suit sits in the corner and takes notes.
âSheâs from some government agency,â Alex whispers as we find seats in the semicircle. âShe stops by every month or so to check on the program. I think itâs for licensing or something.â
Or something. The armchairs have been pulled away from the television and I pick the farthest one from the official. Thing is, out of everyone here, she seems the most legit. Iâve been around social workers enough to spot the type: bloodshot eyes from long hours, tote bag swollen with case files.
Group therapy is also familiar. Iâm expected to sharemore since Iâm the newest arrival and I hit all the high notes: Mom died. Dad in jail. I enjoy computers, chocolate, and long walks on beaches.
Norcutâs fingers tighten around her pen just like they used to. âAnd what do you want to work on during your time with us? What personal goal would you like to achieve?â
Iâd like to stay alive. Iâd like to know why Griffâs searching for me. Iâd like my old life back.
No, scratch that. I donât want to go back to that life. I want parts of it, but not all of it anymore. So that means . . . what?
I have no idea.
And by this time, Iâve taken so long to answer, Norcut gives me a little smile. âIs there anything youâd like to do over? Any mistakes youâve made that you want to make sure you never make again?â
Thousands. I shrug. I get what sheâs doing, but this is why therapy can be so damn pointless: They think you can distill everything you do into one or two character flaws. I have way more faults than that.
And way more mistakes . . . still . . . âTrust,â I say at last. âI need to work on trusting people.â
Norcut beams and tells me what a good job Iâm doing. Then she has the group tell me what a good job Iâm doing. This is a therapistâs version of passing out treats because I sat on command. Or rolled over. Take your pick.
Norcut wants to talk to all of us about boundaries now. People have them. We shouldnât cross themâespeciallywhen those boundaries are set by the government and are there for peopleâs privacy.
I love this part, but for all the wrong reasons. Boundaries? Seriously? I just hijacked someoneâs wireless device. The irony is effing hilarious, but Norcut looks serious, Alex looks serious, the BookendsâConnor and Jakeâlook very serious, and Kent? Kent looks like heâs sleeping with his eyes open.
âWe havenât heard much from you, Kent,â Norcut says, recrossing her legs and tugging down the hem of her navy skirt. âWhat do you enjoy most about working with systems and computers?â
âComputers are their own world and that world has no choice but to adore me.â
The agency woman scribbles more in her notebook, but Norcut seems pleased. âYouâre living up to your potential here, arenât you?â
Kent nods, smiles.
Alex kicks my ankle and I almost giggle. The weird feeling from earlier is gone, replaced with something that . . . honestly? Something that feels normal . And it canât possibly be normal. None of this is remotely normal. Weâre a bunch of computer nerds locked in an office building. Itâs either the start of the worldâs geekiest horror flick or the worldâs geekiest X-Men movie.
But everyone else seems chill about it so that makes me . . . the crazy one?
After therapy, I follow Alex to our room. Once inside,she kicks off her tennis shoes and climbsâfully clothedâinto bed.
âTalk to me.â I stand between Alexâs bed and her dresser. âPlease? You know thereâs more going on here than theyâre telling us.â
She groans. âIf you want to go off the deep end trying to figure this place out, go ahead, but youâre not taking me.â
âGive me some credit here,â I say, watching Alex
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