The Program

TD.

Tim held the black bud before his mouth. "I'm here because I believe that this is a dangerous, unethical group that utilizes methods of mind control. I was told by my group leader that The Program was honest, forthcoming, and nonabusive. Well, they went Off Program with me, so I'm going Off Program with them and walking away."

A few people shouted out, then a few more, the noise growing rapidly until the ballroom seemed to vibrate with protests.

"What'd they put in our food?"

"Will someone please tell me why we have to be here for twenty-three hours?"

"Turn the lights on! Turn the goddamned lights on right now!"

Tim's voice boomed through the mike. "Turn on the lights, please."

Neos and Pros alike squinted in the sudden brightness like cavemen emerging into daylight. Most of the Pros looked rattled, even worse than the Neos.

All hell had broken loose in the auditorium.

"I want my money back."

"It's fucking hot in here!"

"What the hell kind of scam is this anyway?"

Tim dropped the mike at TD's feet.

TD gathered his arrogance about him like armor. "You think you've won something here?" He gestured at the pandemonium below. "A hiccup. I can replenish my human resources with two weeks and a soapbox. And when I do, you'll be sorry you ever tangled with me."

Tim leaned in until he could see the light freckles scattered across TD's face. "We're not done yet."

The audience had swept away the thugs guarding the exits. The Protectors by the stage were engaged in crowd control, but two at the Prospace entrance stood firm, though they looked eager to join the fray.

Tim rode a rush of people away from the stage. Dray and Janie were up in each other's faces, yelling like a baseball coach and an umpire squaring off over a bad call. Dray spotted Tim coming and peeled out toward Prospace.

She reached the Protectors before Tim, feigning panic. "A big fight just broke out on the landing!" she shouted over the din.

Both guys looked for TD, but he'd vanished into a mob of blue-shirts at the foot of the stage.

Bederman arrived, winded. "The Pros at the check-in desk sent me to get help. A brawl just broke out."

The Protectors forged off through the scattering crowd.

Tim shoved through the curtain into Prospace. Six blue-shirts were furiously packing up. Facing away, Leah was bent over the sound board, desperately working the dials, her hand covering her earpiece to try to hear what was going on. Tim called out once, his voice lost in the commotion, then he grabbed her shoulder and spun her, her hair flying and settling around the wrong face.

Shanna.

"Where's -" He caught himself in time, then peered around.

No sign of Leah – that explained the bad lighting during the theatrics. Had she been caught searching for evidence? Was she dead? Had she changed her mind?

Shanna looked at him, squinting to see through the disguise. "Tom?"

Dray and Reggie fanned out, shoving off approaching Pros and checking behind the crates and wardrobes. Bederman shot out the emergency exit but came back shaking his head.

Dray said loudly, "TD's not back here."

Tim picked up the protective charade. "We'll get him in the lobby."

They stormed out. Sweat trickled down Tim's sides as they crossed the ballroom, stepping out onto the landing. Demanding their money back, furious participants mobbed the five frazzled blue-shirts working the cash boxes.

Janie was dressing down one of the Protectors for manhandling a Neo. "We can't afford that kind of behavior, especially now."

Lorraine and a cluster of group leaders sat shocked by the elevators, weeping as if someone had pulled into their hamlet on a Harley and told them God was dead.

"It's not possible," she murmured. "It's not possible."

Tim and Dray spilled down the stairs with the stream of deserters. Outside, Pros milled around, lost but seeking contact, the bizarre scene like the parking-lot prelude to an AA meeting. Blue polos rained down like graduation caps. Wendy tugged hers off and flung it, hopping up and down in her undershirt with a few other Pros.

Bederman and Reggie caught up to Tim and Dray, and they circled to the rear lot and climbed into the Blazer. Janie, Sean, and a few diehards were shouting for the Pros to get ready to leave, but the two Program buses remained largely empty.

Tim fumbled Dray's phone out of the glove box – she'd wisely left it behind – and dialed Will's number.

"Where the hell have you been?" Will greeted him. "I left you twenty fucking messages."

"They made me surrender my phone like last time," Tim said. "We didn't get her. She wasn't there."

"I know. I got an e-mail from her. She's in trouble."

As Dray pulled out, TD emerged from the fire exit, shirt untucked. His perfect posture had eroded; he stood stooped, shoulders wilted.

Reggie rolled down the window as they passed and extended his middle finger.

"Marco's en route," Will said. "Get here as fast as you can."

TD's eyes found Tim in the passenger seat. The Blazer veered around a celebratory huddle of liberated Pros. TD smoothed his shirt-tails back into his pants, his shoulders pulling square, and watched with a cool, dead stare until they turned the corner.