The Program

Chapter twenty-eight

Tim moved with small groups or large contingents, but never alone. Leah stayed pasted to his side like an insecure date at a cocktail party. When he had to take a leak, a male Pro accompanied him to the bathroom door. When he got outside, he took a moment to breathe deeply and settle himself back into character. At a gathering under the dripping leaves of a pepper tree, Tom Altman eagerly denigrated his childhood, his parents, his lackluster marriage, his job, his riches, and everything else connected to his former life.

He, like the other initiates, was placed in his own group. After the Orae, Don had tried to maneuver his way over to his shell-shocked wife, but he'd been swept off by a tide of Pros. Tim hadn't seen the other recruits since. Any direction he looked, he saw three Pros beaming inanely at him. Isn't this fun? Ain't privacy deprivation grand? He let Tom get into the spirit of the game, reflecting the others' mock contentment until he felt it calcify into a perma-grin.

There were workshops and exercises and lectures and games and, through it all, a mind-numbing torrent of principles driven into his thinking by the Pros – drill sergeants made even more oppressive by their benevolent smiles. Taking advantage of the air of feigned openness, Tim cultivated an apprentice-like curiosity; he managed to survey more of the ranch's layout than was sanctioned. During a bout of atavistic roaring, he hyperventilated and started to keel over. He told someone that he was going faint with hunger and was informed it wasn't mealtime yet. His back was pounded affectionately, his hair ruffled, his cheeks kissed.

Eager to showcase Utopia, the Pros invited him to see the various departments beavering away. Tom Altman, doer and entrepreneur, embarked on the excursion as piously as a hard-hat-bedecked senator out to meet the ironworkers, his provocative queries a histrionic subterfuge for Tim Rackley's covert inquiry. Good question, Tom – we escalate phase-one operational profit through the use of hidden – but lawful – costs. The more masterful the legal contortion, the greater Tom Altman's admiration. Aside from Leah, who threw him furtive glares, the others were more than glad to flaunt their mastery of The Program's workings.

Tim was sure he'd be called upon soon enough to join the slave-labor force. There were trails to be cleared. Dishes to be washed. Septic tanks to be cleaned. Each task was ritualized beyond recognition, mechanical motions piled on top of mechanical motions until there was no space left for consideration. Tim wanted to ensure that Tom secured a useful position within The Program, one providing access to financial records; his eagerness seemed to play well for both his and Tom's agendas.

Regularly reapplied chalk lines delineated the ranch's borders, and the Pros abided the boundaries with religious attentiveness. Not a single sneaker tread scuffed the dirt beyond the white stripe. Tim observed one Pro shearing brush, bracing one hand with another so not even a stray knuckle would breach the invisible wall.

Slobbering Dobermans at his heels, Skate drifted by occasionally, always beyond the pale of interaction. Tim noted how even the dutiful tensed in his presence and cleaved all the more vigorously to guidelines. Randall appeared from time to time, issuing summonses for