Thomas sat there for several moments, too overwhelmed to move. He finally forced himself to look over
at the haggard building. A group of boys milled around outside, glancing anxiously at the upper windows
as if expecting a hideous beast to leap out in an explosion of glass and wood.
A metallic clicking sound from the branches above grabbed his attention, made him look up; a flash of
silver and red light caught his eyes just before disappearing around the trunk to the other side. He
scrambled to his feet and walked around the tree, craning his neck for a sign of whatever he’d heard, but
he saw only bare branches, gray and brown, forking out like skeleton fingers—and looking just as alive.
“That was one of them beetle blades,” someone said.
Thomas turned to his right to see a kid standing nearby, short and pudgy, staring at him. He was young
—probably the youngest of any in the group he’d seen so far, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. His
brown hair hung down over his ears and neck, scraping the tops of his shoulders. Blue eyes shone through
an otherwise pitiful face, flabby and flushed.
Thomas nodded at him. “A beetle what?”
“Beetle blade,” the boy said, pointing to the top of the tree. “Won’t hurt ya unless you’re stupid enough
to touch one of them.” He paused. “Shank.” He didn’t sound comfortable saying the last word, as if he
hadn’t quite grasped the slang of the Glade.
Another scream, this one long and nerve-grinding, tore through the air and Thomas’s heart lurched. The
fear was like icy dew on his skin. “What’s going on over there?” he asked, pointing at the building.
“Don’t know,” the chubby boy replied; his voice still carried the high pitch of childhood. “Ben’s in
there, sicker than a dog. They got him.”
“They?” Thomas didn’t like the malicious way the boy had said the word.
“Yeah.”
“Who are They?”
“Better hope you never find out,” the kid answered, looking far too comfortable for the situation. He
held out his hand. “My name’s Chuck. I was the Greenbean until you showed up.”
This is my guide for the night? Thomas thought. He couldn’t shake his extreme discomfort, and now
annoyance crept in as well. Nothing made sense; his head hurt.
“Why is everyone calling me Greenbean?” he asked, shaking Chuck’s hand quickly, then letting go.
“Cuz you’re the newest Newbie.” Chuck pointed at Thomas and laughed. Another scream came from
the house, a sound like a starving animal being tortured.
“How can you be laughing?” Thomas asked, horrified by the noise. “It sounds like someone’s dying in
there.”
“He’ll be okay. No one dies if they make it back in time to get the Serum. It’s all or nothing. Dead or
not dead. Just hurts a lot.”
This gave Thomas pause. “What hurts a lot?”
Chuck’s eyes wandered as if he wasn’t sure what to say. “Um, gettin’ stung by the Grievers.”
“Grievers?” Thomas was only getting more and more confused. Stung. Grievers. The words had a
heavy weight of dread to them, and he suddenly wasn’t so sure he wanted to know what Chuck was
talking about.
Chuck shrugged, then looked away, eyes rolling.
Thomas sighed in frustration and leaned back against the tree. “Looks like you barely know more than I
do,” he said, but he knew it wasn’t true. His memory loss was strange. He mostly remembered the
workings of the world—but emptied of specifics, faces, names. Like a book completely intact but missing
one word in every dozen, making it a miserable and confusing read. He didn’t even know his age.
“Chuck, how … old do you think I am?”
The boy scanned him up and down. “I’d say you’re sixteen. And in case you were wondering, five foot
nine … brown hair. Oh, and ugly as fried liver on a stick.” He snorted a laugh.
Thomas was so stunned he’d barely heard the last part. Sixteen? He was sixteen? He felt much older
than that.
“Are you serious?” He paused, searching for words. “How …” He didn’t even know what to ask.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be all whacked for a few days, but then you’ll get used to this place. I have. We
live here, this is it. Better than living in a pile of klunk.” He squinted, maybe anticipating Thomas’s
question. “Klunk’s another word for poo. Poo makes a klunk sound when it falls in our pee pots.”
Thomas looked at Chuck, unable to believe he was having this conversation. “That’s nice” was all he
could manage. He stood up and walked past Chuck toward the old building; shack was a better word for
the place. It looked three or four stories high and about to fall down at any minute—a crazy assortment of
logs and boards and thick twine and windows seemingly thrown together at random, the massive, ivystrewn
stone walls rising up behind it. As he moved across the courtyard, the distinct smell of firewood
and some kind of meat cooking made his stomach grumble. Knowing now that it was just a sick kid doing
the screaming made Thomas feel better. Until he thought about what had caused it …
“What’s your name?” Chuck asked from behind, running to catch up.
