Dr. Wyatt inspects him and crosses her arms once again. “You could reset,” she offers. “Then—”
“Won’t work,” Realm says. “Treatment, remember? I can’t forget.”
Dr. Wyatt and Michael Realm stare at each other for a long moment, and it occurs to me just how entangled in everything Realm is. He’s been on both sides, the doctors’ and the patients’. And whatever their past, his mention of her daughter has softened Dr. Wyatt’s resolve. She looks at Marie.
“What is your cure?” she asks.
Marie smiles warily and slowly shakes her head. “You know I can’t tell you that. But judging by Michael’s condition, it won’t take long to find out if it works. Please, give us a day, Angela. Just one more.”
Dr. Wyatt considers this and looks around at all of us. It’s Realm who she lingers on, and then she nods to Marie. “You have twelve hours,” she says. “And if your cure doesn’t work, I will report you. You will be taken into custody for memory manipulation. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Marie says. “But I don’t imagine The Program will ever let that happen.”
Dr. Wyatt tightens her jaw and nods. “If what you say is true about them, if you don’t find this cure, we will all be over after this.”
She starts for the door, giving us one last chance. But I still hate her. I still hate what she’s doing.
“You’re no better than The Program,” I call out, making her turn back. “You’re using fear tactics. If this fails, I want you to know I’ll do everything I can to stop you from resetting people.”
Dr. Wyatt smiles. “I’d expect nothing less from you, Tatum.”
She turns, and Marie leaves to walk her out. I suddenly think about Nathan and Foster, knowing I need to call them soon. But I don’t want to worry them yet. Hopefully the next call I make will be to tell them it’s all over. The Program and its offshoots are officially done. I can’t even imagine how good that would feel to say.
Marie comes back into the room, and I sit next to Sloane and James on the couch, Wes perched on the arm. Realm is only half-awake, and sweat has gathered on his brow and above his lip, even though he’s shivering. There’s a tug on my heart, and I look away from him.
“I meant it,” Marie says, looking at me. “The cure—I’ve found it.”
“Great,” I say, like I don’t really believe her. “Let’s have it.”
She smiles. “You’re the cure, Tatum. I’ve asserted that from the start, back when Realm found you in The Program. I didn’t understand at first, but now I do. I spoke with Luther, and I know how to find it. There’s a pattern in your memory that I have to procure, but to do that, I need equipment from the Adjustment office. We can’t do the procedure there—we could be raided. As it is, handlers are searching for you.”
I shiver, and Wes reaches out his good hand to rest it on my arm. I think we both know I might not survive the night out there.
“I’ll bring the equipment,” Marie says. “But first I have to know if you’re willing to take part in this. If you’re truly committed. It won’t be easy.”
Realm looks over at me, not urging me in either direction, and I can feel Wes ready to speak on my behalf. But I don’t need anyone to speak for me.
“How long will it take?” I ask.
“The procedure?” she asks. “Not long. But, again, I need the equipment to—”
“I’ll go with you,” Wes says, startling me. He stands up from the arm of sofa.
“No,” I say, immediately. “Why?”
“To make sure it’s not a setup,” he replies. “And to make sure she gets back here with what you need. If she disappears, then we’re all fucked anyway, right? At least I have a phone so I can call and tell you to run if I need to.”
He’s delusional if he thinks I’m okay with this. He’ll be risking his life, risking getting caught by handlers. Wes turns back to Marie.
“You got anything for the pain while we’re at it?” he asks, motioning to his shoulder. The soreness must have settled in, even if he hasn’t mentioned it.
“I do,” she says, nodding to him. “And you’re welcome to join me, Wes. I think it’s actually very smart.”
Wes turns to me, grinning. Proud to be called smart. But I don’t laugh, worried instead.
“Aw, come on,” he says, his playfulness fading. He leans in to hug me one armed. “I’ll be fine, Tate,” he whispers next to my ear, his breath warm. I close my eyes, wishing this was already over. Wishing we could just be together and forget the rest. “Let me do this,” he adds, and pulls back to look at me.
