Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

Tannino had transferred Tim to disability, a clever move to keep his deputization active. The external stitches came out of Tim's lip on Tuesday, leaving an angry snake of a scab along his chin. He eventually conceded that Cindi's perky instruction was effective; he was getting more ambulatory, though he wouldn't be swing dancing anytime soon.

Still they hadn't heard back from Leah, though Tim had Will checking his e-mail every hour.

Wednesday after his physical therapy, Tim went into Ginny's bare room to stretch. As he sat on the carpet, leaning forward over his purple knee to bring a burn to his hamstring, it struck him that he was tired of holding the room in fearful reverence.

The yellow-and-pink wallpaper was sun-faded, the top corner of one strip lifted away from the wall. He walked over, reached up, and smoothed the thumb-size tab back into place. Stubbornly, it sagged away again. It would need regluing.

An urge overtook him, and he grasped it and ripped. The band of paper swooped from his hand to the wall like the train of a dress. He stared at the messy diagonal tear, expecting to be overcome by remorse or sorrow, but he felt only a bizarre giddiness.

He hobbled around, snatching away great strips, watching the painted flowers puddle at his feet. Popping a handful of Advil to appease the ache in his knee and sides, he retrieved his wide-blade scraper and a platform ladder and stripped the gummy residual down to the drywall.

When he was done, he washed out the fake highlights in his hair, shaved the remnants of his goatee, put on Levi's and a white T-shirt, and studied himself in the mirror. His colored contacts he'd left behind at the hospital. His eyebrows and part had grown back. The scab on his chin had resolved, leaving behind a glossy seam.

Aside from the swelling that broadened his nose, he looked less like Tom Altman, more like himself.

He was waiting outside, listening to the wind through the white oak, when Dray came to pick him up for the ultrasound.

Leah's response came in that night. Will reached Tim at Bederman's to report that another e-mail within an e-mail had arrived. It contained three words:

See you there.

The service elevator dinged open, and Tim and Reggie stepped forth. A bulky Protector guarded the waitstaff door, barrel chest stretching the seams of his blue polo.

"Hey, pal, you're not allowed back here."

Having removed the old disguise elements and – with Pete Krindon's help – added a few new ones, Tim wasn't immediately recognizable as Tom Altman. His recut hair, clean shave, and green-tinted contacts lent him a different appearance from afar – and his facial swelling helped, too – but he was still glad to be confronting a new hire. He snapped his fingers, halting the Protector's approach. "You'd better step to and Get with The Program, my friend, unless you want to reserve a spot for yourself on Victim Row. Now, where's Skate Daniels? I thought this was his post."

"I…uh…the Teacher wanted him up at the ranch to keep an eye out after all the…uh, mix-ups this week." He bobbed his head uncertainly, his tone hesitant but respectful. "Um, who are you again?"

Tim placed a hand on the guy's chest, steering him aside. "I'm the head of East Coast Expansion, and this is my assistant. You question me again, I'll have you fired. Got it?"

An openmouthed nod.

"Step aside."

Reggie at his back, Tim shoved through the doors into the ballroom proper, the sudden heat making his lips stick to his teeth. Reggie kept his head ducked so none of the venerable Pros would recognize him.

They'd sent Dray and Bederman through the official channels, since they ran no risk of being identified. They'd made false reservations in advance; Will had gladly paid their $2,000 entry fees.

The partition between Hearspace and Actspace had been removed to accommodate the wider horseshoe, composed of close to a thousand chairs. Bear had brought them word of this after managing his way in last night posing as a building inspector. The altered floor plan was to their advantage – it would be easier to create diversions during Actspace drills, and now they could do so with Prospace in sight.

Neos grazed on punch and cookies at the back, eyes bleary and manic at once, like those of depleted gamblers hanging on for a last good hand. The blue-shirts moved through them, offering refills and pawing affectionately at arms as the rumbly, incomprehensible sound of chanting monks spilled from hidden speakers.

Two more knockdown men guarded the black curtain leading to Prospace – as Tim had anticipated, there'd be no sneaking backstage to Leah during Guy-Med. Three more Protectors prowled through the audience. They wore blue shirts to blend in, but they were scruffier and bulkier than the other Pros, easy to pick out. One of them would likely move to Randall's old post at the main exit once the festivities commenced, and Tim guessed the others would take up positions on either side of the stage.

Tim spotted Bederman and Dray as they walked through the entrance from the landing. He and Dray made eye contact, exchanged an across-the-room nod.

Reggie exhaled in a hiss as the drum started its build, and the Pros whipped the Neos into a frenzy, everyone scrambling for the horseshoe.

Dray and Tim arrived at one side of the U at the same time, securing two seats side by side. They did not acknowledge each other. Bederman and Reggie did the same across the way. Dray mopped at her forehead, her hair already darkening at the edges with sweat. The woman beside her slumped over, already spent from the heat and the spiked punch, and Dray shouldered her back upright like an irritable economy-classer on a commuter flight.

Tim tried to locate the rest of his incoming class – Don Stanford and Jason Struthers were on the far side of the horseshoe, proudly displaying blue polos. Wendy slouched in her chair, working a thumbnail between her teeth. He did not see Shanna.

Janie took the stage alone – no Stanley John to play Sonny to her Cher – and began recounting the rules. Her voice trembled slightly at first, but she gained confidence as soon as she started rattling off the conditions.

Dray made sounds of annoyance as she listened, eliciting a few stares.

"Everyone strong enough to pledge not to leave no matter what, stand up," Janie said chirpily.

A grand rustling as almost everyone rose, including Dray, Bederman, and Reggie.

Tim remained seated. The lights dimmed, and the spotlight, clumsier than Tim remembered, sought one dissenter after another. Janie harassed them until they either rose or exited. At last she turned her focus on Tim, his new look holding up from the distance. "And how about you? What excuse making are you going to use to justify undercutting your growth here today?"

He'd almost forgotten the hardwired embarrassment of sitting while everyone else stood, the shame of being on the receiving end of hundreds of glares.

Even shouted, his answer sounded meager in comparison to her miked preemptive strike. "From what I've seen, I'm not sure if I like The Program yet. If I decide that I don't like what's going on here, I'm leaving. Thank you for having me here today."

Janie sneered, her lipsticked mouth parting to issue a prepackaged reply.

Tim stood up abruptly and began clapping. Across the horseshoe, Reggie and Bederman joined in, and then the other Neos, confused, were clapping, drowning Janie out.

When the applause died down, Tim was standing in conformity with everyone else, short-circuiting Janie's usual recourse. She reddened and continued with the next rule. "Okay, if you came here with someone else, please change your seat now."

The Pros paid close attention, double-checking some of the Neos to make sure they hadn't cheated. Tim and Dray waited through the seat shuffling, as did Reggie and Bederman.