Thomas was fascinated at the mention of a Griever. The nasty creature was terrifying to think about, but he wondered why finding a dead one was such a big deal. Had it never happened before?
Alby looked like someone had just told him he could grow wings and fly. “Ain’t a good time for jokes,” he said.
“Look,” Minho answered, “I wouldn’t believe me if I were you, either. But trust me, I did. Big fat nasty one.”
It’s definitely never happened before, Thomas thought.
“You found a dead Griever,” Alby repeated.
“Yes, Alby,” Minho said, his words laced with annoyance. “A couple of miles from here, out near the Cliff.”
Alby looked out at the Maze, then back at Minho. “Well … why didn’t you bring it back with you?”
Minho laughed again, a half-grunt, half-giggle. “You been drinkin’ Frypan’s saucy-sauce? Those things must weigh half a ton, dude. Plus, I wouldn’t touch one if you gave me a free trip out of this place.”
Alby persisted with the questions. “What did it look like? Were the metal spikes in or out of its body? Did it move at all—was its skin still moist?”
Thomas was bursting with questions—Metal spikes? Moist skin? What in the world?—but held his tongue, not wanting to remind them he was there. And that maybe they should talk in private.
“Slim it, man,” Minho said. “You gotta see it for yourself. It’s … weird.”
“Weird?” Alby looked confused.
“Dude, I’m exhausted, starving, and sun-sick. But if you wanna haul it right now, we could probably make it there and back before the walls shut.”
Alby looked at his watch. “Better wait till the wake-up tomorrow.”
“Smartest thing you’ve said in a week.” Minho righted himself from leaning on the wall, hit Alby on the arm, then started walking toward the Homestead with a slight limp. He spoke over his shoulder as he shuffled away—it looked like his whole body was in pain. “I should go back out there, but screw it. I’m gonna go eat some of Frypan’s nasty casserole.”
Thomas felt a wash of disappointment. He had to admit Minho did look like he deserved a rest and a bite to eat, but he wanted to learn more.
Then Alby turned to Thomas, surprising him. “If you know something and ain’t tellin’ me …”
Thomas was sick of being accused of knowing things. Wasn’t that the problem in the first place? He didn’t know anything. He looked at the boy square in the face and asked, simply, “Why do you hate me so much?”
The look that came over Alby’s face was indescribable—part confusion, part anger, part shock. “Hate you? Boy, you ain’t learned nothin’ since showing up in that Box. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with no hate or like or love or friends or anything. All we care about is surviving. Drop your sissy side and start using that shuck brain if you got one.”
Thomas felt like he’d been slapped. “But … why do you keep accusing—”
“Cuz it can’t be a coincidence, slinthead! You pop in here, then we get us a girl Newbie the next day, a crazy note, Ben tryin’ to bite ya, dead Grievers. Something’s goin’ on and I ain’t restin’ till I figure it out.”
“I don’t know anything, Alby.” It felt good to put some heat into his words. “I don’t even know where I was three days ago, much less why this Minho guy would find a dead thing called a Griever. So back off!”
Alby leaned back slightly, stared absently at Thomas for several seconds. Then he said, “Slim it, Greenie. Grow up and start thinkin’. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with accusing nobody of nothin’. But if you remember anything, if something even seems familiar, you better start talking. Promise me.”
Not until I have a solid memory, Thomas thought. Not unless I want to share. “Yeah, I guess, but—”
“Just promise!”
Thomas paused, sick of Alby and his attitude. “Whatever,” he finally said. “I promise.”
At that Alby turned and walked away, not saying another word.
Thomas found a tree in the Deadheads, one of the nicer ones on the edge of the forest with plenty of shade. He dreaded going back to work with Winston the Butcher and knew he needed to eat lunch, but he didn’t want to be near anybody for as long as he could get away with it. Leaning back against the thick trunk, he wished for a breeze but didn’t get one.
He’d just felt his eyelids droop when Chuck ruined his peace and quiet.
“Thomas! Thomas!” the boy shrieked as he ran toward him, pumping his arms, his face lit up with excitement.
Thomas rubbed his eyes and groaned; he wanted nothing in the world more than a half-hour nap. It wasn’t until Chuck stopped right in front of him, panting to catch his breath, that he finally looked up. “What?”
Words slowly fell from Chuck, in between his gasps for breath. “Ben … Ben … he isn’t … dead.”
