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was to blame. It was his fault. But . . . maybe a part of him wanted to believe he was still a good person. “Thank you,” he said, lowering his eyes.
    James nodded, and started the Escalade. The sun had come out from behind the clouds, warming up the car interior. “Now,” James said. “Take out the paper and see who we have next.”
    “Right . . .” Still caught off guard, Realm fumbled with the coffee cups, getting them in the holders before checking the list James had left on the dash. “Looks like we have Anthony Winters in Sacramento,” Realm said. He paused, and then ran his hand through his hair, looking nervous.
    James watched him, and then shifted the SUV into gear. “I feel I should ask,” he said nonchalantly. “Am I going to have to fight today? If so, I should probably stretch.”
    “No,” Realm said, sitting back and clicking on his seat belt. “Anthony’s a good guy. He’ll probably only punch me in the face.”
    “Then I can’t wait to meet him,” James said, and smiled.
    •  •  •
    The air had warmed considerably when they arrived in Sacramento. The address James had found was to Anthony’s house. From what James could tell, he lived alone while attending school at a technical college nearby. They located the small stucco house and parked at the curb, Realm trying to gather his bravery in the passenger seat.
    “Do you want me to go with you?” James asked.
    “No, I have to do this myself.”
    “Thank God,” James muttered, and turned on the stereo.
    Realm laughed although the nerves were twisting his gut into knots. He grabbed the messenger bag and got out. He climbed the porch steps and knocked on the front door. The porch was barren save a wooden rocking chair that looked like it’d been rescued from the curb. Realmswallowed hard, a small hope that Anthony wasn’t home clinging to his conscience. The door swung open.
    Anthony stood there wearing an oversize Forty-Niners jersey; a skinny black kid with a shaved head and dark eyes. He was one of the first patients that Realm had helped—funny, charismatic. Or least he was once they started to erase the fact that both of his brothers had killed themselves in the three months before he was admitted to The Program.
    It took Anthony a minute as he scanned Realm questioningly, and then his mouth fell open. “Oh, shit!” he said, slapping his fist into his palm. “Michael Realm?” He reached in and gave Realm a sideways hug, patting his back hard. “What the hell are you doing here? Come in, come in.” He opened the door wider and Realm walked inside, his hands clutching the strap of the messenger bag on his shoulder.
    “How are you, Anthony?” he asked.
    “Good, man. I’d be better if the Forty-Niners didn’t suck this season, but whatever.” He grinned and walked past Realm into the kitchen, where he opened the fridge. “Drink?” he asked.
    “No, thanks,” Realm said. “I can’t stay.”
    “Oh, shoot,” Anthony said, coming back into the room. He sat on the arm of the leather sofa. “You’ve got that serious look. What’s wrong? You in trouble again?”
    Realm laughed. When they were in The Program, Realm was still new and he had it out with the handlers a few times. Roger wasn’t the first asshole to try to take advantage of patients; he was just the first one to take it that far. Realm tried to make sure that didn’t happen, but he also had to cover his own status as a handler. Sometimes his payback looked more like aggression, a flipped tray here, a stray punch there—the doctors always understood. And to the patients, it made him intoa bit of a hero. Of course, Realm could now see the manipulation in that. But he did have good intentions. At least that was what he tried to tell himself.
    “I’m not in trouble,” Realm said, sitting in the chair across from Anthony. “But . . . I am here to talk to you about The Program.” Anthony flinched, but quickly regained his