“Well, shit,” he says, staring down at the soggy, smoking, with-ered paper. “That didn’t go the way I planned it in my head.”
I put my hand on my hip and turn to glare at him. But the minute his dark brown gaze meets mine, we both start laughing.
Miller. I open my eyes, feeling the tears rush over my cheeks. What happened to Miller?
“I remember him,” I whisper. “I have a memory of him.” James grips my forearm, squeezing tight, even though I’m sure he doesn’t know he’s doing it. I shouldn’t have this memory. Is this recall? Will I end up like Lacey, broken and crashing? My heart is pounding so fast, I’m afraid it might just quit. “I think Miller was my friend, and I remember him.” James gathers me into a hug. “What have they done to us?” he whispers, mostly to himself. I replay the memory over and over like a sad song on repeat, familiar and comforting even though it’s scratchy and painful. “Look at me,” James says, pulling back to examine my face. “Headache?”
I shake my head, and he takes another second to make sure I don’t spontaneously combust. He waits while I tell him the memory, smiling likes it’s a good story and not some forgotten piece of my past. When I’m done talking, I’m calmer.
“Better?” James asks softly.
“Yeah. There’s nothing else trying to break through. It was just a blip—a spike and then back to flatlining. This isn’t like Lacey,” I say. Even though James didn’t bring up the connection, I know it must have crossed his mind.
“Of course it’s not,” he says dismissively, his jaw tight. “But that memory—we’re not going to tell anyone about it. Maybe you’ll have others, maybe you won’t, but this is our secret.” He looks at me. “Right?”
“I’m fine,” I assure him. I quickly assess myself and realize I’m telling the truth. I do feel fine. A little stressed, but I don’t feel like I’m about to fall apart or anything. This isn’t at all like Lacey.
After a moment James picks up the photo of his tattoos again, checking it against the scars on his arm. “What happened to all these people?” he asks.
“They died.” I think about Brady. My brother’s final days were erased from my memory, and this could be our only chance to find out what really happened to him. “James,” I say, reaching past him to spread out the files, looking for my brother’s name. “See if there’s any mention of Brady.” He helps me sort through the file, picking out papers that he thinks look promising. “How about this one?” he asks, sliding out a page. “It’s minutes from my sessions with Dr. Tabor.” I look sideways at James, surprised he remembers his doctor’s name. I remember Dr. Warren, but James has never mentioned anything about his time in The Program, nothing beyond that it’s all a blur.
“It’s the only one,” he says, examining the print on a few other papers before he gives up the search. He settles back in the chair with a quick look at me to make sure I’m listening, and then he starts to read from the page. “Session one,” he starts. “Patient 486: James Murphy. Doctor: Eli Tabor. The patient refused medication for targeted recall and was therefore injected.” James tenses at the line, and I lean down to read over his shoulder.
Dr. Tabor: Why are you here, James?
Patient 486: What? They didn’t tell you? What sort of a seedy operation is this?
Dr. Tabor: Are you depressed?
Patient 486: Not that depressed. Maybe I’m just tired.
Dr. Tabor: Tell me about Brady Barstow.
Patient 486: Fuck you.
(Patient becomes uneasy and another injection is given.)
Dr. Tabor: Better?
Patient 486: No.
Dr. Tabor: I see. James, teens in your position are always combative; this isn’t a new feeling.
But you need to understand that we’re here to help you. To cure you. Do you want to live?
Patient 486: Not after you’re done, I won’t.
(Note that patient’s speech is slurred.)
Dr. Tabor: Is it because of your girlfriend?
Patient 486: Don’t have one.
I pause at the line and look at James. The minute he reads it, his breathing changes, but he doesn’t turn to me. A new sort of worry begins, and I read on, hoping it’s just a lie.
Dr. Tabor: You’re not dating Sloane Barstow, Brady’s sister?
Patient 486: I wouldn’t call it dating.
Dr. Tabor: What would you call it then?
Patient 486: Pity.
My stomach drops at the word pity. I don’t believe it, but inside, a seed of doubt has been planted.
Dr. Tabor: We have extensive research on
you and Miss Barstow. We know you’ve been in a relationship for years now.
Patient 486: Her brother asked me to take care of her. I have been. But the minute she’s eighteen, I’m done. I’ll be done with Sloane and you won’t have to worry about her ever again.
Dr. Tabor: But we are worried. She may not be carving names into her arm, but she’s high-risk, James. We want to bring her in.
Patient 486: You’re wasting your time. She doesn’t love me. I don’t love her. Sure, we sleep together sometimes, but that should be expected.
I’m a pretty good catch.
Dr. Tabor: James—
Patient 486: Are we done here? Because I’m done talking.
Dr. Tabor: No. I want to—
(Note that Patient 486 charged the desk and grabbed my coat to attack me. Handlers were brought in to sedate him. He will sit in isolation for three days before his next session.)
Additional notes: Patient 486 attempted to terminate his life following his session. After waking from his sedation, he used his sheets to try and hang himself in his room. Dr. Arthur Pritchard has been called in for a consult.
I stand up from the kitchen chair, bumping it back against the wall. James is motionless, still staring down at the papers.
He tried to kill himself. He said he never loved me. I can remember Miller.
Suddenly my head is pounding, my heart racing. I touch my temples just as a wave of dizziness hits—I shouldn’t mess with my memories, but I can’t stop myself. I’m trying to piece together what I know for certain.
When I first returned from The Program, I met James outside of the Wellness Center. A guy named Liam had called me a freak, and although we didn’t know each other, James stood up for me. As we got closer, James always held back. Is this why?
Would he have really left me when I turned eighteen?