A half hour passed.
Neither Thomas nor Minho had moved an inch.
Thomas had finally stopped crying; he couldn’t help wondering what Minho would think of him, or if he’d tell others, calling him a sissy. But there wasn’t a shred of self-control left in him; he couldn’t have prevented the tears, he knew that. Despite his lack of memory, he was sure he’d just been through the most traumatic night of his life. And his sore hands and utter exhaustion didn’t help.
He crawled to the edge of the Cliff once more, stuck his head over again to get a better look now that dawn was in full force. The open sky in front of him was a deep purple, slowly fading into the bright blue of day, with tinges of orange from the sun on a distant, flat horizon.
He stared straight down, saw that the stone wall of the Maze went toward the ground in a sheer cliff until it disappeared into whatever lay far, far below. But even with the ever-increasing light, he still couldn’t tell what was down there. It seemed as if the Maze was perched on a structure several miles above the ground.
But that was impossible, he thought. It can’t be. Has to be an illusion.
He rolled over onto his back, groaning at the movement. Things seemed to hurt on him and inside him that he’d never known existed before. At least the Doors would be opening soon, and they could return to the Glade. He looked over at Minho, huddled against the hall of the corridor. “I can’t believe we’re still alive,” he said.
Minho said nothing, just nodded, his face devoid of expression.
“Are there more of them? Did we just kill them all?”
Minho snorted. “Somehow we made it to sunrise, or we would’ve had ten more on our butts before long.” He shifted his body, wincing and groaning. “I can’t believe it. Seriously. We made it through the whole night—never been done before.”
Thomas knew he should feel proud, brave, something. But all he felt was tired and relieved. “What did we do differently?”
“I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to ask a dead guy what he did wrong.”
Thomas couldn’t stop wondering about how the Grievers’ enraged cries had ended as they fell from the Cliff, and how he hadn’t been able to see them plummeting to their deaths. There was something very strange and unsettling about it. “Seems like they disappeared or something after they went over the edge.”
“Yeah, that was kinda psycho. Couple of Gladers had a theory that other things had disappeared, but we proved ’em wrong. Look.”
Thomas watched as Minho tossed a rock over the Cliff, then followed its path with his eyes. Down and down it went, not leaving his sight until it grew too small to see. He turned back toward Minho. “How does that prove them wrong?”
Minho shrugged. “Well, the rock didn’t disappear, now, did it?”
“Then what do you think happened?” There was something significant here, Thomas could feel it.
Minho shrugged again. “Maybe they’re magic. My head hurts too much to think about it.”
With a jolt, all thoughts of the Cliff were forgotten. Thomas remembered Alby. “We have to get back.” Straining, he forced himself to get to his feet. “Gotta get Alby off the wall.” Seeing the look of confusion on Minho’s face, he quickly explained what he’d done with the ropes of ivy.
Minho looked down, his eyes dejected. “No way he’s still alive.”
Thomas refused to believe it. “How do you know? Come on.” He started limping back along the corridor.
“Because no one’s ever made it …”
He trailed off, and Thomas knew what he was thinking. “That’s because they’ve always been killed by the Grievers by the time you found them. Alby was only stuck with one of those needles, right?”
Minho stood up and joined Thomas in his slow walk back toward the Glade. “I don’t know, I guess this has never happened before. A few guys have been stung by the needles during the day. And those are the ones who got the Serum and went through the Changing. The poor shanks who got stuck out in the Maze all night weren’t found until later—days later, sometimes, if at all. And all of them were killed in ways you don’t wanna hear about.”
Thomas shuddered at the thought. “After what we just went through, I think I can imagine.”
Minho looked up, surprise transforming his face. “I think you just figured it out. We’ve been wrong—well, hopefully we’ve been wrong. Because no one who’d been stung and didn’t make it back by sunset has ever survived, we just assumed that was the point of no return—when it’s too late to get the Serum.” He seemed excited by his line of thinking.
They turned yet another corner, Minho suddenly taking the lead. The boy’s pace was picking up, but Thomas stayed on his heels, surprised at how familiar he felt with the directions, usually even leaning into turns before Minho showed the way.
“Okay—this Serum,” Thomas said. “I’ve heard that a couple of times now. What is that? And where does it come from?”
