Archive of Our Own

Newt woke up to see Minho entering the room, closing the door quietly. He turned and saw Newt looking at him.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he said, sounding surprised. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was, until about a second ago.” Newt said, sitting up carefully. His bruised ribs were still tender. “Did you just get in from running, then?”

“Yes,” Minho answered. “Alby said you woke up today, and I wanted to see you. You know,” Minho said, looking at the floor and scuffing his shoe against it, “we were pretty worried about you for a few days. The Med-Jacks weren’t sure you would make it.”

Newt steeled himself to have almost the same conversation he’d had earlier with Alby over again with Minho. “Yeah, Alby told me I was out for three days. I’m sorry.”

Minho looked up sharply. “What are you apologising for?”

Newt blinked. “For making you worry? For being an inconvenience to everyone? For… you know.”

Minho crossed the room, coming to stand right next to Newt’s bed. He held Newt’s gaze, his look intense. “Newt, listen to me. You don’t have to apologise for that. First of all, you’re not an inconvenience. Ever. Second, we were worried about you because we care about you. I’m not telling you that to make you feel guilty, I’m telling you because I’m your friend and I care about you and I was worried about you.”

Newt nodded, swallowing around the lump burning in his throat. He looked down at his blanket. Tears were already slipping down his face; it seemed he wasn’t finished crying yet today. Everything felt so close to the surface, he couldn’t have held it in if he tried. He still felt rubbed raw and brittle from his conversation with Alby earlier.

Minho grabbed the chair Alby had sat in a few hours ago, pulling it up beside the bed so he could sit right next to Newt. He reached for Newt’s hand, but halfway there he pulled back suddenly, putting his hands in his lap, so Newt reached his hand across the space between them and grasped one of Minho’s, squeezing gently. Minho smiled sadly and shifted his hand so he was holding Newt’s fingers.

“I mean it, Newt,” Minho said softly. “You don’t ever have to apologise for what happened. I know it wasn’t really your fault.”

Newt sniffed and wiped his face with his free hand, smiling wryly at Minho. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked, forcing a laugh. “And Alby was so angry I thought he was going to yell at me all over again. If anything, I would’ve thought it would be the other way around.”

“Nah, he’s not so angry anymore,” Minho said bracingly. “That was mostly when he first found you. And even then, I think he was more scared than angry.”

“He seemed angry,” Newt said, looking down again. “I know he was trying not to show it, but it felt like he was angry.”

He felt Minho squeeze his fingers once. “Alby… he’s trying. He was really scared of losing you. And he wants to be there for you. He cares about you too.”

They sat for a moment in silence, and then Minho spoke again. “Hey Newt?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you… will you tell me?” Minho asked, faltering. “If… you start thinking about doing something, something to hurt yourself, again? I just,” he exhaled heavily. “I want to be able to help you, before it gets bad again, if it does get bad again.” His eyes peered into Newt’s. “Will you tell me?”

Newt held his gaze for several seconds before answering. “Yes,” he said solemnly. “I’ll tell you.” Apparently today was his day for making promises he didn’t want to keep.

“Ok,” Minho said, exhaling again, and Newt could see the relief in his eyes. He squeezed Newt’s fingers once more as he sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, letting exhaustion overtake him. Newt watched him briefly before closing his own eyes once again. Even a few minutes of conversation seemed to drain him now. He drifted back to sleep, his hand still in Minho’s.

…

Jeff bent over Newt’s broken leg, deftly moving the cast-bound limb, lifting and poking and prodding, checking Newt’s very limited motion, assessing his pain level.

“How’s it looking, doc?” Newt asked, trying to cover his anxiety with humour. “Will I ever walk again?”

Jeff glanced up at him, and Newt had a feeling he could see through Newt more than he would like, but if so, he didn’t let on. “Well, I don’t think you’ll be winning any foot races, but you should be able to walk unaided eventually, yes.”

The smile dropped from Newt’s face and he swallowed. “Eventually? How long is that, exactly?”

Jeff blew air out between his lips. “I’d say four months, at least,” he said, tilting his head in consideration.

“At least?” Newt asked, his stomach dropping like a stone.

“Listen, we did our best, but we don’t have x-rays or scans or anything here,” Jeff sighed. “We were flying completely blind, so we don’t even know the full extent of the damage. We know you broke both your tibia and fibula, and probably fractured several ankle bones. And that’s not even starting on the ligament damage probably done in your ankle and knee. You bunged your knee up pretty good, dude. Out in the real world, you would almost definitely have needed surgery, but unfortunately for you, the Creators are determined to keep us in the shuckin’ stone age.”

With every word Jeff said, Newt felt his heart sinking further and further. “But you did say you think I’ll be able to walk again, right? Unaided?” he asked, a tinge of desperation invading his voice.

Jeff met his eyes, and Newt thought he saw a hint of pity there. “I don’t think your leg will ever fully go back to normal. And things like running and climbing will always be a little dicey. I’m sorry, Newt. But yeah, you should be able to walk. Eventually.”

Newt smiled at him, forcing a cheerfulness he didn’t feel. “Well, that’s better than nothing, I suppose.” Jeff’s eyes cleared somewhat, and Newt continued. “I should probably count myself lucky to be walking at all, with all these injuries.”

“What I can’t figure out is how the Griever managed to give you this specific combination of injuries,” Jeff said, frowning thoughtfully. “And how the hell did you get away, especially on that shucked leg?”

Newt’s heart pounded. “Adrenaline, I guess,” he said, trying to sound unconcerned. He saw Jeff watching him closely, and his eyes dropped. When he looked up again, Jeff was still looking at him, but his expression had turned casual.

“Yeah, that must’ve been it,” he agreed. “Anyway, I got one of the Builders to make you these.” He walked over to the wooden objects he had been carrying when he entered the room and picked them up, bringing them over to Newt. Newt had noticed them when he came in, but he hadn’t known what they were for, and was too preoccupied with worrying over what Jeff would say to ask about them. “They’re crutches. So you can at least get around for now.”

Newt felt a stirring of relief. Finally, he would be able to get out of this stupid bed and actually do something useful.

Jeff helped him out of the bed and made sure he knew how to use the crutches, and then Newt was hobbling around the room almost as fast as he could have walked normally. Jeff showed him how to go up and down stairs (crutches first, then legs), and then he was free, finally able to leave the Homestead and go outside.

“Do you know what job you’ll do, now that you can work again?” Jeff asked him.

“No one’s told me anything for certain,” Newt said. “But I thought maybe I could join the Gardeners or the Track-hoes. I always kind of enjoyed working in the Gardens, you know, back before everyone had assigned jobs, when everyone did everything.”

“That must’ve been before I got here,” Jeff said. “But the Gardens would be a good option; there’s plenty of things you can do there sitting down. Since you are still supposed to taking it pretty easy,” he added, eyeing Newt’s cast pointedly.

“I thought that’s what these were for,” Newt protested, lifting one of his crutches and waving it vaguely towards Jeff. “So I don’t have to be sat down all the time.”

“Yeah, you should probably still sit as much as possible. And I’m not officially clearing you for work until tomorrow, I’m only giving you these today so you can go to the Bonfire tonight.”

Newt groaned.

“Hey, do you want it to heal correctly or not?” Jeff said, putting his hands up as if in surrender. “Speaking of which, I want you to meet with me about every four weeks so I can check in on how you’re healing.”

Newt grumbled, but agreed. It seemed he wouldn’t be allowed to be very useful just yet. He resigned himself to the prospect of weeks of menial tasks, yearning for his leg to heal faster so he could actually contribute something of worth. He could already feel himself itching with impatience, with the desire to do more.

At least before, running the Maze, he’d been doing something semi-important. But he had put an end to that…

Newt shivered and pushed the thought away. He didn’t miss being a Runner. If he never had to go back in the Maze again, it would be too soon. He would find a way to be useful here too, even if he had to beat Jeff off with one of his crutches while he did it.

You can do it, he told himself fiercely. He just needed a little more time to heal, and then everything would be better.

Everything will be better.

...

Newt sat with Minho at the Bonfire, both of them leaning up against a log, his crutches stacked carefully next to him. They had been sitting in silence for quite a while, when Minho spoke.

“I think Alby is going to quit on me soon,” he said, sounding gloomy. “I think he’s just waiting until we have enough reserves for someone to replace him.” He glanced sideways at Newt. “We had another tryout after… well, after it was obvious you wouldn’t be able to run again. And we actually had a good turnout; Taz, Lee and Drew all made a decent showing.”

“Drew?” Newt frowned, thinking. “He’s only been here two months, are you sure he’s ready?”

“Well, he’ll only be a reserve,” Minho said. “And I haven’t actually started training him yet, I’m focusing on Taz and Lee for now. But I want to start training him soon, just in case. Especially if Alby’s jumping ship.”

“Alby did tell me a while ago that he wanted to quit running,” Newt admitted.

Minho heaved a sigh. “And Garrett’s been saying he wants to go back to being a reserve since before Alan died, but I had to keep putting it off because we didn’t have enough people. But at least with Taz and Lee I can replace both of them, and with Garrett and Drew I’ll have two reserves. And I guess if worse comes to worse I can always try to convince Alby to come back.”

“Two reserves is pretty good for what you normally have,” Newt pointed out. “It’s been a while since you’ve been able to keep that far ahead of it.”

“True,” Minho said. “Hopefully we’ve finally stopped dying and getting Stung or injured.” He glanced at Newt again. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean - ”

“Come on, Minho,” Newt laughed grimly. “You’re the only one who doesn’t walk on eggshells around me, don’t you start now too.”

Minho laughed too. “Well in that case,” he said, leaning into Newt and nudging him with his elbow. “I sure hope you’re the last injured Runner for a while.”

“Me too,” Newt said sincerely.

“I feel like all I ever talk about is Runner issues,” Minho said after a brief pause. “We don’t have to talk about this anymore.”

“Nah, it’s ok,” Newt said, leaning into Minho now. “It’s important to you, and if it’s important to you then I want to hear about it.”

Minho’s mouth turned up slightly. “We can talk about things that are important to you, too,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Like what?” Newt asked, laughing.

Minho shrugged. “Whatever you want,” he said.

They sat in silence for a beat. “Is it just me or are the Greenies getting younger and younger?” Newt said suddenly. He was watching the new Greenie, Dave, who had arrived only five days ago, when Newt was still bedridden. Dave looked around nervously at the boys near him, jumping at small noises and practically twitching with fear. He looked like he couldn’t be more than fourteen years old. So young. Too young to be here.

“He’s not that much younger than us,” Minho said. “And he’s only a little younger than the age we were when we woke up here. Well, the age we probably were, since we don’t actually know for sure how old we are.” Minho grimaced.

“I guess so,” Newt said, frowning. “Still, it doesn’t seem fair. He’s just a kid.”

“I know,” Minho sighed. After a moment, he smiled sadly at Newt. “Shuck, we’re in a great mood for a party, aren’t we?”

Newt exhaled a single syllable of a laugh. “I’m not much in the mood to celebrate, no,” he said. “It feels like a strange thing to celebrate, anyway. Being stuck here for an entire year.”

“I think they were thinking more along the lines of, we survived for an entire year,” Minho said, his mouth twisting wryly. “But I have to agree with you, it gives me mixed feelings.”

“Did you ever think we would be here this long?” Newt asked softly, looking at the bonfire instead of at Minho. “Because I didn’t.”

“As in, you thought we would’ve escaped by now, or you thought we’d all be dead by now?”

“I’m not sure,” Newt said truthfully. Tears began to well up in his eyes, and he tried to blink them away. “I still can’t believe it’s been a year since we woke up here. It feels like it’s been so much longer.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Minho answered. Newt could see him out of the corner of his eye, looking at him carefully.

A tear slipped down his cheek. “We’re not supposed to be here, Minho,” he whispered. “You know that too, don’t you? We’re not supposed to be here.” I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t belong here. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he continued. “We were going to get out, we were going to escape in no time. This wasn’t supposed to be permanent.” He wiped hastily under one eye, then the other. “This isn’t… this can’t be our place. There must be somewhere else for us. But it’s not here, I feel that so strongly, don’t you feel it too?”

“Yes,” Minho agreed softly, nodding his head. He reached a hand out to cover Newt’s, his fingers squeezing lightly, his touch comforting. “I do feel it. We’re supposed to escape. And we will.”

“I used to believe that,” Newt said, still staring at the bonfire. “Now I’m not so sure.”

Minho didn’t say anything in response, but he shifted closer to Newt and continued to hold his hand, and for a long time they sat like that: together, not speaking, watching the flicker of the bonfire and listening to the noise of the other boys’ revelry.

...

The next morning, Newt reported to the Gardens bright and early. Zart and Alex met him as he swung forward on his crutches, lurching to an unsteady halt. “Nick told you I’ll be joining you from now on?” he asked.

“Yeah, he told us last night,” Alex said.

“So, where should I go? What would you like me doing?”

Zart and Alex shared a glance, something unspoken passing between them. Newt wasn’t sure why, but it irritated him.

“What?” he demanded.

“We’re just not sure what you’re allowed to do, with your leg, that’s all,” Zart answered. “Didn’t the Med-jacks tell you to take it easy for a while?”

“I can worry about myself, thanks,” Newt said shortly.

“Hey, he didn’t mean anything by it,” Alex interjected. “We’re just worried about you. We want to make sure we don’t push you too far and aggravate your injury.”

Newt felt a surge of anger. “I told you, you don’t need to worry about me, I can take care of myself. I’m sorry you got saddled with the shuck cripple, but this is the way it is, so just tell me what I can do to actually help out, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Newt, come on,” Alex protested, frowning. “You know we didn’t mean it like that.”

“You think I don’t know what you two are thinking? What everyone is thinking about me?” Newt’s voice was rising, and he knew he was being unfair, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. A small voice in the back of his mind urged him to stop before he went to far, but with the anger pumping through his veins it was all too easy to push the voice aside and keep going. “I know everyone was hoping they wouldn’t get stuck with me, that you all think I’m worse than a Greenie because at least a Greenie can shucking walk and do simple tasks, but guess what, you drew the bloody short straw, here I am, so just please for the love of fuck give me something to do.”

“Newt,” Zart said in his soft, gentle voice. “No one is thinking that.”

Suddenly Newt didn’t feel angry anymore; he just felt tired. He exhaled, feeling his shoulders slump in defeat. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “It’s just, I’ve been a Runner for a really long time, and this is going to be a big adjustment for me. But I shouldn’t be taking it out on you, and I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine, Newt,” Zart told him, looking relieved. “Besides, it’s not like it’s your fault you were injured. We know you couldn’t help it.”

Newt’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, but he forced a small smile and the tiniest of nods.

That first day, they set him to sitting-only tasks, shelling peas and shucking corn. By the end of the day, Newt thought if he had to sit there and remove the outer covering of one more vegetable he might die of boredom. Too bad dying of boredom isn’t a real thing. That’d be you sorted.

The next day they had him pulling weeds, which could also be done sitting down, although he had to move himself along from patch of weeds to patch of weeds by dragging himself backwards with his arms and pushing with his one good leg, which wasn’t the most dignified way to get around. He liked this task better, if only because he got to have more direct contact with earth, which he found unexpectedly calming; but still, it wasn’t exactly stimulating work, and he wished for a more meaningful way to contribute.

On his third day working in the Gardens, he limped up to find Alex waiting for him. “I have something important for you to do today,” Alex told him, a grim look on his face. “Remember how we couldn’t figure out why the cabbages and turnips were growing so poorly? Well, we found the problem: aphids.” Alex already sounded exhausted and like he wished he could be done with the whole situation. “And since we didn’t spot them until now, they’ve completely infested all our cabbages and turnips, there’s about a million of them, so we need as many people as possible picking them off.”

“As many people as possible? So that’s who, me, you and Zart?” Newt asked. “I didn’t realise we were overflowing with helpers.”

“Since it’s an emergency, we’re pulling the Greenie, Dave, and Jeff and Clint for as long as we can get them,” Alex answered, sounding somber. “Luckily I don’t think anyone’s been injured recently, so they should be free, but we’d better keep our fingers crossed.”

“Well that’s a start,” Newt said. “Alright, show me the little vermin I’m supposed to be exterminating.”

They started with the turnips. Alex showed him how to pick the aphids off a few at a time and dump them in a bucket. “They don’t reattach once they’ve been pulled off,” Alex explained, “so this isn’t really necessary, but I like to collect them all in one place because I’m paranoid like that.”

Newt wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh at that or not, so he settled for pressing a small smile to his face, and then carefully lowered himself to the ground to get started.

They worked for hours, but it felt like they had hardly made a dent, even once they were joined by Clint, Jeff and Dave.

“There must be a better way to do this,” Newt muttered. “Isn’t there anything we could use to kill them without having to pick them off one by one?”

“We’ve tried asking for pesticides and stuff like that before,” Zart answered. “But apparently the Creators don’t trust us with poisonous chemicals. Either that, or they just really get a kick out of watching us pick them off by hand.”

Newt worked in silence for another minute, thinking. “It seems so random sometimes, the things they give us and don’t give us,” he remarked. “Obviously they want us to survive, or they wouldn’t have set us up with the farm and the animals. But it’s almost like they want us to work certain things out on our own. Maybe…” he paused, frowning. “Maybe there’s a way to get rid of them all at once, but we have to figure it out for ourselves.”

“Like what?” Alex asked. “Got any brilliant ideas?”

Newt didn’t answer, but continued to turn the problem over in his mind as they worked. He couldn’t get it out of his head; he wasn’t sure where the idea came from, but he had the distinct feeling this was another thing the Creators had done on purpose to test them. Which meant there had to be a solution, unless all of the tests they were set in here were as unsolvable as the Maze.

...

“Hey,” Newt greeted Minho as they sat down to eat dinner. Newt was getting more comfortable with his crutches, and he only fumbled a little as he lowered himself into the chair and leaned the crutches carefully against the table. “How was it?” He didn’t bother asking if Minho had found anything different; he knew Minho would have told him first thing if he had, and he didn’t want to put Minho in the position of having to admit the day had been a waste, their efforts fruitless once again.

“Oh, you know,” Minho shrugged, then winced and rubbed his shoulder. Newt zeroed in on his stiff movements, the careful way Minho was holding himself, not quite as relaxed as usual, but he decided not to say anything, at least for now. “Same old, same old. How about you? How do you like gardening?”

“It’s a bit boring,” Newt admitted. “We spent all day today picking tiny insects off the cabbages one by one, so not exactly thrilling work. But I won’t lie, I don’t miss the Maze.”

Minho nodded. For a while they simply sat there chewing, Minho exhausted from running the Maze and Newt enjoying his silent company. When they were about half finished with their food, Minho spoke again.

“So tell me more about these tiny insects,” he said, smiling. “Why are they bad exactly?”

“They’re called aphids,” Newt said, smiling back. “And they’d be pretty interesting actually, if they weren’t ruining the cabbages and turnips. There are different kinds, but I think these are the kind that reproduce asexually and don’t lay eggs, so the mother just gives live birth to a bunch of clones.”

“I think you and I have different ideas of what’s interesting, but sure,” Minho said, laughing. “So what’s the deal, do they eat the leaves or something?”

“No, they drink the plant sap, so the plants can’t grow properly, and if there are too many aphids, they shrivel and die.” Newt noticed Minho rubbing his shoulder again. “What’s wrong with your shoulder?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice level. “Did you hurt yourself in the Maze?”

“What, this?” Minho said. “Nah, I think I must’ve slept on it funny, I just woke up and it was really sore. It’s been bothering me all day. Wait, where are you going?” he asked as Newt was lurching unsteadily out of his chair, balancing on his good leg.

“Just sit still,” Newt told him, moving in short hops around behind Minho’s chair, dragging his cast behind him.

When he felt Newt’s hands on his shoulders, Minho tried to turn and get out of his chair. “You don’t have to do that,” he protested. “Shouldn’t you be sitting down anyway?”

Newt dug his fingers into the space between Minho’s shoulder blades and spine. “I’ve been sitting all bloody day,” he said firmly. “And you’ve been running all day. So just let me do this for you, okay?”

Minho sighed heavily but settled back into his chair, allowing Newt to continue. “How the shuck do you know all that about aphids, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Newt admitted. “It’s just there, in my head. I wouldn’t have known that I knew it until you asked about them. I mean, you know how it is. You must have things like that.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have a working knowledge of insect reproduction just hanging out in my head.”

“Maybe you do,” Newt joked, “and you just haven’t realised it yet because no one’s asked you about them.”

Minho shook his head, and even though he was facing away, Newt thought he could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m pretty sure that’s just you, dude.” Newt continued kneading the muscles all around Minho’s shoulders and upper back, and he could feel Minho relaxing bit by bit. After a few minutes, Minho asked, “So do you know anything else about aphids? Any random trivia, like maybe how to get rid of them?”

“I don’t think so,” Newt answered, twisting his mouth in frustration. “Without pesticides, I think picking them off one by one is the only…” he trailed off, looking at something across the room.

“What?” Minho said.

Newt didn’t answer; he was too busy looking at the bottle of vegetable oil sitting on the counter with some of Frypan’s other cooking supplies. All at once it was as though something clicked in his brain.

“What are you looking at?” Minho had twisted around in his chair to see Newt staring across the room, and tried to follow his gaze.

“I think…” Newt said, still trying to hold on to the half-formed thought flitting around the back of his mind evasively. “I think I might remember how to make a homemade pesticide.”

“What? How? That’s good, right?”

Newt tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “I’m not sure, though. But I think I need…”

“What? What do you need?” Minho demanded, rising out of his chair.

“I need that bottle of vegetable oil,” Newt pointed. “And I need some soap, and some water.”

...

“Are you sure this won’t hurt the plants?” Zart asked.

“Reasonably sure,” Newt answered. “I’m about 98% certain.”

“Well that’s… reassuring?” Alex said, rolling his eyes.

“98% is a really good number,” Minho snapped. “It’s basically as good as 100%.”

“I’d feel better about it if it was 100%,” Alex grumbled.

“Okay, what if I said I was 99.9% certain?” Newt asked, pressing his lips together to suppress the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Fine, whatever,” Alex said, throwing his hands up. “Just try it, and let’s hope it doesn’t make everything worse.”

“It would be hard to make it worse, the aphids are already out of control, because someone didn’t do their job and spot them before there were too many to take care of without pesticides,” Minho shot at Alex.

“Minho, come on,” Newt said, flashing Minho a look that said quite clearly, leave it. Luckily, Alex didn’t rise to the bait, and Zart motioned for Newt to get started.

Newt raised the spray bottle he had stolen from Frypan’s kitchen, filled with his concoction of vegetable oil, soap and water, and shook it thoroughly, then started spraying the nearest plant, paying special attention to the undersides of the leaves, where the aphids liked to hide.

“How will we know if it’s working?” Alex asked when Newt had sprayed a whole row of cabbages.

“Well, I’m no pesticide expert, but I assume if it works, there won’t be aphids on the plants anymore,” Minho answered, earning him a smack on the arm from Newt.

“Oh thanks, I had no idea,” Alex said sarcastically. “I meant, how long does it take to work, and even if it does kill them, do we know if it will keep more from coming, and if so then for how long? Maybe it will kill this bunch, but by tomorrow morning there will be more.”

“It works by suffocating them,” Newt said. “So I don’t think it should take too long to work? And it should protect the plant until it dries up. So we might want to spray them again in the morning.”

Newt continued until he had sprayed about half the cabbages, and then they decided to leave it and check again in the morning to see if the homemade pesticide had worked and to make sure it hadn’t harmed the plants.

The next morning, Newt waited anxiously as Alex and Zart checked under the leaves of all the plants he had sprayed with the homemade pesticide the night before.

