The Program (The Program #1)

CHAPTER NINE

In the past day have you felt lonely or overwhelmed?

NO.

Have there been any changes in your sleeping patterns?

NO. I haven’t slept since Miller died.

Has anyone close to you ever committed suicide?

I fill in NO. I stare at the darkened oval, willing it to be true. Wishing that I could ever just fill in the goddamn NO! I blink back the tears that are starting, and I erase the mark, making sure no traces of it exist. And then, with coldness in my soul, I fill in YES.

After an hour of intensive therapy to deal with my “loss,” I find James at my locker and walk him to his classroom, making sure he can pass for normal—at least for fifty minutes. When I get to economics, the first person I see is the handler, the dark-haired one who’s always watching me.

Next to mine, Miller’s desk is empty, and a deep hollow feeling opens in my chest. But in the corner, watching me with a soft smile on his lips—as if he’s been waiting for me—is the handler.

My heart races as I sit, not looking back at him again. I wonder if I’m about to get flagged. Please, God. Don’t let them take me.

When the bell rings, Mr. Rocco walks in and shoots an uneasy glance at Miller’s desk and then at the handler before launching into his lesson. I clasp my hands under my desk, squeezing tightly to keep my composure. It’s torture, trying to pay attention, trying to put up the appearance of wellness. I want my phone to vibrate so that I know James is okay too. But nothing happens.

Sweat has started to gather on my upper lip, and I feel like I can’t take another moment of not knowing how James is when the bell finally rings. I jump and immediately stuff my book into my backpack, standing quickly as I head toward the door. Just then someone grabs my arm.

I swing around, startled, and am face-to-face with the handler. I suck in a breath, nearly falling over. It’s happening. No. No. No. It’s happening.

The handler lets go of my elbow and smiles sympathetically. “Sloane Barstow,” he says, and his gravelly voice is like sandpaper on my soul. “I’m sorry for your loss. I just have a few questions for you if you don’t mind.” His eyes are wide and dark, his skin a deep olive. He’s twenty, maybe younger, but I see no true compassion on his face. I see something else, something that makes my stomach knot. He wants to take me.

“I already had therapy today,” I say, stepping back from him.

He laughs. “This isn’t therapy. Follow me, please.” He walks past me, and I’m struck again by the medicinal smell of the handlers. I wonder if he has drugs on him right now that could put me out, something they occasionally do when apprehending someone for The Program. Or he could use the Taser at his waist.

I feel for my phone in my pocket, but don’t dare text James. I need him to stay calm. But then I wonder if they’ve gotten to him, too. I hope not. He’s in no condition for an interview.

It happens, after a suicide. They send us all to counselors to make sure we’re okay. Sometimes a few extras are sent in to interview those who aren’t taking the loss well. But it’s rarely a handler. It makes me uneasy that this is the same guy who’s been watching me since taking Kendra. But I have no choice so I follow him toward the main office.

When we get there, a small room is ready for us. Two chairs face each other in the dim space. I gulp down my fear as I enter, hating the idea of being alone with this guy. But principals and teachers don’t interfere with The Program. They look the other way when I enter.

“Please sit,” the handler says, closing the door behind us and drawing the blinds. My fear is so strong, but I know I can’t let it show. I take a deep breath and lower myself into the chair.

“This really isn’t necessary,” I say, trying to sound like a normal girl. “I hardly knew Miller.”

The handler smiles at this, coming to sit across from me, the knees of his white pants almost touching mine. I try not to flinch away from him. “Really?” he asks, obviously knowing the answer. “Well, then how about Lacey Klamath? Or perhaps your brother? Were you close with them?”

I must visibly pale when he mentions Brady because he bows his head as if apologizing. “Miss Barstow, it has come to our attention that you are high-risk. You’ve suffered tremendous loss recently, so it’s only my intention to evaluate you.”

He’s lying. He wants to flag me. They don’t care about us, only the appearance that what they do works. I curl my toes hard in my shoes as the handler runs his eyes slowly over me. Goose bumps rise on my skin.

“Let’s start with Miller. You were out of town when he terminated himself, correct?”

I hate him for making it sound clinical. “Yes.”

“And Lacey was your best friend, but you were not aware of her condition before she was sent to The Program? You weren’t trying to hide it from us?”

“No. I had no idea.” And then I can sense what’s coming.

“Are you hiding anything now?”

“No.” I keep my face as calm as possible, meeting his eyes. I imagine that I’m a robot, void of feelings. Void of life.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Sloane?” The corner of his mouth curves up when he asks, as if he’s some guy I just met who’s trying to flirt.

“Yes.”

“James Murphy?”

Oh, God. “Mm-hmm.”

“And how is he doing?”

“James is fine. He’s strong.”

“Are you strong?” he asks, tilting his head as he looks at me.

“Yes.”

The handler nods then. “It’s only our hope to keep you well, Sloane. You know that right?”

I don’t respond, wondering what James will say under these questions. If they’ll know from one look that he’s sick.

“There is voluntary admittance into The Program if you start to feel overwhelmed. Or if you just need someone to talk to.” He reaches out then and pats my thigh, a move that catches me off guard, and I jump.

The handler stands up and walks around my chair as if he’s leaving. Instead he stops behind me, putting his hand on my shoulder. His fingers tighten on the muscle. “Have a good day, Sloane. Something tells me I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

And then he drops his arm and walks out, leaving me alone in the darkened room.

? ? ?

I practically run to lunch, terrified that James won’t be there. I stop, swaying on my feet when I see him at our table, drinking from a carton of orange juice.

“You’re okay,” I say when I reach him, practically collapsing onto his lap as I hug myself to him. He doesn’t hug me back, but he doesn’t push me off, either. I press my face to his neck.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’m okay.”

I pull back and look at his face, trying to gauge how damaged he is. His skin is pale and his mouth is sagging, like he’s forgotten how to smile. I run my fingers over his cheek, and he closes his eyes when I do. “I was so worried,” I whisper.

He doesn’t move, and I hug him again, holding him tight like I want him to do for me, but he doesn’t. After a while I let him go, and he starts to eat, taking small bites of his food. He stares across the cafeteria, but at no particular point. Just away.

“Has anyone interviewed you?” I ask.

He shakes his head no.

“They pulled me from class,” I say.

James looks over at me. “What happened?”

“They asked about Miller. About you. . . .”

He doesn’t react; instead he just turns back to his food. I miss him so much, even though he’s right in front me. He’s not the same. “No one’s spoken to me,” he says. “I haven’t even seen any handlers today.”

And although that should make me feel better, his statement only makes me more uneasy. Why did they pull me? Either I was the one being evaluated or they were collecting evidence on James. I’m not sure which it was.

“I want to get out of town,” I say. “Do you think you can get away? I want to go camping again.”

James chews slowly. “I can try.”

The emptiness in his voice is killing me, and I’m not sure I can keep this up much longer. “Don’t you want to go with me?” I ask, my voice small.

He nods. “Of course I do, baby.”

I exhale, leaning to put my head on James’s shoulder. Under the table, his hand finds mine and I feel better, like this small show of life can mean something. Movement in the corner catches my attention, and I dart my eyes over there, finding the handler watching me with a smile on his lips.