“No,” Dr. McKee says. “My goal was tostopThe Program. We”—he motions between him and Marie—“tried to prevent it. But it was beyond our control. Now, as you may have heard, last year Arthur Pritchard died from complications of violating his contract.”
I furrow my brow, not understanding what he’s getting at.
“But in the beginning, we all had good intentions,” he says. “The grief department was a force of good. I would work with hospitals to identify parents and loved ones who had been left behind by tragedy. Your grandmother helped me find those who needed help, those so devastated by grief that they were at risk of dying themselves. We would send in closers—a therapy method where an impersonator filled in for the deceased family members so that others could say good-bye. We would close the loop of grief. For nearly ten years, your grandmother helped our department change lives.”
I can’t believe my grandmother would have anything to do with a company that manipulated people. Manipulated their feelings. I must have been small when she worked with them, because I don’t remember even a hint of this. Then again, it’s hard to remember a time before the epidemic.
“When the grief department was shut down,” Dr. McKee continues, “your grandmother reached out to me. Even offered me a job within the hospital. But Marie and I were already trying to work on a cure for what The Program was doing. I told her so.”
Dr. McKee’s gaze grows sympathetic then. “And when you were taken by The Program, your grandmother calledme. Begged for my help. I didn’t have much influence anymore—Arthur Pritchard was already on the outs with the company he’d created. But there was help from within—there were people there on your side.” He smiles like this should make me proud. Instead, it makes me wonder who the hell else was involved.
“So how’d I get out?” I ask, breathless.
He lowers his eyes, folding his hands in front of him. “Dr. Warren was able to facilitate your release after a few weeks, limited erasure.”
Realm was right. She did know me from The Program. It’s horrifying when I think about it; the idea of her listening to my problems while knowing more about me than I knew about myself. It was the ultimate manipulation.
“So The Program’s back?” I ask.
“Tatum,” Dr. McKee replies. “The Program never left.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
MARIE SHIFTS, SCRAPING THE HEELof her shoe across the floor. “I’m going to step outside and check on... the others.” Marie exits, and I run my palm down my face, holding on for the bigger reveals to come.
“After your release from the facility was secured,” Dr. McKee continues, “your grandmother brought you to us. She was concerned because you still seemed so deeply sad. Marie and I... we felt we had a viable cure with the Adjustment. We thought we could fix you.”
“I’m a human being, not a computer virus. And how do I know any of this is true? Nathan told me that my grandfather used his journalist connections to get me out.”
“That was part of it,” he admits. “The possibility of exposure did aid in your release. But there were side deals. And ultimately, Dr. Warren signed off on a statement saying you weren’t a threat to yourself, her position supported by your handler.”
“I wasn’t a threat,” I snap at him automatically.
“But you were,” he says sadly. “You most certainly were, Tatum.”
I want to deny it, but I remember what I was like the night I was taken into The Program. The way my knuckles bled. The way I hated myself. I needed help. I didn’t need The Program, but I did need help. Maybe Iwasa threat.
Dr. McKee continues talking, beginning to pace the room, slightly out of breath. “In the agreement to let you out, Dr. Warren insisted on erasing your time in The Program. Erased the history of you and Wes. We’ll never know all that she erased, but we had a good idea because we had your file. Still, this had to be done undercover—without her knowledge. If she knew you’d been adjusted, it would have broken the arrangement. You would have gone back to The Program.”
“Give me my file,” I say.
“I don’t have it. We lost it months ago.”
“Of course,” I say, not believing him. “So you gave me back memories—wrong ones—and wanted it secret. But you let me keep seeing a Program doctor,” I continue. “Putting myself in danger every time I showed up for therapy. She could have flagged me at any point!”
“We couldn’t risk her knowing we’d interfered with your care. We erased the Adjustment while we gave it.”
“What did my file say?” I ask. “What memories did you put back in, and why are they wrong?”
“Over two days, we implanted all the information we could gather. But we focused on memories that would allow you to resume your life. We had no idea that you and Weston Ambrose had broken up. It wasn’t something you admitted to in therapy, even with the help of medication.”
“How?” I ask. “Doesn’t The Program always find out the truth?”
“Yes,” he admits. “They have their ways. And that’s also why we’ve dedicated significant resources into keeping you healthy, both you and Wes. You beat The Program. To some extent, you did. We’re hoping your continued health will prove the Adjustment works.”
Right now I don’t feel like the victor. I feel like a lab rat. “My grandparents let you put memories in my head?” I ask.
“They wanted you to come home, not just physically—fully. They were worried about you.”