All signs of fatigue catapulted out of Thomas’s system. He jumped up to stand nose to nose with Chuck. “What?”
“He … isn’t dead. Baggers went to get him … arrow missed his brain … Med-jacks patched him up.”
Thomas turned away to stare into the forest where the sick boy had attacked him just the night before. “You gotta be kidding. I saw him….” He wasn’t dead? Thomas didn’t know what he felt most strongly: confusion, relief, fear that he’d be attacked again …
“Well, so did I,” Chuck said. “He’s locked up in the Slammer, a huge bandage covering half his head.”
Thomas spun to face Chuck again. “The Slammer? What do you mean?”
“The Slammer. It’s our jail on the north side of the Homestead.” Chuck pointed in that direction. “They threw him in it so fast, the Med-jacks had to patch him up in there.”
Thomas rubbed his eyes. Guilt consumed him when he realized how he truly felt—he’d been relieved that Ben was dead, that he didn’t have to worry about facing him again. “So what are they gonna do with him?”
“Already had a Gathering of the Keepers this morning—made a unanimous decision by the sounds of it. Looks like Ben’ll be wishing that arrow had found a home inside his shuck brain after all.”
Thomas squinted, confused by what Chuck had said. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s being Banished. Tonight, for trying to kill you.”
“Banished? What does that mean?” Thomas had to ask, though he knew it couldn’t be good if Chuck thought it was worse than being dead.
And then Thomas saw perhaps the most disturbing thing he’d seen since he’d arrived at the Glade. Chuck didn’t answer; he only smiled. Smiled, despite it all, despite the sinister sound of what he’d just announced. Then he turned and ran, maybe to tell someone else the exciting news.
That night, Newt and Alby gathered every last Glader at the East Door about a half hour before it closed, the first traces of twilight’s dimness creeping across the sky. The Runners had just returned and entered the mysterious Map Room, clanging the iron door shut; Minho had already gone in earlier. Alby told the Runners to hurry about their business—he wanted them back out in twenty minutes.
It still bothered Thomas how Chuck had smiled when breaking the news about Ben being Banished. Though he didn’t know exactly what it meant, it certainly didn’t sound like a good thing. Especially since they were all standing so close to the Maze. Are they going to put him out there? he wondered. With the Grievers?
The other Gladers murmured their conversations in hushed tones, an intense feeling of dreadful anticipation hanging over them like a patch of thick fog. But Thomas said nothing, standing with arms folded, waiting for the show. He stood quietly until the Runners finally came out of their building, all of them looking exhausted, their faces pinched from deep thinking. Minho had been the first to exit, which made Thomas wonder if he was the Keeper of the Runners.
“Bring him out!” Alby shouted, startling Thomas out of his thoughts.
His arms fell to his sides as he turned, looking around the Glade for a sign of Ben, trepidation building within him as he wondered what the boy would do when he saw him.
From around the far side of the Homestead, three of the bigger boys appeared, literally dragging Ben along the ground. His clothes were tattered, barely hanging on; a bloody, thick bandage covered half his head and face. Refusing to put his feet down or help the progress in any way, he seemed as dead as the last time Thomas had seen him. Except for one thing.
His eyes were open, and they were wide with terror.
“Newt,” Alby said in a much quieter voice; Thomas wouldn’t have heard him if he hadn’t been standing just a few feet away. “Bring out the Pole.”
Newt nodded, already on the move toward a small tool shed used for the Gardens; he’d clearly been waiting for the order.
Thomas turned his focus back to Ben and the guards. The pale, miserable boy still made no effort to resist, letting them drag him across the dusty stone of the courtyard. When they reached the crowd, they pulled Ben to his feet in front of Alby, their leader, where Ben hung his head, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
“You brought this on yourself, Ben,” Alby said. Then he shook his head and looked toward the shack to which Newt had gone.
Thomas followed his gaze just in time to see Newt walk though the slanted door. He was holding several aluminum poles, connecting the ends to make a shaft maybe twenty feet long. When he was finished, he grabbed something odd-shaped on one of the ends and dragged the whole thing along toward the group. A shiver ran up Thomas’s spine at the metallic scrape of the pole on the stone ground as Newt walked.
Thomas was horrified by the whole affair—he couldn’t help feeling responsible even though he’d never done anything to provoke Ben.
