Just after Thomas heard the grind and rumble of stone against stone announce the closing of the Doors for
the day, Alby showed up to release him, which was a huge surprise. The metal of key and lock jingled;
then the door to the cell swung wide open.
“Ain’t dead, are ya, shank?” Alby asked. He looked so much better than the day before, Thomas
couldn’t help staring at him. His skin was back to full color, his eyes no longer crisscrossed with red
veins; he seemed to have gained fifteen pounds in twenty-four hours.
Alby noticed him goggling. “Shuck it, boy, what you lookin’ at?”
Thomas shook his head slightly, feeling like he’d been in a trance. His mind was racing, wondering
what Alby remembered, what he knew, what he might say about him. “Wha—Nothing. Just seems crazy
you healed so quickly. You’re fine now?”
Alby flexed his right bicep. “Ain’t never been better—come on out.”
Thomas did, hoping his eyes weren’t flickering, making his concern obvious.
Alby closed the Slammer door and locked it, then turned to face him. “Actually, nothin’ but a lie. I feel
like a piece of klunk twice crapped by a Griever.”
“Yeah, you looked it yesterday.” When Alby glared, Thomas hoped it was in jest and quickly clarified.
“But today you look brand-new. I swear.”
Alby put the keys in his pocket and leaned back against the Slammer’s door. “So, quite the little talk we
had yesterday.”
Thomas’s heart pounded. He had no idea what to expect from Alby at that point. “Uh … yeah, I
remember.”
“I saw what I saw, Greenie. It’s kinda fadin’, but I ain’t never gonna forget. It was terrible. Tried to
talk about it, somethin’ starts choking me. Now the images are gettin’ up and gone, like that same
somethin’ don’t like me remembering.”
The scene from the day before flashed in Thomas’s mind. Alby thrashing, trying to strangle himself—
Thomas wouldn’t have believed it had happened if he hadn’t seen it himself. Despite fearing an answer,
he knew he had to ask the next question. “What was it about me—you kept saying you saw me. What was I
doing?”
Alby stared at an empty space in the distance for a while before answering. “You were with the …
Creators. Helping them. But that ain’t what got me shook up.”
Thomas felt like someone had just rammed their fist in his abdomen. Helping them? He couldn’t form
the words to ask what that meant.
Alby continued. “I hope the Changing doesn’t give us real memories—just plants fake ones. Some
suspect it—I can only hope. If the world’s the way I saw it …” He trailed off, leaving an ominous silence.
Thomas was confused, but pressed on. “Can’t you tell me what you saw about me?”
Alby shook his head. “No way, shank. Ain’t gonna risk stranglin’ myself again. Might be something
they got in our brains to control us—just like the memory wipe.”
“Well, if I’m evil, maybe you should leave me locked up.” Thomas half meant it.
“Greenie, you ain’t evil. You might be a shuck-faced slinthead, but you ain’t evil.” Alby showed the
slightest hint of a smile, a bare crack in his usually hard face. “What you did—riskin’ your butt to save me
and Minho—that ain’t no evil I’ve ever heard of. Nah, just makes me think the Grief Serum and the
Changing got somethin’ fishy about ’em. For your sake and mine, I hope so.”
Thomas was so relieved that Alby thought he was okay, he only heard about half of what the older boy
had just said. “How bad was it? Your memories that came back.”
“I remembered things from growin’ up, where I lived, that sort of stuff. And if God himself came down
right now and told me I could go back home …” Alby looked to the ground and shook his head again. “If
it was real, Greenie, I swear I’d go shack up with the Grievers before goin’ back.”
Thomas was surprised to hear it was so bad—he wished Alby would give details, describe something,
anything. But he knew the choking was still too fresh in Alby’s mind for him to budge. “Well, maybe
they’re not real, Alby. Maybe the Grief Serum is some kind of psycho drug that gives you hallucinations.”
Thomas knew he was grasping at straws.
Alby thought for a minute. “A drug … hallucinations …” Then he shook his head. “Doubt it.”
It had been worth a try. “We still have to escape this place.”
“Yeah, thanks, Greenie,” Alby said sarcastically. “Don’t know what we’d do without your pep talks.”
Again, the almost-smile.
Alby’s change of mood broke Thomas out of his gloom. “Quit calling me Greenie. The girl’s the
Greenie now.”
“Okay, Greenie.” Alby sighed, clearly done with the conversation. “Go find some dinner—your
terrible prison sentence of one day is over.”
“One was plenty.” Despite wanting answers, Thomas was ready to get away from the Slammer. Plus,
he was starving. He grinned at Alby, then headed straight for the kitchen and food.
Dinner was awesome.
Frypan had known Thomas would be coming late, so he’d left a plate full of roast beef and potatoes; a
note announced there were cookies in the cupboard. The Cook seemed fully intent on backing up the
support he’d shown for Thomas in the Gathering. Minho joined Thomas as he ate, prepping him a little
before his first big day of Runner training, giving him a few stats and interesting facts. Things for him to
think about as he went to sleep that night.
When they were finished, Thomas headed back to the secluded place where he’d slept the night before,
in the corner behind the Deadheads. He thought about his conversation with Chuck, wondered how it
would feel to have parents say good night to you.
Several boys milled about the Glade that night, but for the most part it was quiet, like everyone just
wanted to go to sleep, end the day and be done with it. Thomas didn’t complain—that was exactly what
he needed.
The blankets someone had left for him the night before still lay there. He picked them up and settled in,
snuggling up against the comforting corner where the stone walls met in a mass of soft ivy. The mixed
smells of the forest greeted him as he took his first deep breath, trying to relax. The air felt perfect, and it
made him wonder again about the weather of the place. Never rained, never snowed, never got too hot or
too cold. If it weren’t for the little fact they were torn apart from friends and families and trapped in a
Maze with a bunch of monsters, it could be paradise.
Some things here were too perfect. He knew that, but had no explanation.
His thoughts drifted to what Minho had told him at dinner about the size and scale of the Maze. He
believed it—he’d realized the massive scale when he’d been to the Cliff. But he just couldn’t fathom how
such a structure could have been built. The Maze stretched for miles and miles. The Runners had to be in
almost superhuman shape to do what they did every day.
And yet they’d never found an exit. And despite that, despite the utter hopelessness of the situation, they
still hadn’t given up.
At dinner Minho had told him an old story—one of the bizarre and random things he remembered from
before—about a woman trapped in a maze. She escaped by never taking her right hand off the walls of the
maze, sliding it along as she walked. In doing so, she was forced to turn right at every turn, and the simple
laws of physics and geometry ensured that eventually she found the exit. It made sense.
But not here. Here, all paths led back to the Glade. They had to be missing something.
Tomorrow, his training would begin. Tomorrow, he could start helping them find that missing
something. Right then Thomas made a decision. Forget all the weird stuff. Forget all the bad things. Forget
it all. He wouldn’t quit until he’d solved the puzzle and found a way home.
Tomorrow. The word floated in his mind until he finally fell asleep.
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