He smiles, waiting for my permission.
“Those damn dimples,” I murmur, running my finger over one. He leans in and kisses me, smiles, and then kisses me again.
When he straightens, I see him flinch at the pain, but he walks over to Marie. “For clarification,” he says. “The stuff we’re picking up—is it heavy? I’m at a bit of a disadvantage.”
“No,” Marie says. “Dr. Wyatt has already confiscated the big equipment. What’s left is travel size.”
“Lucky me,” Wes offers. He casts one more glance in my direction, and then Marie tells us they’ll return as soon as possible.
Marie and Wes leave, and the moment the door closes, Realm doubles over in the chair, clutching his stomach. He moans like he’s been holding it in this entire time; he gasps for breath. I rush to his side, and Sloane is there too.
“Fucking hurts,” Realm growls through clenched teeth, not looking at either of us.
“Let’s get you to a room,” Sloane says, helping him to his feet. “You should lie down.”
James watches, following Sloane with his eyes, waiting to see if she needs help. But there’s something else there, something beyond his worry. He softens slightly at the way she’s helping Realm.
Sloane and I walk Realm into the back of the apartment, where we find a bed with a bright-patterned quilt tucked neatly inside a small room. We ease him onto the bed, and he turns away from us on his side. He coughs out a sound, half between a cry and a moan, and we wait. Realm waves us off, and Sloane goes into the living room to be with James. I hesitate.
“I want to be alone,” Realm says. “Unless you can find something to stop the liquefaction of my organs.”
“What?” I ask, covering my mouth.
Realm turns slightly to look at me and then rolls his eyes. “I’m kidding. All the organs are still here. They just hurt a whole bunch. Now, if you don’t mind, Tatum—can I please writhe in pain in private for a minute?”
I nod that he can, but I’m horrified by his condition. Absolutely floored by it. He turns away from me again, and I exit the room, leaving the door ajar. I stop in the kitchen, taking in the space that’s mostly barren. A few pieces of furniture. No art. No antiques. No sign of any real life.
This is temporary housing. It’s symbolic of where we’re all at right now. And alone in the quiet of the room, I see that we have multiple problems but only one long-shot solution. And I don’t know if it’ll be enough to save any of us.
• • •
Realm is asleep, or at least he stopped moaning, so I go into the living room and sit in the chair. Sloane stands at the couch, looking down at James, who’s spread out on the cushions.
“How are you?” she asks him, betraying no emotion. At least not to me.
James stares up at her, the dark circles under his eyes hauntingly deep. “I’d feel a hell of a lot better if you were closer,” he says, his voice raspy.
Without hesitation, Sloane leans down and brushes her fingers through his hair, their eyes locked, her lips on his. She kisses him once, softly, and his hand touches the small of her back to keep her close.
Sloane moves onto the couch and lies with him, her head tucked under his chin. If I’m understanding correctly, James is on the same path as Realm. How long before he’s writhing in pain too? A couple of hours? Days? How long before Sloane crashes back—she’s a returner too. Maybe she doesn??
?t care, not when the more immediate threat is losing James.
“Tell me a story,” Sloane says quietly.
James narrows his eyes as if deciding what she’d like to hear. Although the moment is intimate, they don’t seem to mind that I’m in the room. They’re lost in their own little world.
“Miller?” James asks.
Sloane smiles at the name, but then she grows thoughtful. “Tell me a story about Brady,” she says almost in a whisper. “Tell me about my brother.”
James’s mood shifts, a bit melancholy, and he tightens his arms around her.
At first, I’m confused. Then it occurs to me that Sloane went through The Program. She doesn’t remember her past, and that includes some of her family history. She’s asking James because he took the Treatment pill. He has the same gift (curse?) as Realm. James remembers everything.
James rests his cheek on Sloane’s hair and stares across the room with glassy blue eyes, like he’s looking directly into the memory. I can’t help but listen, vanishing into the story right alongside them.
