The next morning, Thomas found himself sitting in a chair, worried and anxious, sweating, facing eleven
other boys. They were seated in chairs arranged in a semicircle around him. Once settled, he realized they
were the Keepers, and to his chagrin that meant Gally was among them. One chair directly in front of
Thomas stood empty—he didn’t need to be told that it was Alby’s.
They sat in a large room of the Homestead that Thomas hadn’t been in before. Besides the chairs, there
was no other furniture except for a small table in the corner. The walls were made of wood, as was the
floor, and it didn’t look like anyone had ever attempted to make the place look inviting. There were no
windows; the room smelled of mildew and old books. Thomas wasn’t cold, but shivered all the same.
He was at least relieved that Newt was there. He sat in the chair to the right of Alby’s empty seat. “In
place of our leader, sick in bed, I declare this Gathering begun,” he said, with a subtle roll of his eyes as
if he hated anything approaching formality. “As you all know, the last few days have been bloody crazy,
and quite a bit seems centered around our Greenbean, Tommy, seated before us.”
Thomas’s face flushed with embarrassment.
“He’s not the Greenie anymore,” Gally said, his scratchy voice so low and cruel it was almost
comical. “He’s just a rule breaker now.”
This started off a rumbling of murmurs and whispers, but Newt shushed them. Thomas suddenly wanted
to be as far from that room as possible.
“Gally,” Newt said, “try to keep some buggin’ order, here. If you’re gonna blabber your shuck mouth
every time I say something, you can go ahead and bloody leave, because I’m not in a very cheerful mood.”
Thomas wished he could cheer at that.
Gally folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, the scowl on his face so forced that Thomas almost
laughed out loud. He was having a harder and harder time believing he’d been terrified of this guy just a
day earlier—he seemed silly, even pathetic now.
Newt gave Gally a hard stare, then continued. “Glad we got that out of the way.” Another roll of the
eyes. “Reason we’re here is because almost every lovin’ kid in the Glade has come up to me in the last
day or two either boohooing about Thomas or beggin’ to take his bloody hand in marriage. We need to
decide what we’re gonna do with him.”
Gally leaned forward, but Newt cut him off before he could say anything.
“You’ll have your chance, Gally. One at a time. And Tommy, you’re not allowed to say a buggin’ thing
until we ask you to. Good that?” He waited for a nod of consent from Thomas—who gave it reluctantly—
then pointed to the kid in the chair on the far right. “Zart the Fart, you start.”
There were a few snickers as Zart, the quiet big guy who watched over the Gardens, shifted in his seat.
He looked to Thomas more out of place than a carrot on a tomato plant.
“Well,” Zart began, his eyes darting around almost like he was waiting for someone else to tell him
what to say. “I don’t know. He broke one of our most important rules. We can’t just let people think that’s
okay.” He paused and looked down at his hands, rubbing them together. “But then again, he’s … changed
things. Now we know we can survive out there, and that we can beat the Grievers.”
Relief flooded Thomas. He had someone else on his side. He made a promise to himself to be extra
nice to Zart.
“Oh, give me a break,” Gally spurted. “I bet Minho’s the one who actually got rid of the stupid things.”
“Gally, shut your hole!” Newt yelled, standing for effect this time; once again Thomas felt like
cheering. “I’m the bloody Chair right now, and if I hear one more buggin’ word out of turn from you, I’ll
be arrangin’ another Banishing for your sorry butt.”
“Please,” Gally whispered sarcastically, the ridiculous scowl returning as he slouched back into his
chair again.
Newt sat down and motioned to Zart. “Is that it? Any official recommendations?”
Zart shook his head.
“Okay. You’re next, Frypan.”
The cook smiled through his beard and sat up straighter. “Shank’s got more guts than I’ve fried up from
every pig and cow in the last year.” He paused, as if expecting a laugh, but none came. “How stupid is
this—he saves Alby’s life, kills a couple of Grievers, and we’re sitting here yappin’ about what to do
with him. As Chuck would say, this is a pile of klunk.”
Thomas wanted to walk over and shake Frypan’s hand—he’d just said exactly what Thomas himself
had been thinking about all of this.
“So what’re ya recommendin’?” Newt asked.
Frypan folded his arms. “Put him on the freaking Council and have him train us on everything he did out
there.”
Voices erupted from every direction, and it took Newt half a minute to calm everyone down. Thomas
winced; Frypan had gone too far with that recommendation, almost invalidating his well-stated opinion of
the whole mess.
“All right, writin’ her down,” Newt said as he did just that, scribbling on a notepad. “Now everyone
keep their bloody mouths shut, I mean it. You know the rules—no idea’s unacceptable—and you’ll all
have your say when we vote on it.” He finished writing and pointed to the third member of the Council, a
kid Thomas hadn’t met yet with black hair and a freckly face.
“I don’t really have an opinion,” he said.
“What?” Newt asked angrily. “Lot of good it did to choose you for the Council, then.”
“Sorry, I honestly don’t.” He shrugged. “If anything, I agree with Frypan, I guess. Why punish a guy for
saving someone’s life?”
