Minho switched on the light, making Thomas squint for a second until his eyes got used to it. Menacing shadows clung to the boxes of weapons scattered across the table and floor, blades and sticks and other nasty-looking devices seeming to wait there, ready to take on a life of their own and kill the first person stupid enough to come close. The dank, musty smell only added to the creepy feel of the room.
“There’s a hidden storage closet back here,” Minho explained, walking past some shelves into a dark corner. “Only a couple of us know about it.”
Thomas heard the creak of an old wooden door, and then Minho was dragging a cardboard box across the floor; the scrape of it sounded like a knife on bone. “I put each trunk’s worth in its own box, eight boxes total. They’re all in there.”
“Which one is this?” Thomas asked; he knelt down next to it, eager to get started.
“Just open it and see—each page is marked, remember?”
Thomas pulled on the crisscrossed lid flaps until they popped open. The Maps for Section Two lay in a messy heap. Thomas reached in and pulled out a stack.
“Okay,” he said. “The Runners have always compared these day to day, looking to see if there was a pattern that would somehow help figure out a way to an exit. You even said you didn’t really know what you were looking for, but you kept studying them anyway. Right?”
Minho nodded, arms folded. He looked as if someone were about to reveal the secret of immortal life.
“Well,” Thomas continued, “what if all the wall movements had nothing to do with a map or a maze or anything like that? What if instead the pattern spelled words? Some kind of clue that’ll help us escape.”
Minho pointed at the Maps in Thomas’s hand, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Dude, you have any idea how much we’ve studied these things? Don’t you think we would’ve noticed if it were spelling out freaking words?”
“Maybe it’s too hard to see with the naked eye, just comparing one day to the next. And maybe you weren’t supposed to compare one day to the next, but look at it one day at a time?”
Newt laughed. “Tommy, I might not be the sharpest guy in the Glade, but sounds like you’re talkin’ straight out your butt to me.”
While he’d been talking, Thomas’s mind had been spinning even faster. The answer was within his grasp—he knew he was almost there. It was just so hard to put into words.
“Okay, okay,” he said, starting over. “You’ve always had one Runner assigned to one section, right?”
“Right,” Minho replied. He seemed genuinely interested and ready to understand.
“And that Runner makes a Map every day, and then compares it to Maps from previous days, for that section. What if, instead, you were supposed to compare the eight sections to each other, every day? Each day being a separate clue or code? Did you ever compare sections to other sections?”
Minho rubbed his chin, nodding. “Yeah, kind of. We tried to see if they made something when put together—of course we did that. We’ve tried everything.”
Thomas pulled his legs up underneath him, studying the Maps in his lap. He could just barely see the lines of the Maze written on the second page through the page resting on top. In that instant, he knew what they had to do. He looked up at the others.
“Wax paper.”
“Huh?” Minho asked. “What the—”
“Just trust me. We need wax paper and scissors. And every black marker and pencil you can find.”
Frypan wasn’t too happy having a whole box of his wax paper rolls taken away from him, especially with their supplies being cut off. He argued that it was one of the things he always requested, that he used it for baking. They finally had to tell him what they needed it for to convince him to give it up.
After ten minutes of hunting down pencils and markers—most had been in the Map Room and were destroyed in the fire—Thomas sat around the worktable in the weapons basement with Newt, Minho and Teresa. They hadn’t found any scissors, so Thomas had grabbed the sharpest knife he could find.
“This better be good,” Minho said. Warning laced his voice, but his eyes showed some interest.
Newt leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table, as if waiting for a magic trick. “Get on with it, Greenie.”
“Okay.” Thomas was eager to do so, but was also scared to death it might end up being nothing. He handed the knife to Minho, then pointed at the wax paper. “Start cutting rectangles, about the size of the Maps. Newt and Teresa, you can help me grab the first ten or so Maps from each section box.”
“What is this, kiddie craft time?” Minho held up the knife and looked at it with disgust. “Why don’t you just tell us what the klunk we’re doing this for?”
“I’m done explaining,” Thomas said, knowing they just had to see what he was picturing in his mind. He stood to go rummage through the storage closet. “It’ll be easier to show you. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong, and we can go back to running around the Maze like mice.”
Minho sighed, clearly irritated, then muttered something under his breath. Teresa had stayed quiet for a while, but she spoke up inside Thomas’s head.
