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“Keep going, I’m sure you’ll find it,” Meg says, still reading through Taylor’s file. “You’re a trouble maker one day, then labelled an incurable schizophrenic the next. How else are a bunch of Psychologists going to keep everybody in line?” She keeps flipping through the pages.

“Meg, it’s not like that at all,” I protest. “Great changes have happened in the last fifty years, thanks to The Association. Look at the divorce rate, look at the unemployment rate, look at—”

“Can you save me the lecture for when we’re not going through files you stole from the Head’s office?” Meg asks.

I turn to the next page and see Meg’s right. There in bold letters is James’s diagnosis from a team at Intermediate. “Oh my god! It says here that he has Intermittent Explosive Disorder! That sounds scary! What is that, anyway?”

“Maybe it’s something they made up to shut
him
up.” Meg shrugs. “It says here Taylor has Unremitting Schizoaffective Disorder, Third Generation. Does that sound like her to you?”

“No! I don’t know about her parents, but I do know the only problem Taylor has ever had was with getting anxious about stuff. Sometimes she’d get anxiety attacks when scared, but she would always calm down if you just talked to her. Never anything serious!”

“Well it looks like they’ve made it into something serious, now.” She keeps reading. “Say, does your file tell you where your brother is now?”

“I don’t see anything,” I say. I turn to the last page and read quickly. “This is weird. It lists different intervention protocols and then says
End Date
.” I look up. “What’s End Date?”

“Hold on,” Meg says. She turns to the last page of Taylor’s file. “Oh shit.”

“What?” I put James’s file down and move over to her. “Tell me!”

“Look at this,” she says. She points to a line near the bottom of the page. “Look what it says.”

“
Estimated End Date.
That’s weird. What’s it all mean?”

Meg puts down the file and stares at me, her eyes full of something I don’t understand. “Oh, Sophie….”

“What? What does End Date and Estimated End Date mean? That their intervention protocols are done?”

“I don’t think so,” Meg says, sighing. She grabs James’s file off the floor and opens it up. “See this? Look what it says!”

I look closely and for the first time see a list of medications in tiny letters. There’s about ten of them, with a checkmark and a date listed after each. “Yeah, so? They must have turned him into a zombie, too.”

“So? Look closer. Look at the dates.”

I lean over again. “Okay, they’re all the same day.”

“And what day was the End Date?”

I look at the page one more time. “That’s weird. It’s the same, too.”

“So, what do you think that means?”

“That they gave my brother way too much medication and turned him into a zombie, too?”

“Sophie, when Taylor took only one of those she became a drooling idiot.”

“So what are you saying?” my voice comes out louder than I planned.

“Sophie,” she says softly, looking directly at me. “If you took that cocktail, you’d be beyond a zombie. You’d be dead.”

I stare back at my friend, unable to speak. Suddenly it feels like there’s not enough oxygen left in the room. Suddenly it feels like I’ve taken that list of medications and am also beyond a zombie. “No,” I finally whisper. “I don’t believe you.”

“But look at this,” she says, opening a small envelope in the very back of the file. She shakes it onto the ground and a bracelet falls out. “It says ENTJ and it has his name on it, too. See? James Jenkins.”

I reach over and grab the bracelet. His Home School bracelet. Why would it be here, stuck in a stupid file?

“Sophie…” Meg reaches her hand towards me but I smack it away.

“NO!” I stand up, shaking, and run out of the Recycling Room, leaving Meg and the files behind. I rush down the hall, past a startled Ms. Winston, and throw myself onto my bunk, holding the bracelet tightly between my fingers. The room seems to be swirling, making me dizzy with confusion and grief. James? Dead? Over a year ago? I suddenly remember the monthly letters his interventionist has been writing us like clockwork and I feel even dizzier. How could we get those letters about his progress if he’s dead? And why would they kill him?
James! James! I need you!

gh

I must have fallen asleep because when I open my eyes the room is dark. I start to sit up in bed and notice that Meg is kneeling next to my bunk.

