Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

The bang of the front door jarred him from his stupor. Lorraine plunged into the cottage, briskly sweeping water from her jacket sleeves. When she whisked off her hood, her bun came unfastened. She shook a finger at him. "You're supposed to be in your beddy-bye doing GrowthWork."

Tim stood, blinking hard, astounded. He turned off the tape. "Just trying to check the score of the game."

"There's no T V here. Only T D. I'm glad you saw the tape session, though. You liked it?"

"It's captivating."

She led him down the hall, chattering ahead of him. "What did you like best about the day?" He noticed a fallen bobby pin clinging to the hood of her slicker.

He answered truthfully, "My talk with TD."

"What was your favorite part?" She half turned, slowing, and he brushed against her, extracting the bobby pin from the wet lining of the hood. "How his mind works."

"Well, he must like how your mind works, too. You know, TD's never met alone with someone so early on." They reached Tim's bedroom. "And he's never done this so early either." Lorraine swung the door open. "Ta-da!" A thin blue polo awaited him, neatly folded, on the bed. He dragged off his wet pullover and put it on, figuring he might as well endure house arrest in comfort. Admiring his Pro-wear, he was surprised to find that his pleased expression wasn't entirely feigned. He recalled his impulsive desire for his mother's drafting table, masterfully implanted in him by his father.

"Look at this. You haven't even started your GrowthWork." She directed him onto the bed, then placed the hefty binder in his lap. "I'll go fix you a nice relaxing cup of tea."

When she disappeared, he cracked the binder, revealing a page importantly titled "Connecting with Your Inner Source." About two hundred pages, top to bottom with small print – 2500 questions in all. Adding high-caffeine tea to the work burden would encourage sleep-defying diligence, leaving him exhausted and malleable in the morning. He retrieved his watch face and wedged it between his mattress and the wall.

Question 1: As a child, I experienced my father as (a) controlling (b) manipulative (c) jealous.

Question 8: I was abandoned in childhood by (a) divorce (b) death of a parent (c) neglect.

Lorraine came back with the tea and waited until Tim took a sip and feigned immense enjoyment. For about fifteen minutes, she sat on Leah's bed and watched him grow. Adjusting his glasses from time to time, he made a show of furrowing his brow, tapping the pen to his lips, studying the ceiling for inspiration – it was almost fun.

Through the window he saw Skate's squat outline pass at the edge of visibility, dogs padding beside him. On patrol. A silver key, pressed tight against the flesh of his throat, echoed the soft light of the moon.

Lorraine distracted herself by stretching her swanlike arms over her head, remembrance of ballet lessons past. Tim stole a glance at the watch face – 9:48. He flipped to Question 2148 and underlined it, then went back to circling answers indiscriminately.

The rain had finally slowed, though the breeze threw an erratic splatter against the pane. The air of the poorly insulated room seemed dense, aspiring to ice. Finally the others began trickling back to the cottage. Doors opened and closed up the hall.

"Okay, Tom," Lorraine said, "just keep on working like you are -you're doing great. Stay in your room and focus. It's really important you devote this time to yourself." She rose. "Mind if I borrow your sweatshirt? It's in the thirties out there."

"No problem."

Directing a grateful grin at him, she departed. He poured his tea through a crack in the floorboards at the back of the closet, then ate a protein bar and waited for Skate's next loop around Cottage Circle – 10:25. Tim underlined Question 2225, then sneaked to the door. The minute he opened it, a bucktoothed Pro popped up from a recline on the facing common-room couch down the hall. "Hey, Tom. Can I help you with something?"

"No. I just have to go to the bathroom."

"Well, hurry up. If you cheat your GrowthWork time, you're -"

"Cheating myself. So right." Tim brushed his teeth before a mirror-less rise of wall and returned to his cell.

Randall took a spin past the cottage at 10:47 – Tim underlined Question 2247 – and Skate reappeared on question 2313. The timing of the patrols seemed arbitrary, driven by the whims of the Protectors, and so a log probably wouldn't serve Tim well. Skate paused outside on the gone-to-mud path rimming the circular lawn and stared through the window at Tim, probably assuming that the interior light prevented him from seeing out. The Dobermans heeled, plumes of hot breath issuing from jagged mouths, and Tim was struck anew by the Pros' capacity for selective blindness. How could they not take note of a prison patrol on their jolly ranch? Tim's father and TD were right about one thing: The human willingness to surrender critical thought was staggering.

When Tim glanced back up, Skate and the dogs had evaporated in the rain-slatted darkness. He dug for his sweatshirt in his bag before realizing he'd loaned it to Lorraine. Yet another shrewd ploy; borrowing it would permit the cold to intrude on his sleepiness and discourage unsupervised wandering in the night. He wound himself in the thin sheet, keeping an eye on the window. For an hour he watched the spattering puddles, but there was no sign of the Protectors.

For the first time since he arrived, he allowed his thoughts to pull to Dray. She was lying in their bed right now, her hand resting on her belly, monitoring the life within. She was probably reading something moronically escapist to ward off Ginny's ghost and her apprehension about Tim. Leah's photo, nestled lovingly in Will's billfold, came to mind. Tim reflected on the agony of relinquishing a child to the world and watching it batter her. And then, as he'd been taught during a bone-crushing week in the Fort Bragg barracks, he buried all that was personal.

He redirected his attention on his strategy. He was out of his element; he was dealing not with criminals per se but exceptional manipulators. Bankrolling Tom Altman to the tune of $90 million might have been a mistake – it was increasingly clear that he'd garnered more of the group's focus than Tim had intended – but it also offered him unique access to TD. Tom's parsing out of his woeful tale had set the stage for even more interface. It was essentially a flirtation; TD's attentions would persist if Tom Altman proved malleable but not easy. Tim had his own share of remorse to add to Tom's fictional reserve over the botched murder – for – hire, a benefit when confronting TD's uncanny aptitude for scenting susceptibility. But he'd sensed already TD's ability to reach through Tom Altman and rattle the emotions caged in Tim's own chest. Tom was no longer merely a cash cow; his was the head TD wanted on his wall. As TD continued to leverage Tom's points of vulnerability, Tim would find TD's.

Tim curled up to maintain body heat and imagined he was standing ankle deep in a sizzling pool. He let the water climb, warmth claiming his calves, his knees. He was asleep before it hit his waist.

Tim felt a tug at his belt, then a cool hand slide beneath the band of his boxers. For an instant he was certain he was still dreaming, but then he caught Leah's slender wrist, yanked her arm away, and sat up. She reached for him, and again he repelled her.

"Leah. What are you doing?"

"What's wrong?"

"Hang on. Just stop."

"Look, I'm only trying to help you past the divorce. TD thinks you're a little hung up."

She kept moving toward him, so he gripped her forearms. "I don't want this kind of help."

"Then you'll probably need some time in the Growth Room."

"That's fine."

"Well, not with me. I'll get sent there, too."