“It looks like it worked,” Zart said. Newt was grateful that he only sounded mildly surprised. “There’s almost no aphids on the plants that got sprayed. There’s still a few, but we can easily pick them off. Let’s go ahead and spray the rest of the cabbages and the turnips. And while we’re at it, we should check all the other plants regularly, so if we get another infestation we can catch it before it gets out of control.”

Newt hobbled off to the kitchen to get more supplies to make another batch of the homemade pesticide. He felt a warm, happy feeling of satisfaction that he had actually been able to do something useful, contribute in a way that no one else had been able to. It wasn’t the most important contribution; aphids in the cabbages and turnips wasn’t a life-or-death situation, but it still felt good to have seen a problem and come up with a solution. See? Things are already getting better. Everything will be better.

Everything will be better.

...

Later in the day, they held the meeting to determine Dave’s permanent job. Everyone who was still in the Glade during the day attended, even though the Keepers did the majority of the talking.

“We’d be happy to have him as a Builder, but I think we’re actually doing the best for workers at the moment,” Gally was saying. “So just to be fair, I think he should go to the Slicers or the Track-hoes.”

“To be honest, what with Taz and Lee becoming Runners recently, we could really use some extra help,” Winston said.

“Hang on,” Alex butted in. “You still have Carl and Jackson, if anyone’s getting the Greenie just because they need the help, it should be us.”

“You have three, we have three,” Winston countered. “We should at least discuss having him on a split schedule.”

“We really need Dave, though,” Alex insisted. “We’ve lost a lot of workers to the Runners too, which is fine, obviously that has to be the first priority, but we’re about to have the wheat harvest, and no offense to Newt, but he can’t even walk without crutches, so that only leaves me and Zart, except on the rare occasion we can pull Clint and Jeff away from Med-jack duties. We’re gonna need more people, or we’re not gonna be able to harvest enough to have food for everyone. I know the Runners are important, but they’re not the only job that matters. We have to have food, which means we need more help in the Gardens.”

Newt thought Frypan looked like he wanted to say something; he was shifting in his seat, opening and closing his mouth like he was about to speak but then reconsidered it.

“That’s fine with me,” Winston said, “But we’re going to need more help in a few months when the animals are giving birth, so can we keep that in mind for the next couple of Greenies?”

Newt was still watching Frypan, who was bowing his head and looking like he had given up on speaking. Before his nerves could rise up and strangle him into silence, he raised his hand to speak.

Nick nodded at him, and with his heart thumping in terror, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, Newt said, “I think Frypan could really use some help in the kitchen. And what Alex said about us needing food, that applies to the kitchens as well. So perhaps Dave could work part-time in the Gardens with us, and part-time in the kitchen with Fry? Obviously, we would need him more during the harvest times,” Newt said as Alex opened his mouth to interrupt, already anticipating his objection. “But the rest of the time, it could be more of an even split?”

Frypan flashed Newt a grateful look, and Newt returned with a small smile.

“That sounds reasonable,” Nick said. “Dave, are you good with that arrangement?” Dave nodded, and then the Gathering was finished.

The Gladers all got up to leave, and as they were filing out the door, Newt leaning on his crutches while he waited his turn, he was approached by someone unexpected.

“Hey Newt, can I talk to you for a second?” Winston asked. Newt nodded, surprised, and the two of them hung back until everyone else had left the hall.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Newt asked, frowning slightly. “Is this about what I said back there, with Dave? Because I know you need more workers, but - ”

“No, this has nothing to do with that,” Winston interrupted him, smiling in reassurance. “This is about something completely different.”

Newt waited silently for him to continue, even more confused than before.

“I heard about how you solved the aphid problem by remembering how to make a homemade pesticide?”

“That?” Newt said. “Yes, I did remember that, well - it wasn’t like a true memory, I don’t know how I knew how to do it, and I don’t remember learning it, if that’s what you were thinking?”

“Not exactly,” Winston answered, still smiling. Newt would almost say he looked hopeful. “I was just thinking, if you know how to do that, do you think there are other things you might know how to do? Other things to do with farming and growing plants?”

“I… I suppose it’s possible, I didn’t know I knew how to do that until I did it…” Newt furrowed his brow, thinking hard. “Why are you asking, what’s this about?”

Winston’s mouth twisted in a rueful expression. “We’re having a bit of a problem with our alfalfa fields, they’ve been growing worse and worse every cycle. If it keeps up at this rate, eventually we might not have enough to feed all the animals. They get most of their protein content from grazing in the alfalfa pastures. I don’t know what we’re going to do if we can’t get the alfalfa to grow better.”

“Do you think you could show me?” Newt asked, thinking carefully. “With the aphids, it wasn’t until I saw one of the ingredients for the pesticide that it actually clicked, so I may need to see the problem to jog something in my brain.”

“Of course,” Winston answered. “Do you want to go right now?”

Newt nodded, and Winston led the way from the Homestead, across the Glade to the animal pens.

“This first one is a grass pasture, we haven’t had any problems with those,” Winston explained as they neared the outer fence of the animal pens in the southeast corner. “But if you look beyond there, to the next pasture, that’s where the alfalfa pastures start. There’s four total. The animals are grazing in the fourth one now, once we get closer you can see that’s the one with the best growth. But all the pastures have been growing progressively worse every cycle.”

Winston led him along the outer fence, south toward the Maze doors, and as they passed by the different pastures Newt could see what he meant. In the fourth pasture, the plants were thick and full, the leaves a deep, healthy green, and there were only small gaps between plants where scrubby tufts of yellow grass showed through. But the farther north the pasture, the more sparse and sickly-looking the plants. In the first pasture, the plants were about half the size of the ones in the fourth pasture, although Winston told him they should be about the same size based on how long they had been growing. Not only were the plants themselves smaller, the leaves on them were smaller and shriveled-looking, and their colouring had more yellow.

“We can’t let the animals graze as many days in these pastures because there’s not enough plants and we don’t want to risk overgrazing,” Winston told him, “so we have to move on to the next pasture sooner, which leaves even less time for re-growth. It’s throwing off our whole rotation schedule.”

Newt shook his head in disappointment. “Sorry, nothing’s coming to mind,” he said. “But I promise I’ll keep thinking about it, see if something jogs a memory or anything like that.”

Winston nodded, and Newt headed over to start his job in the Gardens.

“What were you talking to Winston about?” Zart asked when Newt returned.

“He was telling me about the alfalfa problem, had you heard about it?”Newt said. “The alfalfa pastures are struggling. He was hoping I might remember something useful about plants.”

“Oh yeah, I know about that,” Zart said, twisting his mouth thoughtfully. “He came to us a few months back, when it first started being noticable. We didn’t have any idea. Did you? Have an idea?”

“No. At least, not yet,” Newt sighed. “I’ll keep thinking it over though. Maybe something will occur to me.” Zart nodded, looking at the ground. Newt thought he looked like he wanted to say something else, but he was working up his nerve.

“Hey, Newt…” Zart said after another minute, fidgeting slightly. He dropped his eyes before speaking again. “I just wanted to say… sorry about what Alex said at the Gathering, it probably sounded a little harsher than what he meant, we’ve just been desperate for a bit more help recently, and it’s not that we don’t value all the work you’ve been doing, we really do, but we still need more help.” He said all this in one breath, and by the time he got to the end, his voice sounded thin and tight, like he was almost out of air. He took a deep breath and continued. “Anyway, I just hope he didn’t offend you. We really are glad to have you here, especially with the aphid thing, you’ve been such a help.”

Newt felt like he had swallowed a bag of snakes which were now twisting and writhing in his stomach as it clenched painfully. He flashed Zart a quick, tight smile. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I wasn’t offended.”

Zart didn’t look entirely satisfied, but apparently he decided to let the matter drop, because he simply nodded and went back to work without saying anything more. Newt took a deep breath, and the snakes in his stomach calmed a little. He went to work with Zart, and neither of them spoke about anything other than vegetables the rest of the day, but the snakes in his stomach never completely subsided.

...

Newt was really starting to get tired of the cast, and it had only been a week since he had been excused from bed rest. He had never realised before how much he took being able to walk without assistance for granted until he couldn’t do it anymore. His leg, the crutches, they interfered with everything, touched every aspect of his life, made everything ten times more difficult or more slow or more clumsy, or all three.

Getting dressed was a chore; he had to cut the right leg off of trousers to fit the cast through. Sitting, standing, lying down, all were uncomfortable and awkward. The skin trapped beneath the plaster cast itched like crazy. Jeff had told him not to get the cast wet, so he had to wrap it in a plastic bag and try to keep it out of the flow of water whenever he showered. After using the crutches all day, his underarms felt raw and his shoulders ached from supporting his weight when he swung forward. He couldn’t hold anything and use the crutches at the same time, which eliminated at least half of the usual Track-hoe tasks, and every time there was something that desperately needed to be done that he couldn’t do because of the crutches, it was another reminder of how useless and pathetic he was.

The warm, fuzzy feeling of having contributed something meaningful by discovering the homemade pesticide and getting rid of the aphids soon started to wear off. He had barely convinced Zart and Alex to let him help in the wheat harvest, limping along behind the harvesters swinging their scythes and picking up the fallen wheat stalks, carrying them in a large bag on his shoulder he had made just for that purpose. He felt the urge to do something more, something bigger; he needed to feel like he was of value.

His mind kept returning to Winston’s alfalfa problem, turning it over and over in his head, trying to figure out the cause and possible solutions. Alfalfa was nitrogen-fixing, so it couldn’t be a lack of nitrogen-containing fertilizer. It didn’t seem to be any kind of pest problem, and there were no signs of disease or blight - no rotting or fungus-covered plants, they simply… weren’t growing as much as they should have been. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t puzzle it out.

…

“Well, it’s official,” Minho said glumly, flopping himself down onto one of the chairs in the dining area, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. “Alby resigned from Running, today was his last day.”

“But you finished training Taz and Lee, right?” Newt asked him, trying to cheer him up.

“Yep,” Minho answered. “They’re as ready as I can make them. And they’ve had more training than some of the others got. I think they’ll be all right. It just feels… weird. He was the last one of the original Runners besides me.”

“Yeah, it feels like the end of an era, doesn’t it?” Newt agreed. The thought made him feel wistful and sad, and a bit regretful, especially thinking of the ones who had died. Part of him wished he could go back. He was still relieved not to have to go into the Maze anymore, but he missed that feeling when they had first started out, the original Runners, when they had been so full of optimism and hope. If only he could warn them what they had really been getting into.

Minho sighed. “Well, it had to happen eventually, I guess. Running wears people out. But I think I’m going to start training Drew as a reserve soon, and Garrett’s agreed to be a reserve still, which means hopefully I can give people more breaks, which will help.”

“That’s great,” Newt said encouragingly. “So they won’t get so burnt out.”

“That’s the idea,” Minho agreed.

“So what did Alby say he’ll be doing instead?”

“He’s joining Stephen and Adam as a Bricknick.”

“Wasn’t Garrett also a Bricknick before he was a Runner?” Newt wondered aloud. “Lucky them, they get two more workers in one day. I bet Alex’d kill for that.”

“Is he still complaining?” Minho asked, annoyed. “He’s just being a big whiner. He can always get temporary workers from other positions if there’s an important job. He acts like he’s all on his own or something.”

“Ah, he’s got a point though,” Newt said. “There’s a lot more to be done in the Gardens than I think most people realise, and they could really use some… non-handicapped help.”

Minho looked sideways at Newt. “Shut up, you do plenty. He takes you for granted, and now he’s even got you thinking you’re not as much help as you are.”

Newt frowned. “You shouldn’t be so antagonistic to him. He’s really not that bad. And he hasn’t got me thinking anything, that’s just the truth of the matter.”

“No, it’s not, Newt!” Minho burst out. “You do so much more than you realise, and you don’t need him going around saying things like what he said at Dave’s Gathering.”

“How do you know about that? You weren’t even there.”

“I hear things,” Minho muttered. “The point is, he’s a slimy git and he needs to keep his big mouth shut.”

Newt smiled despite himself. “A ‘slimy git’, eh? Since when do you call people that?”

Minho pressed his lips together, probably trying to keep a mirroring smile off his face. “Must have picked it up from you,” he said. Newt leaned sideways and nudged him with his shoulder, and Minho leaned away, making an exaggerated horrified facial expression. “So how is life among the Track-hoes, anyway?” he asked.

“Not bad,” Newt answered. “We finished planting the corn, and we just started the legume harvest today. It’s not as labour-intensive as the wheat harvest. Well, the actual harvesting isn’t, shelling them will be a pain in the arse, but at least Jeff will be happy that I’ll be sitting down most of the day then.”

Minho smiled. “That’s good. Keep the nagging doc off your back.”

“I’m trying,” Newt said. “I know he’s looking after my health, but it’s like he expects me to sit around doing nothing all the time, and I just can’t do that.”

Minho nodded, looking more serious now. “I get it. But it’ll get better. Once you’re healed, things will be better.”

Newt’s mouth turned down. “I hope so. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.”

...

The next day at lunch, Newt spotted Alby sitting with Stephen. Alby glanced up and, seeing Newt, waved him over with a big grin on his face.

“Sit with us,” Alby said to him as Newt hobbled over.

“This is nice,” Newt remarked. “I haven’t seen you in the middle of the day since… well, I don’t even remember the last time.”

“I know,” Alby agreed. “It’s nice not to be alone out in the Maze all day, isn’t it? Quitting being a Runner was the best decision I ever made. I’ve missed actually feeling like I’m part of life in the Glade.”

“Seems like you’re adjusting well, then,” Newt said.

“He’s fitting in perfectly as a Bricknick, that’s for sure,” Stephen said, smiling. “And I have to say, it’s great to have something approaching a real crew for once.”

“Yeah, I thought Winston was going to have a stroke when he heard you got two new workers,” Alby laughed.

Stephen laughed along until he caught sight of something over Newt’s shoulder. “Sorry, I think Nick needs me for something,” he said to them as he stood up. “He’s signaling me. I’ll be right back. Probably.” He rolled his eyes conspiratorially.

As he walked away, Newt turned back to Alby. “So is this part of your Master Plan?” he joked. “Cozy up to Nick’s second-in-command, work your way up the ladder?”

Alby grinned slyly. “Well, I wouldn’t put it exactly like that, but… there’s a lot more potential for promotion from Bricknicks than any other job. And working so closely with Stephen certainly won’t hurt my chances.”

“I had no idea you were so into the politics,” Newt said. Alby shrugged, still smiling. “That’s great though,” Newt continued. “That’s what you wanted, right? To earn a leadership position? I have no doubt you’ll do wonderfully.”

Alby seemed to relax slightly. “Thanks, Newt. Sometimes I feel kind of silly for having… I don’t know, ambitions? In this godforsaken place, it can feel kind of ridiculous. But you always make me feel like I’m doing a good thing. Like what I want isn’t stupid.”

“Sure,” Newt said, surprised. It wasn’t as if they had never talked about this before, but Newt still found it difficult to believe that Alby placed so much importance on what Newt thought.

“And listen, I want to take you with me,” Alby said, his eyes shining with his plans for the future. “We could be a team, you and me.”

Newt shrugged. “I don’t know, I think I’d rather stay where I am, figure out the whole Track-hoe thing. Besides, once you’re with them, I reckon Nick and Stephen should have everything pretty much sorted. There’s no need for me.”

Alby shook his head. “We don’t have to talk about it right now, but I know you have a lot to offer, Newt. We need you.”

Newt flashed Alby a small smile before looking down at his plate. Alby undoubtedly planned to bring the subject up again later, but Newt privately hoped he might forget. He didn’t know how to tell him there was no way in hell he could ever be in a leadership position in the Glade.

...

Four days after Alby officially quit running, in the evening after he had finished the day’s work, Newt had his first four-week leg checkup with Jeff. Newt could hardly believe it had already been four weeks since he’d… since his leg had broken. He answered Jeff’s questions about how he was getting on and his pain levels while Jeff turned his leg this way and that, asked him to wiggle his toes, and tried to assess how Newt was healing as well as he could through the cast.

Suddenly Clint came racing into the room. “Jeff, we need you downstairs, stat,” he panted, leaning on the door frame.

“What is it?” Jeff asked, looking up from examining Newt’s leg.

“It’s Gally. He’s been Stung.”

“Stay here,” Jeff said to Newt shortly, already hurrying out the door after Clint.

Newt sat there for all of two seconds before picking his cast up and swinging it over to the side of the cot he was sitting on, standing up and grabbing his crutches to hobble after Jeff as fast as he could.

“Where was he Stung?” he could hear Clint asking just before he rounded the corner.

“Just outside the West doors, just now,” Ric answered. Ric and Erwin were each holding one of Gally’s arms, and had obviously drug or carried him here. They were still supporting most of his weight between them, and Gally was slumped over, one arm around each of their shoulders. He didn’t appear to be conscious.

“No, I meant where on his body?” Clint said, exasperated.

“Oh,” Ric said, turning red. “It’s on his back, just under his left shoulder blade. You can see the tear in his shirt, see?”

Clint leaned around Erwin to look at Gally’s back. He must have seen the hole, because he nodded to himself and then motioned for the two boys to follow him.

“Bring him this way,” he said. Then, aside to Jeff, “Go get the serum.” Jeff nodded and ran off to comply.

Ric and Erwin heaved Gally between them in the direction Clint had indicated, and since no one told him to go away, or for that matter even seemed to notice his presence at all, Newt followed. They had carried Gally through the door and across the small room, and they had almost reached the small cot in the corner of the room, when Newt saw it. It was the barest twitch of Gally’s fingers, but somehow Newt knew what was about to happen, and he had just enough time to shout a warning.

“Hey, watch it!” Alerted by Newt’s shout, Ric and Erwin had both halted and started to turn, so they had half a second’s head start when Gally suddenly started thrashing and struggling. His limbs flailed wildly as Ric and Erwin attempted to hold him still, and Clint shouted for them to get him on the cot so they could hold him down. Newt rushed forward to help as much as he could; once they managed to wrestle Gally onto the cot, Newt grabbed his legs and leaned most of his weight on them, trying to keep him pinned down. One of Gally’s wildly kicking feet caught Newt on the chin, but he ignored the pain and grabbed on again, holding tight.

“Jeff!” Clint yelled. “Where’s that serum?”

“I’m here,” Jeff called breathlessly, running through the doorway with the vial of serum clutched in one fist and an injector in the other.

“Inject him, hurry!”

Even with the four of them holding Gally down, it still took Jeff several tries to successfully inject Gally with the serum. After a while, his thrashing movements slowed, and he seemed to go unconscious again. When it felt safe to let go, Newt stood back up on his good leg, balancing in place since he had dropped his crutches in the turmoil.

He looked up and saw Jeff staring at him from across Gally’s body. He was frowning, and Newt knew Jeff was wondering why he hadn’t stay put like he was told. He stared back, his look a challenge. So tell me to leave, then, he thought defiantly. He saw Jeff’s look change; his frown cleared, and there was the barest hint of an eyeroll, but Jeff didn’t say anything. He seemed to have decided Newt could stay.

“What was he even doing in the Maze?” Jeff asked.

Ric and Erwin glanced at each other. “We don’t know,” Erwin said. “None of us saw him go in. We only realised when we heard…” he trailed off, swallowing, and his eyes flicked down to the ground.

“Did anyone actually see him get Stung?” Jeff said, looking between Erwin and Ric hesitantly.

“I did,” Ric answered stoutly. “I saw the Griever, and I saw it prick him with its needle and then run away. He stayed conscious long enough to stumble out of the Maze, and then he collapsed.” His eyes darted to Newt before quickly returning to Jeff. “None of us went in after him, I swear. We know the rules.”

“We don’t have to talk about who broke the rules right now, that’s the least of our worries,” Jeff reassured him.

“Help me roll him onto his front,” Clint instructed them. “I want to see the Sting site.” When they had managed to heave Gally over, Clint lifted up his shirt to inspect his back.

“Can you even see where it happened?” Jeff whispered uncertainly.

“Look, there,” Clint pointed. Just as Ric had said earlier, there was a tiny puncture wound just under Gally’s left shoulder blade. Newt could only see it because of the small bruise forming around the site, a splotch of purple about the size of a tomato seed, with a tiny dot of red in the centre.

“It’s so small,” Jeff remarked.

“We should clean and sanitise it anyway,” Clint told him. “There’s no telling what germs those nasty things are carrying.”

After Jeff had wiped the wound and the surrounding area with an antiseptic liquid (Newt caught the distinct smell of rubbing alcohol), he turned to address Clint, who was bent over Gally, checking his pulse. “Should we have someone stay with him? In case he wakes up and starts struggling again?”

Before Clint could answer, Ric cut in. “It should be us. Me and Erwin,” he said firmly.

“It should probably be a Med-jack,” Jeff argued, frowning slightly. “What if he needs medical attention? And won’t you need to be working? You’re already down your Keeper.”

“We wouldn’t be able to do much without Gally anyway,” Ric answered, “and if he needs serious medical attention, something we can’t do ourselves, we’ll come get someone. But it should be us. We’re the only ones who know what he’s going through, except for Carl, but we know him better. We should be here when he wakes up.”

“Maybe you should listen to Clint and Jeff, they’re the Med-jacks,” Newt suggested.

With fire in his eyes, Ric rounded on him. “Shut up, Newt! You have no idea what you’re talking about, so just shut up!”

Newt physically recoiled, and Jeff jumped to his defense. “Hey, lay off him,” he snapped. “Just because you’ve been through the Changing doesn’t mean you’re an expert.”

“It means I know more than any of you,” Ric argued, but he took a shade of ire off his tone and shifted his feet.

“For the sake of avoiding an argument, you two can stay,” Clint said sternly. “But you have to clear it with Nick first. And you have to come get one of us the second, and I mean the second, you think he might possibly need any medical attention.”

Ric and Erwin agreed to these conditions. Clint returned to his other Med-jack duties, and Jeff and Newt went back to the room they were in before and resumed Jeff’s examination of Newt’s leg.

“I don’t guess it would do much good to try telling you to stay off your feet more, would it?” Jeff asked with a sardonic smile.

“Probably not,” Newt replied flippantly. “So are we done here?”

“Yes, you’re free to go. Just - do me a favour and at least try to sit down when you can, okay?”

Newt just smiled and waved goodbye at him as he lurched away on his crutches.

…

Gally didn’t wake up until two days later, and from what Newt heard in whispered rumours passed from one boy to the next, Ric and Erwin wouldn’t let anyone in the room for several hours immediately after he regained consciousness.

“What do you think they were talking about in there?” Newt asked Minho. It was evening, and Minho had just gotten in from running and had come to Newt to discuss the news.

“Who knows,” Minho said, shaking his head. “What it was like going through the Changing? Maybe things they remembered that they can’t, or won’t, tell the rest of us.”

Newt nodded absently, lost in thought.

Minho was silent for a moment, probably lost in thought himself. “What do you think it’s like, remembering things from before? How much do you think they actually remember?”

“I have no idea,” Newt admitted. “But it’s hard not to think that it must be better to remember something than nothing.”

“But all the guys that have gone through the Changing are all… I don’t know, surly afterward. Like they’re permanently in a bad mood.”

Newt thought about the incident with Ric when Gally had been brought in. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Maybe it’s hard for them, knowing where we came from but still being stuck here. Ignorance is bliss, and all that.”

“Maybe,” Minho allowed.

“Still, sometimes I think I might give anything just to remember something, even just a tiny detail,” Newt mused. “Just to have something from my old life again, an idea of who I was.”

“It’s definitely not worth going through the Changing, though,” Minho said, with an edge of finality.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Newt replied, staring off at nothing, eyes unfocused.