How was any of this his fault? No answer came to him, but he felt the guilt all the same, like a disease in his blood.
Finally, Newt stepped up to Alby and handed over the end of the pole he was holding. Thomas could see the strange attachment now. A loop of rough leather, fastened to the metal with a massive staple. A large button snap revealed that the loop could be opened and closed, and its purpose became obvious.
It was a collar.
Thomas watched as Alby unbuttoned the collar, then wrapped it around Ben’s neck; Ben finally looked up just as the loop of leather snapped closed with a loud pop. Tears glistened in his eyes; dribbles of snot oozed from his nostrils. The Gladers looked on, not a word from any of them.
“Please, Alby,” Ben pleaded, his shaky voice so pathetic that Thomas couldn’t believe it was the same guy who’d tried to bite his throat off the day before. “I swear I was just sick in the head from the Changing. I never would’ve killed him—just lost my mind for a second. Please, Alby, please.”
Every word from the kid was like a fist punching Thomas in the gut, making him feel more guilty and confused.
Alby didn’t respond to Ben; he pulled on the collar to make sure it was both firmly snapped and solidly attached to the long pole. He walked past Ben and along the pole, picking it up off the ground as he slid its length through his palm and fingers. When he reached the end, he gripped it tightly and turned to face the crowd. Eyes bloodshot, face wrinkled in anger, breathing heavily—to Thomas, he suddenly looked evil.
And it was an odd sight on the other side: Ben, trembling, crying, a roughly cut collar of old leather wrapped around his pale, scrawny neck, attached to a long pole that stretched from him to Alby, twenty feet away. The shaft of aluminum bowed in the middle, but only a little. Even from where Thomas was standing, it looked surprisingly strong.
Alby spoke in a loud, almost ceremonious voice, looking at no one and everyone at the same time. “Ben of the Builders, you’ve been sentenced to Banishment for the attempted murder of Thomas the Newbie. The Keepers have spoken, and their word ain’t changing. And you ain’t coming back. Ever.” A long pause. “Keepers, take your place on the Banishment Pole.”
Thomas hated that his link to Ben was being made public—hated the responsibility he felt. Being the center of attention again could only bring more suspicion about him. His guilt transformed into anger and blame. More than anything, he just wanted Ben gone, wanted it all to be over.
One by one, boys were stepping out of the crowd and walking over to the long pole; they grabbed it with both hands, gripped it as if readying for a tug-of-war match. Newt was one of them, as was Minho, confirming Thomas’s guess that he was the Keeper of the Runners. Winston the Butcher also took up a position.
Once they were all in place—ten Keepers spaced evenly apart between Alby and Ben—the air grew still and silent. The only sounds were the muffled sobs of Ben, who kept wiping at his nose and eyes. He was looking left and right, though the collar around his neck prevented him from seeing the pole and Keepers behind him.
Thomas’s feelings changed again. Something was obviously wrong with Ben. Why did he deserve this fate? Couldn’t something be done for him? Would Thomas spend the rest of his days feeling responsible? Just end, he screamed in his head. Just be over!
“Please,” Ben said, his voice rising in desperation. “Pllllleeeeeeeeease! Somebody, help me! You can’t do this to me!”
“Shut up!” Alby roared from behind.
But Ben ignored him, pleading for help as he started to pull on the leather looped around his neck. “Someone stop them! Help me! Please!” He glanced from boy to boy, begging with his eyes. Without fail, everyone looked away. Thomas quickly stepped behind a taller boy to avoid his own confrontation with Ben. I can’t look into those eyes again, he thought.
“If we let shanks like you get away with that stuff,” Alby said, “we never would’ve survived this long. Keepers, get ready.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” Ben was saying, half under his breath. “I swear I’ll do anything! I swear I’ll never do it again! Pllllleeeeeee—”
His shrill cry was cut off by the rumbling crack of the East Door beginning to close. Sparks flew from the stone as the massive right wall slid to the left, groaning thunderously as it made its journey to close off the Glade from the Maze for the night. The ground shook beneath them, and Thomas didn’t know if he could watch what he knew was going to happen next.
“Keepers, now!” Alby shouted.
