“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 supernotinto 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.