“Newt,” Minho said, his voice laced with warning. Newt met his eye and saw a look of fear, but also pity.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped, turning away from Minho and frowning. Anyone else looking at him with those sorry eyes, that just-barely-downturned mouth, he could handle, but not Minho. Minho was supposed to be the one who never pitied him.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re so worried about me.” Newt couldn’t stop the scorn leaking into his voice. It wasn’t supposed to be like this between them. Minho had always been on his side.

“I am worried about you, Newt.”

“Well, don’t be. I’m fine.”

“Newt.” Another warning, stronger this time.

“What?” Newt threw the word at him, letting all his frustration and anger into his voice. He couldn’t stop it now anyway, not even if he tried.

“Stop pretending like you’re fine when you’re clearly not, that’s what!” Minho shouted, matching Newt’s tone.

“I don’t need you to look after me!” Newt shouted back. Their voices were getting louder and louder. Newt couldn’t remember how they had gone so quickly from a calm discussion to a row, and he wished he could stop himself, but there was a fire lit under his skin and all he could do was add to the flames.

“Just because you can get by without me doesn’t mean you have to,” Minho said, no longer yelling but with just as much intensity as before. “You can let people help you sometimes, Newt. You’re not alone. Let me help you.”

Newt held his gaze for what felt like an eternity. Finally he looked down, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I overreacted, I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I know you’re just trying to help.” He looked back up at Minho, pleading. “But I can’t stand being pitied. Least of all by you.”

Minho nodded. “I know. I’m sorry too; I don’t know how this got so out of control,” he laughed. “We were just talking normally five minutes ago, and then we both exploded.”

Newt suddenly felt overwhelmed. He needed to be close to Minho, he needed some kind of reminder that they were still okay. He held his arms out and quietly asked, “Friends?”

To his relief, Minho wrapped him in an embrace without hesitation. “Of course. Always,” Minho mumbled into his shoulder. “You never have to ask. Just don’t go jumping on any Grievers, okay?”

Newt let out a weak laugh. “If I was gonna kill myself, I wouldn’t do it by Griever. You should know that.”

Minho’s voice sounded muffled, coming from behind him where Minho still had his head buried in Newt’s shoulder, but he could hear every word. “I didn’t think you would be stupid enough to do that, but I had to check.” Newt laughed again, a stronger laugh this time, and squeezed Minho just a little tighter before they pulled apart.

...

There was something unusual about this Greenie. Newt couldn’t quite put his finger on what made his behaviour seem off, but he didn’t act the same as all the other Greenies had when they came out of the Box. Instead of crying or looking around fearfully or even making a run for it, he just… stood there. Blinking up at everyone, looking not the least bit uncomfortable. And Newt wasn’t the only one who thought it was odd.

“Is it just me, or does the Greenie give y’all the heebie jeebies too?” Frypan muttered under his breath, after Nick had led the Greenie off to take the tour.

“We shouldn’t judge,” Newt reminded him carefully. “Everyone reacts to fear differently.”

“Yeah but that’s the thing,” Frypan said. “It was almost like… he wasn’t afraid. I’ve never seen anyone just sit there like that. Didn’t even twitch or nothin’.”

Newt frowned. Frypan did have a point. There was something… unsettling about the Greenie’s reaction to what should have been a completely foreign, frightening experience.

“Let’s just unload the supplies, and we can worry about that later,” Newt told him.

Newt, anticipating the others trying to keep him from helping to unload the supplies, had come prepared: he had the same shoulder bag with which he had carried the wheat stalks during the harvest, and he got Frypan to pass him boxes that he then carried in the bag to the kitchen. The bag bumped against his hip every time he swung forward on his crutches, and the corner of one of the boxes was digging in painfully, but it was better than nothing.

“Where do you want these?” Newt asked Frypan once they were in the kitchen, stacking boxes on one of the counters.

“What’s in these?” Frypan muttered to himself, lifting the lid of one and peering inside. “Can you take these over to the pantry?” he said, addressing Newt.

“Sure thing.” Newt carried the boxes Frypan had indicated over to the pantry, and began unpacking the contents and placing them on the shelves, when he noticed a large stack of packages. They looked like they were wrapped in some kind of heavy-duty brown paper, and they seemed very out of place in the otherwise orderly kitchen. “Hey Frypan, what’s all this?” Newt called, brow furrowing as he stepped closer to the stack of paper-wrapped packages.

“That? Far as we can tell it’s just chalk dust,” Frypan explained. He walked past Newt and unfolded the end of one of the packages, showing Newt the whitish-grey powder inside. “These packages started coming up in the box about two months ago, and no one knows what it’s supposed to be for. At first we thought it was flour, but we figured out pretty quick that wasn’t it.” Frypan made a face, and Newt suppressed a smile imagining whatever baking disaster story was behind that expression. “Then we thought it might be cement, but if it is they didn’t make it right, because the Bricknicks tried to mix it to make concrete and it came out all brittle. Falls apart right away, won’t hold nothin’ together. So now we just stack it up here.”

Newt frowned. “And you said it keeps getting sent up? Even though it’s never been requested, and we don’t know what it’s for?”

“Yep,” Frypan confirmed, nodding. “Every week, with the rest of the supplies. They keep sending us stacks and stacks of it.”

“Why the hell would they send us so much chalk dust?” Newt muttered, mostly to himself, but Frypan answered anyway.

“Beats me,” he shrugged. “Why the shuck they do anything they do? Might as well ask why they put us here in the first place.”

Newt’s eyes flicked over Frypan’s face before turning back to the stack of chalk dust packages. He stuck his index finger in the dust, then brought it up closer to his face, examining the powdery substance more closely. He rubbed it between his finger and thumb, and even dabbed a bit on the tip of his tongue to taste it. It was bitter and gritty, but offered no further clues as to why the Creators had gone to so much trouble to ensure the had it.

He returned to helping Frypan unload the new supplies, but in the back of his mind he couldn’t stop thinking about the mysterious packages of chalk dust. Something about it made it seem like it must be significant, somehow; maybe it was the fact that the Creators kept sending it up even though no one had requested it, or maybe it was something else, something deep in his subconsciousness that told him the chalk dust must serve an important purpose.

Walking back to the Box to get another load of supplies, his gaze happened to catch on the animal pens, and beyond, the grazing fields. He remembered the alfalfa problem, and the chalk dust, and all of a sudden a spark fired in his brain, a connection. He grasped for it desperately, afraid it would vanish before he could put it all completely together.

The chalk dust was bitter. Alkaline. Chalk dust was made of limestone.

Alfalfa was nitrogen-fixing. Nitrogen compounds made the soil more acidic. Alfalfa didn’t grow well in acidic soil.

Liming. A method of keeping soil pH from dropping too low, especially useful for fields growing only nitrogen-fixing plants. Such as alfalfa.

He knew how to solve Winston’s alfalfa problem.

It didn’t take much to convince Winston to try liming one of the alfalfa pastures before planting the next round, he was so desperate for any solution.

“If this works, you’ll be a lifesaver, Newt,” Winston told him, carrying one of the packages of lime to the animal pens. “Seriously.”

“Let’s see if it works before you start singing my praises,” Newt told him, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Maybe you should have been a Slicer instead of a Track-hoe,” Winston suggested. “I could really use someone like you.”

Newt looked down at his feet, blushing slightly. “Nah, I only know things about plants, it seems like,” he said. “The only reason I could help with this is because it had to do with growing the alfalfa.”

“Still,” Winston insisted. “You’re a good egg, Newt.”

Newt glanced up, blushing even harder, then looked down again in embarrassment, unable to meet Winston’s eye. “Thanks, Winston,” he muttered, but inside he was glowing at the praise.

You’re a good egg.

...

Newt limped up to the Homestead where the Builders were congregated. They looked to be working hard, making up for lost time when their Keeper and most of their workforce had been out of commission. Newt realised it must be the day the new Greenie, Otto, was doing his test run with the Builders, because there he was, standing next to Gally, who was wearing a pinched, annoyed expression. As Newt drew closer, he could hear what they were saying.

“...what the Grievers are like? How many others have seen them, or been Stung or killed?”

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it,” Gally said in a brusque tone. His shoulders were raised and tense, he was holding himself unnaturally still, and frown lines were etched deep in his brow. “Just stay out of the Maze, okay? That’s all you need to know, so let’s drop it.”

“I was just asking,” Otto said. Something about his tone sounded off to Newt; he couldn’t place it exactly, but something about his inflection sounded strange. False.

“How about you don’t just ask?” Gally snapped at him. “What do you want?” he asked, rounding on Newt, who had reached level with the two boys.

Newt tried to stand his ground and not flinch. “Zart and Alex sent me to ask if you lot could make us some more supports for the runner beans? We need to plant more this cycle, and some of the ones we already had are broken.”

“Yeah, we’ll get on it. When do you need them by?” Gally’s voice was clipped, and he seemed to be avoiding eye contact with Newt.

“As soon as possible?” It came out a question. Newt winced internally; should he be more firm? Or was this the better tack?

“Okay, fine. We’ll get started right away. Was there anything else?”

“No, that’s it.”

Gally turned abruptly and strode off, leaving Newt leaning on his crutches and feeling a bit stupid. He noticed Ric and Erwin standing a short distance away, and he hobbled over to them.

“Has the Greenie been pestering Gally about being Stung? How long has he been questioning him?” he asked in a low voice.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ric said shortly. “Gally is one of ours, we’ll take care of him. We don’t need you butting in.”

Newt was taken aback. “I’m just concerned for him. Has anyone told the Greenie off? He doesn’t need to be bothering Gally about that.”

Ric opened his mouth, looking angry, but Erwin put a hand on his arm to stop him and he closed it again, looking sideways at the other boy.

“I know you’re concerned, but honestly, we can handle a stupid Greenie,” Erwin said to Newt. “He’s being a pest, but we’ll stop him if he gets too bad. We’ve looked after Gally so far, and we’re not about to stop now.”

Newt looked closely at Erwin, his eyes searching, feeling sad. He couldn’t help wondering what he had done to make them act so hostile towards him, if he had actually done anything or if they would have reacted this way no matter what. “We used to be friends, remember?” he said to both of them. “We were all Runners together.” He might not have been as close to them as he was to Alby and Minho, but they had all been through a lot together. He still wanted to count them as friends, if they would let him.

“That was before,” Ric said, and even though he didn’t say it, Newt knew he meant before the Changing. “Things are different now.” He looked down at the ground, scuffing his shoe on the grass.

Newt nodded, then turned to leave. Sometimes, people’s paths diverged, and there was nothing he could do about it, as much as he might want to. As much as he might hate it.

...

After a while the days started to blend in to one another. He pulled weeds, he pruned trees and bushes, he tied vines onto supports. Slowly, he convinced Zart and Alex to let him do more tasks that required standing, and if he sometimes had to lie about how much his leg was actually aching, he wasn’t above doing that. Occasionally he mixed up more of his soap and oil concoction to spray the plants with, when some more soft-bodied insects were spotted. Sometimes he and the other Track-hoes helped Winston lime the alfalfa fields. He still couldn’t help dig holes or till the fields or do anything that required standing and holding a tool, but he could help plant the seeds for new crops.

This was his favourite part of the job. Pushing the seeds into the soft, freshly-tilled earth; the dark, rich soil under his fingernails and clinging to the tiny ridges in his skin; the damp, earthy smell filling his nose. The promise of life, of growth. Looking forward to a few days later when he would be able to see the small, tender seedlings poking up out of the ground, slowly unfurling their leaves, seeking the sun. They started out so small and vulnerable, threatened to be choked by weeds, needing protection and constant care. But in the end they would grow to be as tall as he was, or taller, with stalks as big around as his wrist, strong and sturdy.

He scooted along on his backside, dragging his broken leg behind him, stopping every few feet to plant more seeds. It would have been humiliating, if he’d had any pride left to damage.

Soon enough it was time for his eight week leg checkup with Jeff. Compared to the four week checkup, this one was uneventful. Jeff seemed pleased with his progress, although he did try once again to convince Newt not to stand and walk so often.

As he was leaving, he ran into Winston, who was getting tools from the Homestead.

“Hey, Newt!” Winston greeted him happily. “Have you seen how the alfalfa pastures are growing?”

“No, how are they doing?”

“They’re great!” Winston beamed at him. “Showing significant improvement. Looks like the lime is working.”

“That’s really good news,” Newt said, unable to resist smiling back in the face of Winston’s infectious joy.

“And it’s all thanks to you.”

“Ah,” Newt said, waving away the compliment. “I’m sure someone else would have figured it out eventually.”

“It’s possible,” Winston allowed. “But who knows what state the pastures would’ve been in by then? You did a good job, Newt. Don’t be so modest.”

Newt blushed and looked at the ground, barely managing to stutter out a response. Inside he was reeling, hope bubbling up and spilling over, spreading a warm glow from his core down to his extremities. Winston continued on towards the animal pens, juggling his armful of tools and waving an elbow at Newt in farewell.

“See? What am I always telling you?” asked a voice from behind him, a voice that Newt knew as well as his own.

“Minho,” he said, turning, feeling his lips curve into a smile. “I was just going to look for you. I’ve had my eight week checkup, Jeff thinks I’m looking good.”

“And apparently you’re Winston’s new favourite person,” Minho said, smirking at him.

Newt looked down at the ground again, embarrassed at the acknowledgement, but he couldn’t stop himself from grinning like an idiot. Today had been a good day. “Did you hear all of that?”

“I heard enough,” Minho answered. “You’re looking pretty pleased with yourself. How come you’ll believe Winston when he says you’ve done a good job, but not me?”

“When have you ever told me I did a good job?” Newt asked skeptically, but still smiling despite himself.

“I tell you all the time!” Minho protested. “You just always ignore it for some reason.”

Newt was still doubtful, but he decided to let Minho have this one. “Alright, fine, I’m sorry, then,” he said, trying to sound sincere rather than sarcastic.

Minho looked satisfied. “If you keep this up, soon you’ll be the hero of the Glade,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“I don’t know about that.”

“Hey, Newt, look at me.” Minho waited until Newt was looking directly into his eyes. “I’m proud of you, you know. You’re doing so well. And I know it hasn’t been easy for you, but you’re making the effort anyway, and it’s working.” As he spoke, his eyes softened, and Newt suddenly felt vulnerable, like Minho was seeing more than just the surface of him. With someone else, he might have chased the compliment away with a joke, or run away entirely, but this was Minho.

“Thanks,” he answered shyly, his own eyes soft as he looked back at his friend.

Maybe he wasn’t useless after all.

...

Wilson, this month’s Greenie, had arrived only the day before, which meant he was doing his trial day with the Slicers. They had so far continued the tradition of having the former Greenie be the “mentor” of the new Greenie, so Otto was showing him around.

Newt watched idly as Otto led Wilson around some of the animal pens, tending to various animals. Their initial misgivings about Otto seemed to have been unfounded; he had settled in with the Slicers quite well.

As Newt watched, Otto and Wilson meandered closer and closer to the East doors. He shook his head, looking down and getting back to work.

When he looked up again, Otto was standing on the threshold of the East doors. And Wilson was nowhere to be seen.

He stood up quickly, cursing as his cast almost tripped him, but he managed to keep his balance, grabbing his crutches and beginning to hobble as fast as he could over to the doors.

“Hey!” he shouted. Otto’s head snapped up to look at him, and then he started to slink away back towards the Blood House.

What the shuck is he doing? Newt thought. “Hey! Get back here!” he shouted, hobbling even faster. Otto didn’t even flinch, just kept walking away at a quick, steady pace.

Something about the situation set Newt’s pulse racing. Where had Wilson gone? Surely he hadn’t… Newt urged himself even faster, the crutches digging painfully into his underarms, cursing his cast once again for keeping him from being able to all-out sprint.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Wilson! Greenie! Where in the shuck did you go? Wilson!”

Finally he drew level with the east opening, and was able to look through. Sure enough, there was Wilson, about 100 metres inside the Maze.

“Shit,” Newt swore to himself. Trying not to excessively alarm the Greenie, he called in what he hoped was a urgent but gentle tone, “Hey you! Get out of there! Don’t you know the Maze is dangerous? The buggin’ doors are about to close!”

As if his words had been a signal, the doors began to grind shut at that very moment. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Wilson had tentatively begun to move towards the opening at Newt’s words, but hesitated when he saw the doors start to move.

“Don’t shuckin’ stop, you bloody idiot! Run! Get back here now!” Newt screamed, losing his ability to feign calm in the panic caused by the doors moving. Wilson started running full-pelt, but Newt couldn’t feel relieved yet. The doors were closing, and he was still about 50 metres away.

“Come on, run! You can do it!” Newt yelled. Shit, please don’t let the Greenie die already. He’s only been here a day and a half, that’s got to be some kind of record.

Wilson, looking terrified, closed the distance to the doors and squeaked through just in time, with only a few seconds to spare. Fuck, that was close.

“What the bloody hell were you doing out in the Maze?” Newt shouted, his intense relief making him perhaps less tactful than he should have been. “And where’s Otto? Didn’t he warn you the doors were about to close?”

Wilson was trembling, and Newt watched as tears filled his eyes. Ah, shuck. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry,” he said in a calm, soothing voice, trying to make up for earlier. “I didn’t mean to yell. I was just very, very worried about you.” Newt sighed. “I’m sure you’ve been told to stay out of the Maze, but as it’s only your second day and you’ve already been yelled at and terrified out of your mind, which is probably punishment enough, I think we can let this slide. But look at me.” Newt waited until Wilson was looking directly into his eyes, and put as much seriousness as he could into his gaze. “You should never, ever, ever go out into the Maze, and especially not at sunset when the doors are about to close. You hear me? No one has ever survived a night in the Maze. You get stuck out there at night, that’s a death sentence. Understand?”

Wilson nodded, tears beginning to streak down his face.

“I’m sorry,” Newt apologised again. “I’m really not trying to frighten you, I’m just trying to keep you safe, alright? We have these rules for a reason.”

“H-he told me,” Wilson hiccuped, still crying, “he told me I was supposed to collect ivy.”

Newt’s blood ran cold. “Who told you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. There was no point upsetting Wilson any further.

“Otto.”

...

“He tried to kill Wilson,” Newt said firmly. He had gathered all the members of the Council to the Council Hall and was informing them of the incident in an emergency Gathering. “There should be a formal Gathering, with everyone present, and at the very least he should be thrown in the Slammer. If not Banished.”

“Banished? Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?” Winston asked.

“We banished Larry,” Newt said.

“Yeah, but that was after he killed Alan. Wilson wasn’t actually hurt, and we don’t know that Otto meant to do anything to him.”

“I saw him,” Newt argued. “He was standing right there, watching Wilson go into the maze just before the doors were about to close. Even if you don’t believe what Wilson said about Otto point-blank telling him to go in there, which I do, he at the very least should have warned Wilson not to stray into the maze.”

“We should at least hear his side of it,” Winston said.

“We can hear his side of it at the formal Gathering,” Nick said, stepping forward as he spoke. “Newt’s right, there should be a full investigation. Which means we’ll hear from everyone involved,” he added as Winston looked like he was about to say something more. “We’ll get everyone here first thing tomorrow, before the Runners go out, so we can hold the Gathering with everyone present. In the meantime, just to be safe, Otto should be kept in the Slammer.”

The other members of the Council nodded their approval, although Winston still looked as though he had some choice words for Nick, but he was keeping them to himself, arms folded and not quite glaring at their leader.

The next morning, before the sun had completely risen, everyone assembled in the Council Hall for the Gathering in the weak morning light. It was a quiet, tense atmosphere; the normal chatter of dozens of boys was noticeably absent, the heavy silence broken only by creaking of wood as boys fidgeted and the occasional dry cough.

Newt was the first witness called, and he tried to explain what he had seen as succinctly and dispassionately as possible. He told how he had seen Otto and Wilson near the East doors, and had thought it was strange but hadn’t fully started to worry until he didn’t see Wilson anymore. Then he told how he had found Wilson inside the Maze, encouraged him to run out before the doors closed, and asked him why he had been in the Maze at all, whereupon he learned Otto had told him to go in.

Then it was Wilson’s turn. The poor kid looked scared half to death, and Newt thought he would probably rather be anywhere than in that Council Hall, being questioned and forced to speak in front of everyone.

It’s necessary, he reminded himself as his heart squeezed in sympathy. If we want Otto to face justice, it’s necessary.

Luckily, Wilson’s story didn’t take long to tell. He explained, in a quavering, thin voice that Otto had told him that the Gladers went into the Maze all the time, and that he had misunderstood the day before when he thought he’d been told never to go into the Maze. That they needed Wilson to gather vines from inside the Maze, special ones, vines that were stronger than any of the vines that grew in the Glade, and that the doors weren’t actually about to close, he had plenty of time.

Minho, who was sitting next to Newt, turned to him and muttered under his breath, “This kid is so gullible, I almost don’t even feel sorry for him.” Newt frowned at him. “I said almost,” he added, seeing Newt’s expression. Newt simply shook his head, turning back to face the proceedings.

Finally, it was Otto’s turn to defend himself.

“Otto, did you tell Wilson to go into the maze to collect ivy just before the doors were about to close?” Nick asked solemnly.

Otto looked around at them, his face completely blank and expressionless. “Yes,” he answered calmly.

A flurry of muttering broke out and spread across the small group. Nick shushed them.

“Why?”

Otto blinked, and smiled. That smile sent shivers down Newt’s spine. “I just wanted to see what would happen,” he said. There was still no expression in his voice.

“What do you mean, you wanted to see what would happen?”

Otto blinked again, slowly. It reminded Newt of a snake. “Everyone always talks about how terrible the maze is, how many people have died in it. But I’ve never seen anyone die. I just wanted to see what would happen.”

Nick frowned. “So you’re saying you were trying to get Wilson killed, just so you could see someone die?”

Otto paused, his eyes scanning the faces of those watching, and Newt knew he was seeing the horror and disapproval clearly written on nearly all of them. “No,” he said quickly. Almost too quickly.

Newt exchanged glances with Minho. He knew they were both thinking the same thing: Otto had caught on to the fact that they all thought his behaviour was strange, and now he was going to try to pretend to be normal.

“I think this has all been a big misunderstanding,” Otto began, but a small voice cut through from the back of the Council Hall.

“He’s lying!” Everyone turned to see who had spoken. It was Carl, who was standing up, looking very pale and shaking, but wearing a look of fierce determination. “He’s lying,” Carl repeated, his voice slightly stronger this time. “He was trying to kill Winston on purpose, and I can prove it.”

Chaos broke out as boys began talking over one another. Nick shouted for everyone to be quiet, but it only added to the din. Finally, after several minutes of trying, Nick managed to regain order.

“What do you mean, you can prove it?” Nick asked Carl, cutting straight to the issue. Newt leaned forward in his chair, eager to hear what Carl would say.

But Carl shook his head. “I can’t tell you. I have to show you, or you won’t believe me.”

Nick looked frustrated, but he nodded. “Alright, fine, let’s go and check out this alleged proof. Not everyone!” he said sharply as half the boys there made to stand up. “Just the Council members and witnesses.”

Carl fought his way through the still-seated boys to the front of the room, and the Council members rose to follow him.

“Get up,” Minho said, tugging on Newt’s arm. “You’re coming too. You’re a witness.”

“Oh yeah,” Newt said, allowing Minho to haul him to his feet, balancing precariously on his good leg. He was glad to be included, but he felt a bit guilty for being so interested in whatever sordid proof Carl was probably about to offer.

They left Otto in the custody of the Baggers, Jackson and Drew, and Carl began to lead the way. He led them all the way diagonally across the Glade toward the Blood House, striding quickly, and Newt had to hurry to keep up on his crutches. To Newt’s surprise (although he wasn’t entirely sure what he had been expecting), Carl led them not in the Blood House, but around the side, into a small alley between the wooden walls and the stone walls of the Maze.

