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her out of The Program. Maybe we’re all sick.
    “You’re not eating,” my mother says, interrupting my thoughts. “Everything all right?”
    I look up, startled. “Lacey came back today,” I say, my voice wavering. My father’s eyes flash with worry, and for a secondI think that they understand. That I can tell them the truth about The Program—how it brings us back empty.
    “Really?” My mother sounds nothing short of gleeful. “Well now, see. That wasn’t very long.”
    I have a gut check and look back down at my plate, the pork chop slaughtered around the bone, the applesauce bleeding into everything. “It was six weeks,” I murmur.
    “Exactly,” my mother answers. “Went by faster than you thought.”
    I remind myself of the parental outreach The Program uses—weekly support groups for parents of dead teens, access to the latest advances in their methods. It’s like The Program learned to get to us through our home lives. I think they can get to us anywhere.
    “And how did she look?” my mother asks. “Did you see her at the Wellness Center?”
    My fingernails are digging into my jeans, into the skin underneath. “Yes,” I lie. “And she’s blond again. She’s . . . completely different.”
    “I bet she looks beautiful,” my mother says. “The returners always look so healthy, don’t they, Don?”
    My father doesn’t respond, but I feel him watching me. I wonder if he’s gauging my reaction, mentally going through the “Is your child depressed?” checklist The Program provided them. I’m not sure I have the strength to put on the mask, but I look up anyway. And smile.
    “She does look great,” I reply. “Hopefully she’ll be able to hang out again soon.”
    “Just give her time to heal,” my mother says, grinning at me like she’s proud. “Thank God for The Program. It’s saving so many lives.”
    My stomach lurches and I stand up quickly, not wanting to cry when I’ve made it this far into the conversation. “I’ll do the dishes tonight,” I say, grabbing my plate. “After that I’ve got a ton of homework.”
    I rush from the room, getting into the kitchen just as the tears start to sting my eyes. I need to do something before I break into sobs in front of them. There is a pamphlet for The Program sitting next to our phone in the living room—something every parent received when our high school became part of the experiment. But to me that paper is like a threat, always reminding me of the next step if I slip up. So I don’t slip up. Ever.
    I look around the kitchen and my gaze rests on the gas stove. Walking over, I turn it on—the flames catching life in shades of blue and orange. I’m going to die if I don’t cry right now. The sorrow is going to rip through my chest and kill me.
    But instead, I turn over my arm, the tender part exposed, and stick it into the fire. The burn is immediate and I scream out in pain, backing away as I cover the area automatically with my hand. My entire body reacts, as if all of me is on fire.
    I decide that I like it. I like the pain and distraction.
    Tears stream down my face even though the emotional release feels good, and I drop onto the tile floor. My parents rush in, and the minute they do I hold up my arm, the blistered area bright red against my skin. “I got burned,” I sob. “I leaned against thestove to grab the pan and the burner must have turned on.”
    My mother gasps and runs to turn off the burner. “Donald,” she says. “I told you to put the pots in the sink.”
    He apologizes and kneels down next to me. “Let me see, sweetheart.” And they fuss, letting me cry as long as I want because they think I was accidentally injured. They have no idea that I’m really crying for Lacey. For Brady. And most of all, for myself.
    •  •  •
    James sighs. “You shouldn’t have started in the car.” His voice is concerned on the other end of the phone as I hold it to my ear. I’m curled up in bed, my arm