I think I know what you’re doing. Brilliant, actually.
Thomas was startled, but he tried his best to cover it up. He knew he had to pretend he didn’t have voices in his head—the others would think he was a lunatic.
Just … come … help … me, he tried to say back, thinking each word separately, trying to visualize the message, send it. But she didn’t respond.
“Teresa,” he said aloud. “Can you help me a second?” He nodded toward the closet.
The two of them went into the dusty little room and opened up all the boxes, grabbing a small stack of Maps from each one. Returning to the table, Thomas found that Minho had cut twenty sheets already, making a messy pile to his right as he threw each new piece on top.
Thomas sat down and grabbed a few. He held one of the papers up to the light, saw how it shone through with a milky glow. It was exactly what he needed.
He grabbed a marker. “All right, everybody trace the last ten or so days onto a piece of this stuff. Make sure you write the info on top so we can keep track of what’s what. When we’re done, I think we might see something.”
“What—” Minho began.
“Just bloody keep cutting,” Newt ordered. “I think I know where he’s going with this.” Thomas was relieved someone was finally getting it.
They got to work, tracing from original Maps to wax paper, one by one, trying to keep it clean and correct while hurrying as fast as possible. Thomas used the side of a stray slab of wood as a makeshift ruler, keeping his lines straight. Soon he’d completed five maps, then five more. The others kept the same pace, working feverishly.
As Thomas drew, he started to feel a tickle of panic, a sick feeling that what they were doing was a complete waste of time. But Teresa, sitting next to him, was a study in concentration, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth as she traced lines up and down, side to side. She seemed way more confident that they were definitely on to something.
Box by box, section by section, they continued on.
“I’ve had enough,” Newt finally announced, breaking the quiet. “My fingers are bloody burning like a mother. See if it’s working.”
Thomas put his marker down, then flexed his fingers, hoping he’d been right about all this. “Okay, give me the last few days of each section—make piles along the table, in order from Section One to Section Eight. One here”—he pointed at an end—”to Eight here.” He pointed at the other end.
Silently, they did as he asked, sorting through what they’d traced until eight low stacks of wax paper lined the table.
Jittery and nervous, Thomas picked up one page from each pile, making sure they were all from the same day, keeping them in order. He then laid them one on top of the other so that each drawing of the Maze matched the same day above it and below it, until he was looking at eight different sections of the Maze at once. What he saw amazed him. Almost magically, like a picture coming into focus, an image developed. Teresa let out a small gasp.
Lines crossed each other, up and down, so much so that what Thomas held in his hands looked like a checkered grid. But certain lines in the middle—lines that happened to appear more often than any other—made a slightly darker image than the rest. It was subtle, but it was, without a doubt, there.
Sitting in the exact center of the page was the letter F.
Thomas felt a rush of different emotions: relief that it had worked, surprise, excitement, wonder at what it could lead to.
“Man,” Minho said, summing up Thomas’s feelings with one word.
“Could be a coincidence,” Teresa said. “Do more, quick.”
Thomas did, putting together the eight pages of each day, in order from Section One to Section Eight. Each time, an obvious letter formed in the center of the crisscrossed mass of lines. After the F was an L, then an O, then an A, and a T. Then C … A … T.
“Look,” Thomas said, pointing down the line of stacks they’d formed, confused, but happy that the letters were so obvious. “It spells FLOAT and then it spells CAT.”
“Float cat?” Newt asked. “Doesn’t sound like a bloody rescue code to me.”
“We just need to keep working,” Thomas said.
Another couple of combinations made them realize that the second word was actually CATCH. FLOAT and CATCH.
“Definitely not a coincidence,” Minho said.
“Definitely not,” Thomas agreed. He couldn’t wait to see more.
Teresa gestured toward the storage closet. “We need to go through all of them—all those boxes in there.”
“Yeah,” Thomas nodded. “Let’s get on it.”
“We can’t help,” Minho said.
All three of them looked at him. He returned their glares. “At least not me and Thomas here. We need to get the Runners out in the Maze.”
“What?” Thomas asked. “This is way more important!”
“Maybe,” Minho answered calmly, “but we can’t miss a day out there. Not now.”