“What?”
“Your name? You still haven’t told us—and I know you remember that much.”
“Thomas.” He barely heard himself say it—his thoughts had spun in a new direction. If Chuck was
right, he’d just discovered a link to the rest of the boys. A common pattern to their memory losses. They
all remembered their names. Why not their parents’ names? Why not a friend’s name? Why not their last
names?
“Nice to meet you, Thomas,” Chuck said. “Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of you. I’ve been here a
whole month, and I know the place inside and out. You can count on Chuck, okay?”
Thomas had almost reached the front door of the shack and the small group of boys congregating there
when he was hit by a sudden and surprise rush of anger. He turned to face Chuck. “You can’t even tell me
anything. I wouldn’t call that taking care of me.” He turned back toward the door, intent on going inside to
find some answers. Where this sudden courage and resolve came from, he had no idea.
Chuck shrugged. “Nothin’ I say’ll do you any good,” he said. “I’m basically still a Newbie, too. But I
can be your friend—”
“I don’t need friends,” Thomas interrupted.
He’d reached the door, an ugly slab of sun-faded wood, and he pulled it open to see several stoic-faced
boys standing at the foot of a crooked staircase, the steps and railings twisted and angled in all directions.
Dark wallpaper covered the walls of the foyer and hallway, half of it peeling off. The only decorations in
sight were a dusty vase on a three-legged table and a black-and-white picture of an ancient woman
dressed in an old-fashioned white dress. It reminded Thomas of a haunted house from a movie or
something. There were even planks of wood missing from the floor.
The place reeked of dust and mildew—a big contrast to the pleasant smells outside. Flickering
fluorescent lights shone from the ceiling. He hadn’t thought of it yet, but he had to wonder where the
electricity came from in a place like the Glade. He stared at the old woman in the picture. Had she lived
here once? Taken care of these people?
“Hey, look, it’s the Greenbean,” one of the older boys called out. With a start, Thomas realized it was
the black-haired guy who’d given him the look of death earlier. He looked like he was fifteen or so, tall
and skinny. His nose was the size of a small fist and resembled a deformed potato. “This shank probably
klunked his pants when he heard old Benny baby scream like a girl. Need a new diaper, shuck-face?”
“My name’s Thomas.” He had to get away from this guy. Without another word, he made for the stairs,
only because they were close, only because he had no idea what to do or say. But the bully stepped in
front of him, holding a hand up.
“Hold on there, Greenie.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the upper floor. “Newbies aren’t
allowed to see someone who’s been … taken. Newt and Alby won’t allow it.”
“What’s your problem?” Thomas asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice, trying not to think what
the kid had meant by taken. “I don’t even know where I am. All I want is some help.”
“Listen to me, Greenbean.” The boy wrinkled up his face, folded his arms. “I’ve seen you before.
Something’s fishy about you showing up here, and I’m gonna find out what.”
A surge of heat pulsed through Thomas’s veins. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. I have no idea
who you are, and I couldn’t care less,” he spat. But really, how would he know? And how could this kid
remember him?
The bully snickered, a short burst of laughter mixed with a phlegm-filled snort. Then his face grew
serious, his eyebrows slanting inward. “I’ve … seen you, shank. Not too many in these parts can say
they’ve been stung.” He pointed up the stairs. “I have. I know what old Benny baby’s going through. I’ve
been there. And I saw you during the Changing.”
He reached out and poked Thomas in the chest. “And I bet your first meal from Frypan that Benny’ll say
he’s seen ya, too.”
Thomas refused to break eye contact but decided to say nothing. Panic ate at him once again. Would
things ever stop getting worse?
“Griever got ya wettin’ yourself?” the boy said through a sneer. “A little scared now? Don’t wanna get
stung, do ya?”
There was that word again. Stung. Thomas tried not to think about it and pointed up the stairs, from
where the moans of the sick kid echoed through the building. “If Newt went up there, then I wanna talk to
him.”
The boy said nothing, stared at Thomas for several seconds. Then he shook his head. “You know what?
You’re right, Tommy—I shouldn’t be so mean to Newbies. Go on upstairs and I’m sure Alby and Newt’ll
fill you in. Seriously, go on. I’m sorry.”
He lightly slapped Thomas’s shoulder, then stepped back, gesturing up the stairs. But Thomas knew the
kid was up to something. Losing parts of your memory didn’t make you an idiot.
“What’s your name?” Thomas asked, stalling for time while he tried to decide if he should go up after
all.