“Just what it sounds like, shank. It’s a serum. The Grief Serum.”
Thomas forced out a pathetic laugh. “Just when I think I’ve learned everything about this stupid place. Why is it called that? And why are Grievers called Grievers?”
Minho explained as they continued through the endless turns of the Maze, neither one of them leading now. “I don’t know where we got the names, but the Serum comes from the Creators—or that’s what we call them, at least. It’s with the supplies in the Box every week, always has been. It’s a medicine or antidote or something, already inside a medical syringe, ready to use.” He made a show of sticking a needle in his arm. “Stick that sucker in someone who’s been stung and it saves ’em. They go through the Changing—which sucks—but after that, they’re healed.”
A minute or two passed in silence as Thomas processed the information; they made a couple more turns. He wondered about the Changing, and what it meant. And for some reason, he kept thinking of the girl.
“Weird, though,” Minho finally continued. “We’ve never talked about this before. If he’s still alive, there’s really no reason to think Alby can’t be saved by the Serum. We somehow got it into our klunk heads that once the Doors closed, you were done—end of story. I gotta see this hanging-on-the-wall thing myself—I think you’re shuckin’ me.”
The boys kept walking, Minho almost looking happy, but something was nagging at Thomas. He’d been avoiding it, denying it to himself. “What if another Griever got Alby after I diverted the one chasing me?”
Minho looked over at him, a blank expression on his face.
“Let’s just hurry, is all I’m saying,” Thomas said, hoping all that effort to save Alby hadn’t been wasted.
They tried to pick up the pace, but their bodies hurt too much and they settled back into a slow walk despite the urgency. The next time they rounded a corner, Thomas faltered, his heart skipping a beat when he saw movement up ahead. Relief washed through him an instant later when he realized it was Newt and a group of Gladers. The West Door to the Glade towered over them and it was open. They’d made it back.
At the boys’ appearance, Newt limped over to them. “What happened?” he asked; he sounded almost angry. “How in the bloody—”
“We’ll tell you later,” Thomas interrupted. “We have to save Alby.”
Newt’s face went white. “What do you mean? He’s alive?”
“Just come here.” Thomas headed to the right, craning his neck to look high up at the wall, searching along the thick vines until he found the spot where Alby hung by his arms and legs far above them. Without saying anything, Thomas pointed up, not daring to be relieved yet. He was still there, and in one piece, but there was no sign of movement.
Newt finally saw his friend hanging in the ivy, and looked back at Thomas. If he’d seemed shocked before, now he looked completely bewildered. “Is he … alive?”
Please let him be, Thomas thought. “I don’t know. Was when I left him up there.”
“When you left him …” Newt shook his head. “You and Minho get your butts inside, get yourselves checked by the Med-jacks. You look bloody awful. I want the whole story when they’re done and you’re rested up.”
Thomas wanted to wait and see if Alby was okay. He started to speak but Minho grabbed him by the arm and forced him to walk toward the Glade. “We need sleep. And bandages. Now.”
And Thomas knew he was right. He relented, glancing back up at Alby, then followed Minho out and away from the Maze.
The walk back into the Glade and then to the Homestead seemed endless, a row of Gladers on both sides gawking at them. Their faces showed complete awe, as if they were watching two ghosts strolling through a graveyard. Thomas knew it was because they’d accomplished something never done before, but he was embarrassed by the attention.
He almost stopped walking altogether when he spotted Gally up ahead, arms folded and glaring, but he kept moving. It took every ounce of his willpower, but he looked directly into Gally’s eyes, never breaking contact. When he got to within five feet, the other boy’s stare fell to the ground.
It almost disturbed Thomas how good that felt. Almost.
The next few minutes were a blur. Escorted into the Homestead by a couple of Med-jacks, up the stairs, a glimpse through a barely ajar door of someone feeding the comatose girl in her bed—he felt an incredibly strong urge to go see her, to check on her—into their own rooms, into bed, food, water, bandages. Pain. Finally, he was left alone, his head resting on the softest pillow his limited memory could recall.
But as he fell asleep, two things wouldn’t leave his mind. First, the word he’d seen scrawled across the torso of both beetle blades—WICKED—ran through his thoughts again and again.
The second thing was the girl.