“So you do have an opinion—is that it?” Newt insisted, pencil in hand.
The kid nodded and Newt scribbled a note. Thomas was feeling more and more relieved—it seemed
like most of the Keepers were for him, not against him. Still, he was having a hard time just sitting there;
he desperately wanted to speak on his own behalf. But he forced himself to follow Newt’s orders and
keep quiet.
Next was acne-covered Winston, Keeper of the Blood House. “I think he should be punished. No
offense, Greenie, but Newt, you’re the one always harping about order. If we don’t punish him, we’ll set
a bad example. He broke our Number One Rule.”
“Okay,” Newt said, writing on his pad. “So you’re recommendin’ punishment. What kind?”
“I think he should be put in the Slammer for a week with only bread and water—and we need to make
sure everyone knows about it so they don’t get any ideas.”
Gally clapped, earning a scowl from Newt. Thomas’s heart fell just a bit.
Two more Keepers spoke, one for Frypan’s idea, one for Winston’s. Then it was Newt’s turn.
“I agree with the lot of ya. He should be punished, but then we need to figure out a way to use him. I’m
reservin’ my recommendation until I hear everyone out. Next.”
Thomas hated all this talk about punishment, even more than he hated having to keep his mouth shut. But
deep inside he couldn’t bring himself to disagree—as odd as it seemed after what he’d accomplished, he
had broken a major rule.
Down the line they went. Some thought he should be praised, some thought he should be punished. Or
both. Thomas could barely listen anymore, anticipating the comments from the last two Keepers, Gally
and Minho. The latter hadn’t said a word since Thomas had entered the room; he just sat there, drooped in
his chair, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week.
Gally went first. “I think I’ve made my opinions pretty clear already.”
Great, Thomas thought. Then just keep your mouth shut.
“Good that,” Newt said with yet another roll of the eyes. “Go on, then, Minho.”
“No!” Gally yelled, making a couple of Keepers jump in their seats. “I still wanna say something.”
“Then bloody say it,” Newt replied. It made Thomas feel a little better that the temporary Council
Chair despised Gally almost as much as he did. Though Thomas wasn’t that afraid of him anymore, he
still hated the guy’s guts.
“Just think about it,” Gally began. “This slinthead comes up in the Box, acting all confused and scared.
A few days later, he’s running around the Maze with Grievers, acting like he owns the place.”
Thomas shrank into his chair, hoping that others hadn’t been thinking anything like that.
Gally continued his rant. “I think it was all an act. How could he have done what he did out there after
just a few days? I ain’t buyin’ it.”
“What’re you tryin’ to say, Gally?” Newt asked. “How ’bout having a bloody point?”
“I think he’s a spy from the people who put us here.”
Another uproar exploded in the room; Thomas could do nothing but shake his head—he just didn’t get
how Gally could come up with all these ideas. Newt finally calmed everyone down again, but Gally
wasn’t finished.
“We can’t trust this shank,” he continued. “Day after he shows up, a psycho girl comes, spoutin’ off that
things are gonna change, clutching that freaky note. We find a dead Griever. Thomas conveniently finds
himself in the Maze for the night, then tries to convince everyone he’s a hero. Well, neither Minho nor
anyone else actually saw him do anything in the vines. How do we know it was the Greenie who tied
Alby up there?”
Gally paused; no one said a word for several seconds, and panic rose inside Thomas’s chest. Could
they actually believe what Gally was saying? He was anxious to defend himself and almost broke his
silence for the first time—but before he could get a word in, Gally was talking again.
“There’s too many weird things going on, and it all started when this shuck-face Greenie showed up.
And he just happens to be the first person to survive a night out in the Maze. Something ain’t right, and
until we figure it out, I officially recommend that we lock his butt in the Slammer—for a month, and then
have another review.”
More rumblings broke out, and Newt wrote something on his pad, shaking his head the whole time—
which gave Thomas a tinge of hope.
“Finished, Captain Gally?” Newt asked.
“Quit being such a smart aleck, Newt,” he spat, his face flushing red. “I’m dead serious. How can we
trust this shank after less than a week? Quit voting me down before you even think about what I’m
saying.”
For the first time, Thomas felt a little empathy for Gally—he did have a point about how Newt was
treating him. Gally was a Keeper, after all. But I still hate him, Thomas thought.
“Fine, Gally,” Newt said. “I’m sorry. We heard you, and we’ll all consider your bloody
recommendation. Are you done?”
“Yes, I’m done. And I’m right.”
With no more words for Gally, Newt pointed at Minho. “Go ahead, last but not least.”
Thomas was elated that it was finally Minho’s turn; surely he’d defend him to the end.
Minho stood quickly, taking everyone off guard. “I was out there; I saw what this guy did—he stayed
strong while I turned into a panty-wearin’ chicken. No blabbin’ on and on like Gally. I want to say my
recommendation and be done with it.”
Thomas held his breath, wondering what he’d say.
“Good that,” Newt said. “Tell us, then.”
Minho looked at Thomas. “I nominate this shank to replace me as Keeper of the Runners.”
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