Ben’s head snapped back as he was jerked forward, the Keepers pushing the pole toward the Maze outside the Glade. A strangling cry erupted from Ben’s throat, louder than the sounds of the closing Door. He fell to his knees, only to be jerked back to his feet by the Keeper in front, a thick guy with black hair and a snarl on his face.
“Noooooooooo!” Ben screamed, spit flying from his mouth as he thrashed about, tearing at the collar with his hands. But the combined strength of the Keepers was way too much, forcing the condemned boy closer and closer to the edge of the Glade, just as the right wall was almost there. “Noooo!” he screamed again, and then again.
He tried to plant his feet at the threshold, but it only lasted for a split second; the pole sent him into the Maze with a lurch. Soon he was fully four feet outside the Glade, jerking his body from side to side as he tried to escape his collar. The walls of the Door were only seconds from sealing shut.
With one last violent effort, Ben was finally able to twist his neck in the circle of leather so that his whole body turned to face the Gladers. Thomas couldn’t believe he was still looking upon a human being—the madness in Ben’s eyes, the phlegm flying from his mouth, the pale skin stretched taut across his veins and bones. He looked as alien as anything Thomas could imagine.
“Hold!” Alby shouted.
Ben screamed then, without pause, a sound so piercing that Thomas covered his ears. It was a bestial, lunatic cry, surely ripping the boy’s vocal cords to shreds. At the last second, the front Keeper somehow loosened the larger pole from the piece attached to Ben and yanked it back into the Glade, leaving the boy to his Banishment. Ben’s final screams were cut off when the walls closed with a terrible boom.
Thomas squeezed his eyes shut and was surprised to feel tears trickling down his cheeks.
For the second night in a row, Thomas went to bed with the haunted image of Ben’s face burned into his mind, tormenting him. How different would things be right now if it weren’t for that one boy? Thomas could almost convince himself he’d be completely content, happy and excited to learn his new life, aim for his goal of being a Runner. Almost. Deep down he knew that Ben was only part of his many problems.
But now he was gone, Banished to the world of the Grievers, taken to wherever they took their prey, victim to whatever was done there. Though he had plenty of reasons to despise Ben, he mostly felt sorry for him.
Thomas couldn’t imagine going out that way, but based on Ben’s last moments, psychotically thrashing and spitting and screaming, he no longer doubted the importance of the Glade rule that no one should enter the Maze except Runners, and then only during the day. Somehow Ben had already been stung once, which meant he knew better than perhaps anyone just exactly what lay in store for him.
That poor guy, he thought. That poor, poor guy.
Thomas shuddered and rolled over on his side. The more he thought about it, being a Runner didn’t sound like such a great idea. But, inexplicably, it still called to him.
The next morning, dawn had barely touched the sky before the working sounds of the Glade wakened Thomas from the deepest slumber since he’d arrived. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, trying to shake the heavy grogginess. Giving up, he lay back down, hoping no one would bother him.
It didn’t last a minute.
Someone tapped his shoulder and he opened his eyes to see Newt staring down at him. What now? he thought.
“Get up, ya lug.”
“Yeah, good morning to you, too. What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock, Greenie,” Newt said with a mocking smile. “Figured I’d let ya sleep in after such a rough couple days.”
Thomas rolled into a sitting position, hating that he couldn’t just lie there for another few hours. “Sleep in? What are you guys, a bunch of farmers?” Farmers—how did he remember so much about them? Once again his memory wipe baffled him.
“Uh … yeah, now that ya mention it.” Newt plopped down beside Thomas and folded his legs up under himself. He sat quietly for a few moments, looking out at all the hustle-bustle starting to whip up across the Glade. “Gonna put ya with the Track-hoes today, Greenie. See if that suits your fancy more than slicin’ up bloody piggies and such.”
Thomas was sick of being treated like a baby. “Aren’t you supposed to quit calling me that?”
“What, bloody piggies?”
Thomas forced a laugh and shook his head. “No, Greenie. I’m not really the newest Newbie anymore, right? The girl in the coma is. Call her Greenie—my name’s Thomas.” Thoughts of the girl crashed around his mind, made him remember the connection he felt. A sadness washed over him, as if he missed her, wanted to see her. That doesn’t make sense, he thought. I don’t even know her name.
Newt leaned back, eyebrows raised. “Burn me—you grew some right nice-sized eggs over night, now didn’t ya?”
Thomas ignored him and moved on. “What’s a Track-hoe?”