Hours later—days for all he knew—Chuck was there, shaking him awake. It took several seconds for Thomas to get his bearings and see straight. He focused in on Chuck, groaned. “Let me sleep, you shank.”
“I thought you’d want to know.”
Thomas rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Know what?” He looked at Chuck again, confused by his big smile.
“He’s alive,” he said. “Alby’s okay—the Serum worked.”
Thomas’s grogginess instantly washed away, replaced with relief—it surprised him how much joy the information brought. But then Chuck’s next words made him reconsider.
“He just started the Changing.”
As if brought on by the words, a blood-chilling scream erupted from a room down the hall.
Thomas wondered long and hard about Alby. It’d seemed such a victory just to save his life, bring him back from a night in the Maze. But had it been worth it? Now the boy was in intense pain, going through the same things as Ben. And what if he became as psychotic as Ben? Troubling thoughts all around.
Twilight fell upon the Glade and Alby’s screams continued to haunt the air. It was impossible to escape the terrible sound, even after Thomas finally talked the Med-jacks into letting him go—weary, sore, bandaged, but tired of the piercing, agonized wails of their leader. Newt had adamantly refused when Thomas asked to see the person he’d risked his life for. It’ll only make it worse, he’d said, and would not be swayed.
Thomas was too tired to put up a fight. He’d had no idea it was possible to feel so exhausted, despite the few hours of sleep he’d gotten. He’d hurt too much to do anything after that, and had spent most of the day on a bench on the outskirts of the Deadheads, wallowing in despair. The elation of his escape had faded rapidly, leaving him with pain and thoughts of his new life in the Glade. Every muscle ached; cuts and bruises covered him from head to toe. But even that wasn’t as bad as the heavy emotional weight of what he’d been through the previous night. It seemed as if all the realities of living there had finally settled in his mind, like hearing a final diagnosis of terminal cancer.
How could anyone ever be happy in a life like this? he thought. Then, How could anyone be evil enough to do this to us? He understood more than ever the passion the Gladers felt for finding their way out of the Maze. It wasn’t just a matter of escape. For the first time, he felt a hunger to get revenge on the people responsible for sending him there.
But those thoughts just led back to the hopelessness that had filled him so many times already. If Newt and the others hadn’t been able to solve the Maze after two years of searching, it seemed impossible there could actually be a solution. The fact that the Gladers hadn’t given up said more about these people than anything else.
And now he was one of them.
This is my life, he thought. Living in a giant maze, surrounded by hideous beasts. Sadness filled him like a heavy poison. Alby’s screams, now distant but still audible, only made it worse. He had to squeeze his hands to his ears every time he heard them.
Eventually, the day dragged to a close, and the setting of the sun brought the now-familiar grinding of the four Doors closing for the night. Thomas had no memory of his life before the Box, but he was positive he’d finished the worst twenty-four hours of his existence.
Just after dark, Chuck brought him some dinner and a big glass of cold water.
“Thanks,” Thomas said, feeling a burst of warmth for the kid. He scooped the beef and noodles off the plate as fast as his aching arms could move. “I so needed this,” he mumbled through a huge bite. He took a big swig of his drink, then went back to attacking the food. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he’d started eating.
“You’re disgusting when you eat,” Chuck said, sitting on the bench next to him. “It’s like watching a starving pig eat his own klunk.”
“That’s funny,” Thomas said, sarcasm lacing his voice. “You should go entertain the Grievers—see if they laugh.”
A quick expression of hurt flashed across Chuck’s face, making Thomas feel bad, but vanished almost as fast as it had appeared. “That reminds me—you’re the talk of the town.”
Thomas sat up straighter, not sure how he felt about the news. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, gee, let me think. First, you go out in the Maze when you’re not supposed to, at night. Then you turn into some kind of freaky jungle dude, climbing vines and tying people up on walls. Next, you become one of the first people ever to survive an entire night outside the Glade, and to top it all off you kill four Grievers. Can’t imagine what those shanks are talking about.”
A surge of pride filled Thomas’s body, then fizzled. Thomas was sickened by the happiness he’d just felt. Alby was still in bed, screaming his head off in pain—probably wishing he were dead. “Tricking them to go over the Cliff was Minho’s idea, not mine.”