Carl stopped in front of a jumbled pile of boxes. “It’s under here,” he said quietly. Newt noticed that he was quite pale, and he looked as though he were steeling himself for something. Newt’s insides squirmed anxiously as he waited to see what it was.

Carl pushed over the first box in the pile.

“Oh, shit.”

“God-fucking-damn.”

“The shucking smell.”

The boys closest to the box turned away, looking ill, some of them covering their nose and mouth with their hand. Newt stepped closer, coming to a stop next to Minho, who hadn’t reacted except for a flinch that was so small Newt didn’t think he would have noticed it if he hadn’t been right next to him, and then a slight turn of his head away from the sight. As he went to peer over Minho’s shoulder, Newt looked at him; Minho’s face was tense with disgust, and as he held Newt’s gaze, Newt thought he looked shocked and horrified and possibly even worried, and that scared Newt more than anything else that had happened so far. When Newt saw what all the other boys had seen, he grimaced and turned his face away, catching Minho’s eye again, and a terrible understanding passed between them.

It was a dead squirrel. But it wasn’t just dead; it had clearly been very meticulously dissected: its skin peeled carefully back, exposing muscles, nerves and blood vessels. And that wasn’t all; next to it was the tiny but distinct body of a mouse in a similar condition. The sight made Newt feel sick to his stomach, and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away for more than a few seconds at a time; they were inexorably drawn to the gruesome scene.

“Otto did this,” Carl said softly, his eyes full of tears. “They’re dead now, but… they weren’t when he did this. And these aren’t the only two, these boxes are all hiding the bodies of the animals he’s tortured.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone about this sooner?” Nick demanded. He looked like he might be sick.

“I didn’t think anyone would believe me,” Carl answered.

“You could have shown us, just like you’re doing now.”

A tear spilled over, trickling down Carl’s cheek. “He said he would kill Trevor if I tried to tell anyone,” he whispered, distraught.

“Who the hell is Trevor?” Nick muttered.

“That’s his pet sheep, he hand-raised him from a lamb last year,” Winston explained quietly.

“He can’t hurt Trevor if he’s locked up,” Carl said, wiping his eyes furiously. “Or better yet, Banished. Now you all know what he is, and he needs to be Banished.”

Newt glanced down at the squirrel again, and his stomach heaved. “Fucking hell,” he said under his breath, looking away from the disturbing sight. He’d known Otto was dangerous after what happened with Wilson, but not this dangerous. He really might try to kill them all if they didn’t stop him.

“For the record, I did not know I was defending a shucking psychopath,” Winston stated, looking thoroughly shaken.

“It’s not your fault, Winston,” Nick said. “None of us knew. He hid it well, except for the slip-up at the Gathering when he told us he tricked Wilson on purpose.” He turned to Carl. “Thank you for showing us this, Carl. We’ll make sure he can’t do anything to hurt Trevor.”

Carl nodded, his lips disappearing as he pressed them tightly together, still wiping his eyes.

Nick called for a Council vote on the spot. Newt was glad they were dealing with the situation quickly and decisively, but he did wish they could move farther away from the grotesque, tortured bodies. He wondered what would happen to them. Carl at least would probably want to bury them; maybe he would let Newt help. While Nick went around the impromptu circle, allowing all the members of the Council to cast their votes, Newt let his mind wander, considering some of the horrifying possibilities if they hadn’t discovered the truth about Otto. How many people would he have hurt before he was caught? How much damage could he have done to the fragile society they had painstakingly built? Thank fucking goodness Carl spoke up. Maybe Otto would have been able to fool them, and maybe not, but at least now the truth was clear and unambiguous.

“Newt?”

Newt looked up quickly to see all the Council members were looking at him. “Me?” he asked stupidly.

“Yes, you,” Nick said. “How do you vote?”

“I’m not on the Council, why do I get a vote?”

“You’re the main witness to the incident, besides Wilson himself,” Minho said, speaking up quickly. “And Wilson can’t vote, he’s still the Greenie. Your opinion matters here. Carl got a vote, too.” He raised his eyebrows at Newt as if to add, which you would know if you had been paying attention.

Newt quickly decided arguing would be fruitless, as much as he might like to. Minho in particular was giving him a look that told him if he tried to argue he would sorely regret it. “Banish. I vote Banish,” he said finally, and he saw Minho nod with satisfaction.

“Alright,” Nick said with a tone of finality. “That makes it unanimous. Otto will be Banished at sundown.”

“If it’s ok, I’d like to make a suggestion,” Alex said. Nick nodded, and he continued. “Right now we only have Jackson and Drew on Bagger duty when there’s a specific task for them to do, but I wonder if it might not be a good idea to have them permanently on Bagger duty, more like policemen, and they could patrol the Glade to watch out for any suspicious activity. That way, if something like this happens again, we might have a chance of catching them before they do anything really harmful.”

Minho spoke up. “I’ll still need Drew sometimes as a reserve Runner. We have a schedule worked out so the other boys get a day off every once in a while.”

“Don’t you also have Garrett as a reserve?” Nick asked. “Do you really need both of them?”

“Yes, I really do,” Minho argued. “It’s important for the regular Runners to get a day off occasionally. Since we started this system, we haven’t lost a single Runner.” Newt noticed the hint of pride in Minho’s voice when talking about how long they had gone without a casualty in the Runners.

“Well then, when Drew’s running, Jackson will have to patrol alone, I guess,” Alex amended. “But still, I think it’s better than nothing.”

“I agree that’s a good idea,” Nick said, frowning thoughtfully, “but will only two boys, and on some days one boy, be enough? There’s a lot of Glade to patrol.”

“It’s not really enough,” Alex admitted, “but we can’t spare any more.”

“We can’t really spare them,” Winston grumbled.

“I know that means you’ll have another worker taken away,” Nick said to him, “but people need to feel safe. Unfortunately, I think this is a sacrifice we have to make.”

The other Keepers agreed, and it was decided. But privately Newt wondered if any of them could truly feel safe.

…

Otto’s Banishment was only the second one ever in the history of the Glade, and Newt would be hard-pressed to decide if it was more difficult than Larry’s or easier. Larry had actually killed someone, someone he had known rather well and had liked, but Larry hadn’t scared him quite like Otto did. Either way, the entire process was chilling and awful, and he was enormously relieved when it was over. Otto didn’t struggle at all, unlike Larry, who had given the pole-bearers as rough a time as he could, but Newt thought his calm acceptance, and the look on his face which was remarkably close to excitement, might be even more disturbing. When the East doors closed with Otto on the other side of them, all Newt could think was how much he wanted this day to be over.

Most of the Keepers and other boys made themselves scarce as soon as the Banishment was complete, but Newt noticed Gally slump down in a sitting position, leaning against the wall, a dazed expression on his face. Newt remembered how Otto had been questioning Gally that day when he did his trial with the Builders, and he wondered if he had done anything else to Gally. Newt limped closer.

“You alright?” Newt asked him tentatively.

Gally looked up at him, looking directly into his eyes, and the expression there made Newt pause for a moment. It was the look of someone who had seen things that terrified him, but had accepted them calmly.

Or maybe Newt was reading too much into it.

“I think Otto was sent here by the Creators, to test us,” Gally said, his voice oddly dull. “I think it’s good we Banished him. He would have caused so much trouble otherwise. I think… I think that was his purpose, to just cause trouble.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” Newt asked, hearing the hard edge in his voice but unable to keep it out. “You remember Otto? From before?” Those who had been through the Changing so rarely talked about anything they remembered, Newt was desperate for any scrap he could get before Gally clammed up again.

“Not - not exactly,” Gally said, shaking his head. He almost looked like he was trying to clear water from his ears. “I… I can’t really explain it. But I think Otto was a test, and by Banishing him we passed the test.” He looked up at Newt and saw his confusion. “I know it doesn’t really make sense. Nevermind, forget I said anything. It’s over now anyway, he’s gone.”

Newt watched Gally drop his head into his hands again, apparently lost in thought. He waited for a few more seconds, hoping Gally would speak again and explain himself better, but not wanting to pry. After a while he realised Gally wasn’t going to say any more, so he limped away disappointed on his crutches, past the animal pens and towards the Homestead. He knew he had no right to harass Gally for information that was personal and probably reminded him of a very traumatic experience, but he couldn’t help the intense urge to know more about before the Maze, to understand anything, no matter how trivial, about who they were and who had put them here.

As he went past the animal pens, he could hear loud voices. It sounded like a heated argument.

Great. Now what.

He changed course and headed towards the source of the commotion. Soon he could see who it was: Winston and Carl. Newt couldn’t tell immediately what was happening, but he could tell Winston was extremely angry with Carl.

“For the last time, keep that stupid dog the fuck away from my birds!” Winston was shouting.

Poor Carl sounded near tears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think he could get in - ”

“Yeah well he did,” Winston interrupted, still yelling. “And if it happens again, I swear I’m gonna kill the stupid animal myself!”

Carl straightened his spine stubbornly. “He’s a dog. It’s not fair to blame him, it’s his instinct.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming the dog,” Winston said, taking a step closer to Carl, his anger making him appear to tower over the other boy. “Fine, I won’t do anything to the dog, maybe I’ll just have you sent to join the Sloppers instead, since all you’re doing here is screwing things up?”

Carl seemed to shrink a few inches as he slumped down again. “I’ll keep him away from the chicken coop from now on, I promise.”

“You damn well better.”

Newt swung forward hurriedly on his crutches, hoping to diffuse the situation. “What’s happened, what’s wrong?”

Winston turned to face him. “Carl,” he spat out the name like a curse, “let Bark get into the chicken coop, and he killed half the chicks.”

“It was an accident,” Carl said in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t bring my chickens back to life, does it?”

“Why don’t you go clean up the, er, the mess?” Newt said to Carl, hoping he sounded tactful. When he was out of earshot, Newt turned to Winston. “That seemed like a fairly disproportionate response,” he said carefully. “Are you sure this is just about the chickens?”

Winston sighed and looked down at the ground. “No. It’s not, really. It’s just, the chickens were going to be the one easy thing we had going for us, and now that’s shucked.”

Newt said nothing, waiting patiently for Winston to continue.

Winston looked up at him. “I know I shouldn’t have exploded at Carl. But I’m freaking out, man. I honestly have no idea how we’re going to get through the birthing season without more help. I mean…” He hesitated, then plowed forwards, speaking rapidly. “I know Otto was a psychopath and it’s a good thing he was Banished, I’m not trying to argue that, it’s just… this might make me sound terrible, but couldn’t it have happened after the birthing season? I could have really used the help.” Winston sighed and rubbed his face with his hand, dragging it from his forehead down over his eye. “And now I won’t even have Jackson helping, because he has to be out patrolling for other psychos. The whole thing’s a disaster.”

“You can’t blame Carl for Otto getting caught,” Newt said, feeling strangely defensive of Carl. “It’s a good thing he spoke up, there’s no telling what Otto might’ve done otherwise.”

Winston looked up at Newt out of the eye he wasn’t covering with his hand. “I know that. I don’t blame Carl. I wouldn’t actually want Otto around the animals, now that we know what we know. He probably would’ve killed all the lambs for fun or something.” Winston frowned wearily as he dropped his hand from his face. He looked about at his wit’s end. “So no help is probably better than having him. But still, I was so relieved to think I would have an extra pair of hands, but now… I just don’t know how we’re going to get through it with just me and Carl.” He paused again, and Newt continued watching him silently. “I know I shouldn’t have threatened to make Carl a Slopper,” Winston admitted finally. “That was too far. Besides, he’s the only one I have left, even if I wanted to get rid of him I couldn’t.”

“What about Wilson?” Newt suggested. “Could he help out? Maybe he could be a new Slicer?”

“Maybe, as a last resort,” Winston said uncertainly. “But I think I’d much rather try to pull someone from another job before using him. Not to be mean, but he was pretty useless at everything when he did his trial day, and I just don’t think he’d be able to pick it up quick enough to be any help.

Newt felt a twinge of embarrassment on Wilson’s behalf. It reminded him too much of how he felt with his broken leg: useless, unwanted, unable to be of any help to anyone. But this is different, he reminded himself. Hadn’t Winston himself told him, multiple times, that he had been a huge service to the Slicers? Fighting past the self-doubt, Newt strengthened his resolve to follow through on the idea forming in his mind.

“If you want, I could probably help,” he offered, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “We have the corn harvest coming up in a few days, but Zart and Alex could probably spare me after that. Or, honestly, they might be able to spare me before then, it’s not like I can help as much with my gimp leg. But maybe you’d rather have someone who can actually walk,” he added nervously. He was already starting to regret the offer; he was putting Winston in the uncomfortable position of having to tell him they couldn’t use him, which would only be painful for everyone involved.

But instead, Winston’s eyes were lighting up. “Really? You could help? That would be amazing, I would love to have you helping out.” He took a step closer to Newt and reached out to briefly squeeze Newt’s elbow. “And don’t worry about your leg, there’s still so much you can do to help. It might make getting around a little tricky, but that’s nothing new, I’m sure you’re used to that by now.”

“Are you sure?” Newt asked, feeling hopeful. “I could talk to Alby or somebody about getting one of the Bricknicks or Builders or somebody else if you’d rather?”

Winston shook his head emphatically. “No, I’d definitely rather have you. I know you’re smart enough to pick it up quickly, and we’ve worked together before on the liming, so I know you’re easy to work with.”

Newt felt himself blushing slightly. “Thanks,” he said, looking down briefly.

“Are you kidding? Alex and Zart better be careful I don’t try to keep you as a Slicer forever.”

As much as he had come to love working with plants in the Gardens, Newt couldn’t help smiling at the thought. It was nice to be appreciated, to be wanted rather than merely tolerated. He and Winston agreed to discuss it with Alex and Zart the next day, and then they said their goodbyes for the night.

On his way from the barn and animal pens, as he was heading once again for the Homestead, Carl ambushed him.

“Why can’t you just stay out of other people’s business?” Carl said angrily. He looked so furious, his eyes spitting hatred.

“What are you talking about?” Newt asked. He couldn’t figure out why Carl should be so angry at him when he didn’t remember ever speaking more than two words to him before.

“You always have to go poking around instead of leaving other people alone,” Carl said, his voice intense. “Taking care of the animals is my thing, I’ve been doing it since day one, and then you show up and do one thing with the alfalfa and suddenly Winston is in love with you and wants you to take over my job when I’ve been here helping him from the very beginning.”

“Is this about the thing with Bark getting into the chicken coop?” Newt asked in confusion. “I was just trying to help, I wasn’t trying to undermine you or - ”

“I didn’t need you to defend me over the dead chickens and I don’t need your help with the birthing season!” Carl interrupted, his voice rising. “We don’t need you at all! I can help Winston by myself, I’ve been doing it for over a year.”

“Winston was the one saying he needed more help,” Newt argued. “I didn’t just offer out of nowhere. And didn’t you have more people helping last year?”

“We had Jackson, Sam and Percy helping last year,” Carl admitted begrudgingly. “But I have a lot more experience now. We don’t need anyone else.”

“Look, I’m not trying to take your place,” Newt said, trying to be patient. “And Winston was just angry, he’s not really going to make you a Slopper. I know you’ve been doing so much with the animals and I’m sure Winston relies on you a lot. But if Winston thinks you’ll need more than just the two of you, which he obviously does, then I’m going to defer to his judgement. If you have a problem with me helping, take it up with him.” With that, Newt limped away, determined to be finished with this strange and uncomfortable encounter.

He tried to think if he had ever done anything to Carl to make the other boy dislike him so strongly. He couldn’t remember anything in particular; perhaps this had something to do with the incident with Otto and Wilson? But he and Carl had been on the same side in that, hadn’t they? If he was being honest with himself, he was feeling a little betrayed; he had defended Carl to Winston, and now Carl was attacking him for no apparent reason.

But maybe Carl was right. Maybe you are jumping in where you’re not wanted, and maybe he really didn’t need you to defend him and you’re just being obnoxious and presumptuous. Was it true? Did he always push into situations where he didn’t belong? He had only been trying to help...

Newt gave up wondering, instead trying to shrug off the conversation. If Carl did end up bringing it up to Winston, Newt was sure Winston would back him up, although he hoped he could do it while also keeping Carl from being too unhappy. Newt didn’t want any enemies.

Maybe it was just part of Carl’s personality, that he was unlikeable and a bit antagonistic. Maybe there was nothing Newt could do to get along with him.

Newt sighed to himself as he continued limping along on his crutches, hoping very sincerely that he was wrong.

...

“Hey Newt,” a voice called. Newt swung around on his crutches to see it was Jeff speaking to him. “Can you come with me? I have an update about your leg.”

“Sure,” Newt answered. “But I thought I had another week before my twelve week checkup?”

“You do,” Jeff replied. “But this is good news, you’re going to want this sooner rather than later.”

“You’re being unnecessarily cryptic,” Newt laughed, but he followed Jeff, who smiled but refused to give him any more information as he led him to one of the Med-jack rooms of the Homestead.

Finally his curiosity was satisfied. “Look what they sent you,” Jeff told him, beaming and producing with a flourish something that looked like a vaguely boot-shaped tangle of plastic and heavy black canvas straps.

“What is it?” Newt asked, brow wrinkled quizzically.

“Well, it’s kind of two things, or at least a combination thing. It’s part knee brace and part walking boot. The knee brace part will protect your knee from stress, and the boot part will keep your broken bones stable and also protects your ankle. Look, it has a rounded bottom, so you can walk without crutches. You just roll forward. And the knee part has a little hinge, so we can control how much your knee can flex or extend, and slowly ramp it up as you heal.”

“That came up with the supplies?”

“Yep,” Jeff confirmed. “I asked for it for you, but I didn’t mention it to you because I wasn’t sure they’d send it and I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case they didn’t.”

“That is uncharacteristically helpful of them,” Newt remarked.

“Yeah, well,” Jeff rolled his eyes. “I also asked for… well, it doesn’t matter, because they didn’t send it. But even though I’m happy they sent you this, I’m not quite ready to revise my negative opinion of them when they’re so obviously serving some hidden agenda.”

Newt’s brow furrowed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means the Creators are still assholes.”

“Well, we knew that,” Newt said, smiling. He decided to let the comment pass; whatever it meant, Jeff clearly didn’t seem keen on telling him.

“Listen, we should also talk about your physical therapy.”

“Physical therapy?” Newt sighed. “Now I have to do therapy? How do you even know what to do?”

“Well, I don’t, not really,” Jeff admitted. “Obviously I’m not a trained physical therapist, so I’m kind of just making it up as I go. But I do know you need to keep it moving as it heals, or you won’t regain the full range of motion, so I want you to start coming in once a week for a short physical therapy session, and I’ll give you exercises to do to build strength and flexibility. This could be fun, though. We’ve never had someone with an injury like this before. It’s a new challenge for us Med-jacks, you can be like our guinea pig.”

“Lucky me,” Newt muttered under his breath.

Jeff didn’t hear him, or chose to ignore him. “So we just need to cut your cast off and then I can set you up with this, and you’ll be good to go!”

“Wait, we’re cutting the cast off today?” Newt asked, alarmed. He hadn’t expected it to happen so soon, and he hadn’t had a chance to prepare himself. Despite the fact that he had spent the past eleven weeks hating the cast and wishing he could walk normally, now that Jeff was talking about removing it, he felt oddly nervous.

“Well, the longer you’re in the cast, the more your muscles will atrophy,” Jeff said. “And we need to make sure you’re slowly strengthening the ligaments and keeping them flexible as they heal, but without putting so much stress on them as to cause re-injury. Walking in the brace will let you use the muscles, tendons and ligaments without over-stressing them.” Jeff paused, looking at Newt closely, and Newt nodded to show he understood. “This will be good, you’ll be able to walk again! No more crutches!” Jeff continued, smiling expectantly.

His excitement was catching. Newt thought about how much he despised the crutches and how great it would feel to be free of them. “Okay, let’s do it,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. It grew even wider when he imagined Minho’s face when he saw him walking without the crutches.

Jeff cut the plaster cast off with a pair of large, clinical-looking plaster shears. He slid the bottom blade inside the cast and leaned down on the handle, labouring to cut through the thick plaster. Newt had initially tensed in anticipation, thinking the blunt end of the blade would press painfully into his leg, but for the most part it wasn’t so bad, mainly time-consuming and arduous on Jeff’s part.

When the cast was off, Newt compared his outstretched legs. Next to the left, the right one looked thin and pale, almost withered, which he had expected, but there was something else he hadn’t. It was slight, probably less than half an inch, but it was unmistakable: his right leg was now shorter than his left.

Jeff looked stricken. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We did our best, I promise, but without X-rays, we must not have gotten the bone aligned correctly… I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Newt said numbly. “It wasn’t your fault, was it?”

He felt stupid for even caring about it. It could have been so much worse; he should be grateful he would be able to walk at all. But he did care. He was permanently disfigured because of what he’d done. A weight pressed on his chest, and he had to struggle to breathe deeply and evenly. What have you done, what have you done, what have you done. He blinked back tears. Jeff had already seen him cry enough.

You should just kill yourself.

Newt tried to push the thought away. He tried.

A gun. That would be the way to do it. Just put it up to your head, pull the trigger, and bam. Done. Easy.

He remembered what guns were, even though he couldn’t remember ever seeing one before. He even thought he might know how to use one, if he could get his hands on one, but he didn’t remember being trained to use a gun. He just had a feeling that his hands might remember what to do, if he were holding one.

Newt tried to push thoughts of guns away, but they lingered stubbornly. Too bad there were no guns in the Glade. The Creators only trusted them with spears, daggers and bows, apparently.

Unbidden, his mind imagined embedding a spear in the ground, throwing himself onto it. Maybe from a height. Such as a tree.

Or you could stop being a fucking baby and just cut a little deeper with the knife next time.

Newt looked down at his hands, and realised he was digging his nails into the soft skin in the crook of his elbow. When he moved his hand, he saw the crescent-shaped marks on his arm, showing up a livid, angry red against his pale skin.

He knew he needed to push these thoughts away, that they weren’t good for him. This was how it had started last time. The problem was that the more he tried to push them away, the more they would keep popping up.

Newt snapped out of his daze to find Jeff was speaking again.

“...okay with you, I can put this on now?” Newt forced his eyes to focus on Jeff; it was more difficult than usual, they didn’t seem to want to focus on anything, and his vision kept going blurry. Finally they locked onto Jeff, who was stood next to his broken leg, holding the brace-boot out and looking at Newt, waiting for his permission. Newt thought he detected a hint of worry behind Jeff’s eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he normally would.

With a hasty wipe of his cheek just under his eye to check that it was still dry, which thankfully it was, Newt nodded, and Jeff knelt down to put the brace on. His thoughts felt liquid, sliding this way and that, pooling in different corners. He fought to keep them in one place, focusing on the airy freedom of his broken leg, which felt strangely light without the weight of the cast which he had grown so accustomed to, and the new constriction of the brace-boot which Jeff was even now sliding on, gingerly handling Newt’s injured leg.

He watched Jeff fiddle with the different pieces, and Jeff laughed self-consciously. “Sorry, I’ve never actually put one of these on before,” he said, inspecting the straps on the knee area. “I think these go through these loops here, and then velcro on?” Newt watched him work it out with a bit of trial and error. “You should take it off at night to sleep, so you’ll have to put it back on every morning,” Jeff told him after he had tightened the final strap. “Do you think you can remember how to do it?”

“If I can’t, I’ll just send someone to get you and you can put it on for me,” Newt said, attempting a weak smile.

Jeff smiled back. “That won’t get old at all, I’m sure,” he said.