“You were about fourteen,” James starts, “and your parents rented this cabin up in Bend—a real shithole. Your mom just about died when we arrived, and she made your father drive her to Home Depot for heavy-duty cleaning supplies.”
Sloane laughs and places her hand on James’s forearm, tracing her nails lovingly over his skin.
“The minute they left, Brady started searching the house,” James continues. “Told us he was looking for dead bodies. Instead, he found a baseball bat, glove, and ball. Asked if we wanted to play. To be honest, I just wanted to sit on the couch and flirt with you. That was my favorite pastime,” he whispers, making Sloane laugh. “But Brady was super not into that idea.”
“I bet,” Sloane says, making James grin.
I take a moment away from the story to look around Marie’s apartment, thinking about the purity of our memories. Why would The Program take this particular one from Sloane? Why make us scared of our pasts when they aren’t all bad? Maybe The Program wasn’t just removing what they thought were triggers; they removed the good stuff too. That would ensure control. Because both our good and bad memories influence us, and they wanted to decide our direction.
The Program was never about our well-being. It was always about control.
James continues his story, amused. “We all went outside,” he says, “and by the cabin was this huge, dirt lot. Brady wanted to bat first, and you”—he laughs—“wandered to the outfield. You put your hat on backward, adorable. No fucking clue what you were doing.”
“Doesn’t sound like you were paying attention to the game,” Sloane points out.
“Oh, I wasn’t,” he admits. “So anyway, Brady gets up to bat, and I strike his ass out—no mercy.” Sloane laughs. “And then it was your turn, and you came to the plate, choked up on the bat, biting the corner of your lip in concentration,” James says. “I underhand-pass you an easy hit, and you knocked it right to me. But then your brother got pissed. Said I was cheating.”
“You were,” Sloane says.
“So? Were we in the major leagues? Was I getting endorsements? No. Well, then Brady gets up to bat, and me being me,” James says with a smirk, “I struck him out again. He threw the bat and told me to stop fucking around.”
Sloane is cracking up, and I’m smiling too. The innocence of it all. I hope that one day we can all return to a world like that.
Sloane snuggles into James. “Then what did you do?” she asks, assuming he made things worse.
“You got a few more hits,” he says, “and your brother was incensed. Told me he was going to shove the ball up my ass if I didn’t play right.”
“Graphic,” Sloane murmurs.
“So he got up to bat,” James says. “And he pointed at me and said, ‘If I hit this ball, you’re never allowed to look at her like that again.’ I told him I had no idea what he was talking about.
“And don’t you know,” James adds with a laugh. “Your brother took my worst and fucking nailed that ball. Knocked it over your cute little head and into the next lot. I was . . .” He pouts his lips, still staring into the distance. “I was pretty bummed,” he says. “And so Brady came over to me, both of us watching you chase the ball, and he threw his arm over my shoulders and said, ‘I know you’re going to anyway, so don’t look so fucking sad.’ When I turned to him, he smiled, and then he ran out to help you get the ball from next door.”
The story ends, and I watch as Sloane’s smile fades. Her eyes well up. “He knew,” she says. “About us.”
“Oh, yeah.” James brushes an absent kiss on her hair. “I think he even liked the idea, you know, once he got over the shock of his sister and his asshole friend.”
“You’re not an asshole,” she murmurs, still clinging to the memory. “Okay,” she adds, narrowing her eyes slightly. “You are, but I like that about you.”
James laughs, but before he can follow up, I hear Realm call my name from the back bedroom. Sloane and I exchange a look, and she sits up, nervous.
“I’ll check on him,” I tell her, and she nods, resting back against James.
I go to the bedroom and poke my head in, surprised to find Realm awake and staring up at the ceiling. His color has taken on a grayish tone, and I wish Marie and Wes would hurry back. Spare us one way or another. Either the cure works or it doesn’t. But no more uncertainty. We just want this nightmare to end.
I think about that, about how tragedy is more palatable in small doses. Long term, the devastation goes beyond physical. It becomes psychological. It’ll start to unwind you. It’ll destroy you strand by strand. And I’m not sure how many strings we have left.
