“I was hoping you’d want to explain it,” I say. “What exactly are you going to do to me?” I tell her what I already know, and I find Sloane watching us, listening in from the other room.
“The Adjustment did fail,” Marie admits. “You’re right. But what The Program did is having a worse effect. When the doctors extracted a memory, it left a crack”—she runs a finger down the side of her head—“a crevice between events. The Program sought to fix this by overlaying a false memory, a bandage over a gaping wound.
“Returners have hundreds of these cracks,” she continues. “And Treatment patients have thousands. Over time, as memory continues to grow and expand, those cracks also expand. And when a former patient has a crashback, they fall in, sometimes getting lost entirely in their own head. They shut down. They die.”
I swallow hard. Wes had one of those crashbacks, and it nearly killed him. He takes my hand under the table and holds it.
“So what we’ll do,” Marie says, steadying her gaze on me, “is find the moment where Arthur Pritchard stitched together your brain pattern. Whatever he did all those years ago, it was more intricate than anything we’ve ever seen. And it’s different from Nicole, probably because she was reset multiple times. Re-created.”
The words make me sick, and I let go of Wes’s hand and lower my eyes. I haven’t had time to fully grasp what it means to have lived my life as someone else. I’m not sure when it’ll actually hit me, but I don’t have time for it now.
“We need to find that pattern,” Marie continues. “And once we do, we’ll mimic it over the breaks in the memory of returners. We can bond their reality, like a computer getting an upgrade. We won’t add any new memories. Won’t take any out. Instead, this new pattern will make them process things differently, glide over cracks without a hitch. If nothing else, Arthur Pritchard was a brilliant man. No one could have created a system as sophisticated as his. We need his original work. You”—she smiles—“you are the only one I’ve seen with this pattern. You survived the grief department. The Program. And the Adjustment. Each manipulation changing you, perfecting you, in a way. For this. Tatum, you are the cure.”
I shudder at the thought, like I’m some kind of Frankenstein’s monster. “And once you find this pattern, then what?” I ask.
“We’ll apply it to Michael Realm. See if it works. And then move on to James and then returners. It’s our only hope at this point.” She presses her lips together. “But I can’t guarantee that it won’t harm you,” she says. “Going back to those dark memories is dangerous.”
My breath catches, and she holds up her hand apologetically. “I’m not trying to scare you,” she says. “I’m trying to be up front.”
But I’m worried she hasn’t researched enough. Hasn’t done enough to prevent a catastrophe.
“Michael Realm dies if this doesn’t work,” I tell her.
“Michael Realm dies if we don’t try,” she adds.
I can’t be responsible for his death. Although I wasn’t the one who took his memories, gave him a Treatment pill, or caused his crashbacks—I have to weigh if it’s worth giving him this. Will I risk my life for his?
But I know that Realm already risked his for me when we were in The Program. He helped get me out. He promised I’d be happy again.
“I’ll do it,” I say. Wes shifts in his chair, nervous, worried, maybe a little disappointed now that he’s clear on all that’s at stake.
We could walk out that door and start over, but I know that neither of us would actually do that.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I DIDN’T KNOW SEARCHING MYmemory would be a spectator sport. Marie has me on the couch as she sits next to me in a chair. Sloane propped up my head with a pillow, while Wes sits at the other end of the couch for emotional support.
Marie takes her time attaching sticky tabs and wires to my head, and then she removes a crude-looking metal crown from her bag. She tells me it was the prototype for the Adjustment, built by Dr. McKee himself, and sets it aside.
Her hand is under my shirt, attaching wires to my chest, and I glance around the room, a little self-conscious.
James sits at the kitchen table, his head down on his folded arms as he watches us. He continues to check on Realm in the bedroom, his concern giving way to panic. He also seems to be getting worse himself, and Sloane casts a cautious glance in his direction. At one point, James puckers his lips subtly to offer her a kiss, and she smiles and turns back to Marie.
The only option is for this to work. For all of us.
Marie takes out a syringe, and I gulp, a twitch of nervousness when she touches my arm.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Truth serum,” she responds. I dart a look at Wes and then back to Marie.
“For what?”
“It’s a high dose.” She pauses. “Extremely high. We have to find the point where Arthur Pritchard weaved you in. We can’t make a mistake.”
“But you know—”
“We have the basic idea, but we need the clearest memory we can get. Understand, you’re about to crash back... hard. You’ll relive the memories, Tatum,” she says. “I hope you don’t get lost in them.”