Thomas felt a rush of disappointment. Running the Maze seemed like such a waste of time compared to figuring out the code. “Why, Minho? You said the pattern’s basically been repeating itself for months—one more day won’t mean a thing.”
Minho slammed his hand against the table. “That’s bullcrap, Thomas! Of all days, this might be the most important to get out there. Something might’ve changed, something might’ve opened up. In fact, with the freaking walls not closing anymore, I think we should try your idea—stay out there overnight and do some deeper exploring.”
That piqued Thomas’s interest—he had been wanting to do that. Conflicted, he asked, “But what about this code? What about—”
“Tommy,” Newt said in a consoling voice. “Minho’s right. You shanks go out and get Runnin’. I’ll round up some Gladers we can trust and get workin’ on this.” Newt sounded more like a leader than ever before.
“Me too,” Teresa agreed. “I’ll stay and help Newt.”
Thomas looked at her. “You sure?” He was itching to figure out the code himself, but he decided Minho and Newt were right.
She smiled and folded her arms. “If you’re going to decipher a hidden code from a complex set of different mazes, I’m pretty sure you need a girl’s brain running the show.” Her grin turned into a smirk.
“If you say so.” He folded his own arms, staring at her with a smile, suddenly not wanting to leave again.
“Good that.” Minho nodded and turned to go. “Everything’s fine and dandy. Come on.” He started toward the door, but stopped when he realized Thomas wasn’t behind him.
“Don’t worry, Tommy,” Newt said. “Your girlfriend will be fine.” Thomas felt a million thoughts go through his head in that moment. An itch to learn the code, embarrassment at what Newt thought of him and Teresa, the intrigue of what they might find out in the Maze—and fear.
But he pushed it all aside. Without even saying goodbye, he finally followed Minho and they went up the stairs.
Thomas helped Minho gather the Runners to give them the news and organize them for the big journey. He was surprised at how readily everyone agreed that it was time to do some more in-depth exploring of the Maze and stay out there overnight. Even though he was nervous and scared, he told Minho he could take one of the sections himself, but the Keeper refused. They had eight experienced Runners to do that. Thomas was to go with him—which made Thomas so relieved he was almost ashamed of himself.
He and Minho packed their backpacks with more supplies than usual; there was no telling how long they’d be out there. Despite his fear, Thomas couldn’t help being excited as well—maybe this was the day they’d find an exit.
He and Minho were stretching their legs by the West Door when Chuck walked over to say goodbye.
“I’d go with you,” the boy said in a far too jovial voice, “but I don’t wanna die a gruesome death.”
Thomas laughed, surprising himself. “Thanks for the words of encouragement.”
“Be careful,” Chuck said, his tone quickly melting into genuine concern. “I wish I could help you guys.”
Thomas was touched—he bet that if it really came down to it, Chuck would go out there if he were asked to. “Thanks, Chuck. We’ll definitely be careful.”
Minho grunted. “Being careful hasn’t gotten us squat. It’s all or nothing now, baby.”
“We better get going,” Thomas said. Butterflies swarmed in his gut, and he just wanted to move, to quit thinking about it. After all, going out in the Maze was no worse than staying in the Glade with open Doors. Though the thought didn’t make him feel much better.
“Yeah,” Minho responded evenly. “Let’s go.”
“Well,” Chuck said, looking down at his feet before returning his gaze to Thomas. “Good luck. If your girlfriend gets lonely for you, I’ll give her some lovin’.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “She’s not my girlfriend, shuck-face.”
“Wow,” Chuck said. “You’re already using Alby’s dirty words.” He was obviously trying hard to pretend he wasn’t scared of all the recent developments, but his eyes revealed the truth. “Seriously, good luck.”
“Thanks, that means a lot,” Minho answered with his own eye roll. “See ya, shank.”
“Yeah, see ya,” Chuck muttered, then turned to walk away.
Thomas felt a pang of sadness—it was possible he might never see Chuck or Teresa or any of them again. A sudden urge gripped him. “Don’t forget my promise!” he yelled. “I’ll get you home!”
Chuck turned and gave him a thumbs-up; his eyes glimmered with tears.
Thomas flipped up double thumbs; then he and Minho pulled on their backpacks and entered the Maze.
