Page 100 of Strays
“Sensory deprivation?” Josh asks, brow furrowing.
Shane lifts an eyebrow. His face stays blank, but I can tell he’s annoyed. He always hated that part the most. “Yeah. Never heard of it?” he snaps. “They put you in a box. No light, no sound, no contact, just a ventilation system. You sit there for twelve hours, alone. Your brothers are supposed to keep you calm by pumping pheromones into the air around the box.”
Josh looks stunned. “How old were you when they did that?”
“Started once a week after we became a pack,” Shane says. “I was twelve.”
The expressions shift around the table, every face showing some level of discomfort and doubt.
“How the hell do you not know that?” Shane asks, eyes sharp. “Didn’t the MAB or any agency ever look into the Program?”
The expressions get even more uncomfortable. “Bureau was never specific about the methods,” the Harris pack leader says slowly. “He just said he used synthetic oxytocin modeled off nyra hormone and behavioral conditioning.”
I look straight at him. “Well, that’s behavioral conditioning.”
The room falls silent. I don’t look at anyone, but I can feel the weight of every stare.
Finally, Josh speaks. “Anything else?”
No one answers.
“You had your chance,” he says. “From now on, no bullshit.”
He turns to us. “Larsens, you’re expected at the DEA office this afternoon. Tomorrow, you start T1P at six sharp.”
He stands, and the rest of the room moves with him, including us.
We decide to head straight to Bridgeport and grab lunch at that place Jo showed us, the little restaurant next to Joseph Monson Hospital. She texts us while we’re eating. It’s nice to see her name on my screen again. She used to message us around lunchtime almost every day before she left.
The notification makes me smile, but it hits somewhere else too. The ache of all those days she was just gone and silent.
Hey babe, how’s the first day?
Babe? That’s new. Good type of new.
It’s okay. We scored a crazy Bronco and decent gear. Grabbing lunch at Fatimah’s. I send back.
A minute later, she replies.
Shane just told me you’re working with the DEA. Sounds exciting!
Exciting, sure. After this morning’s interrogation at the briefing, I’d trade this posting to go back to our high-risk unit in a heartbeat. But I don’t tell her that.
Yeah, how about you?, I reply.
I’m good. After you left for work, I went back to the nest and slept till ten. Enjoying my last days of freedom.
I don’t understand, so I send her back:Last days of freedom?
I called Dr. Lindstrom this morning. I’m going back to the hospital on Wednesday.
A tight chill runs through my chest. There’s no reason to think it’ll be any better for her there than it was before: the same people, the same hate for what she is. What if she breaks under the pressure? What if she shuts down again?
But I can’t say any of that to her either. I don’t know what to say at all, so I just text:Okay.
Shane’s voice cuts in from across the table, clipped and tense. “She’s going back to the hospital.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the three phones on the table still buzzing with her replies.
