Suzanne Young - The Treatment

I lift my eyes to his, my vision hazy from the gathering tears. “What sort of work is that?”

“A pill,” he says. “One that can counteract the effects of The Program and prevent erasure. It’s called The Treatment.”

My hand slips from Realm’s and I immediately glance at Dallas. She has no noticeable reaction as she twists a dread around her finger. Oh God. Please don’t say anything, Dallas.

“I need to locate The Treatment,” Dr. Pritchard says. “I plan to analyze it so it can be reproduced. If I can prevent The Program from erasing others—then it will be obsolete.”

My mouth has gone dry and I feel as though there’s a spotlight on me. Does he know Realm gave me the pill? Is that why he’s here?

“Say you do bring all the memories back,” Realm says quietly. “Not everyone can handle them—what will you do to stop them from killing themselves?”

The doctor’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks Realm up and down. “People will still die, son. I can’t claim otherwise. But after we restore the original memories, we’ll treat the depression as best we can with traditional therapy. We’ll work through the issues, rather than avoiding them.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He’s actually making sense, but I’m scared this is all an act. No, I’m sure it’s all an act. But how can he say these things and not see the truth in them? At the same time, how did the doctor know about the pill? Realm said it was the last one and that The Program thought it’d been destroyed. Who’s the bigger liar here—Realm or Arthur Pritchard?

“They tried that,” I say, facing Dr. Pritchard. “In the beginning they tried regular therapy, but it didn’t work. Why should I think yours will be any different?”

“The problem was that they didn’t—I didn’t—give therapy enough time to be effective. We moved forward too quickly. And now it’s time to set things right. I believe The Program itself is adding to the pressure, leading to more suicide attempts. You live in a pressure cooker. It’s not right.”

“It’s not,” Dallas agrees, drawing all our gazes. “But tell me more about this pill you’re looking for, Arthur. Where did it come from? I’ve heard only rumors.”

What the hell is Dallas doing?

The doctor crosses his legs, resting his folded hands on his thighs. “Dr. Evelyn Valentine never believed in The Program,” he starts. “While working there, she created a pill and tested it on several returners. There had been various incarnations, but eventually she found one that worked. It restored all their memories, and with it, their depression. One terminated himself immediately, and before Evelyn could properly treat her patients, she disappeared. Her files were destroyed, and the records of her patients went missing. The Program never found them. That’s why I think there’s still a pill or two out there. I’m looking for it. Evelyn’s cure is gone, but I’d like to create another one in her absence.”

My heart thumps; I expect Dallas to point one of her bony fingers in my direction, telling the doctor that I’m the person who has it. But her face remains neutral, loyal to Realm. Despite what he said earlier, she won’t betray him. I think Dallas loves him.

“I don’t understand,” I say, shaking my head. “Why do you need the actual pill? The formula can’t be that complicated to figure out. Wouldn’t that be easier than hunting down what might not even exist?”

Dr. Pritchard’s eyes lock on mine, and I feel myself wilt under their heavy suspicion. “No one knew the formula other than Evelyn, and she was a better chemist than any of us. Do you think I haven’t exhausted all other options? I’ve spent everything I have trying to buy scientists to help me, but they’re all with The Program—or scared of them. There’s no one left to fight with me. Except those of you here. I don’t think you realize how dire our situation is. I don’t think you realize how truly alone we are.

“If The Program finds the pill before we do,” he continues, “the formula will be lost. They plan to extract the ingredients, patent them, and make their production illegal. At least now we can continue testing. But once they have control of the substances, then no other treatment—nothing The Program doesn’t approve of—will ever be made.”

It’s all around me then, the pressure, suffocating and absolute. When the only person left to trust is the creator of The Program, all is lost. Realm reacts, walking swiftly from the room without a word, the doctor’s eyes following him the entire way. When he’s gone, it’s like I can’t get in a full breath—like a panic attack. Arthur Pritchard continues to talk, but soon I’m heading for the door.

“I need you, Sloane,” he calls to my back. The use of my first name startles me, but I don’t turn. “Together we can change the world.”

He’s offering hope where there is none. But isn’t that a form of brainwashing in itself? Hope in place of change? I shake my head, a small whimper caught in my throat, and leave—desperate to find James.

Outside of the room I’m able to breathe again, even though I’m still trembling. The house is eerily quiet as I pass through the kitchen, not finding James, and I head upstairs toward the bedrooms. Mine is empty, and it’s like I’m engulfed in isolation. James might not sleep here tonight. It’ll be the first time we’ve been apart since leaving Oregon.

I put my palm on my forehead, trying to steady myself. I can’t start thinking of the negative. I can’t afford to lose my sanity right now. I’m a fugitive, and I have to be smarter.

Realm’s room is down the hall, and when I walk in, I find his bed pushed next to the window. He’s sitting there, staring into the dark beyond it. He reminds me of a lost little boy, and for a second I want to hold him and tell him it will all be okay.

“I don’t trust the doctor,” Realm says, startling me. He turns, and his cheeks and neck are a blotchy red. “I think he’s lying.”

I obviously don’t trust the doctor either, but I’m curious as to Realm’s reasoning. I go to sit beside him, gnawing on the inside of my lip as I wait for him to explain. This is the first time I’ve been in his room since leaving The Program. There’s nothing here beyond the scratchy blue blanket and the hard mattress of his crooked bed. There’s nothing that says who Realm is. Even I have a few possessions, and I’ve been on the run since leaving school weeks ago.

Realm exhales, glancing outside once again. “I moved the bed next to the window because otherwise I start to feel claustrophobic, locked up. I check the pane at least three times a day, just to make sure it’s not sealed.” He looks at me. “Just to make sure I’m not locked in.”

“Side effect of The Program?”

“Among other things. And having Arthur Pritchard here doesn’t exactly help to ease my anxiety. I don’t trust him, and I need to get as far away from him as possible.”

Realm is always full of secrets. But this one he’ll have to share. “Why?” I demand.

“Because,” he says with a shrug, “Evelyn was a friend of mine. And I’m one of those patients she cured.”

REALM’S WORDS SMASH TOGETHER AND fall around me, heavy as stones. His secret is so much bigger than anything I could have imagined. Realm has been cured. When did this happen? What else hasn’t he told me?

Realm searches my expression. “What do you think of that, Sloane? How do you feel about the fact that I have all of my past but never told you?”

“I think you’re a dick.” Only I’m in such shock that I’m not sure how I feel about it. His sister had said he was saving it for after The Program, but he was already cured. He was lying to her, too.