“Fine,” Dr. Warren responds. “Then I guess we’re done here.”
“Almost,” Realm says in a quiet voice.
I’m still next to the door when it opens suddenly. I push back against the wall, my heart pounding, as Realm stalks out. He starts to leave and then pauses. I hold my breath.
“Don’t get caught standing there,” he murmurs, not turning to me. “Or they’ll send you away for another six weeks. Maybe more.” He lowers his head and then walks down the hallway.
I want to run after him and ask him what’s going on—make him explain. But the realization is just hitting me. Realm is working with them. He’s my friend, my only friend, but it’s not real. He’s part of The Program.
Oh, God. Realm is part of The Program! All this time I’ve confided in him, he’s been passing the information to Dr. Warren—things I don’t discuss in therapy. My secrets.
Realm. My lip quivers at the same time my hand clenches in a fist. He’s . . . he’s been messing with my mind. He’s no better than any of them.
• • •
Realm doesn’t sit with me at dinner, and I don’t raise my head when he passes me. A few people ask if we’re fighting, but I ignore them, picking at the chicken on my tray. Realm is a plant, a fake. I could out him in front of everyone here, and this entire place would explode. But what happens after? Will they send us all through The Program again? Are Derek and Shep a part of it?
Anger is fighting its way past the meds in my system. I look over to where Realm is sitting with his friends, and I stand, my hands shaking. I start over, and Realm looks at me just before I reach him and jumps up.
“Hey, sweetness,” he says, and I can see how forced his smile is as he grabs my arm hard, turning me in the other direction.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss, yanking away from him.
Realm fixes me with a warning glare and then turns back to his table. “Looks like I’ve moved from the doghouse to the porta-potty,” he says, making them laugh. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.” They chuckle, but I’m backing toward the door, tears gathering in my eyes. When he notices, Realm grabs me quickly into a hug, pushing my cheek against his shirt as I struggle to pull away.
“Don’t let them see you cry,” he says quietly. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but if they think you’re breaking down, they’ll keep you. I know you want to go home, Sloane.”
I put my hand on his forearm, digging my nails in as hard as I can. He flinches, but he doesn’t pull away. I stop, knowing that I’m hurting him, and thinking that even now . . . I don’t want to. What I want is for him to tell me that I’m wrong. That he’s real and hasn’t betrayed me. I sniffle and wipe my tears on his shirt before straightening up.
“My man is smooth,” Derek says with a laugh from behind us.
Realm looks down at me, his expression miserable. His dark eyes are so sorry, but his jaw is tight, and I don’t know if I can believe any of the emotions he shows me. I’m suddenly struck with the idea that I don’t know what’s true anymore. Maybe I’ve finally snapped.
Realm takes my hand and leads me toward the doorway, saying nothing. When we get there, Nurse Kell shoots Realm a worried glance.
“It’s fine,” he says. Then quieter, “Can you please send the meds directly to her room? Now.”
She nods, and then Realm pulls me into the hall. But instead of going to my room, he takes the turn toward his. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, his grip tight on my wrist.
“What are we doing?” I ask, wondering if I should be scared of him. That maybe he could be as dangerous as Roger.
“They can’t listen here,” he mumbles, and brings us inside. Realm backs me against the door as he closes it, standing with his head bent by my ear. “I know you heard,” he whispers, “and please believe me, I really am your friend.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He puts his hands against the door on either side of my head. If anyone were to look in on us, they might think we were in some romantic against-the-door moment. “I’m a special sort of handler,” he continues. “I’m embedded with the other patients but was assigned specifically to you because you’re . . . difficult.”
A pain rips across my chest as he confirms my worst fear: that my only friend in the world, the only one I can remember, isn’t real. I’ve been manipulated, and I feel violated and ravaged. Realm moves closer, sliding one arm behind me as if in an embrace.
“I’m so sorry, Sloane,” he says, his mouth touching my ear. “But I promise you, I’m only trying to help. If I didn’t intervene, they were going to dig deeper. Do you know what that means?” he asks. “You could have been lobotomized.”
I start to feel weak in his arms and I want to lie down, but he holds me fast. “You can’t fall apart now,” he soothes. “They’re going to know something is wrong.”
I look up at him then, at the scar on his neck. “I don’t understand,” I say, my chest aching. “You’re one of us.”
He nods. “I was in The Program last year”—he motions to his neck—“for an unfortunate incident with a serrated knife. But then I got here, got better. About halfway through, Dr. Warren pulled me aside and asked what I planned to do when I got out.
“I had nothing to go back for. My parents died a long time ago, and I couldn’t remember any of my friends. I had nothing. So Dr. Warren offered me a job—a future within The Program to rehabilitate patients. I signed a contract.”
“What do you do to us?”
He cringes, as if knowing I won’t like the answer. “Form healthy relationships; reestablish connections so that subjects aren’t shell-shocked when they leave. We were having relapses and meltdowns, and they determined it was from the trauma of reassimilating. Emotions are like raw nerve endings, and without some sort of preparation, it’s like sending back an exposed wire.”
“So you weren’t just pretending to be my friend?” I challenge. “You didn’t betray me and tell them the things we talked about? Things I can’t even remember anymore.”
“Of course I had to tell them,” he says. “I had to make sure the therapy was taking. And believe me, sweetness, you wouldn’t want to walk around with half memories anyway. You could go crazy.”