevin, my handler, shows up, he’s polite, and almost kind, on my front porch. I have a sense that I should be uncomfortable around him, but he takes my backpack from me and holds the door. So I chalk it up to the confused feelings that Dr. Warren predicted.

Kevin looks to be just a little older than I am, but we don’t say much as he drives us to Sumpter. But then again, my head feels too foggy to ask anything relevant. I think it’s the medication.

When we get there, I see that Sumpter is a large, white building—sort of intimidating. Kevin parks in the back lot, taking a minute to radio in that I’ve arrived. Several students walk past us toward the entrance, some laughing, some alone—and I wonder if I’ve met them before. A feeling of déjà vu creeps over me, and I look away, feeling unsettled.

“Are you okay?” Kevin asks, startling me. I glance sideways at him and see that his light eyebrows are pulled together in concern. I’m not sure who to confide in, what’s even real, but he’s the only one here.

“Anxious,” I say. “Like I’m . . . unglued. Is that normal?”

Kevin’s expression doesn’t change. “It is normal for you, yes. But that feeling will fade in a couple of weeks. Right now, your mind is repairing itself. You’ll have echoes—a space between memories that will make you feel hollow. But they will fill in. Medication can help with the transition.”

His words don’t comfort me, and instead I feel a tiny twinge of sadness. But just as soon as it’s there, it’s like warm water is splashed inside my chest. “Whoa,” I say, putting my hand over my heart.

“That’s the inhibitor,” Kevin says. “It relieves the panic. You should probably take another before going to class.” He gets a pillbox from the center console and pinches out a white pill before extending it to me. I take it from him, staring down at it while he hands me a bottle of water.

“So this feeling will go away?” I ask, just to make sure. There are competing emotions, and it’s hard to tell which are mine and which belong to the medication.

“Yes,” Kevin says. “You will regulate. Eventually.”

I look again at the other students out the window. I feel empty, but they look normal. Happy, even. And someday, I’ll be like them. Once this damn fog clears. So without another thought, I swallow the pill and let Kevin take me inside.

• • •

“Here’s your schedule,” Kevin says. “It might be tough to pick up in your subjects where you left off, but your teachers have all modified their lesson plans to catch you up. I’ll walk you to and from classes and attend them with you.” Kevin’s gray eyes look me over.

“I’m a little confused,” I say. I take a deep breath, and the white pill works its way through my system. My muscles loosen, and an overall feeling of well-being comes over me.

“You’re doing great,” Kevin says, patting my shoulder.

I smile. Kevin seems genuinely invested in my recovery, and it’s encouraging. I might really need the support.

I walk into my first class, and the room is mostly empty. There’s a girl with blond hair near the front, and she says hi to me as I walk by. I smile in response, the small interaction confirming that I at least look normal, even if I can’t remember parts of my life.

“I’ll be in the back if you need me,” Kevin says after I’m settled in my chair.

He goes to stand by the bookcase, and I glance around the room, noticing the colorful posters on the walls. I can still remember my old school, how washed in white everything was. This place smells like vanilla—like aromatherapy. Are they trying to keep us calm?

On my desk is a paper—just like on every other desk in the room. As students walk in, they drop their bags on the floor and fill out the forms, delivering them to a tray on the teacher’s desk. I