“It’s what we call the guys workin’ their butts off in the Gardens—tilling, weeding, planting and such.”
Thomas nodded in that direction. “Who’s the Keeper?”
“Zart. Nice guy, s’long as you don’t sluff on the job, that is. He’s the big one that stood in front last night.”
Thomas didn’t say anything to that, hoping that somehow he could go through the entire day without talking about Ben and the Banishment. The subject only made him sick and guilty, so he moved on to something else. “So why’d you come wake me up?”
“What, don’t like seein’ my face first thing on the wake-up?”
“Not especially. So—” But before he could finish his sentence the rumble of the walls opening for the day cut him off. He looked toward the East Door, almost expecting to see Ben standing there on the other side. Instead, he saw Minho stretching. Then Thomas watched as he walked over and picked something up.
It was the section of pole with the leather collar attached to it. Minho seemed to think nothing of it, throwing it to one of the other Runners, who went and put it back in the tool shed near the Gardens.
Thomas turned back to Newt, confused. How could Minho act so nonchalant about it all? “What the—”
“Only seen three Banishments, Tommy. All as nasty as the one you peeped on last night. But every buggin’ time, the Grievers leave the collar on our doorstep. Gives me the willies like nothin’ else.”
Thomas had to agree. “What do they do with people when they catch them?” Did he really want to know?
Newt just shrugged, his indifference not very convincing. More likely he didn’t want to talk about it.
“So tell me about the Runners,” Thomas said suddenly. The words seemed to pop out of nowhere. But he remained still, despite an odd urge to apologize and change the subject; he wanted to know everything about them. Even after what he’d seen last night, even after witnessing the Griever through the window, he wanted to know. The pull to know was strong, and he didn’t quite understand why. Becoming a Runner just felt like something he was born to do.
Newt had paused, looking confused. “The Runners? Why?”
“Just wondering.”
Newt gave him a suspicious look. “Best of the best, those guys. Have to be. Everything depends on them.” He picked up a loose rock and tossed it, watching it absently as it bounced to a stop.
“Why aren’t you one?”
Newt’s gaze returned to Thomas, sharply. “Was till I hurt my leg few months back. Hasn’t been the bloody same since.” He reached down and rubbed his right ankle absently, a brief look of pain flashing across his face. The look made Thomas think it was more from the memory, not any actual physical pain he still felt.
“How’d you do it?” Thomas asked, thinking the more he could get Newt to talk, the more he’d learn.
“Runnin’ from the buggin’ Grievers, what else? Almost got me.” He paused. “Still gives me the chills thinkin’ I might have gone through the Changing.”
The Changing. It was the one topic that Thomas thought might lead him to answers more than anything else. “What is that, anyway? What changes? Does everyone go psycho like Ben and start trying to kill people?”
“Ben was way worse than most. But I thought you wanted to talk about the Runners.” Newt’s tone warned that the conversation about the Changing was over.
This made Thomas even more curious, though he was just fine going back to the subject of Runners. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“Like I said, best of the best.”
“So what do you do? Test everybody to see how fast they are?”
Newt gave Thomas a disgusted look, then groaned. “Show me some smarts, Greenie, Tommy, whatever ya like. How fast you can bloody run is only part of it. A very small part, actually.”
This piqued Thomas’s interest. “What do you mean?”
“When I say best of the best, I mean at everything. To survive the buggin’ Maze, you gotta be smart, quick, strong. Gotta be a decision maker, know the right amount of risk to take. Can’t be reckless, can’t be timid, either.” Newt straightened his legs and leaned back on his hands. “It’s bloody awful out there, ya know? I don’t miss it.”
“I thought the Grievers only came out at night.” Destiny or not, Thomas didn’t want to run into one of those things.
“Yeah, usually.”
“Then why is it so terrible out there?” What else didn’t he know about?
Newt sighed. “Pressure. Stress. Maze pattern different every day, tryin’ to picture things in your mind, tryin’ to get us out of here. Worryin’ about the bloody Maps. Worst part, you’re always scared you might not make it back. A normal maze’d be hard enough—but when it changes every night, couple of mental mistakes and you’re spendin’ the night with vicious beasts. No room or time for dummies or brats.”
Thomas frowned, not quite understanding the drive inside him, urging him on. Especially after last night. But he still felt it. Felt it all over.
