Suzanne Young - The Treatment

Now I can take it. But it’s been only a few days since I felt the darkness, and only seven weeks since I left The Program. Am I truly cured? Wasn’t Lacey?

Lacey.

I close my eyes, crumpling the Baggie in my fist. Lacey’s memories drove her crazy; I can’t risk that. I can’t get sick again; I can’t let James get sick again. The girl I used to be is dead—The Program killed her. And for better or worse, I’m what’s left. I’ll never take the pill. I never want to know. Resigned to this, I stand and put the pill back in its place. Then I turn off the light and close the door behind me.

James and I are in the backyard, lying shoulder to shoulder in the dying grass, tanning our skin. We’ve been inside so much, we’re starting to look like vampires. We never did see the Dateline special, but it seems that since then we’ve been replaced with more tragic stories about the spreading epidemic. We’re trying to make the best of our situation here, but staying in the house is making us stir-crazy. So we came to lie in the backyard, pretending we’re on the grass beach in Oregon again.

The Escalade turns into the driveway, and I shade the sunlight with my palm, watching the car pull into the garage. I’m annoyed Dallas and Cas are back—annoyed this isn’t just all ours. I wonder what James and I would do if they never came back at all. Would we stay here?

“I hope they brought food,” James says from next to me, his eyes still closed. “If not, we’re stealing the car and making a McDonald’s run.”

“Deal.” I turn over, curling against James as the heat of the sun beats down on my cheek and arm. If I could, I’d live this moment forever. Birds chirping, sun shining. James opens one eye to look over at me, and I smile broadly.

“Adorable,” he says, and gives me a quick kiss. When the garage door closes, James groans and sits up. “Dallas,” he calls. “What’s for dinner?”

Dallas walks from the garage with a brown fast-food bag in one hand, and a canvas satchel in the other. She looks us over, her face more serious than I’d expect on a beautiful summer day. “I have something for you,” she says to James. Cas comes from the garage, his face downturned, and immediately James is on his feet.

“What’s happening?” he asks, meeting them at the back door. “What’s wrong?”

Dallas leans against the railing, the wood creaking like it might break. Cas tosses a weary glance in my direction. I climb up, suddenly out of breath. Are the handlers on their way? Did they hear something about Lacey?

Out of the satchel Dallas pulls a black accordion file, stuffed with papers, their edges fraying. My gut sinks, and I walk over to put my foot up on the stair, waiting to hear what they’ve found.

“It’s your file, James,” Dallas says. “From your time in The Program. I got access to it from a source—she stole the whole damn thing. It’s”—she looks at me—“an interesting read.”

“You read my file?” James asks, but his voice is choked as he stares at the papers. Dallas is about to give him what I wouldn’t . . . his past. My body begins to tremble.

Dallas shrugs. “I didn’t read the entire thing,” she offers. “Just the good parts.” She flashes her gap-toothed smile. “And sorry, Sloane. I couldn’t get my hands on yours. They’re keeping that one on lock.”

James stands frozen, as if he can’t believe this is really happening. When he takes the file from Dallas, he turns to me, wide-eyed. “Let’s check it out.”

“James”—Dallas holds up her finger—“maybe you should read it alone first.” Her gaze flicks to me for a second, and from behind me I hear Cas shift. I swallow hard.

“Thanks for the advice,” James says, then points to the fast-food bag Dallas is holding. “That for us?” Dallas nods, and James plucks the bag from her hands and disappears inside, calling my name from the kitchen.

I climb the rest of the stairs, dread seeping from my pores. I pause in front of Dallas when I get to the top. “What’s in his file?” I whisper. Her expression is both fascinated and smug.

“Guess you’ll see,” she says. She holds the door open for me, and I narrow my eyes at her before walking in.

“Tattoos,” James says the minute I’m through the kitchen door. He’s got a cheeseburger to his lips, the open file spread out on the table. “These scars were tattoos. Can you believe it?” He slaps the page down and pulls up his shirtsleeve to show the white lines. On the table is a photograph, and I take in a sharp gasp when I see the first name.

“Brady,” I say. Surprised, James looks down and sets the cheeseburger aside.

“I tattooed your brother’s name on my arm,” he says quietly, and looks up. “I must have cared a lot about him.” The thought brings me comfort, knowing Brady wasn’t alone even though Realm had told us as much. But I’m glad they were friends. It tells me a lot about the kind of person James must have been, and it reassures me. Maybe I never needed to be afraid of our past together.

James leans forward suddenly and pokes at the picture. “Holy shit. Look.”

I sit next to him, and when I see it, I turn to him. “Miller.” The name Miller is the last on James’s list, but it’s not tattooed like the other names. It’s a cut, jagged and scabbed over like he . . . carved it into his arm. I grab his bicep, inspecting the space, trailing my thumb along the scars.

Miller. Miller. My eyes flutter closed, something itching behind my skull, a thought cracking through the smooth surface of my memories until it shatters open.

“Would you mind moving over?” a guy says, coming to stand next to me at the lab table. “I’m kind of an expert at this.” I glance up and back away from the Bunsen burner, which I couldn’t manage to turn on.

“Golly gee, thanks,” I say sarcastically. “I didn’t know they were sending in the professionals.”

The guy’s mouth twitches with a smile as he reaches to turn the gas all the way up, the hissing barely audible over the sound of the other students’ conversations in the chemistry room. “Name’s Miller, by the way,” he says. “In case you want to write a thank-you letter.”

“I’m drafting it in my mind as we speak. Um . . . are you sure the gas should be turned up that high?” I look around the room, but my teacher seems preoccupied with his computer screen. “Miller,” I say, feeling funny using his name when we’ve only just met. “Please don’t burn up my homework.”

He turns to me, the igniter dangling from his fingers. “Are you kidding?” he asks. “I could do this with one hand tied—”

He clicks the igniter and the minute there’s a spark, all I hear is a giant whoosh before a bright-blue flame explodes over the Bunsen burner. I yelp and Miller drops the igniter, sending more sparks over the lab table, igniting the homework I’d just specifically told him not to burn up!

The girl at the lab table in front of us looks back and then points a panicked finger at our now-flaming table. Miller reaches quickly to turn down the Bunsen burner, and then, with complete calm, he picks up my half-empty can of Diet Pepsi and douses the fire, putting it out with an unceremonious sizzle.

“Well, shit,” he says, staring down at the soggy, smoking, withered paper. “That didn’t go the way I planned it in my head.”

I put my hand on my hip and turn to glare at him. But the minute his dark brown gaze meets mine, we both start laughing.

Miller. I open my eyes, feeling the tears rush over my cheeks. What happened to Miller?

“I remember him,” I whisper. “I have a memory of him.” James grips my forearm, squeezing tight, even though I’m sure he doesn’t know he’s doing it. I shouldn’t have this memory. Is this recall? Will I end up like Lacey, broken and crashing? My heart is pounding so fast, I’m afraid it might just quit. “I think Miller was my friend, and I remember him.”