“Them?” It’s obvious this part of the hospital isn’t in regular use. It’s quiet—mausoleum quiet—and the air smells lightly of urine. Fear is about to get the best of me and I begin to tug on the restraints, subtly at first, but then more aggressively. I don’t know where he’s taking me. I don’t know what’s happening!
And then suddenly we stop. We’re in a large room—much like the leisure room, but instead of distractions and card games, there are a few scattered wheelchairs with people in gray scrubs.
They’re all facing a window, or in one case, facing a black-and-white painting on the wall. Several of them have a white patch over their left eye.
“What’s going on?” I ask in a shaky voice.
“Doctors found that color disturbs them this soon after surgery,” Asa murmurs. “Noise, too. They keep them isolated until their minds are a bit steadier.”
I spin around in the chair, the pressure on my wrists enough to make me wince. “Are you saying these people have been lobotomized?”
Asa nods, meeting my gaze. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Sloane. This is what this facility does. You’re one of the untreatable—this is what’s going to happen to you.” The world starts to close in on me, and I search the room once again, trying to make sense of it. Although lobotomy was always a threat, I didn’t know it was definite. I never pictured it like this. I don’t think I believed it could happen to me. “But I’m cooperating,” I say in a small voice. “I’m telling them—”
“They’re extracting the information they need, and then you’ll end up here. They all do.”
I blink and feel a warm tear slip over my cheek and drip onto my thigh. I’m stunned, horrified, traumatized from what Asa is showing me. I don’t know what to do. I’m so goddamn afraid, I can’t think.
“You have about a week,” Asa says, “before they’ll bring you down here. The longer you can hold out on the information, the more time you buy yourself. I just wanted you to know the stakes, Sloane.”
A week. I have my life for one more week. How does someone process this information without spiraling into complete madness? What does he expect me to do? I can’t just bust myself out. This is almost like another form of torture.
“Why did you bring me here?” I murmur, staring again at the backs of heads, the slumped shoulders, the empty souls.
“There’s someone here I thought you should see.” James. I try and leap from the chair, searching for him, but I am immediately pulled back by the restraints as they bite into my skin. Please, no. Please.
Asa bends down, his cheek close to mine as he reaches past me, pointing to one chair across the room. From the profile I can see it’s an old man, and I sputter out a relieved cry because it’s not James. The handler turns, the bristle of his scruff tick-ling my skin.
“They’ve crushed the rebellion,” he whispers. “But James and Michael Realm got away, and now any hope of ending The Program lies with you and your friends. I wanted you to know how little time you have left to figure out how.” James is okay. Oh my God, James got away. But my solace is short-lived as I stare straight ahead at the man in the chair. I recognize him. “Arthur?” I ask, my voice cracking over his name.
Asa stands and pushes me closer to the doctor. I’m in disbelief as I study him, his gray beard, his wrinkled skin. He has a patch over his eye and there’s a thin line of drool from his lip to the chest of his gray scrubs.
I start to cry. “Arthur?” I call again, hoping he’ll just snap out of it and look at me. But he doesn’t react at all. He stares at nothing, seeing nothing. Knowing nothing. Arthur Pritchard is dead and his body is left behind to rot. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” I whimper. “I’m sorry they did this to you.” I flex my fingers as if I can reach out and touch him, but Asa backs the chair away.
“We have to go,” he says solemnly. I watch Arthur the entire way to the door, wishing I would have done everything differently. Because what hope do I have now? What hope could I possibly have when The Program has lobotomized its creator?
Chapter Three
ASA SAYS NOTHING AS HE PARKS MY WHEELCHAIR
in the center of Dr. Beckett’s office, leaving me there alone. My entire body is shaking, horrified by the image of Arthur Pritchard emptied out. He’s no longer a factor in our future. He has none.
That’s going to be me in a week unless I figure out what to do.
Is that what happened to Lacey? Was she like Arthur? Is she empty? Fresh tears threaten to brim over, but I sniffle and try to blink them away. My wrists are still tied down, so I won’t have a way to wipe my face before Dr. Beckett arrives. I need a plan.
And I need one fast.
The door opens behind me, and I take a deep breath and wait as the doctor comes to the other side of his desk, studying me as he walks. He looks the same as he did before, except now that I know the extent of The Program, I’m truly afraid of him.
“Hello, Sloane,” he says good-naturedly. “How did your talk with Dallas go?”
Dallas. She probably has less time than I do. Who knows, they could have lobotomized her already this morning. “It went well,” I say, offering a pressed-lip smile. “She’s sick, but not beyond your help.”
Dr. Beckett nods to himself, taking a seat as he seems to think over my words. “Is that your expert opinion?” I don’t like his sarcasm, but I hold back. “I’m not an expert, but I’ve seen depression. I know Dallas wants to live, deep down. I think you can save her.”
“Interesting.” The doctor opens my file again, his pen scratching quickly onto the white papers clipped down. “You seemed to have had quite a change of heart since yesterday.
What can I attribute this miraculous reversal to?”
“Nurse Kell,” I lie. “She told me why she asked to be my nurse and why she’s part of The Program. What can I say? It resonated.”
Beckett laughs and pushes his papers away from him. “That so? Well, Sloane,” he says, “you’ll excuse me if I don’t buy into your change right away. Authentic or not, we take therapy very seriously and we can’t just accept your word for it. We have to continue, and the way I see it, you have two choices: You can voluntarily give up your memories, or we can take them. Now, I know that neither may seem like a good option, but I promise you—the first one is better.”