Thomas and Minho didn’t stop until they were halfway to the last dead end of Section Eight. They made good time—Thomas was glad for his wristwatch, with the skies being gray—because it quickly became obvious that the walls hadn’t moved from the day before. Everything was exactly the same. There was no need for Mapmaking or taking notes; their only task was to get to the end and start making their way back, searching for things previously unnoticed—anything. Minho allowed a twenty-minute break and then they were back at it.
They were silent as they ran. Minho had taught Thomas that speaking only wasted energy, so he concentrated on his pace and his breaths. Regular. Even. In, out. In, out. Deeper and deeper into the Maze they went, with only their thoughts and the sounds of their feet thumping against the hard stone floor.
In the third hour, Teresa surprised him, speaking in his mind from back in the Glade.
We’re making progress—found a couple more words already. But none of it makes sense yet.
Thomas’s first instinct was to ignore her, to deny once again that someone had the ability to enter his mind, invade his privacy. But he wanted to talk to her.
Can you hear me? he asked, picturing the words in his mind, mentally throwing them out to her in some way he could never have explained. Concentrating, he said it again. Can you hear me?
Yes! she replied. Really clearly the second time you said it.
Thomas was shocked. So shocked he almost quit running. It had worked!
Wonder why we can do this, he called out with his mind. The mental effort of speaking to her was already straining—he felt a headache forming like a bulge in his brain.
Maybe we were lovers, Teresa said.
Thomas tripped and crashed to the ground. Smiling sheepishly at Minho, who’d turned to look without slowing, Thomas got back up and caught up to him. What? he finally asked.
He sensed a laugh from her, a watery image full of color. This is so bizarre, she said. It’s like you’re a stranger, but I know you’re not.
Thomas felt a pleasant chill even though he was sweating. Sorry to break it to you, but we are strangers. I just met you, remember?
Don’t be stupid, Tom. I think someone altered our brains, put something in there so we could do this telepathy thing. Before we came here. Which makes me think we already knew each other.
It was something he’d wondered about, and he thought she was probably right. Hoped it, anyway—he was really starting to like her. Brains altered? he asked. How?
I don’t know—some memory I can’t quite grasp. I think we did something big.
Thomas thought about how he’d always felt a connection to her, ever since she arrived in the Glade. He wanted to dig a little more and see what she said. What are you talking about?
Wish I knew. I’m just trying to bounce ideas off you to see if it sparks anything in your mind.
Thomas thought about what Gally, Ben and Alby had said about him—their suspicions that he was against them somehow, was someone not to trust. He thought about what Teresa had said to him, too, the very first time—that he and she had somehow done all of this to them.
This code has to mean something, she added. And the thing I wrote on my arm—WICKED is good.
Maybe it won’t matter, he answered. Maybe we’ll find an exit. You never know.
Thomas squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds as he ran, trying to concentrate. A pocket of air seemed to float in his chest every time they spoke, a swelling that half annoyed and half thrilled him. His eyes popped back open when he realized she could maybe read his thoughts even when he wasn’t trying to communicate. He waited for a response, but none came.
You still there? he asked.
Yeah, but this always gives me a headache.
Thomas was relieved to hear he wasn’t the only one. My head hurts, too.
Okay, she said. See you later.
No, wait! He didn’t want her to leave; she was helping the time pass. Making the running easier somehow.
Bye, Tom. I’ll let you know if we figure anything out.
Teresa—what about the thing you wrote on your arm?
Several seconds passed. No reply.
Teresa?
She was gone. Thomas felt as if that bubble of air in his chest had burst, releasing toxins into his body. His stomach hurt, and the thought of running the rest of the day suddenly depressed him.
In some ways, he wanted to tell Minho about how he and Teresa could talk, to share what was happening before it made his brain explode. But he didn’t dare. Throwing telepathy into the whole situation didn’t seem like the grandest of ideas. Everything was weird enough already.
Thomas put his head down and drew in a long, deep breath. He would just keep his mouth shut and run.
Two breaks later, Minho finally slowed to a walk as they headed down a long corridor that ended in a wall. He stopped and took a seat against the dead end. The ivy was especially thick there; it made the world seem green and lush, hiding the hard, impenetrable stone.
Thomas joined him on the ground and they attacked their modest lunch of sandwiches and sliced fruit.
“This is it,” Minho said after his second bite. “We’ve already run through the whole section. Surprise, surprise—no exits.”