“Thank god you’re awake,” she whispers. “You scared me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s Lights Out already,” she says. “I told Ms. Winston that you were feeling ill again and she believed me. She told me to keep an eye on you, to make sure that you don’t get…hysterical again.”

“I won’t get hysterical,” I say, sitting up, “because I’m leaving.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve got to get home and tell my parents what happened. They need to know!”

“Whisper or they’ll hear you!” Meg says. “And what are you talking about? How would you get home?”

I shrug. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Sophie, you’re just upset, you’re not thinking.”

“Just upset?” I say, my voice becoming louder. “They’ve killed my brother and they plan to do the same thing to Taylor, and I’m
just upset?”
I try and slow my breathing so I can get my words out. “I’m not just upset, Meg. I’m furious! And I’ve got to let my father know that the Psychologists he thinks are his great friends are actually evil, horrible people!”

“What if he already knows?” Meg asks softly.

I stare at her, then shake my head. “My father loves my brother,” I say vehemently. “He might sometimes be a jerk but he’d
never
allow something like this to happen.” I shake my head harder. “My father believes in Typology, he thinks that he’s helped to create this great world for everyone. He’d never use it to…hurt anyone.”

“Okay, okay, sorry I said that.” Meg reaches over to give me a hug, then whispers in my ear. “If you’re going to try and runaway, let me and the Group help you.”

I hug her back. “Okay,” I whisper.

CHAPTER THIRTY

It is perfectly clear that no feeble-minded person should ever be allowed to marry or become a parent. It is obvious that if this rule is to be carried out the intelligent part of society must enforce it.

—Henry Goddard

Meg informs me
of the plan the next day during Chores. After Lights Out, I’m to sneak out of the Dorm and onto the grounds. I’m to walk to the very back of the school property, to where the fence is at its lowest. Assuming I don’t mind getting a couple of cuts or scratches on my hands, I’m to climb over and jump down, then race into the woods. I’m to run through the woods until I get to a dirt road on the other side. A car will be waiting there at exactly 10:20 p.m., to take me to my parents’ house.

“But how did you get a car? And who will be driving?” I whisper to Meg as she lays out sets of forks and knives on tables.

Instead of answering, Meg points at the back of her head where the happy face lies hidden. “There’s more of us than you think,” she says.

“But what about Taylor?” I whisper. “I can’t just leave her!”

“Don’t worry, the Group will make sure she’s okay. Just follow the plan!” Meg pauses. “Just so you know, after we read Taylor and James’s files, another kid snuck into the office and opened some more. This has been going on for a while, Sophie. What they did to your brother they’ve done to other kids, too! Either they sterilize them so they can never have any children or else they overdose them. A lot of them were kids with serious problems whose parents probably thought they’d get help. Kids with stuff like autism and serious mood problems. Kids who should have been getting helped, not killed!” She pauses. “One of the kids in the Group found a list with Estimated End Dates on it next to names. Taylor was on that list and about ten others, too!”

I stare at my friend and start to feel faint. “Do you know if Thomas was on it?”

“Who’s Thomas?”

“He’s a boy in Full with autism. The one who wears a helmet and doesn’t talk.”

“I don’t know, Soph. Probably.”

I sink to the floor and put my head between my knees, thinking of the lost boy and his piece of string. What did he ever do to anybody but have the bad luck of getting born with a brain that works differently? Why isn’t everyone trying to protect him with all that they’ve got, instead of just giving him a stupid helmet? What if he is on the list? What if? I feel myself start to hyperventilate and force my breathing to slow.
Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.

As my breathing becomes more regular again, the faint feeling is replaced by anger. All my life I’ve been told The Association was established to help people, to heal society, to help progress happen. I’ve been told that because of Typology the rates of mental illness have been reduced dramatically, that human suffering has almost disappeared. I’ve been told if I only continue to follow the rules and regulations, life will be good, not just for me but for everybody. I’ve been taught to believe that those less fortunate than me will be treated compassionately, with respect. Ever since I was five-years-old, I’ve been told to say over and over I need to be the best me I can be. Well, what about Dr. Anders and his buddies each being the best me
they
can be? What about them, huh? Did they even bother to tell my father they weren’t following all the theories and ideals he thought were so important?
What kind of world am I living in, anyway
?