Realm senses me and turns his eyes in my direction. My heart skips as I take in his current condition, and I sit next to him on the bed, careful not to jostle him.
“You look nice,” he says, flashing a small smile. “Healthy. Is Wes here?”
“No,” I tell him. “He’s with Marie. They’re getting some equipment. Looks like you’ll get those last few experiments after all.”
“I knew it,” he says with a smirk. But after a second, it fades into something graver.
“What?” I ask, leaning closer.
“I’m sorry you’re the cure,” he murmurs. “That you haven’t found the happy life you deserve. I promised you once—promised you’d get the chance. But I’m the worst liar of all. I’ve never helped anybody.” His voice cracks, and the sound is absolutely heartbreaking. “I’m sorry, sweetness,” he says, tears spilling onto his cheeks. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Realm reaches to touch my hand, and I look down as his fingers interlace with mine. The sensation envelops me, not with fear, but with something like realization. Like my entire body just realized something.
I look up, staring into Michael’s eyes, noting how kind they look, despite the gore. How familiar.
How deeply familiar.
There is an intense pain, a spark of blinding light. And then a memory hits me hard and fast, knocking me out of my own head.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“KNOCK, KNOCK,” REALM SAID FROM the doorway of my facility room, not actually knocking. I looked up from my bed, my slipper socks tucked underneath me, my yellow scrubs scratchy at my neck. “Am I interrupting?” he asked.
I stared at him. I hadn’t seen him for the three days, not since he was pulled from the card game, but I hadn’t wondered where he was, not really. I was too busy being medicated to near-unconsciousness. But I’d finally figured how to get the pills out of my system before they could take hold. It left me with just a bit of fuzz clinging to my consciousness.
“You’re not interrupting,” I told him, more out of curiosity than actual want of interaction.
“I was gone,” he said. “Not sure if you noticed.” He offered me a smile, and unlike the other day, this seemed closer to real.
I moved back on the bed as a way of inviting him into the room. He seemed grateful, bowing h
is head, and came to sit in front of me.
“How’s it been?” he asked.
“Am I really supposed to answer that?” I replied, making him laugh.
“Guess not,” he said. He waited a moment or two, and then, when Michael Realm looked at me again, I got the sense that I was seeing him for the first time. Someone ravaged by the epidemic, his soul threadbare.
“I need to talk to you,” he whispered, his dark eyes desperate. “Because if I don’t talk, I’ll die.”
I nodded that he could talk to me. He leaned in closer, and I didn’t mind his proximity. I didn’t mind when his leg touched mine, as if I’d suddenly solidified into a real person. For the last few weeks, I’d felt like an apparition.
“I don’t belong here,” Realm said in a small whisper. “Neither of us do. None of us do. But I especially don’t. Do you want to know why?”
And suddenly I did want to know. “Yes.”
Realm swallowed hard but didn’t break eye contact. He stared deeply into my eyes. “I’m a handler,” he said. “I gather information, and I give it to the doctors. If I don’t, they’ll lobotomize me. But I can’t stay here anymore, sweetness. I want to leave and go find my friends. I was thinking you should come with me.”
“Why me?” I asked. “We don’t even know each other.”
“Because you can tell. You can see this is fake, can’t you? Me, Tabby, Shep, and Derek—you know it’s all bullshit.”
He was right. I could see through their act. I didn’t even know how, but I figured it out pretty quickly. Even with all the drugs. “None of you were very good,” I said. “It seemed kind of obvious.”
Realm lifted up the side of his mouth in a smile. “Yeah, the doctors have already informed me that they’re not pleased with my performance as of late. But how could you tell? What did I do wrong?”
I shrugged. “It was your eyes,” I said. “Almost like you were looking at a different scene altogether.”
Realm seemed to ponder this, and he shifted, his knee sliding to my outer thigh as he got closer. “And the others?” he asked. “How did you know they were lying?”