The Treatment (The Program 2)

“You were mentioned,” Dallas tells James. “But they haven’t gotten ahold of your photo yet. Wait until they do; then we won’t be able to hide you well enough.”

James smiles at me and I slap his shoulder. “What?” he asks.

“This is good. It means people must be questioning The Program. Why else would we be running from them?” Cas chuckles and walks past us to make his way downstairs.

Dallas stays, her hand on the doorknob, leveling her gaze on James. “Doesn’t work like that,” she says, and I hear the regret in her voice. “They’re going to spin it. They always do. The Program controls the media, James. They control everything.” Dallas seems unsettled about her comment, but she tries to cover it quickly, turning to hurry down the steps.

James watches after her like he’s trying to figure her out, but if what Cas says is true and Dallas has been through The Program, she probably doesn’t even know herself. So James is out of luck.

We descend the narrow staircase to the lower level, which I realize is barely below the street, to enter the first room. It has high windows, though they’re covered with yellowed newspa-pers. The vents pump a steady flow of air as we pass, sending a chill over my arms. I’m not sure how they have electricity, but I guess the rebels aren’t as ragtag as they look.

In the center of the room is a cracked leather couch and a few folding chairs, but otherwise the space is lonely. Ominous.

“Where is everyone?” I ask, worry starting to build. “I thought you said there were others. You said Lacey was here.” Dallas holds up her hands, telling me to calm down. “It’s okay,” she assures me. “They’re all here.” She heads back into the hallway, and it’s long—impossibly long—until I realize it’s the length of the entire building. Styrofoam peanuts have been swept into the corners. The fluorescent lights above flicker and hum.

“They’re probably in the back,” Dallas says. “This place isn’t so bad, you know. It was the first safe house I came to after getting out of The Program.”

“You went through The Program?” James asks. Knowing this about her seems to draw his sympathy, but Dallas turns on him fiercely.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” she says. “I don’t want your pity.

The Program took everything from me—and not just from here.” She taps her temple. Next to us Cas looks down, uncomfortable with whatever Dallas is referring to. “Let’s just say,” she starts again, “they owe me a whole hell of a lot.” Vulnerability passes over her features and she wraps her arms around herself before turning to walk down the hall alone.

“What was that about?” I ask Cas, feeling like I might know more about Dallas’s state of mind than I want to. It seems like a jump, but I think about the creepy handler Roger—how he bartered with the patients. And what they had to give him in return for a moment of their own memories.

“It’s not my story to tell,” Cas says seriously. “But I’m sure you’ll hear about it eventually. Secrets are hard to keep in this camp.”

“Sloane?” The voice is soft as it calls my name. I look up to see Lacey at the end of the hallway. She’s standing there, her blond hair dyed a deep red, wearing a black tank top and a pair of camouflage pants. There’s an explosion of relief and we both start forward, meeting somewhere in the middle with a hug. “I didn’t think you’d make it,” she says into my shoulder. “Your picture is everywhere.” She pulls back, holding my upper arms as she examines my face. “Are you okay?”

I’m not sure how long I’ve known Lacey—can’t remember my past—but since returning, she’s been my constant friend.

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Scared, but fine. James and I went to meet you at the border, but you weren’t there.” Dread slips in. “Dallas said Kevin was gone.”

Lacey gives a quick nod, unable to hold my eyes. “He never made it to the rendezvous point,” she says. “He was taken into custody, I guess. I . . . don’t know where he is now.” Her grip on my arms tightens, and I know there’s more to her and Kevin’s relationship than she ever let on. Whatever it is, she’s not going to tell me right now. She pulls me forward into the room where Dallas and a few others are standing around.

In the middle of the dim space is an oval table with at least a dozen chairs. The wood is warped and some of the seats look like they might collapse, but Dallas grabs one, spinning it to sit on it backward. Her gaze is immediately drawn to the door when James walks in.

James scans the room, pausing when he notices Lacey. “I’m digging the red,” he tells her, even though I think he really means to say he’s glad she’s safe.

Lacey smiles, her expression softening. “Why am I not surprised to see you here, James? Oh, that’s right. Because you’re a pain in the ass who constantly defies authority.” He reaches to pull out a chair for her. “Looks like we have a lot in common.” After she sits, James pulls out another chair for me and then takes the next spot over. “So, Dallas,” he calls, leaning his elbows on the table. “What’s the plan here? What exactly do the rebels do?”

The three people around Dallas sit down, waiting for her to explain. They look normal—and not “returner” normal either; there are no collared polos or khaki skirts. Regular normal.

“Not all of us have been through The Program,” Dallas starts. “Some, like Cas”—she points to him—“are here because someone they cared about disappeared, committed suicide. Or forgot them completely.” The girl next to Dallas lowers her head. “The Program is everywhere, and it’s becoming harder and harder to find people to fight with us. Especially adults.

The rebels are trying to grow, to expand so we’ll have the numbers to inflict real damage. But The Program is always one step ahead of us.”

“What happened to the other rebels?” James asks. “The ones who were in your safe house?”

Dallas wilts slightly. “The place was raided,” she begins,

“and the ones who didn’t get away were dragged back into The Program. The official report said they were in recall—a side effect where memories crash back and drive a person insane—

but that was a lie. The Program took them into custody to squash any rebellion. But they couldn’t risk another incident.” Her face grows pale. Suddenly she’s not a rebel. She’s just a girl.