Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

"So say we had sex. Tell him whatever you need to."

"He'll know."

"Then tell him I couldn't get it up."

At last she stopped, stunned. "Really?" In the refracted light of the moon, she looked about fifteen years old. She was shivering violently. "He'll take you apart for that. Humiliate you."

"If it were true, it might upset me."

She drew a deep, shaky breath. "What's wrong with me? I'm too ugly?" She was trying to goad him into it first with insults, then by appealing to pity. Right on Program.

"No. I don't have sex with whoever TD tells me to. That's my own choice."

"Fine. You'll deserve what you get, then. It's not my problem."

"I never said it was."

Some of the anger left her face. "Did you just get divorced?"

"No." Tim pulled his sheet across her shoulders, then retrieved the one from her bed and wrapped it around her as well. He rubbed her arms through the thin fabric. "What's the Growth Room?"

She described it, trembling with the memory and the cold, her hands instinctively sliding over to cradle the backs of her arms.

Tim said, "And you think that's intended to help you grow?"

"TD doesn't like putting me in there any more than I like being in there. But he's strong enough to do it anyways. You break down muscle to rebuild it, right? Like the Source Code says – exalt strength, not comfort."

"The Source Code is bullshit, Leah. It's decorative."

"Decorative? It's the whole basis of The Program."

"The basis of The Program is implanting self-loathing and anxiety."

She laughed sharply. "Yeah. Sure. I'd love to see The Program you're talking about."

"Then I'll show it to you."

His pledge seemed to intimidate her. "You can't grow without suffering."

"Maybe not. But that doesn't mean that all suffering leads to growth."

"But this does. It puts me in control."

"Nothing can put you in control. You have to put yourself in control."

"Oh, sure. Like you want to do that. TD warned us about people like you. You probably want to turn me Catholic again, like my mom."

"I don't care what you think, as long as you think for yourself."

Moonlight cut her face down the center, leaving it half in shadow. "And how will you know I'm doing that?"

"When other ideas no longer threaten you."

One of her hands curled in the other, a nesting fist. "I wasn't supposed to see my parents that time. I took a huge risk in going. When Janie found out I went, I got put on Victim Row for a week straight, every day." She sank back against the wall. "And for what? To get yelled at by Will and my mom? Slapped? Told how worthless and stupid I am? If I did have any doubts about moving up here…well, they pretty much vanished that night."

"Sounds shitty."

"Shitty, but nothing new. They've never cared about me. Will made me skip my junior prom just so he could pull me up onstage with him when he won Producer of the Year, then he left the stupid Beverly Hills Hotel after in his limo and forgot me. They make me go to Uncle Mike's every Thanksgiving, and I end up getting a rash because I'm allergic to cats."

As she continued reciting the injustices she'd suffered over the years, Tim recalled his own upbringing with dark amusement. When he was ten, his father had shaved his head and taken photos of him to submit with doctored medical reports to children's charities.

"Could be worse," he said when Leah paused between bullet points. "No matter how you've been made to feel about it, getting left behind at the Beverly Hills Hotel hardly constitutes abuse. Not by my standards or The Program's."

"So if I complain, then I'm under mind control, and if I say I'm fulfilled, then I'm under mind control. Neat little trick you came up with."

She hopped off the bed, flung his sheet back at him, and retreated to her mattress.

Tim heard her teeth chattering. "You want my sheet?"

"No." More shivering. Then she added, "Thank you." Rain tapped gently on the window; if the room weren't so frigid, it might have been soothing. Just as Tim recaptured drowsiness, Leah asked in a tiny voice, "What was Jenny like?" Then, a moment later, "I've answered your questions. You said you'd answer mine."

The crisp air made the back of his throat tingle. "Her name wasn't Jenny."

Leah made a gentle noise in her throat – his risk noted. "What was your daughter like?"

"She was the kind of kid you loved so much that you didn't want her to change. But you wanted her to grow up, too, because you couldn't wait to see who she'd become."

"Your answer's all about you. Jesus, do all parents think the world revolves around them? What was she like?"

"Remembering's not easy, Leah." His mouth cottoned, and he ran his tongue across his dry lips. "Her death made me afraid to go to sleep because I couldn't stand remembering when I woke up. Those first few seconds in the morning, when you think everything's like it should be…" He watched a raindrop streak down the black sheet of the pane. "Sometimes I still forget."

"You can't answer the question, can you? You can't answer without talking about you and your suffering. I mean, your little girl died…"

Leah's breathing became barely audible. She was crying as silently as she could. He wondered whether the tears were for herself, whether she knew the difference.

Ginny Rackley, Our Lady of Projection.

"Maybe you're right," Tim said. "In which case you might want to recast your tragic interactions with Uncle Mike's cats."

"First honest thing you've said tonight." Her voice was bitter. "I guess we're both victims."

More rain, more quiet.

"What happened to her? Your daughter."

"What I said at the colloquium."

She shifted in bed; he could sense her eyes trying to penetrate the darkness. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Tim lay for a while, listening for her breathing to steady. Then he crossed the cold floor and draped his sheet over her thin frame.

Along with the light-headedness, his exhaustion helped lower Tim's inhibitions. Last night he and Leah had been awakened every hour by a different Pro clanking around outside their window in a professed effort to repair a faulty water pipe. The early-morning battery of workshops made the colloquium seem like a week at Club Med. Weirdly, even though he knew his success depended on his participation in Program activities, an instinctive resistance – his Old Programming? – was hard to shake.

As Tim played possum among the cadaverous Pros, TD's speaker-enhanced voice began its narcotic susurration – Guy-Med, round one.

The Pros bent over their knees, foreheads pressed to the cool floorboards, yoga on Quaaludes. He peeked at Leah; she hadn't gone under yet.

Skate walked the aisles like a whip-wielding boss man. Tim waited for his footsteps to recede, then reached over and dug his thumb into Leah's Achilles tendon. She yelped and jerked. Skate pivoted, but Tim had withdrawn his hand. Skate walked back toward them, his footsteps vibrating the floor beneath Tim's forehead. Tim watched Skate's frozen shadow, the hump of Leah's body. He could see her eyes blink, confusion giving way to anger. He'd stopped breathing.

She rustled but stayed in position. Finally Skate moved on. Leah waited until it was safe, then shot Tim a glare. He winked at her, seeking to infuriate her further. Flustered, she turned her face back to the floor, but he could tell he'd successfully distracted her from the Guy-Med.

TD's voice stayed mellifluous and soothing even as the words began to take on menace. "You're afraid of the person next to you. To them, you don't exist. Think of the person on your other side. They terrify you. If you were bleeding to death, you'd be too afraid to call out. And even if you did, they wouldn't stop to spit on you." His breath whistled across the mike. "Everyone around you hates you. Everyone in this room scares you. You are completely alone. You are completely isolated." He intoned the words like a bedtime story.