Thomas already knew this, but hearing it made his heart sink even lower. Without another word—from himself or Minho—he finished his food and readied himself to explore. To look for who-knew-what.
For the next few hours, he and Minho scoured the ground, felt along the walls, climbed up the ivy in random spots. They found nothing, and Thomas grew more and more discouraged. The only thing interesting was another one of those odd signs that read World In Catastrophe—Killzone Experiment Department. Minho didn’t even give it a second glance.
They had another meal, searched some more. They found nothing, and Thomas was beginning to get ready to accept the inevitable—that there was nothing to find. When wall-closing time rolled around, he started looking for signs of Grievers, was struck by an icy hesitation at every corner. He and Minho always had knives clasped firmly in both hands. But nothing showed up until almost midnight.
Minho spotted a Griever disappearing around a corner ahead of them; and it didn’t come back. Thirty minutes later, Thomas saw one do the exact same thing. An hour after that, a Griever came charging through the Maze right past them, not even pausing. Thomas almost collapsed from the sudden rush of terror.
He and Minho continued on.
“I think they’re playing with us,” Minho said a while later.
Thomas realized he’d given up on searching the walls and was just heading back toward the Glade in a depressed walk. From the looks of it, Minho felt the same way.
“What do you mean?” Thomas asked.
The Keeper sighed. “I think the Creators want us to know there’s no way out. The walls aren’t even moving anymore—it’s like this has all just been some stupid game and it’s time to end. And they want us to go back and tell the other Gladers. How much you wanna bet when we get back we find out a Griever took one of them just like last night? I think Gally was right—they’re gonna just keep killing us.”
Thomas didn’t respond—felt the truth of what Minho said. Any hope he’d felt earlier when they’d set out had crashed a long time ago.
“Let’s just go home,” Minho said, his voice weary.
Thomas hated to admit defeat, but he nodded in agreement. The code seemed like their only hope now, and he resolved to focus on that.
He and Minho made their way silently back to the Glade. They didn’t see another Griever the whole way.
By Thomas’s watch, it was midmorning when he and Minho stepped through the West Door back into the Glade. Thomas was so tired he wanted to lie down right there and take a nap. They’d been in the Maze for roughly twenty-four hours.
Surprisingly, despite the dead light and everything falling apart, the day in the Glade appeared to be proceeding business as usual—farming, gardening, cleaning. It didn’t take long for some of the boys to notice them standing there. Newt was notified and he came running.
“You’re the first to come back,” he said as he walked up to them. “What happened?” The childlike look of hope on his face broke Thomas’s heart—he obviously thought they’d found something important. “Tell me you’ve got good news.”
Minho’s eyes were dead, staring at a spot somewhere in the gray distance. “Nothing,” he said. “The Maze is a big freaking joke.”
Newt looked at Thomas, confused. “What’s he talking about?”
“He’s just discouraged,” Thomas said with a weary shrug. “We didn’t find anything different. The walls haven’t moved, no exits, nothing. Did the Grievers come last night?”
Newt paused, darkness passing over his face. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah. They took Adam.”
Thomas didn’t know the name, and felt guilty for feeling nothing. Just one person again, he thought. Maybe Gally was right.
Newt was about to say something else when Minho freaked out, startling Thomas.
“I’m sick of this!” Minho spat in the ivy, veins popping out of his neck. “I’m sick of it! It’s over! It’s all over!” He took off his backpack and threw it on the ground. “There’s no exit, never was, never will be. We’re all shucked.”
Thomas watched, his throat dry, as Minho stomped off toward the Homestead. It worried him—if Minho gave up, they were all in big trouble.
Newt didn’t say a word. He left Thomas standing there, now in his own daze. Despair hung in the air like the smoke from the Map Room, thick and acrid.
The other Runners returned within the hour, and from what Thomas heard, none of them had found anything and they’d eventually given up as well. Glum faces were everywhere throughout the Glade, and most of the workers had abandoned their daily jobs.
Thomas knew that the code of the Maze was their only hope now. It had to reveal something. It had to. And after aimlessly wandering the Glade to hear the other Runners’ stories, he snapped out of his funk.
Teresa? he said in his mind, closing his eyes, as if that would do the trick. Where are you? Did you figure anything out?
After a long pause, he almost gave up, thinking it didn’t work.