“Just remember what I told you whenever you feel scared. You’re not just doing this for your brother or for Taylor, you’re doing this for all the other kids who are stuck in Full right now. Just remember that!”

I think about Thomas and his string and then nod. I stick my hand in my pocket and touch James’s bracelet for courage.
You can do this, Sophie. Your father is counting on you
.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Needles and pins, needles and pins, sew me a sail to catch me the wind.

—Shel Silverstein

The escape plan
goes perfectly. Once I get to the dirt road I spot a car with a teenaged boy as the driver. After I walk up to him, the boy reaches out as if to hug me, but then instead grabs at my necklace and twists at the bump on the chain a few times.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. “Shouldn’t we get going already?”

“Why isn’t this working?” he mutters. He twists the necklace a few more times, then lets go of it. “Good. Now you’re off the system. I’m Peter, by the way.”

Before I have time to ask any more questions, the boy pushes me into the car and begins driving. I stare out the window, having no idea where we are exactly, other than the car is pointing in the direction of home. I try to imagine each of my parent’s reactions to what I’m going to tell them. Will they even believe me? I try to think about what my father will do when he learns The Association is not trying to serve the good of the people, after all. How will he cope with knowing his fellow Psychologists actually kill kids, including his own son? What will he do with that knowledge? What will my whole family do?

After a few hours I recognize streets.
This is where James taught me to ride my bike, pretending to hold on so I wouldn’t notice I was pedaling by myself. This is where he carried me all the way home on his back, after I twisted my ankle. And this is where Hannah and I used to roller skate, my big sister holding my hand as we glided down the hill.
Memory after memory of times I spent with my big sister and brother come crashing over me, until I’m swimming in them. Only now that I’ve spent time away from my house do I realize how strange it is that I haven’t thought about my brother much since he’s been gone. I haven’t heard his voice or seen his face for three years, and it never bothered me the way it does now. Maybe it takes knowing someone is really gone, really and truly gone, that forces you to realize how much you want them to come back.

There are few cars out this late and most of the lights in the houses have been turned off. Eventually the boy parks the car by the side of the road.

“This is as far as I can go,” he says, turning around. “I can’t risk getting caught. Do you know your way from here?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Our house is just two streets over, so it’s okay.”

“Good,” he says. He looks at me. “If things don’t go as you planned, make sure you head right back here, okay? I’ll be waiting.”

“But I’m going to stay with my parents,” I say. “They’re going to need me after what I have to tell them.”

“If you stay, great. But if things don’t go the way you hope, just remember where I am. I’ll wait.”

“Okay, sure,” I say. I get out of the car and shut the door behind me. “Um, thanks!”

Peter nods, then stares straight ahead, the lights of his car turned off.

I start to walk down the street, then jog, then finally run. Now that I’m so close, I can’t wait to see my mom and dad. This knowledge has been too heavy for me to carry. I need them to take it from me and make it better somehow. I’m still a kid! I’m just a kid! I run faster and faster, until I get to my front door. Taking my key from my pocket, I quietly unlock the door and step inside.
Home
.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

—J. D. Salinger

“Dad!” I shout,
opening the front door wide. “Mom! Come quick!” I rush into the house and then stand by the stairwell. “Dad! Mom!”

Within a few seconds I hear a door open and then see my parents at the top of the stairs.

“Sophie?” my mother asks, her voice sounding sleepy. “Is that you?”

“It’s about James! I have to tell you about James!” I try to get the words out but I can’t seem to find enough air. I lean over, trying to catch my breath.

“About James?” My mother comes down the stairs quickly. “What’s going on? Did you see him?”