“Nah, I think I can get it,” Newt answered more seriously.

Jeff helped pull Newt to his feet. At first he leaned hesitantly on Jeff’s shoulder, but soon he learned to trust the brace to support him without hurting his leg, and he was walking around the room almost normally. Jeff warned him not to try and do too much right away, that he would need to get used to supporting his weight on his leg again, but he was barely listening, thinking instead of everything he could do now. Gradually his spirits lifted. This isn’t so bad. You can do it. Everything will be fine.

...

When he came walking over to the Gardens, Zart, Alex and Dave began to cheer and clap, and Newt couldn’t help the shy smile breaking out over his face.

“You’re walking again!” Zart said, beaming at him. “That’s great!”

“Yeah, it’s such a relief to be free of those crutches,” Newt said. Zart nodded, and he looked so genuinely happy for Newt that he felt even lighter. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all.

“That’s so cool, where did you get that thing?” Alex asked, pointing at the brace-boot on Newt’s leg.

“Jeff got it for me, it came up with the other supplies.”

“Do you want to celebrate regaining your ability to walk without crutches by taking the wheelbarrow of fertiliser out to the fields and fertilising everything?” Alex asked.

Zart shot him a warning look. “That might be too much to start out with on the first day, he’ll need to regain strength and build up to - ”

“No, it’s okay, I want to do it,” Newt interrupted hastily, pleased to finally be able to do something that required walking and using his hands at the same time. After asking if he was sure, Zart agreed to let him fertilise the fields, and Newt set off, pushing the wheelbarrow and trying to keep hold of that feeling of excitement and optimism that, try as he might, was slowly draining away. For some reason, it didn’t seem to last beyond their initial congratulations, and he found himself performing happiness in an effort to convince everyone, including himself, that he actually felt it.

At lunchtime, he saw Alby, who reacted similarly to the brace and his new ability to walk unaided. Seeing the huge smile on Alby’s face, Newt couldn’t help smiling back, even though his insides squirmed. It seemed every time someone new saw him walking without the crutches, he would have to put on the same act all over again.

He was also greeted by Stephen, who was with Alby once again.

“Hey, Newt,” Stephen said cheerfully. “Sorry it’s been a while since I could have lunch with you and Alby, I’ve been so busy. How are you doing? That’s new, right?” He gestured to the leg brace.

“Just got it today,” Newt confirmed. “It’s so nice to be able to walk normally again - well, semi-normally, anyway.”

“I’m right there with you,” Stephen said, grinning and showing Newt a bandage wrapped around his leg just above the knee. “I scratched it pretty bad the other day, and it’s taking its time healing.” His face twisted grimly. “I know it’s not anywhere near as bad as yours, but I’ll definitely be glad when it’s healed. My leg is killing me.”

“Well, until it does heal, I guess we’re injured leg buddies,” Newt joked.

Stephen laughed good-naturedly. “Alright, injured leg buddies,” he agreed, holding his hand out, and Newt clasped it in a light, quick handshake.

During lunch, Newt mostly listened as Alby and Stephen talked about the new room of the Homestead they had been working on for the past week. He was feeling quiet and thoughtful, and the feeling persisted even past lunch and into the afternoon as he and Dave picked bean pods, collecting them to be shelled later.

The optimism which had begun to wane returned somewhat as evening drew closer, and Newt anticipated seeing Minho when he returned from the Maze and showing him the brace. Just as he had hoped, Minho’s face was priceless: an understated, yet genuine smile spread across his face, and his eyes shone with happiness. Newt couldn’t stop his face mirroring Minho’s smile, and as he walked closer he saw Minho’s smile grow even wider, his cheeks creasing with joy.

“You’re walking,” Minho said simply, his eyes not leaving Newt’s.

Newt explained how Jeff had requested the brace for him, and Minho nodded.

“I like Jeff. He’s a good guy.”

“Yes, he is,” Newt agreed happily. “And it’s a good thing he thought of this, or I’d probably be stuck with the cast for another few months. And supposedly this will help me heal faster, and I won’t lose as much strength and flexibility because I’ll be using the leg without putting so much stress on it that it damages it again.”

Minho nodded again. “That’s really great. See? I told you things would get better.”

Newt smiled and nodded, but suddenly, looking at Minho’s face, he felt like something was breaking inside of him. His smile now felt false and heavy, and he struggled to hold it on his face as a lump formed in his throat.

Something in his face must have shifted, because Minho noticed, and his smile dropped. “What’s wrong?”

All the highs and lows and the rapid fluctuation of his emotions over the day caught up with him, and he felt overwhelmed and exhausted. He leaned into Minho and put an arm around his back. In answer, Minho pulled him even closer and wrapped both his arms around Newt’s shoulders, squeezing tightly. Newt gave a long, weary exhale and leaned his head on Minho’s shoulder, feeling tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“My leg’s fucked up, Minho,” he mumbled into Minho’s shoulder.

Minho shifted so he could see Newt’s face, his arms relaxing their hold but not dropping entirely. “What?”

“When Jeff cut the cast off. My leg, it’s fucked up. Permanently.”

“It looks fine to me,” Minho said, frowning and glancing down at Newt’s leg in concern.

“You can’t see it when it’s in the boot, but it’s slightly shorter than the other one now. The bone didn’t set right.”

“Newt,” Minho said softly, his eyes sad. “How bad is it?”

Newt tried to force a smile, but it felt strained. “It’s not that bad, really. I’m just overreacting. It was only a tiny amount, like this much.” He held up his fingers for Minho to see, thumb and index finger nearly touching. “And it could be worse, my leg could’ve been completely mangled and twisted.”

Minho pulled Newt in once again for a fierce hug, and they swayed on the spot, knocking Newt off balance. He would have fallen over if Minho hadn’t been holding him so tightly. “You’re not overreacting,” Minho said quietly, rubbing Newt’s back. “You’re allowed to be upset about this. It’s upsetting. You’re allowed to feel your feelings.”

Newt hugged him back just as tightly, so grateful to have Minho as a friend. “Thanks, Minho,” he whispered. “And I will be fine, eventually. It’s really not that bad. It was just a bit of a shock.”

Finally they pulled apart, arms dropping to their sides. “I know you’ll be fine,” Minho told him. “But it’s also okay if you’re not fine, at least not right away.”

Newt nodded. “I know. Thanks.”

…

Now that Newt could walk, a whole new set of useful tasks was opened up to him, and one of the first things he did was fulfill his promise to Winston to help with the animal births. The timing had been lucky; the first births began only a few days after Newt got the walking boot, and although stumping around the muddy fields with it on wasn’t ideal, he had a far easier time than he would’ve had with the crutches, and every night as he carefully cleaned the mud off the walking boot, he was grateful for the freedom it gave him.

There was a lot to learn, and sometimes the hours in the field checking on lambs and ewes and calves and cows were long, but Newt found it highly rewarding work. Most of the ewes and cows gave birth in the pasture, but Winston had chosen some of them that he thought might be more likely to struggle giving birth, and brought them into the barn so they could keep a closer eye on them and more readily assist if needed.

Most of the ewes and cows were able to give birth unassisted, and it was a surprisingly easy process, albeit a messy one. The first few times Newt saw the blood-red water bag hanging out of a cow’s or ewe’s vagina, he found it quite shocking, but after a few days it was a normal sight, and filled him with excitement at idea of the impending birth. Soon the calf or lamb would begin to emerge, head nestled between its forelegs, covered in disgusting mucus and fluid. Occasionally, if Winston thought a ewe was struggling or the birth was taking too long, they would assist by pulling the lamb out, and while at first Newt was almost too tentative and afraid of injuring either mother or baby, soon he became used to this too, and he and Winston aided several births this way. He was less eager to assist the cows giving birth like this, because they were so much bigger that a lot more effort was required to pull the calf out, and it was difficult with his still-injured leg. Luckily only a few cows needed assistance, and most of the calves came out on their own without a hitch.

Winston showed him how to disinfect the calf’s or lamb’s naval by spraying the area with iodine, and how to help clean the baby off with a towel if the mother didn’t begin licking the mucus and birthing fluid off right away. He told him about the importance of the lambs and calves beginning to nurse within the first 24 hours of life, in order to receive the vital, antibody-filled colostrum that could be the difference between life and death for newborns. And he told Newt the signs to look for which would warn of the main concerns, which were hypothermia, starvation, diarrhea and pneumonia.

Aside from one stillbirth and a few weak-looking lambs that Winston said they needed to be sure to keep an eye on, they only had one major incident, about a week into the start of the birthing season.

Every other time, when a cow went into labour it followed a fairly uniform series of events and proceeded in a certain time period, but not in this case. The cow kept looking like she was going to start giving birth, and she kept carrying straw around and nesting, but the calf was showing no signs of appearing.

“Can you check on the calf?” Winston asked him. “Something may be wrong, it’s not coming out.”

Newt had done this several times with Winston by now, but it was still a strange experience. He rubbed the vegetable oil on his hand and arm all the way to the elbow. Then, holding his fingers together in a cone shape, he carefully slid his hand into the birth canal.

“She’s fully dilated,” Newt said, frowning in concentration as he felt the smooth edges of the birth canal. “So I don’t know why… shit.”

“What?” Winston asked, looking increasingly alarmed.

“It’s backwards, the calf is backwards,” Newt said.

“Backwards, or in breech position?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Backwards means the hind legs are entering the birth canal,” Winston explained rapidly. “Breech means it’s coming out ass-first, or at least it’s trying, but it can’t because the birth canal isn’t big enough. Can you feel the hind legs, or is it just the tail and the rump?”

“No hind legs. It must be in breech.”

“Shit.”

“What do we do?”

“You’re going to have to try to pull the hind legs up so she can deliver it backwards. We’ll also have to assist by pulling the calf out, but we’ll worry about that later.”

“Me? Why can’t you do it?” Newt asked in a panic. “You’re the one who actually knows what to do!”

“I’ve never done this before either, I just know the theory!” Winston cried. His face looked as panicked as Newt felt. “And your hand’s already all up in there, you might as well try first!”

“Okay, fine,” Newt huffed. “Just tell me what to do.” He continued feeling around for the calf, trying to determine where the various body parts were located and make sure he understood how it was positioned.

“Push the calf forward as far as possible, and then reach underneath and pull the hind legs into the birth canal one at a time. Make sure you keep the feet covered with your hand so they don’t damage the uterus.”

Newt tried his best to follow Winston’s instructions, feeling blindly for the calf’s hind legs and grunting with the effort of pushing it forward.

“You might need to use both hands,” Winston said.

“Now you tell me,” Newt muttered. He waved Winston closer with his free hand. “Come on, help me put oil on this one.” Winston stepped forward obligingly and began to slather Newt’s free hand and arm with the vegetable oil, while Newt’s other arm was still jammed inside the birth canal. “Are you sure you don’t want to give it a go instead?” he asked hopefully.

“You’re doing great,” Winston said encouragingly.

Mentally apologising to the cow, Newt carefully slid his other hand into the birth canal to join the first. It was tight, but it did make things a bit easier. As Winston had instructed, he pushed the calf forward as far as he could with one hand, and with the other he reached underneath, feeling for the hind legs. He found one, the left one, and after feeling his way down to the foot and covering it with his hand, he lifted the foot and rotated it around the calf’s backside, keeping the joints flexed tightly as he went so here was room to move. With only a little struggle moving over the cow’s pelvis, he pulled the leg into the birth canal.

“Got the first one,” he told Winston. “Going to try the second one now.”

“That’s great, you’re doing amazing,” Winston said, smiling tensely.

Newt repeated the action with the right hind leg. This one was a bit more difficult, but again he managed it with only a little struggling and fumbling, and he was fairly certain he hadn’t damaged the cow at all.

“Got it,” he said, sliding his hands out of the birth canal one by one. The cow began to look like she was giving birth properly again, panting and straining, and already Newt could see the tips of the calf’s hooves poking out.

“Okay, now we have to help pull the calf out, because it’ll take too long on its own and the calf will most likely suffocate,” Winston said urgently. “But we can’t rush it until the hips are out, because otherwise we could really hurt the cow or crush the calf’s ribcage.”

“So we need to go fast, but not too fast,” Newt summarised. “Because too far either way could kill both the calf and the cow.”

“Yep.”

“Perfect.”

Winston wiped as much of the oil leftover from his hands onto the birth canal and around the calf’s legs, saying “Might as well make it as easy as possible.” Then he positioned himself next to Newt. “You grab one leg, I’ll grab the other?” Newt nodded and seized the right leg, copying Winston’s grip of just above the hoof.

“Alright, start slow,” Winston said, and on the count of three they both started pulling backwards, and slowly, the calf started to come with them.

“It’s working!” Newt said excitedly.

“Yes!” Winston crowed. “Ok, just keep it slow and steady.”

Then the progress stopped. “I think that’s the hips,” Winston said. “We have to be really careful for this part. Let’s just sort of walk it out slowly, alternate pulling each leg to ease it out.” Slowly, carefully, they took turns pulling one leg, then the other, no more than a few centimetres at a time, grunting and straining with the effort of trying to handle such a large creature gently.

Newt could see the cow pushing along with them. “Almost there,” he said quietly, as much to the cow as to himself and Winston.

They stopped to rest and check on the calf’s progress. “I think we’ve almost got the hips clear,” Winston said. “After that, we just need to get it out as fast as possible.”

“I’m scared of accidentally pulling its leg out of joint,” Newt said.

“I am too, a little,” Winston admitted. “But I think it’ll be okay, as long as we go slow and don’t yank it. And now that the hocks are out we can grab on from there. Ready?”

Newt repositioned his grip and set his stance firmly. “Ready.”

“Alright, keep it slow,” Winston said as they began to pull again. As soon as the calf’s hips appeared, he yelled, “Go go go!”

He and Newt both leaned back, pulling the calf as hard as they could, and it began to slide out rapidly, finally popping all the way out with a squelch. They tried to catch it and cushion its fall, Winston crashing immediately to his knees and Newt following more slowly, leaning on his good leg and keeping his bad leg stuck out to the side.

“He’s not breathing,” Newt said, his voice filled with urgency. The calf looked limp, eyes glassy. “Is he dead?”

“There’s a heartbeat,” Winston said, feeling the calf’s chest, behind the left front leg. “We need to clear the airways and get him breathing.” Winston turned and grabbed a towel from the stack they had prepared off to the side and tossed it at Newt, who used it to wipe away the lingering mucus from the calf’s nose and around its mouth. Meanwhile, Winston had grabbed another towel and began to rub the calf’s sides, trying to stimulate breathing.

“Is it breathing yet?” Newt asked hopefully, watching the calf’s side, hoping to see it rise and fall.

Winston paused, leaning back slightly to watch the calf. Still no movement. “Not yet,” he said grimly. “Here, you keep rubbing its sides and chest.” While Newt did that, Winston moved around him to the calf’s face and stuck a piece of straw in its nose.

Suddenly the calf sneezed and began coughing and moving. Newt watched as its chest began to rise and fall, and he and Winston both cheered.

“He’s alive!” Newt cried, relieved.

“She, actually,” Winston remarked, lifting one hind leg and pointing out the tiny, undeveloped teats.

“She’s alive,” Newt corrected himself, grinning triumphantly. Adrenaline was still coursing through his system from the intensity of the birth, and he wanted to jump up and down with joy.

“Carl will be sad he missed this,” Winston said, shaking his head ruefully.

“Yeah, where is Carl anyway?” Newt asked.

“He’s taking care of the sows all on his own. He really likes looking after the pigs, they’re his favourite animals, so I let him be in charge of helping the sows give birth to try and make up for exploding at him about the chickens the other day.”

Newt glanced at Winston nervously. “Did he ever say anything to you about me?”

Winston laughed. “He did, actually, he was trying to convince me we didn’t need your help. It was kind of ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry, I never wanted to cause an argument between you two, I just wanted to help.”

“Don’t worry, you haven’t caused anything,” Winston reassured him. “Carl is just… difficult, sometimes. He’s been that way ever since he was Stung, it’s nothing to do with you, really. And I guess I didn’t exactly help by yelling at him and threatening to demote him.”

Newt nodded and looked down. He still felt vaguely guilty about the whole situation.

“He was Stung around this time last year, actually,” Winston remarked. “It was really just a freak accident; one of the piglets got out and ran into the Maze, and he chased after it. Ran right into a Griever.”

Newt looked up quickly. “I didn’t know that,” he said, eyes wide. “I mean, I knew he was Stung, everybody knew that, but I never knew why he was in the Maze in the first place. We were all kind of wondering about that, actually.”

“Yeah, Nick and some of the others wanted to keep it all hush-hush for some reason,” Winston said, frowning. “Maybe they were afraid Greenies would think it was ok to run into the Maze if it was an emergency or something, but really, you would think the fact that he was Stung would be enough incentive to keep out no matter what.”

They were both silent for a few moments, watching as the calf climbed shakily to its feet and began to nurse from its mother.

“That’s a good girl,” Winston whispered soothingly, rubbing the calf’s side. Newt smiled, remembering how difficult the recent birth had been, but how satisfying it was to see the calf and cow alive and happy.

“Did he save it? The piglet?” he asked after another few seconds of silence.

“Yeah,” Winston said, one corner of his mouth rising into a crooked smile. “He did.”

...

Newt slowly straightened his leg against the elastic band providing resistance, maintaining a slow and steady exhale as he did.

“You’re doing a fantastic job,” Jeff told him, smiling.

Newt flashed a smile back in response, then bent his leg and repeated the action as Jeff continued to encourage him.

He was on his second physical therapy appointment since the cast had come off, and he was already feeling much better about his injured leg because of the progress he had made. At first it had been frustrating; his leg felt so weak and uncoordinated, and he remembered when he could walk and run and do just about any movement he wanted to do effortlessly. It was hard not to feel discouraged with the comparison of then to now, but Jeff was unfailingly optimistic and supportive of even his most feeble efforts, and Minho helped him do his daily exercises in between appointments, and he had slowly started to notice improvements. He was still a long way from being where he wanted to be, but for once he thought the end was within sight.

Jeff had him switch to doing standing calf raises while holding onto the edge of a table for stability. Suddenly, a group of people came crashing into the room, two of them supporting the third between them. Newt immediately recognised Alby on the far right, and then when they turned so he could see all their faces, he realised the person on the far left was Gally, and the person slumped unconscious between them was Stephen.

“We need help!” Gally called. “Something’s wrong with Stephen.”

“What happened?” Jeff asked, shocked.

“We don’t know, he just collapsed while we were working,” Alby replied as they carried Stephen over to an empty cot and lowered him down onto it.

Clint must have heard the commotion from the next room, because he came running in, pushing the door open and looking around to assess the situation even as he spoke. “How long has he been like this?” he demanded.

“He seemed fine yesterday,” Alby answered, looking uncharacteristically rattled. “I mean, his leg was hurting him, but it’s been that way for a few days now. This morning he was a little feverish, but he said he was fine and insisted on working anyway.”

“We never would have let him keep working if we knew how bad it was,” Gally interjected.

Clint cut Stephen’s pant leg and the bandage off and swore when he saw what lay beneath: a large area around the scrape was red and angry-looking, and a greenish-yellow pus was leaking from the wound. A foul smell filled the room, emanating from the newly-uncovered leg, almost making Newt gag.

“He has a 104 degree fever,” Jeff said, looking at the thermometer, his voice urgent.

“He should have come to us as soon as he knew it was infected,” Clint groaned.

“We didn’t know it was this bad, I swear,” Gally said, sounding almost frantic. “He hid it from us.”

“Maybe he thought it would get better on its own,” Alby suggested.

Jeff spoke up. “Infections can turn nasty really fast; maybe it only got really bad today.”

Clint waved their words away. “It doesn’t really matter at this point, we just need to act as fast as we can now.” He beckoned Jeff off to the side, but Newt could still hear their hushed conversation.

“What should we do?” Jeff whispered worriedly. “We don’t have any antibiotics, not even for the animals. No one’s ever been infected this bad before before.”

“I think we’re going to have to amputate,” Clint muttered. Newt could see Jeff’s face out of the corner of his eye, and he saw it drain of all colour at Clint’s words. “There’s no other option; like you said, we don’t have antibiotics, and we have to do something to keep him from going septic.”

Jeff set his jaw and nodded, and Clint moved to gather the necessary equipment. Newt’s stomach turned over when he saw Clint fetch a saw out of a cabinet. He wondered if they had ever had to use it before.

Clint glanced over and saw him watching. “Sorry to cut your appointment short, Newt, but I think it’s better if you leave now.” Newt barely stopped himself wincing at the poor choice of words.

“Wait.” Everyone turned to look at Stephen, who was showing the first signs of consciousness since he had been brought into the room by Alby and Gally. His eyes were open, and Newt could see them darting around the room in panic, focusing on each person for no more than half a second before jumping to the next. “What’s happening?” he asked.

Jeff went to his side. “Stephen, the cut on your leg has become infected. The only way we can treat it is amputation.”

“Amputation?” Stephen said, his voice rising to almost a squeak. “But… it’s not that bad…”

“We won’t do anything unless you say it’s ok,” Jeff told him, “but if we don’t amputate, there’s a very good chance you could die. We don’t have any other way to treat the infection, and if we don’t remove the source, it could spread to your bloodstream and cause multiple organ failure.”

Clint shouldered his way over to stand next to Jeff. “Why are you asking his permission?” he said in an angry whisper that nevertheless carried to where Newt was standing a few feet away. “You know we have to do this whether he says it’s ok or not.”

“I won’t operate without informed consent,” Jeff said stubbornly, his voice at a normal volume so that everyone in the room could hear him. He refused to look at Clint, keeping his eyes locked on Stephen’s.

Giving up on discretion, Clint grabbed Jeff’s shoulder and turned the other boy to face him. “He’ll die if we don’t. Our priority should be saving his life.”

“It should still be his choice,” Jeff argued. “Now that he’s conscious, we have to get informed consent before we do anything.”

“We’re not real doctors!” Clint practically shouted at him. “It’s not like we signed a hippocratic oath!”

“It still matters!” Jeff shouted back.

The two boys glared at each other for a few seconds. “Fine,” Clint spat finally. “But if he refuses treatment and dies, I’m holding you responsible.”

“Are you sure?” A small voice cut through the silence. Once again, everyone in the room turned to Stephen. “Are you sure I’ll die if you don’t amputate?”

Clint looked him directly in the eye, his face solemn. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Stephen squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking out and trickling sideways down the side of his head. “Okay. Do it,” he said, his eyes still closed. “Cut it off.” His body shook as he started crying in earnest.

“Should I leave?” Newt asked, feeling ill. “I don’t want to be in the way.”

Clint started to nod, but Jeff stopped him. “It might be good to have another pair of hands for restraint,” he said in a low voice.

“Don’t you have any anaesthetic?” Gally asked, his face horrified.

Jeff shook his head grimly. “We’ve asked for it, multiple times, but they never send it up.”

Newt found another reason to curse the Creators, as if he needed any more. At least he had been unconscious when he had been brought in.

Clint frowned. “It’s up to him, I guess,” he said, nodding towards Stephen.

Newt looked at Stephen, half hoping he would say he wanted Newt to leave. Stephen’s eyes found Newt’s, and he held his gaze. In that time, Newt could feel his heart beating uncomfortably strongly in his chest.

“Will you stay, Newt? Please?” Stephen asked softly, his voice cracking on the last word. Newt’s heart squeezed painfully.

“Of course,” he answered, moving around to stand by Stephen’s head.

