The Program by Suzanne Young Page B

done and James is panting next me, proud of himself as he should be, I stare at the stars in the sky. I lie there for a long time as James pulls his T-shirt back over his head, collecting the wrapper to toss out. When he comes back, he gets down next to me, moving my head onto his lap as we watch the sky together.
    “Brady’s a star up there,” he says, “in some distant place where he doesn’t hurt.” James’s voice cracks and he stops talking.He sniffles, the tears rolling down his cheeks. He always lets his guard down enough to talk in moments like this—the only time his feelings are so raw he can’t hide them.
    “He loved you,” I say, curling up against him. “No matter what he did, you were the best thing in his life.”
    James looks down at me, wiping his tears. “You were.” He stares at me in a way that reminds me that he’s only human. That he’s as fragile as I am.
    “I was just his sister. You were more than a brother. You were his other half.”
    “Then I sucked at it,” James says. “Because Brady’s dead. And I’m still here.”
    I sit up then, turning James’s face to mine. “You’re here for me . I wouldn’t have survived without you, and I couldn’t now. We’re in this together, James. Don’t forget that.”
    He exhales heavily and shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. I know that telling him I need him, that I can’t live without him, snaps him out of the depression. It always has.
    And when he’s more himself, I kiss him again, before taking his hand and bringing him into the tent to sleep.
    •  •  •
    “We should really camp more often,” James says as we’re driving down the freeway. I smile and look sideways at him.
    “It was fun.”
    “And I think your memory is fully restored now.” He grins.
    “Yes, James. It is soundly intact and filled only with images of your naked torso.”
    He raises one eyebrow. “Just my torso?”
    “Oh my God, shut up.”
    “Don’t be shy. I’m an amazing specimen.” James is still grinning ear to ear when my phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans. I take it out, glancing at the number.
    “It’s Miller,” I say, and then click it on. “Hey.”
    “Sloane?” Miller sounds like he’s been crying and sickness washes over me. I reach out and grab James’s arm.
    “What’s wrong? What happened?” I say into the phone. My heart is racing in my chest.
    “They’re coming for me,” he whimpers. “The Program is coming for me.”
    No . “Miller, where are you?” I shoot a look at James, and he’s alternating between facing me and facing the road. His speed creeps up past eighty as we race toward town.
    “I’m home,” he whispers, sounding desperate. “But it’s too late. I had to see her again.”
    “Put it on speaker,” James says, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I hit the button, and Miller’s sobbing immediately fills the space in the car. I nearly crumble, but I hold up the phone, keeping back my own tears.
    In life, I don’t really get to see people cry—not anymore. James does every so often, but it’s rare. And other than that, it’s only when someone has cracked that they’ll let someone see. I never once saw my brother cry, and I was with him when he died.
    “Miller,” James calls out. “Don’t do anything stupid, man. We’re on our way.”
    “I just can’t . . . ,” Miller mumbles. “I can’t do it anymore. I followed Lacey to the Wellness Center and I tried to kiss her, to remind her. But she slapped me and reported me before I took off. My mom let it slip tonight that The Program is coming. They’re coming right now. But I won’t wait for them. I won’t let them take me.”
    “Miller!” James shouts so loud I flinch. “What do you have?” Tears start streaming down James’s cheeks and he presses down on the accelerator, sending us over a hundred miles an hour.
    “QuikDeath,” Miller mumbles. “I wish Lacey would have told me and we could have gone