Huh? Tom, did you say something?
Yeah, he said, excited he’d made contact again. Can you hear me? Am I doing this thing right?
Sometimes it’s choppy, but it’s working. Kinda freaky, huh?
Thomas thought about that—actually, he was sort of getting used to it. It’s not so bad. Are you guys still in the basement? I saw Newt but then he disappeared again.
Still here. Newt had three or four Gladers help us trace the Maps. I think we have the code all figured out.
Thomas’s heart leaped into his throat. Serious?
Get down here.
I’m coming. He was already moving as he said it, somehow not feeling so exhausted anymore.
Newt let him in.
“Minho still hasn’t shown up,” he said as they walked down the stairs to the basement. “Sometimes he turns into a buggin’ hothead.”
Thomas was surprised Minho was wasting time sulking, especially with the code possibilities. He pushed the thought aside as he entered the room. Several Gladers he didn’t know were gathered around the table, standing; they all looked exhausted, their eyes sunken. Piles of Maps lay scattered all over the place, including the floor. It looked as if a tornado had touched down right in the middle of the room.
Teresa was leaning against a stack of shelves, reading a single sheet of paper. She glanced up when he entered, but then returned her gaze to whatever it was she held. This saddened him a little—he’d hoped she’d be happy to see him—but then he felt really stupid for even having the thought. She was obviously busy figuring out the code.
You have to see this, Teresa said to him just as Newt dismissed his helpers—they clomped up the wooden stairs, a couple of them grumbling about doing all that work for nothing.
Thomas started, for a brief moment worried that Newt could tell what was going on. Don’t talk in my head while Newt’s around. I don’t want him knowing about our … gift.
“Come check this out,” she said aloud, barely hiding the smirk that flashed across her face.
“I’ll get down on my knees and kiss your bloody feet if you can figure it out,” Newt said.
Thomas walked over to Teresa, eager to see what they’d come up with. She held out the paper, eyebrows raised.
“No doubt this is right,” she said. “Just don’t have a clue what it means.”
Thomas took the paper and scanned it quickly. There were numbered circles running down the left side, one to six. Next to each one was a word written in big blocky letters.
FLOAT
CATCH
BLEED
DEATH
STIFF
PUSH
That was it. Six words.
Disappointment washed over Thomas—he’d been sure the purpose of the code would be obvious once they had it figured out. He looked up at Teresa with a sunken heart. “That’s all? Are you sure they’re in the right order?”
She took the paper back from him. “The Maze has been repeating those words for months—we finally quit when that became clear. Each time, after the word PUSH, it goes a full week without showing any letter at all, and then it starts over again with FLOAT. So we figured that’s the first word, and that’s the order.”
Thomas folded his arms and leaned against the shelves next to Teresa. Without thinking about it, he’d memorized the six words, welded them to his mind. Float. Catch. Bleed. Death. Stiff. Push. That didn’t sound good.
“Cheerful, don’t ya think?” Newt said, mirroring his thoughts exactly.
“Yeah,” Thomas replied with a frustrated groan. “We need to get Minho down here—maybe he knows something we don’t. If we just had more clues—” He froze, hit by a dizzy spell; he would’ve fallen to the floor if he hadn’t had the shelves to lean on. An idea had just occurred to him. A horrible, terrible, awful idea. The worst idea in the history of horrible, terrible, awful ideas.
But instinct told him he was right. That it was something he had to do.
“Tommy?” Newt asked, stepping closer with a look of concern creasing his forehead. “What’s wrong with you? Your face just went white as a ghost.”
Thomas shook his head, composing himself. “Oh … nothing, sorry. My eyes are hurting—I think I need some sleep.” He rubbed his temples for effect.
Are you okay? Teresa asked in his mind. He looked to see that she was as worried as Newt, which made him feel good.
Yeah. Seriously, I’m tired. I just need some rest.
“Well,” Newt said, reaching out to squeeze Thomas’s shoulder. “You spent all bloody night out in the Maze—go take a nap.”
Thomas looked at Teresa, then at Newt. He wanted to share his idea, but decided against it. Instead, he just nodded and headed for the stairs.
All the same, Thomas now had a plan. As bad as it was, he had a plan.
They needed more clues about the code. They needed memories.
So he was going to get stung by a Griever. Go through the Changing. On purpose.