Clint and Jeff continued gathering equipment; they assembled multiple scalpels, the saw that Newt had seen earlier, paper packets that Newt knew contained curved suture needles and nylon thread, clamps for holding blood vessels closed, and a length of rubber with which to tie a tourniquet. Jeff set about wiping everything down with disinfectant: the tools, the tray they were on, the table, the surface of the cot Stephen was lying on. Meanwhile, Clint rubbed iodine all over the surface of Stephen’s leg on and around the wound, covering everything within six inches of the festering gash and going all around the leg at the point at which he had decided to amputate.

When he was finished, Clint looked at Gally and Alby. “Which one of you is going to hold the leg?”

Gally and Alby looked at each other uncertainly, their faces oddly stiff and mask-like. Alby turned back to face Clint first. “I’ll do it,” he said. He looked more grave than Newt had ever seen him.

“You need to wash your hands with me and Jeff, then,” he told him brusquely. “You two should be fine,” he said nodding towards Newt and Gally. “You’re just there to hold him still if he moves.”

Until now, Stephen had lain almost completely still, with his hands covering his eyes, only the occasional sob or sniff showing that he was still conscious. But at Clint’s words, he gave a quiet gasp, and his breathing turned ragged. Newt thought he might be panicking; the surgery would undoubtedly be horrific anyway, but Newt knew the more Stephen panicked the worse off he would be. So while Jeff, Clint and Alby washed their hands and arms up to the elbow with antiseptic soap, being careful to keep their arms positioned vertically so that their hands were higher than their elbows at all times, Newt bent over Stephen’s head and tentatively touched his shoulder in what he hoped was a soothing gesture.

“I know you’re really scared right now,” Newt told him softly, “and I can’t lie, it’s probably going to hurt really, really bad. But it’s going to be over so soon, and then you’ll be alive, yeah?”

Slowly, Stephen removed his hands from over his eyes. He took a deep, shaking breath, hiccuping once. “It’s better than spending the night with the Grievers, right?” he whispered, and Newt wanted to cry when he saw Stephen attempting a weak, trembling smile, but instead he smiled back. The only thing stopping him from breaking down then and there was sheer force of will and the desire to be strong for Stephen.

“Hey, guess what?” he said as something occurred to him. “Now we really will be injured leg buddies. We’ll be permanently fucked up leg buddies, in fact. But I’ll be losing my title of Most Fucked Up Leg! You just had to go and outdo me, didn’t you?”

Stephen actually managed a laugh; it was only a single syllable, but it sounded genuine. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

“But don’t worry” Newt continued, “Clint and Jeff are great at their jobs, see how well they patched me up? They’re gonna do the same for you, and then I bet we can convince Gally to make you a prosthetic leg, or at least a little peg leg, and you’ll be hopping around in no time, right Gally?”

“Definitely,” Gally answered immediately. He nodded, and Newt was impressed that his rapid movements only looked a little bit manic. Newt smiled gratefully at Gally, and as they met eyes, Newt saw there a look of fear that was barely being held down by pure determination. He knew Gally was doing his best to hold it together for Stephen’s sake, too.

Finally Jeff, Clint and Alby were ready, hands and arms washed and wearing double gloves, still held aloft, hands higher than elbows, with their fingers pointed up at the ceiling.

“We can’t make it completely sterile,” Jeff said almost to himself, frowning as he rearranged the tools on the tray, “but we might as well do as much as we can.” Newt wondered if following these procedures almost obsessively was Jeff's way of keeping calm.

He and Clint positioned themselves near Stephen’s injured leg, Clint standing at the site of amputation and Jeff standing just to the left of him, ready with the tourniquet and clamps. Clint opened three of the paper packets they had set out earlier, positioning the curved needles and the nylon thread so that they would be easy to grab when the time came.

“We have to be as quick as possible,” he said to Jeff in a low voice. “The faster we do this, the less likely he is to bleed out, and the less pain he’ll have to endure. I’ll cut the skin and muscle, then saw through the bone, and you be ready to go in and close up the blood vessels. Ready?”

Jeff nodded, eyes wide and scared but hands steady. “Ready.”

Clint turned to Alby, Gally and Newt. “Ready?”

“Ready,” the three said in unison. Newt put his hands on Stephen’s shoulders, ready to hold him down on the cot if necessary, and Gally positioned himself at Stephen’s hip, on the opposite side as Clint, Jeff and Alby.

“Newt?” Stephen said quietly, looking up at him. His eyes looked wild. “I’m scared.”

Newt squeezed his shoulder gently and spoke around the lump in his throat. “I know. But it’s gonna be ok. Injured leg buddies, remember?”

Stephen nodded, a few more tears dribbling out the sides of his eyes and sliding down. He reached his hand up over his head, and Newt clasped it with his own, holding tightly.

“Wait,” Jeff said quickly, pointing to a towel lying off to the side on a counter. “Can you grab that, Newt?” Newt did as he asked, turning and reaching for the towel with his free hand. “Something for him to bite down on,” Jeff said quietly. Newt swallowed uncomfortably, then nodded, wadding up the towel and giving it to Stephen, who put it in his mouth. His eyes looked more terrified than ever.

“Okay,” Clint said, readying the scalpel he was holding. “On the count of ten.”

He went on two.

The screaming; the blood: Newt knew he would never be able to get them out of his head, not for as long as he lived. He almost fainted at least twice; Gally actually did faint, crashing to the floor for a few seconds before rising again, mostly unhurt but very embarrassed, to continue leaning his weight on Stephen’s struggling body. His head felt light, his legs numb and barely able to support his weight. His stomach clenched, and acid rose in his throat, burning and caustic, but he swallowed it back down, coughing and choking, determined not to let Stephen down.

Jeff had almost finished tying off the blood vessels when Newt realised the screaming had stopped. He looked down at Stephen’s pale, still face, and saw his eyes were closed. His right hand was still holding Stephen’s, so with his left he yanked the towel out of the other boy’s mouth and bent his head to listen.

“I don’t think he’s breathing,” he called to Clint and Jeff, his alarm rising. With his first two fingers he felt at the edge of Stephen’s neck. “And I can’t find a pulse!”

“Keep going,” Clint told Jeff fiercely, then rushed around him to lean over Stephen’s still chest and began pressing firmly in the centre of it with both hands, over and over, maintaining a rapid pace. After thirty compressions, he carefully tilted Stephen’s head back, using one hand to push his forehead and the other lifting under his chin, then pinched his nose closed and blew air into his mouth in two strong, quick puffs. Then he started again with the chest compressions. “Come on,” he muttered, his breath coming in quick huffs as he put all his strength into pushing down on Stephen’s sternum. Newt thought he heard a few ribs cracking.

He was still holding on to Stephen’s hand. He squeezed it tightly, rubbing the back of it with his other hand. While Clint was doing chest compressions, he bent his head so his mouth was close to Stephen’s ear. “Come on, Stephen,” he whispered desperately. “Come on, you can do it. Please come back.”

After a few minutes of alternating chest compressions and breaths, Clint was too tired to continue, so he switched out with Jeff. Jeff went even longer than Clint.

“It’s been six minutes,” Clint said numbly. “We should call it.”

“Just a little longer,” Jeff pleaded, panting as he leaned all his weight into the chest compressions.

But after another minute, there had been no change, and even Jeff gave up, slumping tiredly against the cot. Newt felt hollow inside; he stood there, completely numb, his eyes dry.

This can’t be real.

“Time of death,” Clint said wearily, checking his watch, “2:05 pm.” The five boys stood in a daze; no one wanted to look anyone else in the eye.

None of them said anything. There was nothing to say.

This can’t be real.

...

They held the funeral the next day, early in the morning so the Runners could attend before they left for the day. Newt stood next to Minho, and when Alby got up to talk about Stephen’s contributions in the Glade as a Bricknick, Newt faltered, and then Minho’s hand was there on his elbow, supporting him.

“He was one of the Originals, remember?” Newt asked Minho, speaking softly. “One of the original group of thirty.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Minho answered. “I never got very close to him, though. It’s a shame he died. It seems so pointless.”

“I wasn’t very close with him either,” Newt said. He glanced over at Minho, who met eyes with him. His look was soft and sad.

“You were there when he died,” Minho said. “That makes it harder.”

Newt looked away. “How many of us are left? Of the Originals?” His voice was the barest whisper.

“I’m not sure,” Minho answered.

Newt counted in his head. If he had calculated correctly and hadn’t missed anyone, nearly half of them were dead. He wished he could cry for them, for the ones he’d known well and for the ones he hadn’t, for Stephen, but his eyes remained stubbornly dry. His heart ached. “So many pointless deaths,” he said, lost in thought, staring out but not seeing anything. “When does it end? What more do they want from us?”

“I don’t know.” Minho put his arm around the small of Newt’s back, a comforting touch, and Newt turned to look at him as if he were waking from a dream. His eyes looked tired and haunted. “I don’t know,” he repeated, rubbing Newt’s back gently.

It wasn’t fair. Stephen had wanted to live; he had been willing to suffer horrible pain in order to live, and yet he had died anyway. And Newt, who had wanted to die, who had gone to great lengths to achieve just that, was still here.

Why did you take him and not me? The thought floated numbly around his brain. He wondered who he was asking, if he was asking anyone.

Did anything have any meaning? Or were they all just particles floating around, bumping into each other, with no direction or purpose?

Sometimes, Newt wondered if maybe the dead were the lucky ones.

...

You should just kill yourself.

Newt gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Not again. He couldn’t do this again. He had made a promise.

Jump down the Box hole. Sliced in half, lickety split, hardly any pain. Done and over with.

Think of something else, think of something else, think of something else, Newt chanted to himself. But the harder he tried, the more his mind kept wandering back.

Go into the Maze again. But this time, do it just before the doors close, so there’s no chance of rescue.

A voice cut through his thoughts, startling him out of his reverie. “Why does it seem like every time we’re finally starting to get a handle on things, something happens to shuck everything up?”

It was Alby. Newt blinked up at him, then slowly began moving his legs out from under himself, awkward because of his bad leg. Alby held out a hand, and Newt took it gratefully, letting Alby haul him to his feet. “Maybe the Creators are doing it on purpose,” Newt mused. “They can’t let us get too complacent for some reason. Have to keep us on our toes.”

“You really think the Creators orchestrated Stephen’s leg getting infected?”

“I don’t know,” Newt shrugged. “It makes sense, though. Like you said, the timing is significant. And no one’s ever had an infection like that before. It’s like they dropped it in here for a specific purpose. And they deliberately deprived us of anaesthetic and other tools that might have saved his life.”

“Don’t you think that sounds a little…”

“What? Cynical?” Newt laughed humourlessly.

“I was going to say paranoid.”

“Well, if I die under mysterious circumstances, maybe you’ll know I was actually on to something.”

Alby fixed Newt with a piercing stare. “Are you alright?”

Newt sighed, looking down at the ground. You can’t let him know. You promised. “I’m fine,” he said, looking back up and forcing a smile. “You were right, I’m just being paranoid. It was a scary thing, what happened.”

“Tell me about it,” Alby said, his eyes looking somewhere off in the distance. “I don’t think I’ll be able to forget that any time soon.” His eyes focused on Newt again. “Have you been sleeping okay?”

Newt pressed his lips together briefly. “Not really,” he admitted. “I’ve been having… nightmares.”

“Do you want me to ask Jeff if he can give you anything to help you sleep?”

“No, it’s okay,” Newt said quickly. “I’m sure I’ll be back to normal soon. Besides, I don’t know if they even have anything like that.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to ask,” Alby said. “But if you’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Newt said firmly, nodding his head. “I just need a little time, and I’ll be good as new.”

...

Newt found himself thinking back over every interaction he’d ever had with Stephen. There weren’t many, but he picked over them again and again, until they were threadbare and worn.

“Hey,” Stephen says, smiling at him.

“Hey,” Newt replies, somewhat hesitantly. He doesn’t know why, but he always feels vaguely like he’s in trouble when Stephen talks to him. Maybe it’s his authority position.

“This is going to sound really weird, but… I think I’ve seen you run before.”

“What?”

“When I saw you running into the Glade just now, I got a really strong sense of Déjà vu. I don’t know, maybe it’s nothing, but I kinda think I saw you run, you know, before.”

“Before we were here?” Newt asks, intrigued. “Do you ever get any memories of before?”

“Not exactly. I’ve had some weird dreams, but I’m never sure if they’re actually memories or just my brain filling in the gaps with whatever. But I get that feeling sometimes, this really strong sense of ‘I’ve seen this before’.”

“I think that might be something different though,” Newt says thoughtfully. “I think that’s just a blip in your brain, a weird neuron connection. I don’t think it actually means anything.”

“See, that’s the thing though, how do you even know that?” Stephen asks, speaking faster with excitement.

“I don’t know,” Newt admits. “I don’t remember learning it, I just remember it as a random fact. You must have stuff like that too?”

“Yeah, of course, we all do. It’s so frustrating though,” Stephen says.

“It is that,” Newt agrees.

“Anyway, maybe it was just a blip in my brain, but I don’t know, I think I’d rather believe that I’ve seen you run before. It makes me think maybe we were friends.” Stephen smiles.

“So you think we all knew each other before? Or just the two of us?” Newt smiles back, almost despite himself.

“I don’t know. Maybe we did all know each other before. Maybe we knew each other for years. Or maybe we didn’t know each other at all. It’s weird to think about, isn’t it?”

“It’s kind of depressing,” Newt says without thinking about it.

“Why?” Stephen asks in surprise.

“Well…” Newt thinks about how to explain his off-hand comment. “I mean, we probably had all these different relationships with different people; there’s the obvious ones that we always think of like parents or siblings, but also… I mean, we must have had friends? Maybe I had friends; maybe I had a best friend, maybe he’s even here, but I’ll never know. Everything that we were to each other before is gone. All the jokes, all the arguments, all the little moments that become part of who you are as friends. Everything. It’s just wiped out.”

“Ok, yeah, I see what you mean,” Stephen says, smiling grimly. “Depressing. Do you think we’ll ever get our memories back?”

“Maybe. If we ever get out of here and confront the people who put us here, maybe we can force them to put our memories back. Maybe there’s a way. Or maybe…”

“What?”

Newt can’t quite force himself to meet Stephen’s eye, looking instead somewhere around his shoulder. “Maybe they’re gone forever. Maybe it was permanent, like brain damage, and there’s no recovery.”

“Shuck,” Stephen swears softly. “I really hope that’s not true.”

They stand in silence for a beat. Then Stephen speaks again.

“Maybe, before all this, we were best friends. Maybe I used to watch you run all the time.”

Newt exhales slowly. “Maybe,” he says at last.

Of course, after Carl was stung and given the Grief Serum, they knew the memory loss wasn’t entirely permanent. At times his yearning to know about his life before the Maze was so strong, Newt almost thought it might be worth it to be Stung just to reclaim a few precious scraps. But he was afraid knowing, even those small fragments the boys who went through the Changing retained, would make it even harder to continue living trapped in the Maze. Could he bear possibly remembering his family, his old life, knowing how unlikely he was to return to them? Knowing he would probably die here inside these walls, never to see them again?

He went back to thinking about his memories of Stephen, trying hard not to wonder if they had in fact been friends before the Maze. Before they woke up in hell.

...

Newt went back to helping Winston with the births, but it wasn’t the same as before. It felt like some of the magic had gone out of it somehow. He walked around in a haze half the time, and even when he was present, he felt like a shadow of himself, like an empty husk, dry and brittle.

This was the closest he had felt to those days right before his attempt, and that knowledge scared him more than he wanted to admit. He tried to remind himself of all the friends he had left, of Minho and Alby, Winston, Jeff, Frypan, Zart and Alex, so many others. But they hadn’t been enough to stop him last time, and he knew they might not be enough to stop him now either, if some part of him decided to take his life into his own hands again.

It wasn’t that he really thought he was in danger of doing what he had done three months ago; what scared him the most was how easy it had been to slip over that line without realising he’d crossed it until it was too late. And the fact that he could just as easily cross that line again without even seeing that it was there.

The sows had all finished giving birth, so Carl joined them for the the last remaining sheep and cow births. The birthing season was winding down, and with Carl there, they really didn’t need Newt’s help anymore, but he kept showing up every morning to help anyway, and Winston never said anything about him going back to the Track-hoes. Even Carl had softened his animosity towards Newt; he had a feeling they were being extra nice to him because they knew he had been traumatised by what happened with Stephen, but Newt wasn’t about to complain. At least with Carl and Winston, he felt relatively sheltered from the rest of the Gladers. Everyone knew he was one of the five who had been in the room when it happened, and although no one ever said anything about it directly, he couldn’t help feeling like they looked at him differently now.

Or maybe it was all in his head.

One morning when he arrived, Winston brought him and Carl into the barn and showed them two newborn lambs.

“These two were probably born early this morning, but they’re orphans, I just found them on their own out in the field when I was doing the morning check,” Winston said. “I think their mother must have rejected them, and I was thinking maybe you could each take one and hand-raise it?”

Newt watched the two lambs. One was full of energy, gamboling around the enclosure, sometimes doing a little hop that was frankly adorable. The other was more calm, standing mostly still and blinking sleepily as it looked around.

“He looks like he’s trying to buck someone off,” Carl said, laughing at the antics of the energetic lamb.

“I don’t know…” Newt said uncertainly. “Shouldn’t it be you? I don’t know the first thing about raising a lamb.”

“I can’t, I’m too busy taking care of all the other animals,” Winston told him. “But I can give you a list of instructions, it’s not that complicated, just time-consuming.”

“Yeah, I did it last year with Trevor,” Carl said. Recognising his own name, Trevor stepped forward and gently headbutted Carl in the thigh. Carl reached down and scratched Trevor’s ears affectionately. “You can definitely do it, Newt,” he said, his tone encouraging.

The energetic lamb leapt and bounded over to Carl and Trevor. Trevor sniffed at the lamb, investigating cautiously. The lamb butted at Trevor’s front leg, but he was so weak and unsteady it had no effect on Trevor, and the little lamb fell back, sitting heavily on his backside. Newt couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“What do you say, Trevor?” Carl said quietly, still petting Trevor’s head. “Do you think this little guy could be your new brother? Do you like him?” Trevor bleated, then walked forward and licked the lamb on the nose. The lamb sneezed, stood up and started jumping around Trevor, who began jumping around too.

Meanwhile, the calm lamb ambled closer to Newt. Newt looked down at it, thinking. He still wasn’t convinced he wanted to spend all his free time looking after a helpless baby creature, and he was fairly certain he could convince Carl to take both lambs if he pressed him.

“It might help,” Winston said, speaking to Newt in a low voice. “You know, take your mind off things. Give you something else to think about.”

The lamb stepped forward, not so much headbutting Newt as leaning its head on the shin of his good leg, and Newt felt something stir inside him. It was faint, and incomplete, but it felt like his heart beginning to knit itself back together.

Newt knelt down and held his hand out to the lamb, who sniffed it tentatively, then licked once at Newt’s fingers. “Hey, little guy,” Newt whispered, a minute smile forming on his lips. He looked up at Winston. “It’s a boy, right?”

“They’re both boys,” Winston confirmed.

Newt looked back at the lamb. “Then I know exactly what to call you,” he said quietly as the lamb wobbled on its thin, unsteady legs. “You want to be my friend? Huh, Steve? You wanna be my buddy?” Newt heard Winston intake his breath softly when he said the name, but Winston didn’t comment on it.

Steve bleated softly and butted his head against Newt’s outstretched hand. Newt smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

…

Soon after, Newt told Winston he was going to return to the Track-hoes. Winston took it fairly well, considering.

“Are you sure?” Winston sighed. “You’re welcome to stay with us. I was kind of hoping if I never said anything, you would just stay forever.”

Newt smiled. “I really appreciate it, but I think I’m more of a plant person. I have a lot more working knowledge of plants than I do of animals. I loved having the chance to work with the animals though, so thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Winston said fervently. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. Would’ve worked poor Carl to the bone, probably. You’ll always have a place with the Slicers, any time you want to come back.”

So Newt went back to the Track-hoes, and was surprised to see Zart and Alex welcome him back enthusiastically. It seemed they had missed him more than he thought they would.

They were also highly amused by Steve, who would follow Newt around, bleating happily and wagging his tail, as Newt walked the fields, planting or weeding or trimming.

Newt took surprisingly well to caring for Steve; the first two days were the most challenging, as he had to be fed every few hours. Winston had had the foresight to freeze some colostrum from the ewes who had given birth to stillborn lambs, and every few hours, Newt would walk all the way to the freezer Winston kept hidden in the barn, take one of the small containers out and carry it around under his clothes to thaw it before putting it in a bottle and feeding it to Steve.

After the first two days, he began to replace more and more of the colostrum with milk, again supplied by Winston. After four days, he reduced the frequency of the feedings to five per day.

Steve was thriving almost immediately. He was no longer the calm, placid little lamb he had been when Newt met him that first day in the barn; he became a rambunctious, slightly larger lamb, who frequently woke Newt up in the middle of the night, bleating and headbutting him, hoping for more milk. But although Newt grumbled every time Steve woke him up, the truth was that he didn’t mind, and all Steve had to do was look at him with those adorable Bambi eyes, and Newt would melt.

He still sometimes had thoughts about different ways to kill himself; but now, when they burst uninvited into his head, he reminded himself that Steve was depending on him. You can’t kill yourself, he thought. Steve needs you. You have to stick around, so you can take care of him.

Some days, Newt thought Steve might be the only thing tethering him to life. Maybe that was putting it a bit dramatically; he didn’t think he was actually close to making another attempt, but at least he had something to cling to, something undeniable to tell himself whenever those thoughts occurred.

Then one day, on his way to get more milk for Steve from the barn, he ran into Carl.

“Hi, Carl,” he said. “Are you getting milk for Bucky too?”

“No,” Carl said shortly. Newt was surprised; he had thought he and Carl were finally on pleasant terms, but apparently that hadn’t lasted long.

“How’s he doing? I think Steve’s put on at least five pounds in the past few days alone, he’s getting so big.”

“Bucky’s dead.”

“What?” Newt asked, shocked. He couldn’t believe it; he must have heard wrong.

“He’s dead,” Carl said, his voice harsh. “He died last night.”

“But…” Newt struggled to make sense of what Carl was saying; his thoughts felt thick and slow. “What happened? He was…”

“Nothing happened,” Carl said sullenly. “Sometimes things just die and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. That’s just life. Baby lambs die sometimes; it could have been any one of a hundred different reasons.”

“I’m sorry,” Newt said. The apology felt so inadequate. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Carl huffed before turning abruptly and walking away, clearly wanting to be done with the conversation. As Newt watched Carl stomp off out of the barn, he couldn’t help thinking that Carl’s ‘I’m fine’ sounded remarkably similar to the ‘I’m fine’ he himself had given Alby only a couple weeks ago.

That night, as he held Steve in his arms, feeding him milk from a bottle, he cried for the first time since before Stephen had died, and as if the tears had been building up since then, they now fell thick and heavy, dripping down his face and landing in Steve’s wool. But when he remembered the look on Carl’s face when he had said Bucky was dead, he felt his resolve hardening.

The next morning, Newt carried Steve to the barn, looking for Carl. When he found him, he tried to begin the speech he had prepared, but the words wouldn’t come out. He shuffled his feet, looking down at the ground and blinking rapidly. His throat burned; he swallowed and tried again.

“Hey Carl, listen, so I was thinking, if you’re not too busy, I thought you might be able to do me a favour and take care of Steve instead. I’m pretty busy with Track-hoe stuff, and to be honest I’m getting tired of being woken up in the middle of the night all the time. So… what do you say?”

Newt couldn’t tell where Carl was looking because he was still steadfastly refusing to meet his eye, instead looking down at Steve’s wool, but it felt like Carl’s eyes were burning into him. “He’s already bonded with you,” Carl said stiffly. “If I take him now, it’ll confuse him.”