“Why all the interest?” Newt asked.
Thomas hesitated, thinking, scared to say it out loud again. “I want to be a Runner.”
Newt turned and looked him in the eye. “Haven’t been here a week, shank. Little early for death wishes, don’t ya think?”
“I’m serious.” It barely made sense even to Thomas, but he felt it deeply. In fact, the desire to become a Runner was the only thing driving him on, helping him accept his predicament.
Newt didn’t break his gaze. “So am I. Forget it. No one’s ever become a Runner in their first month, much less their first week. Got a lot of provin’ to do before we’ll recommend you to the Keeper.”
Thomas stood and started folding up his sleeping gear. “Newt, I mean it. I can’t pull weeds all day—I’ll go nuts. I don’t have a clue what I did before they shipped me here in that metal box, but my gut tells me that being a Runner is what I’m supposed to do. I can do it.”
Newt still sat there, staring up at Thomas, not offering to help. “No one said you couldn’t. But give it a rest for now.”
Thomas felt a surge of impatience. “But—”
“Listen, trust me on this, Tommy. Start stompin’ around this place yappin’ about how you’re too good to work like a peasant, how you’re all nice and ready to be a Runner—you’ll make plenty of enemies. Drop it for now.”
Making enemies was the last thing Thomas wanted, but still. He decided on another direction. “Fine, I’ll talk to Minho about it.”
“Good try, ya buggin’ shank. The Gathering elects Runners, and if you think I’m tough, they’d laugh in your face.”
“For all you guys know, I could be really good at it. It’s a waste of time to make me wait.”
Newt stood to join Thomas and jabbed a finger in his face. “You listen to me, Greenie. You listenin’ all nice and pretty?”
Thomas surprisingly didn’t feel that intimidated. He rolled his eyes, but then nodded.
“You better stop this nonsense, before others hear about it. That’s not how it works around here, and our whole existence depends on things working.”
He paused, but Thomas said nothing, dreading the lecture he knew was coming.
“Order,” Newt continued. “Order. You say that bloody word over and over in your shuck head. Reason we’re all sane around here is ’cause we work our butts off and maintain order. Order’s the reason we put Ben out—can’t very well have loonies runnin’ around tryin’ to kill people, now can we? Order. Last thing we need is you screwin’ that up.”
The stubbornness washed out of Thomas. He knew it was time to shut up. “Yeah” was all he said.
Newt slapped him on the back. “Let’s make a deal.”
“What?” Thomas felt his hopes rise.
“You keep your mouth shut about it, and I’ll put you on the list of potential trainees as soon as you show some clout. Don’t keep your trap shut, and I’ll bloody make sure ya never see it happen. Deal?”
Thomas hated the idea of waiting, not knowing how long it might be. “That’s a sucky deal.”
Newt raised his eyebrows.
Thomas finally nodded. “Deal.”
“Come on, let’s get us some grub from Frypan. And hope we don’t bloody choke.”
That morning, Thomas finally met the infamous Frypan, if only from a distance. The guy was too busy trying to feed breakfast to an army of starving Gladers. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old, but he had a full beard and hair sticking out all over the rest of his body, as if each follicle were trying to escape the confines of his food-smeared clothes. Didn’t seem like the most sanitary guy in the world to oversee all the cooking, Thomas thought. He made a mental note to watch out for nasty black hairs in his meals.
He and Newt had just joined Chuck for breakfast at a picnic table right outside the Kitchen when a large group of Gladers got up and ran toward the West Door, talking excitedly about something.
“What’s going on?” Thomas asked, surprising himself at how nonchalantly he said it. New developments in the Glade had just become a part of life.
Newt shrugged as he dug into his eggs. “Just seein’ off Minho and Alby—they’re going to look at the buggin’ dead Griever.”
“Hey,” Chuck said. A small piece of bacon flew out of his mouth when he spoke. “I’ve got a question about that.”
“Yeah, Chuckie?” Newt asked, somewhat sarcastically. “And what’s your bloody question?”
Chuck seemed deep in thought. “Well, they found a dead Griever, right?”
“Yeah,” Newt replied. “Thanks for that bit of news.”
Chuck absently tapped his fork against the table for a few seconds. “Well, then who killed the stupid thing?”
Excellent question, Thomas thought. He waited for Newt to answer, but nothing came. He obviously didn’t have a clue.