Free The Program by Suzanne Young Page A

felt lonely or overwhelmed?
    NO.
    Have there been any changes in your sleeping patterns?
    NO. I haven’t slept since Miller died.
    Has anyone close to you ever committed suicide?
    I fill in NO . I stare at the darkened oval, willing it to be true. Wishing that I could ever just fill in the goddamn NO ! I blink back the tears that are starting, and I erase the mark, making sure no traces of it exist. And then, with coldness in my soul, I fill in YES .
    After an hour of intensive therapy to deal with my “loss,” I find James at my locker and walk him to his classroom, making sure he can pass for normal—at least for fifty minutes. When I get to economics, the first person I see is the handler, the dark-haired one who’s always watching me.
    Next to mine, Miller’s desk is empty, and a deep hollow feeling opens in my chest. But in the corner, watching me with a soft smile on his lips—as if he’s been waiting for me—is the handler.
    My heart races as I sit, not looking back at him again. I wonder if I’m about to get flagged. Please, God. Don’t let them take me.
    When the bell rings, Mr. Rocco walks in and shoots an uneasy glance at Miller’s desk and then at the handler before launching into his lesson. I clasp my hands under my desk, squeezing tightly to keep my composure. It’s torture, trying to pay attention, trying to put up the appearance of wellness. I want my phone to vibrate so that I know James is okay too. But nothing happens.
    Sweat has started to gather on my upper lip, and I feel like I can’t take another moment of not knowing how James is when the bell finally rings. I jump and immediately stuff my book into my backpack, standing quickly as I head toward the door. Just then someone grabs my arm.
    I swing around, startled, and am face-to-face with the handler. I suck in a breath, nearly falling over. It’s happening. No. No. No. It’s happening.
    The handler lets go of my elbow and smiles sympathetically. “Sloane Barstow,” he says, and his gravelly voice is like sandpaper on my soul. “I’m sorry for your loss. I just have a few questions for you if you don’t mind.” His eyes are wide and dark, his skin a deep olive. He’s twenty, maybe younger,but I see no true compassion on his face. I see something else, something that makes my stomach knot. He wants to take me.
    “I already had therapy today,” I say, stepping back from him.
    He laughs. “This isn’t therapy. Follow me, please.” He walks past me, and I’m struck again by the medicinal smell of the handlers. I wonder if he has drugs on him right now that could put me out, something they occasionally do when apprehending someone for The Program. Or he could use the Taser at his waist.
    I feel for my phone in my pocket, but don’t dare text James. I need him to stay calm. But then I wonder if they’ve gotten to him, too. I hope not. He’s in no condition for an interview.
    It happens, after a suicide. They send us all to counselors to make sure we’re okay. Sometimes a few extras are sent in to interview those who aren’t taking the loss well. But it’s rarely a handler. It makes me uneasy that this is the same guy who’s been watching me since taking Kendra. But I have no choice so I follow him toward the main office.
    When we get there, a small room is ready for us. Two chairs face each other in the dim space. I gulp down my fear as I enter, hating the idea of being alone with this guy. But principals and teachers don’t interfere with The Program. They look the other way when I enter.
    “Please sit,” the handler says, closing the door behind us and drawing the blinds. My fear is so strong, but I know I can’t let it show. I take a deep breath and lower myself into the chair.
    “This really isn’t necessary,” I say, trying to sound like a normal girl. “I hardly knew Miller.”
    The handler smiles at this, coming to sit across from me, the knees of his white pants almost touching mine. I try not to flinch