For the second time that day, Thomas was shocked into silence.
“Well, come on,” Newt said to Thomas as he grabbed his arm. “No way I’m not going with ya.”
Thomas followed him, with Chuck right behind, as they left the Council room and went down the hall
toward a narrow, spiraling staircase that he hadn’t noticed before. Newt took the first step, then gave
Chuck a cold glare. “You. Stay.”
For once, Chuck simply nodded and said nothing. Thomas figured that something about Alby’s behavior
had the kid’s nerves on edge.
“Lighten up,” Thomas said to Chuck as Newt headed up the staircase. “They just elected me a Runner,
so you’re buddies with a stud now.” He was trying to make a joke, trying to deny that he was terrified to
see Alby. What if he made accusations like Ben had? Or worse?
“Yeah, right,” Chuck whispered, staring at the wooden steps in a daze.
With a shrug Thomas began climbing the stairs. Sweat slicked his palms, and he felt a drop trickle
down his temple. He did not want to go up there.
Newt, all grim and solemn, was waiting for Thomas at the top of the stairwell. They stood at the
opposite end of the long, dark hallway from the usual staircase, the one Thomas had climbed on his very
first day to see Ben. The memory made him queasy; he hoped Alby was completely healed from the
ordeal so he didn’t have to witness something like that again—the sickly skin, the veins, the thrashing. But
he expected the worst, and braced himself.
He followed Newt to the second door on the right and watched as the older boy knocked lightly; a
moan sounded in reply. Newt pushed open the door, the slight creak once again reminding Thomas of
some vague childhood memory of haunted-house movies. There it was again—the smallest glimpse at his
past. He could remember movies, but not the actors’ faces or with whom he’d watched them. He could
remember theaters, but not what any specific one looked like. It was impossible to explain how that felt,
even to himself.
Newt had stepped into the room and was motioning for Thomas to follow. As he entered, he prepared
himself for the horror that might await. But when his eyes lifted, all he saw was a very weak-looking
teenage boy lying in his bed, eyes closed.
“Is he asleep?” Thomas whispered, trying to avoid the real question that had popped in his mind: He’s
not dead, is he?
“I don’t know,” Newt said quietly. He walked over and sat in a wooden chair next to the bed. Thomas
took a seat on the other side.
“Alby,” Newt whispered. Then more loudly: “Alby. Chuck said you wanted to talk to Tommy.”
Alby’s eyes fluttered open—bloodshot orbs that glistened in the light. He looked at Newt, then across
at Thomas. With a groan he shifted in the bed and sat up, his back against the headboard. “Yeah,” he
muttered, a scratchy croak.
“Chuck said you were thrashin’ around, acting like a loonie.” Newt leaned forward. “What’s wrong?
You still sick?”
Alby’s next words came out in a wheeze, as if every one of them would take a week off his life.
“Everything’s … gonna change…. The girl … Thomas … I saw them …” His eyelids flickered closed,
then open again; he sank back to a flat position on the bed, stared at the ceiling. “Don’t feel so good.”
“What do you mean, you saw—” Newt began.
“I wanted Thomas!” Alby yelled, with a sudden burst of energy that Thomas would’ve thought
impossible a few seconds earlier. “I didn’t ask for you, Newt! Thomas! I asked for freaking Thomas!”
Newt looked up, questioned Thomas with a raising of his eyebrows. Thomas shrugged, feeling sicker
by the second. What did Alby want him for?
“Fine, ya grouchy shuck,” Newt said. “He’s right here—talk to him.”
“Leave,” Alby said, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy.
“No way—I wanna hear.”
“Newt.” A pause. “Leave. Now.” Thomas felt incredibly awkward, worried about what Newt was
thinking and dreading what Alby wanted to say to him.
“But—” Newt protested.
“Out!” Alby sat up as he yelled, his voice cracking with the strain of it. He scooted himself back to
lean against the headboard again. “Get out!”
Newt’s face sank in obvious hurt—Thomas was surprised to see no anger there. Then, after a long,
tense moment, Newt stood from his chair and walked over to the door, opened it. He’s really going to
leave? Thomas thought.
“Don’t expect me to kiss your butt when you come sayin’ sorry,” he said, then stepped into the hallway.
“Close the door!” Alby shouted, one final insult. Newt obeyed, slamming it shut.
Thomas’s heart rate quickened—he was now alone with a guy who’d had a bad temper before getting
attacked by a Griever and going through the Changing. He hoped Alby would say what he wanted and be
done with it. A long pause stretched into several minutes, and Thomas’s hands shook with fear.
“I know who you are,” Alby said finally, breaking the silence.
Thomas couldn’t find words to reply. He tried; nothing came out but an incoherent mumble. He was
utterly confused. And scared.
