CHAPTER ELEVEN
SLOANE PULLS UP IN FRONT of a duplex and parks behind a black car, one nicer than any other on the block. I have a spark of worry, but we don’t have time to be methodical right now. We need to get Realm inside.
Sloane and I help Realm out of the back, while James rests his palm against the SUV, gathering his strength. I’m alarmed at how quickly he’s deteriorating. This is faster than how it happens to returners. It’s not the typical crashback—this is a system-wide shutdown.
We all get to the porch, and Realm rests against the railing with James, Wes standing with them, a little helpless in his sling. Sloane and I wait together at the screen door, and Sloane rings the doorbell.
There’s no immediate response, and Sloane and I turn to each other before she sighs. In the humid night, her hair has become unruly, wild and curly with a layer of frizz. She pulls it over one shoulder, twisting it to keep it out of her face, and then takes a step back to glance up at the second-story window, where a light is burning.
“James,” Sloane asks. “Any chance you’re up for scaling a wall?”
“Anything for you, baby,” he responds easily, although he doesn’t move. Sloane smiles, then opens the screen door and begins to knock loudly on the wood, eventually closing her fist and pounding.
There is a click of an inside light, and then the quiet padding of feet on stairs. Sloane lowers her arm, and I move closer to her, both of us prepared to confront Marie and beg for her help.
The handle turns, and the door opens. Marie is haggard, her face devoid of makeup, her sweatshirt stretched out at the collar. I’ve never seen her disheveled like this. Sloane sweeps her eyes over Marie and then nods to her. I’m not sure how well they know each other.
Marie smiles weakly at me and then takes a step onto the porch and looks sideways to where Realm and James are against the house. Realm holds up his hand in a wave, pathetic.
“I figured,” Marie says to him. “The Treatment is speeding up your decline.”
She moves back and holds open the door, telling us to come inside. We all file in and start up the stairs toward her apartment. When Marie closes and locks the door behind us, she says in an exhausted voice, “I’m not alone.”
Wes is beside me as Sloane and James help Realm up the stairs. We don’t make it to the top before the door opens. I nearly trip when I find the monitor, Dr. Wyatt, standing there, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Holy shit,” Wes says, moving in front of me protectively. “What the hell’s going on, Marie?” he calls back to her.
Sloane doesn’t stop moving, though. She continues to work Realm up the stairs, pushing past Dr. Wyatt to get him inside, James following behind them. The monitor watches them but then turns back to Wes.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Ambrose,” she says coldly. “Seems you know more than you let on.”
“Let them pass, Angela,” Marie asserts from the door. Dr. Wyatt stares down at her and eventually steps aside.
Dr. Wyatt studies us, studies Wes’s shoulder like it’s evidence of our recklessness. Yeah, well—adults did this damage.
Sloane dumps Realm into an oversize chair in the corner of the room and then goes to join James on the couch. I pause in the doorway with Wes, exhausted, scared, and hungry. But judging by the room, I’m better off than most.
James leans to whisper something into Sloane’s ear, and she looks worriedly over at Realm. For his part, James seems unfazed. Strong. If I hadn’t seen his actual concern earlier, I wouldn’t think he had any. He’s a skilled liar, and I suddenly understand how he and Realm are such good friends.
Marie and Dr. Wyatt both come into the room, and Wes and I move to the side. My heart is racing. I have no idea how these two ended up here together. I’m not the only one.
“Well?” Wes demands, glaring at Marie. “I’ll be honest and say I don’t know you, but I know her.” He motions to Dr. Wyatt. “She’s not on our side.”
Dr. Wyatt’s normally stoic expression falters. “You’re wrong,” she says. “We’re fighting for the same thing. I’m just not as irresponsible as you.”
“Oh, come on—” Wes is getting angry, but when he moves, it must tug on his shoulder and he winces. He looks away as if to disguise the pain, but Dr. Wyatt smiles like he proved her point.
“Why are you here?” I ask her. “Why can’t you just leave us alone?”
“Angela is here to shut down the Adjustment. For good,” Marie says. “She’s against memory manipulation, but she’s proposing a new system, one that will put you back into a facility for returners. She deems all returners a danger to society. So despite her beliefs, she’s decided a complete reset is the only option left. It’s the only one that’s worked. She wants to save your lives, but she plans to do it by erasing them.”
“Over my dead body,” James says. “Because no offense, Angela, or whoever the fuck you are, but none of us are going back to The Program.”
He sounds so sure of this that it actually gives me a ray of hope. James may be heading toward a crashback, but he shows no signs of it when we’re all being threatened.
“It’s not The Program,” Dr. Wyatt says. “It’s to save your lives.”
“And I told you,” Marie replies tersely. “I have the cure.”
Dr. Wyatt exhales heavily. “You’ve said that before, and it’s never worked, Marie. Why now? And how without McKee?”
“Because Marie has always been the brains,” Realm says, his head back against the seat, his face slack and tired. Unlike James, he can’t hide how sick he is. “She’s done more to find this cure than anyone. More than you, or The Program, or any other doctor. If she says she has the cure, then I believe her,” he says. “And excuse me for saying this, Angela, but if your daughter were alive today, you’d want it for her, too. You wouldn’t want her reset.”
I dart my eyes to Dr. Wyatt, stunned by this revelation. She had a child, one who must have died during the epidemic. Is that why she’s been such a beast, tracking and hunting us? Was it all really in search of a cure?
“Don’t, Michael,” she says warningly, betraying her emotion. And, holy shit. I had no idea Michael Realm knew her, but I should have guessed.
“Don’t let Ally’s death mean nothing,” he says, holding her gaze. “Give us one more shot at the cure. Please. I won’t survive otherwise.”
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.