Newt forced a half smile, still not looking up. “I don’t know, I think he’s pretty resilient. He can bond with you too. And you know more about raising lambs anyway. The important thing,” Newt stopped to swallow down the lump in his throat. “The important thing,” he continued shakily, “is that someone is feeding him and watching out for him.”

There was a pause. “Are you sure?” Carl asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Newt said. “Please, Carl. Just take him.” It came out a whisper as his voice failed him. Blinking back the stinging in his eyes, Newt held Steve out to Carl. He almost sobbed when he felt Carl’s arms come up underneath his own to take Steve. He stood there, feeling empty and vulnerable, as Carl soothed Steve and stroked his wool.

He finally looked up and met Carl’s eye. Carl’s face was unreadable; they stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Carl muttered a hasty “Thank you,” and all but fled the barn, as though afraid Newt would say he had changed his mind.

Newt had never felt more alone than he did in that moment. Eventually, he sniffed and wiped his face, then turned and limped slowly back to the Gardens, where he continued working as though nothing had happened.

...

“Hey Newt, can I talk to you about something?” Frypan asked. Newt was just leaving lunch, returning to work in the Gardens.

“Sure Fry, what’s up?” Newt said, swivelling on his good leg to face Frypan.

“Umm,” Frypan hemmed, looking down and twisting his apron in his hands. “It’s just… I could really use some more help in the kitchens. Minho stole all my workers, and I’ve been on my own since Billy started running. Cooking for twenty-some-odd boys, by myself most days, ain't exactly a picnic. And most of the Newbies keep getting snapped up by Alex or Gally.”

“What about Dave? He helps you out sometimes, right?”

“Yeah, but not enough. He spends most of the day working in the Gardens. I need some full-time help.”

“Well, there’s the new Greenie, Ben, maybe he could become full-time kitchen help.”

Frypan looked at him significantly. “You know as well as I do that Gally’s had his eye on that Greenie since he came up in the Box, and unless I’m much mistaken the Greenie has his eye on Gally right back. And with… Alby being promoted, and other, um, recent events, everyone knows Gally needs more workers. It’s just… no one sees me as a priority.”

“Why are you talking to me about this?” Newt asked, frowning. “Alby’s in charge of the work rota. You should talk to him.”

“I know,” Frypan said quickly. “It’s just… I don’t know, Alby can be a little intimidating sometimes. But you’re friends with him, can’t you talk to him for me? You’d have way more chance of getting him to listen.”

“Alby, intimidating?” Newt said, smiling slightly. “Nah, he’s a big softie, really. You just have to know how to talk to him.”

“So, will you talk to him for me?” Frypan asked hopefully.

“I’ll see what I can do about getting Dave to be full-time kitchen help,” Newt conceded. “But no promises, alright?”

“Sure, of course,” Frypan said, flashing a relieved smile and ducking his head. “Thanks, Newt.”

Newt went off to find Alby. He finally spotted him over by the East doors, talking to Gally. Newt waited patiently until they were finished and Gally left, and Alby turned to him.

“Hey Alby, how’s it going?”

“Oh you know, the usual,” Alby answered, flashing a quick smile. “What’s up, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Frypan really needs more help in the kitchen, and he asked me to ask you if Dave could become full-time kitchen help.”

“Why couldn’t he talk to me about this himself?” Alby asked, frowning.

“Apparently you’re a little intimidating,” Newt told him, laughing.

Alby groaned, his face twisting wryly. “Honestly, I try really hard to be approachable, and still this keeps happening.”

“What else has happened like this?” Newt asked curiously.

“Oh, nothing big, just a thing with Ben that Gally had to tell me because Ben is still too scared of me,” Alby said, waving his hand dismissively. “Anyway, that’s a perfectly reasonable request, so you can go ahead and tell Frypan he gets his wish. Can you tell Dave too, while you’re at it? It would be doing me a big favour.”

“Sure,” Newt answered. He was somewhat surprised; he had expected more of an argument. The topic of who worked where was usually a sensitive, hotly-contested issue.

“Actually, it’s good you came to talk to me about this, because it gives me a chance to talk to you about a related topic, something that concerns you.”

Newt’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m all ears.”

“Nick and I have been talking, and well, we’ve been thinking you should be promoted to Keeper of the Gardens and put on the Council, and then you can also function part time as my helper, like a sort of third-in-command?”

“What about Alex?” Newt asked, frowning.

“Well, we’ll have to talk it over with him, but you’re senior to him, so if he won’t step down, I think the Council would give it to you anyway. Besides, everyone’s seen how much you contribute around here. They’ll want you as Keeper, trust me.”

“Why do we need a third-in-command?” Newt asked, changing tack. “We didn’t have one before.”

“That’s exactly why we need one,” Alby answered. “In case something happens to Nick, then we’ll have two people ready to step up. Or if something happens to me, then you can take my spot as second.”

Newt was silent for a moment. He shifted his broken leg, trying to find a more comfortable position. “That’s a little morbid, don’t you think?”

Alby gave him a searching look, eyes flicking back and forth between each of Newt’s own. “I know it’s not a fun thing to think about, but it’s the reality we live in. No one expected Stephen to die, but he did, and now we’re scrambling. I’m trying to fill his position, but I’ve had hardly any training.”

“Wasn’t that what all those weeks of constantly hanging around Stephen and Nick were for, wasn’t that like your training?”

Alby exhaled loudly. “Will you stop deflecting? I know you’re deliberately missing the point. If something like this happens again, we want to be prepared.”

Newt sighed, trying to scratch under his knee brace. The itching wasn’t as bad as it had been with the cast, but it was still driving him mad. “What if something happens that you didn’t prepare for?”

Alby grinned at him. “That’s why I try to prepare for every possible outcome.”

“I don’t know…”

“Well, you can have a few days to think about it. But we need you, Newt. You would be a good leader, I know you would. You get along with everyone, you know how this place works. You’ve worked with both the Track-hoes and the Slicers, so your input and perspective would be invaluable. You know what issues they have to deal with on a daily basis.”

“I thought that was the whole point of having Zart, Alex and Winston on the Council,” Newt said, hating how argumentative he sounded, but unable to stop himself. “So their needs are already represented. Why do you need me?”

“You’ve worked with both groups, so you’ll be able to prioritise between the two of them.” Alby said, clearly exasperated with Newt. He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked down, sighing. “Look, no offense to the others, but you’re better at this than any of them. You have a knack for solving problems and disputes, Newt, we’ve all seen it.”

Newt huffed out a breath. “I told you I didn’t want this when you mentioned it before,” he said, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. “And now you’ve gone and… well, I don’t know exactly what you’ve done, but it sounds like you’ve told Nick I’ll do something without even asking me first.”

“Why are you so against this?” Alby demanded.

“Why do I need a reason?” Newt said, his voice rising. “I just don’t want to, why can’t that be enough?”

“Because, we need you, Newt!” Alby said, his tone almost pleading. “And I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to help your friends who need you, it’s not like you at all.”

Newt had nothing to say in response. He clenched his jaw and looked down at the ground, feeling absolutely miserable.

Alby looked apologetic. “I don’t want to argue with you. Like I said, you can have a few days to think about it. Just, promise me that you will actually consider it?”

Newt glared at him. “Haven’t you extracted enough promises from me?” He only felt a little ashamed of how much he relished the look of shock on Alby’s face before turning and walking away.

A few hours later when Newt had cooled off, he began to feel uncomfortable about everything he had said. What if Alby figured out he regretted the promise, or that he thought he might not be able to keep it? He spent the rest of the evening worrying about seeing Alby again, anxiety curling in the pit of his stomach, settling like a stone. He should never have said all those things.

He didn’t see Allby again until the evening, when he was eating dinner with Minho. Alby passed by them, but barely stopped to say a few words to them, and neither Newt nor Alby would look directly at each other. Naturally, Minho noticed the uncomfortable atmosphere, and being Minho, didn’t hesitate to bring it up as soon as they were alone.

“Are you going to tell me what all this weird tension with Alby is about?” Minho said matter-of-factly when they were in a private room in the Homestead.

“Alby and I argued earlier today,” Newt admitted.

“What about?” Minho asked, tilting his head to the side.

“He wants me to be on the Council, to be the third-in-command behind him and Nick,” Newt complained.

“And why did that cause an argument?” Minho asked, his face scrunching in confusion.

“I can’t do it,” Newt confessed, covering his face with his hands. “I can’t be Alby’s assistant, or third-in-command, or whatever it is he wants from me. I just can’t do it.”

“Why not?” Minho asked.

Newt glanced at him from between his fingers, then closed his eyes.He hated admitting it out loud, hated thinking of how disappointed Minho would be in him once he knew. When he finally spoke, his voice was shaky and tremulous. “I’ve been… thinking about, um, about death, again.”

He heard Minho’s sharp intake of breath. “Are you trying to tell me you’re going to - ”

“No!” Newt interrupted him hastily, not wanting to hear Minho say it. He looked up, meeting Minho’s eye and summoning all the sincerity he had. “No, it’s not like that, not really. I just… I don’t know, I get these thoughts. I don’t know where they come from. But I said I’d tell you if I was thinking about it again, so I’m telling you. And that’s why I can’t help Alby; I can’t be responsible for anyone, not when I can’t even look after myself.”

“Well, if you say you’re not going to actually do anything, if they’re really just thoughts, then why exactly should that stop you from taking the position?”

Newt finally dropped his hands away from his face, sputtering. “Because… well, I mean… I’m not, I’m not mentally fit for it. For fucks’ sake, I randomly think about killing myself twenty times a day without meaning to! How am I meant to be a leader, even a third string leader, when I’m that shucked in the head?”

To his surprise, Minho laughed. “You think you’re the only one around here who’s shucked in the head?” Newt gaped at him as Minho shook his head. “I got news for you, slinthead, we’re all shucked in the head. How could we not be, living in this place, with everything that’s happened to us, losing all our memories, friends dying all the time? The only ones who aren’t shucked in the head are the ones too stupid to know any better. The ones who aren’t paying attention. And even they’re probably a little bit screwy.”

Newt clamped his mouth shut, grinding his teeth together. He felt a stirring of anger, but he wasn’t sure if it was anger at Minho for not taking his reservations seriously, or anger at himself for being so self-centred he had never realised the truth of what Minho was saying.

He felt shame welling up inside him; shame that he was so weak, shame that he was so selfish, shame that he had never even considered if anyone else was struggling like he was. He didn’t like feeling shame. He’d much rather be angry, and so he lashed out at Minho. “Yeah? Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t remember anyone else being so desperate to escape they jumped off a buggin’ wall.”

He expected Minho to get angry back; Minho was no stranger to shouting matches, though usually they weren’t with Newt. He had the feeling Minho might even bring up Emmett, who they hadn’t talked about since the day he never came back from the Maze. Newt was feeling wild and dangerous; he wanted Minho to shout at him, to rage and storm so that Newt could rage and storm in return. But instead, Minho just looked at him. Newt thought his eyes looked pitying, and suddenly he felt all the anger rush out of him, replaced by a profound sorrow. He felt so utterly pathetic.

Minho spoke again. “The only reason I’m not pounding you into the ground right now is because you’re my best friend, and because I know you have had a pretty rough time, so I should probably take it easy on you. That, and I’m too exhausted from running all day to be bothered with whipping your skinny butt. So I just want you to shut up and listen for a minute, ok?” He paused, sharing a long look with Newt, who remained silent, waiting curiously to see what he would say. “I’ve never told you this before, but sometimes, in the Maze, I… I panic. I just wig out, it’s like my brain goes a million miles a second and… I don’t really know how else to describe it. I freak out, I can’t think about anything except how scared I am, and I can’t remember any of the patterns or how to get back to the Glade.”

“You?” Newt whispered, forgetting his resolve to stay silent. “But you’re… I mean, you’re Minho, you’re Keeper of the Runners. You’re not scared of anything.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, everyone has their thing, the thing that gets them,” Minho answered. “Just because it doesn’t look exactly like yours doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Newt watched him silently for a second, shocked speechless. Finally he found his voice again. “But… you’ve lasted the longest out of any of us. You’re the only one of the original Runners who hasn’t quit or died; how have you managed it so long if you panic like that?”

“Well I don’t panic all the time,” Minho said, rolling his eyes. “Just occasionally. And when I do, I have a… coping strategy.”

“What do you mean, a coping strategy?”

“Well, what does it sound like? It’s a strategy to help me cope. Sorry,” Minho apologised as Newt looked at him reproachfully. “It’s a habit, I can’t help it.”

It was Newt’s turn to roll his eyes. “Just tell me what you do stop panicking. With minimal snark, please.”

“Ok.” Minho took a deep breath. “I just… this is going to sound kind of weird but… I do math problems. Like, I’ll start with a number and keep doubling it until it’s so big I lose track. Or I’ll pick a random, non-square number and try to figure out the square root to three decimal places.”

“And that works?” Newt asked, frowning, his brow wrinkled in concentration.

“It does for me. I think it’s just about distraction, tricking myself into thinking of something besides the Maze and the fact that I could die a brutal death around any corner. And then when I’ve been distracted long enough to calm down, I remember the way back.”

Newt nodded thoughtfully, still frowning.

“Anyway,” Minho continued, “the reason I’m telling you all this is because if panicking doesn’t have to stop me running the Maze, your thing doesn’t have to stop you being Alby’s assistant or whatever. You just need some kind of coping strategy. Maybe not exactly like mine, maybe that doesn’t work for you. But you can figure out something to do, whenever you start getting these, these thoughts about death, or about killing yourself… you can find something to distract you.”

“Any suggestions?” Newt asked, smiling faintly. “How would you distract yourself from the fact that you want to die?”

“Come on, you don’t really think you want to die, do you?” Minho said dismissively.

Newt blinked in shock. “What do you mean? I jumped off a wall. I tried to kill myself. Remember that?”

“Yeah, see, that’s exactly my point, though. I mean, no offense,” Minho looked guiltily at Newt, “but there were so many better ways to kill yourself, if that’s what you were really after. Hell, people die here all the time on accident, you don’t think you could die on purpose if you wanted to?”

For the third time since he had started talking to Minho, Newt found himself surprised into silence. Could it be true? Could Minho be right? Newt struggled to wrap his mind around the possibility. If he didn’t really want to die, then why did he imagine killing himself all the time?

“I think,” Minho said, “if you actually, truly wanted to die? You’d be dead right now. And the fact that you’re not means that deep down, you really want to live.”

Newt felt his throat get tight and tears fill his eyes. Still he said nothing, instead looking down at the floor. A second later he felt Minho’s hand on his arm, giving a gentle, comforting squeeze. A few tears spilled over and dribbled down his cheeks.

“Hey, that’s a good thing, right?” Minho said quietly, his tone encouraging. “You don’t want to die. That’s half the battle, right?”

Suddenly it was like a dam within Newt burst. The tears came faster and thicker, and a few choked sobs tore free of his throat. “I’m scared, Minho,” Newt blurted. “Even if you’re right, I’m scared that won’t be enough, that I’ll try again. I already came so close, what if I do it again? What if I succeed next time?”

Minho pulled him into a hug. “It’s ok,” he said softly, rubbing soothing circles into Newt’s back. “You’re alright. It’s ok.” His voice sounded slightly choked, as if he were only just holding back tears himself.

Newt pressed his face into Minho’s shoulder. “I’m scared,” he whispered. “I’m so scared.”

“I’m scared too,” Minho answered, and Newt felt his heart squeeze painfully. “But we’re going to figure it out together, ok?”

After a moment, they pulled apart. “I see your point about me being able to be Alby’s assistant, but…” Newt trailed off, thinking. “I still don’t want to. I don’t know, I just don’t think I can do it.”

“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” Minho said simply. “No one’s going to make you.”

“Does Alby know that?” Newt laughed grimly.

“If you tell him you really don’t want to, I bet he’d leave you alone, but if he doesn’t, let me know and I’ll take care of it.”

Minho’s words reassured him; he could always count on Minho, when it was really important. “Minho, if anything ever happens to you, I really will kill myself,” Newt said, smiling darkly.

The barest flicker crossed Minho’s face before he answered. “Are you kidding? If I’m dead, you’ve been dead for weeks.”

A relieved smile spread over Newt’s face as he exhaled a laugh, grateful for Minho’s quick and easy response, and for how he could relax with Minho in a way that he couldn’t quite manage with anyone else. “I still want you to help me come up with coping strategies, though,” he said.

Minho nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Of course.” He was silent for a moment, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “When you have these thoughts, what are they like?”

“Um.” Newt hesitated. Even now, he was afraid to admit to Minho how bad the thoughts could be sometimes. He didn’t want Minho to think he was completely whacked. You are completely whacked, and he already knows it, so it’s not like you have anything to lose. “Well, usually I see myself dying in different ways. Sometimes they’re pretty, uh, gruesome.”

“You see it happening, like you’re watching it, or like it’s actually happening to you?”

“Like it’s actually happening to me.”

“Ok, well, what if you try to remind yourself that it’s not really happening? So try focusing on where you really are, and you could think about all your senses - what you can see, hear, smell, touch, taste, where your limbs are in relation to each other, if you feel hot or cold, if you feel on- or off-balance. And you could even try moving around, really focusing on the physical sensations of movement and what your body’s doing at each moment.”

“Okay,” Newt said, narrowing his eyes and concentrating on remembering everything Minho was saying.

“If that doesn’t work, or even if it kind of does but it’s not enough, what really works best for me like I was telling you earlier is having a distraction. So we could come up with a list of things you can do to distract yourself, or just alternate things to think about, whenever it happens?”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” Newt agreed. “Normally I just try not to think about it, and so of course I end up thinking about it even more.”

“I know that feeling,” Minho said, grimacing. “Okay, let’s see. What do you like thinking about? What makes you happy?”

“I like thinking about the plants,” Newt suggested tentatively. “I like thinking about what we need to plant next, what things we need to do to help them grow, when they’ll be ready to harvest, that sort of thing. I especially like having problems to solve, like how we can set the Gardens up so they’re more efficient, planning out the crop rotation cycles, stuff like that, but I don’t know that I’ll be able to come up with problems to solve on demand when the thoughts occur.”

“That’s a start, at least,” Minho said. “Maybe you could make a list in your head of all the things that need to get done for the week? Or start coming up with plans of how you could reorganise the Gardens, even if you never end up using them? And if there are any interesting problems for you to solve that you already have handy, you can think about those too.”

“Thanks, Minho,” Newt said. “I think this will really help.”

Minho flashed him a soft smile. “Good. Glad to help.”

“You’re pretty good at this.”

Minho shrugged. “Lots of practice.” Newt and Minho shared a look, full of understanding and touched with melancholy. Newt wasn’t sure which emotion was stronger: relief that someone understood what he was going through, or regret at what Minho must have suffered in order to understand so easily.

…

Newt had the opportunity to try out his new coping strategies the very next day.

You could always hang yourself. If you jumped from up high enough, it would snap your neck, which would be a lot better than slowly suffocating to death.

Newt clutched the pencil and the sheaf of papers on which he had been taking notes for which new seeds to plant, his hands shaking slightly. He rubbed the thumb of his left hand on the top piece of paper, focusing on the texture, on the squeaking noise his thumb made when he pressed hard enough to create friction. He looked around at the plants, focusing on the different colours and the way they swayed in the light breeze, the rustling sound as the stalks and leaves moved past each other.

“You’re alive,” he whispered to himself. “You’re here, and you’re fine, you’re not hurt.”

You’re here, but you don’t have to be. You could drown yourself. It only takes two inches of water.

Newt ran a hand through his hair in frustration; it wasn’t working. What else had Minho said? He was already standing, so he began to pace back and forth, trying to focus on the movements of his limbs, the exertion and the feeling of being in motion.

He felt stupid, and it didn’t seem to be helping either. What else? Distraction. He needed to distract himself.

Newt looked down at the papers he was still holding. He had been working on the list when he had become lost in thought, and as it tended to do, his mind wandered to Stephen and some of the others who had died; Jack and Emmett, Alan, Greg and Ernie and Pierre, Perry, George. What he needed to do was refocus on the task, keep his mind from wandering to dark places.

He looked at the plants on the list, considering each one, where it should be planted, how much to plant. It was working, but it didn’t take as long as he would have liked, so he tried to do more.

He looked at the first plant on the list: barley. He tried to remember everything he knew about barley; how long it took to grow, what it could be used for, what conditions it grew best in, what the mature plants looked like. He went down the list, doing this for each plant. He was able to recall facts for some plants that he hadn’t even realised he knew.

After a while, he found himself itching to draw a diagram of the gardens and where each plant should go. Maybe it was a remnant of his Runner days, when he drew a map every day. So he took one of the spare sheets of paper, sat down in a shady spot, and began sketching a rough map of how the fields should be split up, which plants should go where, how many rows. It took a decent amount of time, and the work completely absorbed him, so that when he was finished, it almost felt like resurfacing after being submerged underwater for a while.

He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to go back to a mindless, repetitive task yet though, so instead he started planning the most fantastic garden he could imagine, the garden of his dreams, filled not just with vegetables and grains but with shrubs and flowers, plants that served no purpose except to look nice. He drew a diagram of the layout, and off to the side he added small sketches of the different flowers and plants, to help him visualise how it would look to walk through the rows of this garden. He enjoyed it so much, that when he was done, he started another, and when he finished that one, another.

Finally, he knew too much time had passed and that Zart would have long since been expecting him back with the list. Fortunately, he knew Zart wasn’t the type to say anything to him about it, but still, he hated to let him down in any way.

He made his way back to where Zart was organising and repairing tools, and handed him the list and the first drawing, the practical one of the plants they actually needed.

“Oh, wow,” Zart commented, examining the drawing. “This is really cool, Newt! I didn’t even think of this, this will be so helpful.”

“Thanks,” Newt said, smiling shyly. “I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea or if it might be going too far, but I just felt like doing it.”

“No, this is really neat! This is a good way of planning how many rows we need of everything.” Zart turned the paper over. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Newt said quickly. “Just… a silly little thing I did for fun. It’s plans for a garden I would plant if we didn’t need all the available space for food and feed for the animals.”

Zart didn’t say anything right away, looking closely at the drawing, turning it this way and that as he examined it. “I really like this,” he said finally. “It’s too bad we can’t actually… are those hydrangeas? I love hydrangeas, but I don’t even know where we’d get any…” he trailed off, still looking at the drawing. Eventually he looked back up at Newt. “Do you want to keep this?” he offered. “I could copy the one on the front, the one we need for the vegetables, and then you can have the original.”

“Sure.” Newt hadn’t really considered keeping the drawings, but now that he thought about it, it might be fun to add to them or improve them. And it would be a good idea to have the paper handy for when he inevitably needed to distract himself again.

As Newt went on to his next task, he thought about the fact that he had successfully staved off the thoughts, and he felt a small but persistent glow of pride. For the first time, resisting the urges didn’t feel like an impossibly hard battle to fight.

...

It was late at night, and Newt was lying in bed.

Kill yourself. You should kill yourself. Cut yourself with the knife. End it all.

Newt tried to think of something else. He reached under his bed for his drawings, but it was too dark to see them properly. He tried to focus his thoughts on the seeds they had just planted earlier that day in the Gardens, on how long it would take them to grow to an edible product, on what they would look like as seedlings compared to what they would look like as fully mature plants, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. The thoughts pounded against the inside of his skull, tearing him apart, beating him down, until he felt small and weak and helpless.

Give in, and it will all go away. Just give in. It would be so easy.

Newt was scared. It had never felt like this before; they had never felt this intense, had never attacked him like this. He felt scared, and alone.

Before he fully realised what he was doing, he found himself standing over Minho’s sleeping form, shaking him awake.

“Newt? What is it, what’s wrong?” Minho mumbled sleepily.