“Gally. And don’t let anyone fool you. I’m the real leader here, not the two geezer shanks upstairs. Me.
You can call me Captain Gally if you want.” He smiled for the first time; his teeth matched his disgusting
nose. Two or three were missing, and not a single one approached anything close to the color white. His
breath escaped just enough for Thomas to get a whiff, reminding him of some horrible memory that was
just out of reach. It made his stomach turn.
“Okay,” he said, so sick of the guy he wanted to scream, punch him in the face. “Captain Gally it is.”
He exaggerated a salute, feeling a rush of adrenaline, as he knew he’d just crossed a line.
A few snickers escaped the crowd, and Gally looked around, his face bright red. He peered back at
Thomas, hatred furrowing his brow and crinkling his monstrous nose.
“Just go up the stairs,” Gally said. “And stay away from me, you little slinthead.” He pointed up again
but didn’t take his eyes off Thomas.
“Fine.” Thomas looked around one more time, embarrassed, confused, angry. He felt the heat of blood
in his face. No one made a move to stop him from doing as Gally asked, except for Chuck, who stood at
the front door, shaking his head.
“You’re not supposed to,” the younger boy said. “You’re a Newbie—you can’t go up there.”
“Go,” said Gally with a sneer. “Go on up.”
Thomas regretted having come inside in the first place—but he did want to talk to that Newt guy.
He started up the stairs. Each step groaned and creaked under his weight; he might’ve stopped for fear
of falling through the old wood if he weren’t leaving such an awkward situation below. Up he went,
wincing at every splintered sound. The stairs reached a landing, turned left, then came upon a railed
hallway leading to several rooms. Only one door had a light coming through the crack at the bottom.
“The Changing!” Gally shouted from below. “Look forward to it, shuck-face!”
As if the taunting gave Thomas a sudden burst of courage, he walked over to the lit door, ignoring the
creaking floorboards and laughter downstairs—ignoring the onslaught of words he didn’t understand,
suppressing the dreadful feelings they induced. He reached down, turned the brass handle, and opened the
door.
Inside the room, Newt and Alby crouched over someone lying on a bed.
Thomas leaned in closer to see what the fuss was all about, but when he got a clear look at the
condition of the patient, his heart went cold. He had to fight the bile that surged up his throat.
The look was fast—only a few seconds—but it was enough to haunt him forever. A twisted, pale figure
writhing in agony, chest bare and hideous. Tight, rigid cords of sickly green veins webbed across the
boy’s body and limbs, like ropes under his skin. Purplish bruises covered the kid, red hives, bloody
scratches. His bloodshot eyes bulged, darting back and forth. The image had already burned into
Thomas’s mind before Alby jumped up, blocking the view but not the moans and screams, pushing
Thomas out of the room, then slamming the door shut behind them.
“What’re you doing up here, Greenie!” Alby yelled, his lips taut with anger, eyes on fire.
Thomas felt weak. “I … uh … want some answers,” he murmured, but he couldn’t put any strength in
his words—felt himself give up inside. What was wrong with that kid? Thomas slouched against the
railing in the hallway and stared at the floor, not sure what to do next.
“Get your runtcheeks down those stairs, right now,” Alby ordered. “Chuck’ll help you. If I see you
again before tomorrow morning, you ain’t reachin’ another one alive. I’ll throw you off the Cliff myself,
you get me?”
Thomas was humiliated and scared. He felt like he’d shrunk to the size of a small rat. Without saying a
word, he pushed past Alby and headed down the creaky steps, going as fast as he dared. Ignoring the
gaping stares of everyone at the bottom—especially Gally—he walked out the door, pulling Chuck by the
arm as he did so.
Thomas hated these people. He hated all of them. Except Chuck. “Get me away from these guys,”
Thomas said. He realized that Chuck might actually be his only friend in the world.
“You got it,” Chuck replied, his voice chipper, as if thrilled to be needed. “But first we should get you
some food from Frypan.”
“I don’t know if I can ever eat again.” Not after what he’d just seen.
Chuck nodded. “Yeah, you will. I’ll meet you at the same tree as before. Ten minutes.”
Thomas was more than happy to get away from the house, and headed back toward the tree. He’d only
known what it was like to be alive here for a short while and he already wanted it to end. He wished for
all the world he could remember something about his previous life. Anything. His mom, his dad, a friend,
his school, a hobby. A girl.
He blinked hard several times, trying to get the image of what he’d just seen in the shack out of his
mind.
The Changing. Gally had called it the Changing.
It wasn’t cold, but Thomas shuddered once again.
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