“Not according to him. He saw you do the wait-and-dive thingy, then had the idea to do the same thing at the Cliff.”
“The ‘wait-and-dive thingy’?” Thomas asked, rolling his eyes. “Any idiot on the planet would’ve done that.”
“Don’t get all humbly bumbly on us—what you did is freaking unbelievable. You and Minho, both.”
Thomas tossed the empty plate on the ground, suddenly angry. “Then why do I feel so crappy, Chuck? Wanna answer me that?”
Thomas searched Chuck’s face for an answer, but by the looks of it he didn’t have one. The boy just sat clasping his hands as he leaned forward on his knees, head hanging. Finally, half under his breath, he murmured, “Same reason we all feel crappy.”
They sat in silence until, a few minutes later, Newt walked up, looking like death on two feet. He sat on the ground in front of them, as sad and worried as any person could possibly appear. Still, Thomas was glad to have him around.
“I think the worst part’s over,” Newt said. “The bugger should be sleepin’ for a couple of days, then wake up okay. Maybe a little screaming now and then.”
Thomas couldn’t imagine how bad the whole ordeal must be—but the whole process of the Changing was still a mystery to him. He turned to the older boy, trying his best to be casual. “Newt, what’s he going through up there? Seriously, I don’t get what this Changing thing is.”
Newt’s response startled Thomas. “You think we do?” he spat, throwing his arms up, then slapping them back down on his knees. “All we bloody know is if the Grievers sting you with their nasty needles, you inject the Grief Serum or you die. If you do get the Serum, then your body wigs out and shakes and your skin bubbles and turns a freaky green color and you vomit all over yourself. Enough explanation for ya there, Tommy?”
Thomas frowned. He didn’t want to make Newt any more upset than he already was, but he needed answers. “Hey, I know it sucks to see your friend go through that, but I just want to know what’s really happening up there. Why do you call it the Changing?”
Newt relaxed, seemed to shrink, even, and sighed. “It brings back memories. Just little snippets, but definite memories of before we came to this horrible place. Anyone who goes through it acts like a bloody psycho when it’s over—although usually not as bad as poor Ben. Anyway, it’s like being given your old life back, only to have it snatched away again.”
Thomas’s mind was churning. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Newt looked confused. “What do you mean? Sure about what?”
“Are they changed because they want to go back to their old life, or is it because they’re so depressed at realizing their old life was no better than what we have now?”
Newt stared at him for a second, then looked away, seemingly deep in thought. “Shanks who’ve been through it’ll never really talk about it. They get … different. Unlikable. There’s a handful around the Glade, but I can’t stand to be around them.” His voice was distant, his eyes having strayed to a certain blank spot in the woods. Thomas knew he was thinking about how Alby might never be the same again.
“Tell me about it,” Chuck chimed in. “Gally’s the worst of ’em all.”
“Anything new on the girl?” Thomas asked, changing the subject. He was in no mood to talk about Gally. Plus, his thoughts kept going back to her. “I saw the Med-jacks feeding her upstairs.”
“No,” Newt answered. “Still in the buggin’ coma, or whatever it is. Every once in a while she’ll mumble something—nonsense, like she’s dreaming. She takes the food, seems to be doing all right. It’s kind of weird.”
A long pause followed, as if the three of them were trying to come up with an explanation for the girl. Thomas wondered again about his inexplicable feeling of connection with her, though it had faded a little—but that could have been because of everything else occupying his thoughts.
Newt finally broke the silence. “Anyway, next up—figure out what we do with Tommy here.”
Thomas perked up at that, confused by the statement. “Do with me? What’re you talking about?”
Newt stood, stretched his arms. “Turned this whole place upside down, you bloody shank. Half the Gladers think you’re God, the other half wanna throw your butt down the Box Hole. Lotta stuff to talk about.”
“Like what?” Thomas didn’t know which was more unsettling—that people thought he was some kind of hero, or that some wished he didn’t exist.
“Patience,” Newt said. “You’ll find out after the wake-up.”
“Tomorrow? Why?” Thomas didn’t like the sound of this.
“I’ve called a Gathering. And you’ll be there. You’re the only buggin’ thing on the agenda.”
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Thomas to wonder why in the world a Gathering was needed just to talk about him.
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.”