Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

The squeak of a sneaker on the floorboards. The rush of wind across the roof. Someone unzipped a jacket in the back.

"I'm sorry," Wendy said. "There are too many people this would affect."

An instant, horrifying transformation of faces. Disapproving head shakes. Heartbroken frowns. Pros could no longer bear to make eye contact with her.

"That's a shame, Wen," Stanley John finally said. "You're getting pretty Off Program. This is about you, not others. But we'll sort it out in Workshop tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" She stared from blank face to blank face. "I've got a full day of meetings tomorrow. I'm already behind from -"

A clamor of protest. "Don't go backward, Wen."

"Tomorrow's the most important day. It's gonna be so much fun."

"This is a critical time for you," Stanley John explained. "You're between two stages, in limbo. You can't regress now. Who from your old life would understand you now? After everything you've accomplished? After everything we've shared? The abortions. Your time with Chad. You've done things, Wendy. We're the only ones who understand you now."

Wendy's predicament seemed to jar Shanna. For the first time since they'd arrived, she resembled the awkward college kid Tim had met outside the college counseling center.

An edge of fear undercut Wendy's evident anger. "This is a three-day retreat. I'm ready to leave."

"You're free to go. But there's no van going back to the city tonight."

"I want to make a phone call."

Dr. Henderson made a tsking noise. "You don't want to bother friends and family now. At this hour? It's a long ride."

Tim thought of the zero-bars cell-phone signal, the severed cords in the bank of phone booths, Wendy's oblivious bantering on the drive up as the landscape flew by unheeded outside the van's blacked-out windows.

"Fuck this." Wendy's voice quivered with fear. She stood and exited abruptly, walking away from the group to the unlit reaches of the auditorium. Shanna looked shaken by Wendy's departure – her first glimpse over the walls of pluralistic ignorance. Allowing any initiate to witness another's hesitation was, as Tim saw it, TD's first strategic error.

Several Pros were on their feet, but TD waved a hand calmly, and they sat. Tim squinted to make out Skate guarding the door. Wendy hesitated for an instant, but Skate obligingly snapped the dogs into a sit-stay, and she stormed past. A gust of wind announced Wendy's exit, and then the door's creaking return restored the calm.

Good old Tom Altman remained, alone in the glowing center of a ring of expectant faces. From all sides glassy eyes peered at him.

"How do you feel about your time here?" TD said.

"It's been amazing," Tim answered truthfully.

"But you need something else, don't you? What else do you need?"

"Well, The Program opened up all this psychological…material. And I realize now the ways I've chosen weakness, the mistakes I've made. But I don't know how to…"

"Atone?"

"Yes," Tom said softly. "Atone."

"We're helping guide you to that atonement." TD nodded at the paperwork before him. "What allowed you to hire someone else? To order the killing of another man? The wrong man?"

Tim let the epiphany burst across Tom Altman's face. "My money."

"The money that led you to think you could get away with it. The money that let you get away with it. Start fresh, Tom. Rebuild. You've got no wife, no daughter, no house. All you have is yourself."

His voice sounded tiny, lost in the expanse of the silent hall. "And my guilt."

"Of course your guilt. Your guilt is your past. If you want to get rid of it, you'll have to get rid of the one thing that binds you to the past."

Tom Altman wiped his eyes. "My portfolio."

The Pros started to murmur, then call out their support. It seemed the entire world was aimed at him and him alone. A few strokes of his pen could unleash untold elation.

Tim held up his arms. The sound ceased. The rush of power he felt at the crowd's instant reaction provided a tiny window into TD's life.

Tom Altman's voice was choked. "I don't want it. I want to be free from it. Who cares if I default on the deal? I don't want any of it." He leaned forward, pressing the pen to the top sheet of paper.

"Wait," TD said.

Tim's father would have been proud.

"What do you mean, 'default on the deal'?"

Tom wrinkled his face. "Well, I can't just pull out of my legal obligations to the shareholders and the board. There are limitations on divesting. It's a public company. I could turn over my corporate position and assign my assets to The Program, but that would take some hammering out."

"How long?"

"I have meetings stacked all day tomorrow and Friday with my legal team. I can't imagine it would take longer than that to figure out how to go about it. But you know what? What do I care anymore, right? I'm leaving it behind to Get with The Program."

"Maybe you should get all that ironed out, then make a clean break. Outstanding business, so to speak, can sometimes distract from growth."

"I don't really want to go back," Tim said. "I have much more to learn here." A church murmuring of amen equivalents. "I'm in a reflective space right now, and I feel rebuilt. I don't want to be around people who might not be receptive."

TD's face tightened – the first sign of discomfort Tim had witnessed in him. "Your Gro-Par should go with you."

Tom Altman waved off the suggestion. "No, I don't want to take Leah away from -"

TD's eyes bored through Tim. "It'll be much better for you if she goes."

"Well, I guess if you feel that strongly…"

A paternal smile quickly smoothed TD's face. "I think it's best."

A burst of cold air heralded Wendy's entrance. Bent arthritically at the waist, she clutched her windbreaker closed at the throat. The door swung shut behind her.

Already a cluster of Pros was moving to encircle her, bearing blankets and steaming cups of coffee that had appeared as magically as the corridor of soft-glowing light leading inward from the door. They bundled her up, whispering greetings, bearing her lovingly back into the fold.

Leah bounced as the van pulled out from its slot behind the Growth Hall. Tim rode shotgun, his overnight bag and reclaimed shoe box of goods at his feet. His thoughts turned to the briefing he'd owe Tannino, how he'd present the case to come back for TD.

Randall drove by the treatment wing, humming to himself – the "Ode to Joy." The Pros were out about Cottage Circle, attending to their tasks and activities robotically.

Not a single gray face rose to note the van as it glided past.

Entering from the garage, Tim found Dray at the kitchen table, playing solitaire, silhouetted against the drawn blinds like a fortune-teller who knew something about dumbbells. The last time he'd seen her playing cards was when he'd gotten home from a post-WTC deployment to Uzbekistan that had gone overtime; now, as then, she'd looked pale and exhausted, worn down by concern. He paused silently in the doorway and stopped, forearm across the jamb, just watching. She looked up and started, sending three clubs and a spade airborne, and then she was up and in his arms.

She nuzzled her forehead into his neck, tight-squeezing his waist. Then, as was their ritual, she felt his arms, his chest, his back, searching out injuries. She pulled off his fake glasses and tossed them disdainfully on the table, then ran her hand over his goatee. "Can you shave this?"

"Not quite yet."

The smile lines around her eyes faded. "You're going back?"

"Maybe. If we can't flip Leah, I have to accompany her back Saturday so I don't blow her cover."

Dray bit her lip. He rested his palm on her stomach, which bulged ever so slightly below the toned muscle. She read his eyes, flattened her hands over his.