“I know who you are,” Alby repeated slowly. “Seen it. Seen everything. Where we came from, who
you are. Who the girl is. I remember the Flare.”
The Flare? Thomas forced himself to talk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What did you see?
I’d love to know who I am.”
“It ain’t pretty,” Alby answered, and for the first time since Newt had left, Alby looked up, straight at
Thomas. His eyes were deep pockets of sorrow, sunken, dark. “It’s horrible, ya know. Why would those
shucks want us to remember? Why can’t we just live here and be happy?”
“Alby …” Thomas wished he could take a peek in the boy’s mind, see what he’d seen. “The
Changing,” he pressed, “what happened? What came back? You’re not making sense.”
“You—” Alby started, then suddenly grabbed his own throat, making gurgly choking sounds. His legs
kicked out and he rolled onto his side, thrashing back and forth as if someone else were trying to strangle
him. His tongue stuck out of his mouth; he bit it over and over.
Thomas stood up quickly, stumbled backward, horrified—Alby struggled as if he was having a seizure,
his legs kicking in every direction. The dark skin of his face, which had been oddly pale just a minute
earlier, had turned purple, his eyes rolled up so far in their sockets they looked like glowing white
marbles.
“Alby!” Thomas yelled, not daring to reach down and grab him. “Newt!” he screamed, cupping his
hands around his mouth. “Newt, get in here!”
The door was flung open before he’d finished his last sentence.
Newt ran to Alby and grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing with his whole body to pin the convulsing
boy to the bed. “Grab his legs!”
Thomas moved forward, but Alby’s legs kicked and flailed out, making it impossible to get any closer.
His foot hit Thomas in the jaw; a lance of pain shot through his whole skull. He stumbled backward again,
rubbing the sore spot.
“Just bloody do it!” Newt yelled.
Thomas steeled himself, then jumped on top of Alby’s body, grabbing both legs and pinning them to the
bed. He wrapped his arms around the boy’s thighs and squeezed while Newt put a knee on one of Alby’s
shoulders, then grabbed at Alby’s hands, still clasped around his own neck in a chokehold.
“Let go!” Newt yelled as he tugged. “You’re bloody killin’ yourself !”
Thomas could see the muscles in Newt’s arms flexing, veins popping out as he pulled at Alby’s hands,
until finally, inch by inch, he was able to pry them away. He pushed them tightly against the struggling
boy’s chest. Alby’s whole body jerked a couple of times, his midsection thrusting up and away from the
bed. Then, slowly, he calmed, and a few seconds later he lay still, his breath evening; his eyes glazed
over.
Thomas held firm to Alby’s legs, afraid to move and set the boy off again. Newt waited a full minute
before he slowly let go of Alby’s hands. Then another minute before he pulled his knee back and stood up.
Thomas took that as his cue to do the same, hoping the ordeal had truly ended.
Alby looked up, eyes droopy, as if he was on the edge of slipping into a deep sleep. “I’m sorry, Newt,”
he whispered. “Don’t know what happened. It was like … something was controlling my body. I’m
sorry….”
Thomas took a deep breath, sure he’d never experience something so disturbing and uncomfortable
again. He hoped.
“Sorries, nothin’,” Newt replied. “You were trying to bloody kill yourself.”
“Wasn’t me, I swear,” Alby murmured.
Newt threw his hands up. “What do you mean it wasn’t you?” he asked.
“I don’t know…. It … it wasn’t me.” Alby looked just as confused as Thomas felt.
But Newt seemed to think it wasn’t worth trying to figure out. At least at the moment. He grabbed the
blankets that had fallen off the bed in Alby’s struggle and pulled them atop the sick boy. “Get your butt to
sleep and we’ll talk about it later.” He patted him on the head, then added, “You’re messed up, shank.”
But Alby was already drifting off, nodding slightly as his eyes closed.
Newt caught Thomas’s gaze and gestured for the door. Thomas had no problem leaving that crazy house
—he followed Newt out and into the hall. Then, just as they stepped through the doorway, Alby mumbled
something from his bed.
Both boys stopped in their tracks. “What?” Newt asked.
Alby opened his eyes for a brief moment, then repeated what he’d said, a little more loudly. “Be
careful with the girl.” Then his eyes slid shut.
There it was again—the girl. Somehow things always led back to the girl. Newt gave Thomas a
questioning look, but Thomas could only return it with a shrug. He had no idea what was going on.
“Let’s go,” Newt whispered.
“And Newt?” Alby called again from the bed, not bothering to open his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Protect the Maps.” Alby rolled over, his back telling them he’d finally finished speaking.
Thomas didn’t think that sounded very good. Not good at all. He and Newt left the room and softly
closed the door.
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