“I agree,” my father says, sounding a little too upbeat. I’m struck with a sensation, an . . . outsideness. My parents are acting weird. Or maybe I’m the one who’s weird now.
I want to excuse myself to my room, but my mother starts talking about The Program again. She tells me that in the UK, they had their first class of patients released. She seems so proud of that fact—as if returners are elite somehow. I nod along, my mind racing. I try to remember my life just before The Program, but all I get are repeats of old memories: my father taking me and Brady for ice cream. My mother sewing a Halloween costume. The repeating starts to make my temples pulse, and I stop trying to think back, worried I might be doing damage.
Dr. Warren had been adamant about maintaining. She warned me that too much stimulus could affect the reconstruction they’d done on my mind. She said it could result in a break in reality, cause permanent psychosis.
But what if she was lying.
“Sloane.” My mother interrupts my train of thought. “You haven’t touched your food.”
I meet her concerned stare and then apologize, cutting a piece of meat. I can barely choke it down, especially when I notice a chalky aftertaste. Something Lacey said pops in my head—I think they put sedatives in the food.
When my mother starts talking again, I wipe my mouth with my napkin, careful to spit out the food. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe I’m losing it altogether. But instead of mentioning it, I ask if I can be excused to get ready for tonight.
My parents look disappointed, but then my mother reminds me to clear my place. “And don’t forget your pill,” she adds when I start toward the kitchen. I grab it quickly and toss it into my mouth.
But the minute I get into the kitchen, I spit it in the sink and scrape my food into the disposal. And then I grind it all to bits.
• • •
I pose in front of the mirror, turning from side to side to evaluate myself. My closet had been emptied and replaced with new clothing, the tags still on them. It seems strange to me that they’d get rid of all of my things, my entire wardrobe. Did they think an old T-shirt could send me into an emotional tailspin? Did I dress in all black and overline my eyes? I don’t remember. So right now I’m wearing a pink button down shirt that feels too stiff, paired with a khaki skirt. I look . . . painfully average.
Taking the brush from my dresser, I run it through my hair, sliding one side behind my ears when I’m done. It’s nearly six thirty, and Kevin will be here soon to take me to the Wellness Center, but worry has started to work its way into my consciousness. What goes on at the Wellness Center? And what will the people who haven’t gone through The Program think of me?
I’m different than them.
I take a deep breath and sit on the edge of my bed, trying to calm myself. I think that I should have taken the pill because right now an inhibitor would come in handy. But then I remind myself that I want to know what’s going on around me. And I’m not sure I can do that if I’m medicated to the point of numbness all the time.
Downstairs, the doorbell rings, and I cast one more glance at my reflection. “Who are you?” I murmur, waiting a minute for my mind to answer. But it doesn’t.
• • •
I don’t know what I expected from the Wellness Center, but I certainly didn’t expect this. I thought it would be more like The Program facility—sterile and cold. But this place is crowded, people chatting and laughing. I try to relax into it, but I don’t see Lacey right away. My anxiety spikes, but I try not to react. I don’t want Kevin to know I didn’t take my pill tonight.
“So where do you want to start?” he asks, motioning ahead. “There might be some seats near the foosball table.”
“Sure,” I say, lowering my eyes. Some of the people in the room have noticed me, and it makes me incredibly self-conscious. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.
We start zigzagging our way through the crowd, Kevin’s hand protectively on my arm. A few people say hi. When we get close to the table, I hear a loud laugh and look over to the couch, catching the back of a blond ponytail.
“I should be okay,” I tell Kevin then, gently tugging my arm free. “I’m heading that way.” I point toward the couch, and he nods. To my relief, he goes to lean against the wall near another handler, giving me a little privacy.
“There you are!” Lacey calls out, standing up to meet me as I cross to her. On the couch are two guys—strangers—and I nod politely at them. God, why am I so nervous?
“Hey,” I say as Lacey pauses to look me over. She immediately undoes the second button on my shirt before she smiles.
“Sloane, this is Evan,” she points to a dark-haired guy, “And this is Liam. Actually,” she says, leaning close to whisper to me, “Liam isn’t even a returner. But he’s not depressed so no worries.”
I glance at Liam then, taking in his reddish-blond hair, his dark brown eyes. He’s watching me with a smirk on his lips, something about it a little unsettling. “Come and sit down, Sloane,” he says, patting the spot next to him. “It’s so great to . . . meet you.”
I dart a glance at Lacey, but she’s already back on Evan’s lap, chatting away as if this is completely normal and we’ve all hung out before. I turn and look back over the room.
The Wellness Center is small, although lively. Bright colors, spirited games with laughing. Most of the people here are dressed like me—preppy and stiff. Then there are a few others, some with wide eyes as they search the room. By their comfortable clothes I think that they’re not returners. When my gaze lands on Kevin, he nods to me, as if saying it’s okay to be confused. It actually makes me feel a little better.
I sit on the couch, but flinch as Liam’s thigh touches mine. My mind swirls through different memories, repeating some and reverberating them back to me. I remember camping with my brother, just the two of us. I can feel there’s something else, but I don’t have time to think about it when Liam leans his shoulder into mine.
“So how long were you in The Program?” he asks.
I’m almost offended by the question, as if it’s too personal for someone I just met to ask me. But I’m probably being overly sensitive. “Six weeks.”
“And they did something to you, right? Like messed with your head or something?”
Okay, now I am offended. Liam must notice because he quickly apologizes and shoots a cautious glance at my handler.