Newt was frozen. He had wanted Minho’s help, enough to wake him up in the middle of the night, but now that it came to it, he wasn’t sure he could say the words. Even though Minho already knew he sometimes thought about killing himself, it was different to say it out loud when it was actually happening. As if that would somehow make it more real.

“Can you come on a walk with me?” Newt asked in a whisper.

“Now?” Minho said, brow wrinkling. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know.” Newt gripped his left hand tightly in his right, twisting his fingers around. “Please, Minho?”

Minho stared at Newt for a few seconds, then swung his feet over the side of the bed and began pulling on his shoes, blinking slowly and yawning. “Alright. Where are we going?”

Newt led him downstairs and outside. He wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, but moving helped create an illusion that he was actually getting somewhere.

The silence was starting to fill his mind, a buzzing that rang in his ears. “Can you talk to me about something?” he blurted. “It doesn’t matter what, just talk about anything.”

Minho looked confused, but he did what Newt requested without asking why, and Newt was grateful. For the next several minutes, Newt stayed mostly silent as Minho chatted about the rumours that had been flying around about Gally and the Greenie, and when that had been thoroughly covered, about any and all other possible relationships between any of the boys. Eventually Minho drew Newt into the discussion, asking him his opinion on the relationship status of various pairs.

“Clint and Jeff?” Newt repeated, incredulous. “No way! They’re just colleagues.”

“Not even colleagues with benefits?” Minho asked, wiggling his eyebrows cheekily.

“Definitely not,” Newt said firmly. “Believe me, I’ve spent enough time with Jeff doing that stupid physical therapy he’s making me do, if he were sleeping with Clint, I’d know.”

“Ok, well, what about Zart and Alex?”

“Oh yeah, they’re definitely together,” Newt said, smiling slightly. “I thought everyone knew that? Haven’t they been a thing pretty much since Alex showed up?”

“What was that, about a year ago?” Minho asked, his face screwed up in concentration. “Shuck, have they really been together that long?”

“They might be the Glade’s most successful relationship,” Newt said thoughtfully.

“You mean, aside from me and you.”

“Right, of course that’s what I meant,” Newt laughed, bumping Minho with his shoulder as they walked.

They were both silent for a moment, then Newt said, “Minho - ”

At the exact same time, Minho said, “Newt - ”

They both stopped, looking at each other. “You go first,” Newt said.

“No, you go first.”

“Ok,” Newt sighed. “The reason I asked you to come on a walk, and to talk to me, was because… I started getting those thoughts again, you know, the ones I told you about. Only they were really, really bad, and they kind of just came out of nowhere but it felt really strong and… it just, it scared me. A lot. And I really needed help distracting myself, so thank you. I can’t thank you enough for getting up in the middle of the night, I know you were tired and you need to rest so you can run tomorrow, but… I really appreciate you doing this for me.”

“Of course,” Minho answered immediately, his eyes burning into Newt’s. “Anytime you need me, you just ask. I don’t care what time it is.”

“What if it’s during the day, and you’re in the Maze?”

Minho frowned. “Well, you could always ask Alby. I’m sure he’d help you.”

“Alby doesn’t get it like you do. And I don’t want him to know… I don’t want him to know how bad it is.”

“He doesn’t have to completely get it to be able to help you. I know he just wants what’s best for you.”

Newt shrugged noncommittally.

“Have you tried the coping strategies we came up with?”

“I did, the other day,” Newt said, nodding. “They worked pretty well, actually. Well, some of them did, some of them didn’t. But I have a sort of system now, it just wasn’t really working tonight. Like I said, it was stronger than usual this time.”

Minho nodded, looking thoughtful. “That’s good, at least. And you’re feeling better now?”

“Yes, much better.” Newt turned to look Minho in the eye, trying to convey as much sincerity as he felt. “Thank you, Minho.”

Minho flashed him a tight smile. “You already said that.”

“Because I mean it,” Newt said, smiling with his eyes. “Anyway, what were you going to say, before?”

“Oh, that.” Minho shrugged dismissively. “It was nothing, I was just going to make another silly joke, but the moment’s passed, it wouldn’t be funny anymore.”

“Ok,” Newt answered. His looked at Minho, but Minho’s eyes flicked away from his as soon as they met. But then a second later, Minho looked back up at him and smiled, and Newt felt something inside him settle, secure in the knowledge that Minho would always be there for him.

...

Newt looked up from the row of seeds he was planting to see Alby approaching. He stood up to meet him; he was pretty sure he knew what this was about.

“Have you thought any more about what I said?” Alby asked as he drew closer.

Newt sighed and ran a weary hand through his hair. “You know I have. I’ve done nothing but think about it.”

“And?”

Newt forced himself to look into Alby’s eyes. Alby was watching him expectantly. “I just… I don’t think I can. I don’t think I should.”

“Why not?” Alby asked, voice flat, face blank. Newt knew he was trying to hide how disappointed he was.

There was nothing else for it. He was going to have to tell him. “I don’t think I should because… I’ve been having thoughts, thinking about killing myself again. I haven’t done anything,” he hastened to explain as Alby opened his mouth, looking angry. “They’re just… thoughts. I don’t mean to think them, they just happen. It doesn’t mean I’m going to act on them.”

Alby grimaced. “I don’t understand. What are these... thoughts? Like you’re planning when and how you want to kill yourself?”

“Kind of,” Newt said, sighing again. “I just, I keep seeing myself dying in different ways, or different ways to hurt myself. But I’m not doing it on purpose, I swear. These thoughts just pop into my head, sometimes when I’m stressed or upset, but sometimes completely out of nowhere.”

Alby looked at him. His face was blank again, unreadable. He hid it well, Newt could still tell he was angry. “So you’re thinking about killing yourself, but you’re not trying to think about killing yourself, and you’re saying you’re not actually going to kill yourself?”

“I know it sounds strange,” Newt said hopelessly, “but it’s the truth.”

“Newt,” Alby said, a warning in his voice. “You promised you wouldn’t do anything to hurt yourself. You promised me.”

“I know,” Newt said desperately, trying to find a way to explain, to convince Alby. “And I really am trying.”

“I still don’t understand,” Alby said, frowning. “If you’re really trying, then why can’t you just… not do anything? Not hurt yourself?”

“I wish I could explain it better,” Newt said, his fingers combing his hair raggedly. “But I don’t fully understand it myself. It’s like - like I’m constantly at war with my own mind, every day, and it’s exhausting and I hate it, but I have to keep fighting because if I don’t, I’ll die. And maybe there are some low moments here and there when I think maybe I would rather be dead, but most of the time I don’t - I don’t actually want to die. I only realised this recently, but it’s true. I know it doesn’t make any sense,” Newt said, shaking his head wearily and looking down. If anything, he was probably just making Alby more confused.

He chanced a look up at Alby and was surprised to see that his look of confusion had cleared, and had been replaced with one of quiet sympathy.

“It’s okay, Newt,” he said gently. “I believe you.”

“You do?” Newt asked, his heart suddenly swelling with hope and affection for Alby. Maybe this wouldn’t be a complete disaster after all.

“Yes. I mean, I still don’t really understand, but I believe you when you say you don’t want to hurt yourself. It’s just hard for me to wrap my head around the idea that that might not be enough to stop you doing anything. But I believe you, and I believe you’re trying. I’m just sorry I can’t help more.”

Newt didn’t know what to say, he was so overcome with gratitude. He had thought this conversation would go entirely different, but he had misjudged Alby; true, he didn’t fully understand, but Newt had assumed that would also mean he could never talk to Alby about it, or that Alby would never believe he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

“Thanks, Alby,” he said, and he knew Alby could hear how relieved he was in his voice.

Alby shook his head. “You don’t need to thank me, I haven’t done anything.”

“Still,” Newt said. “I’m grateful.”

Alby nodded, but didn’t say any more.

“So anyway, that’s why I don’t think I should be in a leadership position,” Newt continued. “I’m not… stable enough. I don’t think it would be a good idea to have other people relying on me, in case… well, just in case I slip.”

Alby frowned. “I’m not trying to argue with you, but maybe it could actually help you, to have other people counting on you? It could give you extra motivation to - to keep fighting, you know, fight the urges. And it’d almost be like a vote of confidence from yourself, you know, like you actually believe you’re going to make it and you’re going to be around in the future.”

Newt thought about it. He had to admit there might be some merit to what Alby said; but he still felt profoundly unequal to the task. “What even makes you think I would be any good at it?” he asked.

To his surprise, Alby smiled. “Is that what’s bothering you? Newt, are you kidding? Everything you’ve done since you started working in the Glade! You’ve solved the aphid problem and the alfalfa problem, you’ve worked with both the Track-hoes and the Slicers and learned the skills for both of those jobs as well as anyone else, you’re on good terms with nearly everyone. You’re good with people and good at problem-solving and you’re a hard worker. Newt, listen,” Alby said, taking a step forward and adopting a serious expression. “I know you have this thing where you can’t see your own worth. But I see it, and I guarantee most everyone else here can see it too. If you don’t trust your own judgement, trust ours.”

Newt’s throat burned, and tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. He wanted so badly to believe Alby, that he had some kind of hidden worth that others could see and appreciate. He really wanted to.

Newt looked down and shrugged. “I don’t think I’m going to change my mind. I’m sorry.”

Alby nodded. “Okay. I won’t say I’m not disappointed, but you have to do what you think is best.” He took a step closer to Newt and looked him in the eyes, expression sincere. “Make sure you take care of yourself, alright?” He put a hand on Newt’s elbow and squeezed briefly before walking away, leaving Newt feeling empty and exhausted.

...

Newt was absorbed in drawing again; this time it was a detailed sketch of a cucumber plant flower.

He had continued making the drawings, although they became more drawings of individual plants, or landscape drawings, than schematics for dream gardens he’d like to plant. At first they were nothing more than little doodles, here and there in the margins of his notes and lists, but soon they grew larger and more elaborate. Some were lifelike, and some were more like diagrams, and he would even label the different parts of the plant: petal, sepal, anther and filament, stigma and style, receptacle, peduncle. He found the process soothing, and he could lose himself in the various flowers and plants without the thoughts being able to intrude. Sometimes he would become so engrossed, when he finally resurfaced, the only way he could tell how much time had passed was by the movement of the sun.

He had collected scraps and pieces of paper here and there, saving them under his bed folded in a swatch of old leather. He had taken to carrying one or two pieces of paper on him at all times, in case he needed them, and slowly he had amassed a respectable pile of drawings. Sometimes he even did it just for the fun of it, and not because he needed to distract himself.

That was what he was doing now, sketching for fun. He had finished his Track-hoe tasks for the day, and was sitting peacefully in the shade, taking inspiration from the scenery around him, when the unmistakable noise of two boys in a heated argument disturbed the peaceful setting.

Newt looked up. It was Dave and Wilson, and it looked rather serious; the two boys had escalated to shoving each other back and forth, and were looking like they might break into a full-on brawl at any moment. Newt stood up quickly and hurried towards them as fast as he could on his bad leg.

“Hey, hey, break it up!” Newt yelled, charging in between the two boys and shoving them apart. They stood, panting, Newt between them with arms outstretched, ready to push back if they started going for each other again. “What’s all this, then?” he asked, looking back and forth between them.

“He stole something of mine,” Dave answered hotly. “He took it and he had no right, it was mine and I want it back!”

“Is that true?” Newt asked, looking at Wilson, who was scowling at the ground.

“How come he gets to have a weapon, anyway?” he asked angrily. “None of the rest of us get weapons.”

“Weapon?” Newt repeated, looking back at Dave. “What’s he talking about? Do you have a weapon?”

Dave opened and closed his mouth several times with no sound coming out.

“He had this knife,” Wilson said, holding the item in question aloft. “None of us are supposed to have knives unless we’re using them for a task and then we have to give them right back.”

“I wasn’t going to use it to hurt anyone!” Dave insisted. “And you still had no right to take it from me,” Dave said fiercely to Wilson. “You’ve only been here a month, you’re not the boss of me!”

“More than a month!” Wilson argued. “I’m not the Greenie anymore! And you’re still not allowed to have weapons!”

“Ok, ok, enough!” Newt shouted over their continued arguing. “Just cut it out, alright? And give me this.” Newt took the knife carefully out of Wilson’s hand. “You can’t just go waving that around, you’ll hurt someone.” He turned to Dave. “But he’s right, you’re not supposed to have this,” Newt said, tucking the knife carefully into his belt. “Where did you get it, anyway?”

“From the kitchen,” Dave said sullenly. “But I wasn’t going to hurt anyone, I swear! I only wanted it for…” he trailed off, his cheeks turning pink.

“For what?” Newt asked curiously.

“I’m trying to teach myself how to whittle,” Dave mumbled, looking down at his feet. “I just thought it sounded like fun. I wasn’t gonna hurt anyone.”

“It’s ok, I believe you,” Newt told him. “But you still can’t have this knife, it’s not safe. Maybe you weren’t going to hurt anyone, but someone who did want to hurt someone could easily steal it from you. And it probably wouldn’t work well for whittling anyway, it’s a kitchen knife.”

Dave was still looking down at the ground, sulking. He didn’t say anything. Newt found himself feeling grateful that Wilson didn’t gloat. He felt bad for Dave; he wanted him to be able to pursue a hobby like whittling if he wanted to, but the rules were the rules for a reason.

He took the knife back to the kitchen and gave it to Frypan, warning him to keep a closer eye on the kitchen knives. Then he went looking for Alby.

Luckily, he found him on his own in the Homestead, making a list that was probably of vital importance to daily operations in the Glade.

Alby looked up when he heard Newt’s footsteps. “Hey, Newt. What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering if there are any little pocket knives, like something you could use for whittling but that wouldn’t really be considered threatening, so it would be ok if one of the Gladers had it?”

“We might have something like that,” Alby said, frowning in concentration. “What’s this for?”

“I caught Dave with a kitchen knife, and he said he wanted it for whittling. I took it away from him, don’t worry,” Newt said quickly, seeing Alby look worried. “But I was just wondering if we couldn’t give him something he could actually use. I don’t think it would hurt anything, if it was just a little pocket knife. And it would be nice to let the boys have things that are just… I don’t know, just for fun. We’re so focused on work all the time, sometimes we forget to have fun.”

Alby watched him for a moment, considering. Then he nodded. “I think that’s a really good point, actually. We can go look for a pocket knife now, I’m just finishing this up.”

“Alright,” Newt replied, smiling in relief.

“Oh, here, do you want this extra piece of paper? I know you collect them sometimes for your drawings.” Alby held the paper out, his eyebrows raised in question.

“Oh. Sure, thanks,” Newt said, taking the paper with mild surprise. For some reason, Alby’s kindness made him feel vaguely guilty. And he hadn’t realised Alby even knew about his drawings.

Perhaps he hadn’t given Alby enough credit, once again.

They went to look in one of the tool storage cabinets, and sure enough, there was a small selection of pocket knives that could be suitable for wood carving. Newt picked one, then went out to find Dave again.

He was in the kitchens, helping Frypan prepare for dinner. Newt could tell he was in a mood because he kept banging all the pots and pans every time he set one down on the counter or the hob.

“Dave, could I speak to you for a moment?” Newt called.

Dave looked up at him, then shuffled over, scowling at the floor.

“I have something for you,” Newt told him, “but first you have to promise you won’t go around bragging about it and rubbing it in the other boys’ faces. And you can only use it for its intended purpose.”

Dave looked extremely confused, but he promised, and when Newt pulled out the pocket knife and held it out to him, his eyes lit up with an excitement so pure it warmed Newt’s heart.

“I can really have this? It’s mine to keep?” he asked in a hushed voice, his fingers closing around the pocket knife with a slow reverence.

“Yes, it’s yours to keep,” Newt said, suppressing an amused smile. “But if I find out you’ve used it on anything except wood,” he said more sternly, “or that you’ve broken your promise and bragged about getting an exception to the rules, I’m taking it right back, and you’ll never see it again. Understood?”

“Yes,” Dave answered, nodding solemnly. “I won’t, I promise.”

Newt recalled the first time he had seen Dave, at the bonfire the first night he had gotten off bed rest. Like then, he found himself thinking how young Dave looked, how much older than him Newt felt, even though there couldn’t be more than a year or two’s difference at most. But he had been in the Maze a year longer than Dave, and time worked differently in the Maze. None of them had gotten the childhood they deserved, but if Newt could do anything to ensure Dave, or any of the younger boys, could have even a small piece of what they had lost, then he was glad to do it.

He felt strangely protective of Dave, almost paternal. He was just a kid. He didn’t deserve to be here, he should be out having a normal life. If such a thing even existed.

Newt watched him go back to work with a slight skip in his step, looking much more cheerful than before, and he felt a small glow of accomplishment. It was a small thing, but it made a huge difference to Dave, and that made a difference to him.

...

Newt and Alex worked in the fields together, tilling the soil of the field that was scheduled to lie fallow this growing cycle. The sunlight beat down on them, and combined with their exertion soon made the temperature uncomfortably warm. Newt could feel beads of sweat trickling down his temple, his neck, his back.

The intense brightness reminded him of something. “Do you ever think it’s weird how we’re out in the sun all day, but none of us ever get a sunburn?” Newt asked, pausing his work and turning to Alex.

“Huh,” Alex looked over at him, squinting in the bright light. “I guess I never thought about it.”

“I can’t remember ever actually having a sunburn,” Newt continued, “but I have the overwhelming feeling that it’s something I should be worried about. Like maybe I used to get sunburnt all the time.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Alex commented. “Look how pale you are, you should burn in about five minutes.”

“Exactly!” Newt agreed. “But I never do! I haven’t had a sunburn the entire time I’ve been here. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

“Yeah, I guess so, now that you mention it.” Alex frowned.

Newt shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe I’m just being paranoid or something.”

“Paranoid about what?”

“I don’t know. About everything here, I guess.”

They worked in silence for several more minutes.

“Alby’s asked you about becoming Keeper of the Gardens, hasn’t he?” Alex said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Newt looked up at him quickly. Alex wouldn’t meet his gaze, instead squinting down at his hoe. “Yeah, he did,” Newt admitted. “I turned him down, though. I’m not after your job, don’t worry.”

“Well,” Alex said, laughing awkwardly, “I was going to say I think you should take it.”

“But…” Newt stopped working and leaned on his own hoe, confusion all over his face. “It’s your job, you’ve been doing it for so long now, why should I just come in and take it from you? You and Zart have a whole system worked out, it would be silly for me to try and take over.”

“You wouldn’t be taking over, exactly,” Alex reasoned. “I could still work closely with Zart. But to tell you the truth, I’m not that bothered about being Keeper. It’s a lot of responsibility, and I think you’d do a better job anyway.”

“What makes you think that? You’ve been doing this so much longer than me, surely that makes you better suited to the job.”

“It’s not just about experience,” Alex told him. “There’s also depth of knowledge, natural ability. Anyway, I just think you’d be good at it, and it would give me an excuse not to have to do it anymore without looking lazy.” He grinned at Newt.

“Are you sure?” Newt asked. “You really think I’d be good at it?”

“You practically do everything I do now anyway, except for going to Council meetings and fighting Winston and Gally for workers. I’d love to not have to do that anymore, it turns me into a person I can’t stand.” The corners of his mouth turned down.

Newt tried to lighten the mood with a joke. “Come on, you really think you’d be content to let Zart duke it out with them on his own?” He was pleased to see a slight smile cross Alex’s face at the thought.

Alex groaned. “I hate being ‘that guy’, you know? But I just can’t help it, we went from having four workers to having only one, and I know most of the other groups are in a similar position, but there aren’t enough Greenies for everyone, and I feel like I’m not doing my job as a Keeper if I sit back and don’t at least try to get us more help.”

Newt nodded thoughtfully. “I get it. It’s a difficult situation for everyone. Maybe we could work out a better schedule, with more people having multiple jobs so nobody’s scrambling during their busiest time…” He trailed off, seeing Alex watching him expectantly. “But I’m sure Alby’s already working on something with the work rota,” he hedged.

“Well anyway, you don’t have to take my spot if you really don’t want to,” Alex said. “I just thought I’d put my two cents in, in case you were worried how I’d take getting demoted.” He flashed Newt a gentle smile.

“I don’t know, I’ll have to think about it some more,” Newt said, frowning as he resumed breaking up the soil with his hoe.

Alex didn’t answer. He went back to working the soil as well, and they continued tilling the rest of the field in silence.

...

Newt found Alby standing on his own in the southwest corner of the Glade. He walked up to him, leaning down to adjust his knee brace as he went. He’d gotten it on a bit wonky that morning, and one of the plastic bits was digging uncomfortably into his leg.

“How much longer do you have to wear that thing?” Alby asked, gesturing to the brace-boot.

“At least another four weeks,” Newt answered, grimacing. “But if Jeff has his way it’ll be closer to eight.”

“You must be nearly healed by now?”

“Apparently severe tibial fractures can take up to twenty-four weeks to fully heal,” Newt told him. “And I’m only at sixteen weeks.”

Alby nodded, almost to himself. Newt took a deep breath, gathering his nerves.

“I’m not saying I’ll accept the position,” he said slowly. “But if I did - ” A broad grin was already sliding across Alby’s face. “If I did,” Newt plowed on, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge him, “I think it should just be as your assistant, not as Keeper of the Gardens. And I think the Gardeners and Track-hoes should be combined into one group, they basically work together on everything anyway, it’s just confusing having them as two separate groups. And Zart should be Keeper, but leave Alex on the Council, he has important contributions. I’ve already talked to Alex, and he’ll be okay with this, he said he wasn’t keen on being a Keeper anyway.”

Alby considered him with amusement. “You seem to have given this a lot of thought for someone who’s not even sure they want the position.”

“Those are my conditions,” Newt said delicately. “If you accept them, then we can start talking about whether or not I’ll take the position.”

Alby nodded thoughtfully. “That all sounds good to me. I don’t know whose idea it was to split up Gardeners and Track-hoes anyway, seems like basically the same job to me. And Alex has been asking for less responsibility?”

“Yes,” Newt confirmed. “He probably won’t be too pleased I’ve recommended keeping him on the Council, actually, but I think it’s for the best. And the Council doesn’t meet that often, he’ll get over it.”

“So what else do you want to talk about?”

Newt took another deep breath. “What exactly would my duties be, as your assistant? What responsibilities would I have?”

“You would help solve problems and settle disputes that arise. Which you’re pretty much already doing now,” Alby pointed out. “You would probably help more in overall planning for things like building projects and general organization of the Glade. And of course, if anything happened to me, you would take my place. Or if anything happened to Nick, I would take his place and you would be my second-in-command.”

Newt nodded. His eyes were on Alby but they weren’t focused, and he was thinking carefully. “But nothing’s going to happen to you, right? Or Nick?”

“Well I’m not planning on going anywhere, but accidents have been known to happen,” Alby joked.

“I just - I’m not sure I could do it, lead the whole Glade on my own, without you or Nick. Well, mostly without you,” Newt admitted. “No offense to Nick, but - I already rely on you much more than him. I don’t think I could do it without you.”

“You won’t have to,” Alby said. “I’m not going anywhere, alright? We’ll be a team.”

Newt looked at him without answering. The air between them felt heavy with the knowledge that neither of them could truly guarantee that nothing would happen.

“So, what do you say?” Alby finally asked, after the silence had lengthened uncomfortably. “Do you accept?”

Newt’s eyes flicked down, then back up to Alby’s face. “Oh, alright then,” he said, and Alby’s face split into a grin once again. Newt sincerely hoped he wouldn’t regret this decision.

“That’s wonderful,” Alby said, holding his hand out. Newt took it, and they shook on the agreement, giving it an air of finality. “Let’s get to work.”