Thomas shuddered and rolled over on his side. The more he thought about it, being a Runner didn’t sound like such a great idea. But, inexplicably, it still called to him.
The next morning, dawn had barely touched the sky before the working sounds of the Glade wakened Thomas from the deepest slumber since he’d arrived. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, trying to shake the heavy grogginess. Giving up, he lay back down, hoping no one would bother him.
It didn’t last a minute.
Someone tapped his shoulder and he opened his eyes to see Newt staring down at him. What now? he thought.
“Get up, ya lug.”
“Yeah, good morning to you, too. What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock, Greenie,” Newt said with a mocking smile. “Figured I’d let ya sleep in after such a rough couple days.”
Thomas rolled into a sitting position, hating that he couldn’t just lie there for another few hours. “Sleep in? What are you guys, a bunch of farmers?” Farmers—how did he remember so much about them? Once again his memory wipe baffled him.
“Uh … yeah, now that ya mention it.” Newt plopped down beside Thomas and folded his legs up under himself. He sat quietly for a few moments, looking out at all the hustle-bustle starting to whip up across the Glade. “Gonna put ya with the Track-hoes today, Greenie. See if that suits your fancy more than slicin’ up bloody piggies and such.”
Thomas was sick of being treated like a baby. “Aren’t you supposed to quit calling me that?”
“What, bloody piggies?”
Thomas forced a laugh and shook his head. “No, Greenie. I’m not really the newest Newbie anymore, right? The girl in the coma is. Call her Greenie—my name’s Thomas.” Thoughts of the girl crashed around his mind, made him remember the connection he felt. A sadness washed over him, as if he missed her, wanted to see her. That doesn’t make sense, he thought. I don’t even know her name.
Newt leaned back, eyebrows raised. “Burn me—you grew some right nice-sized eggs over night, now didn’t ya?”
Thomas ignored him and moved on. “What’s a Track-hoe?”
“It’s what we call the guys workin’ their butts off in the Gardens—tilling, weeding, planting and such.”
Thomas nodded in that direction. “Who’s the Keeper?”
“Zart. Nice guy, s’long as you don’t sluff on the job, that is. He’s the big one that stood in front last night.”
Thomas didn’t say anything to that, hoping that somehow he could go through the entire day without talking about Ben and the Banishment. The subject only made him sick and guilty, so he moved on to something else. “So why’d you come wake me up?”
“What, don’t like seein’ my face first thing on the wake-up?”
“Not especially. So—” But before he could finish his sentence the rumble of the walls opening for the day cut him off. He looked toward the East Door, almost expecting to see Ben standing there on the other side. Instead, he saw Minho stretching. Then Thomas watched as he walked over and picked something up.
It was the section of pole with the leather collar attached to it. Minho seemed to think nothing of it, throwing it to one of the other Runners, who went and put it back in the tool shed near the Gardens.
Thomas turned back to Newt, confused. How could Minho act so nonchalant about it all? “What the—”
“Only seen three Banishments, Tommy. All as nasty as the one you peeped on last night. But every buggin’ time, the Grievers leave the collar on our doorstep. Gives me the willies like nothin’ else.”
Thomas had to agree. “What do they do with people when they catch them?” Did he really want to know?
Newt just shrugged, his indifference not very convincing. More likely he didn’t want to talk about it.
“So tell me about the Runners,” Thomas said suddenly. The words seemed to pop out of nowhere. But he remained still, despite an odd urge to apologize and change the subject; he wanted to know everything about them. Even after what he’d seen last night, even after witnessing the Griever through the window, he wanted to know. The pull to know was strong, and he didn’t quite understand why. Becoming a Runner just felt like something he was born to do.
Newt had paused, looking confused. “The Runners? Why?”
“Just wondering.”
Newt gave him a suspicious look. “Best of the best, those guys. Have to be. Everything depends on them.” He picked up a loose rock and tossed it, watching it absently as it bounced to a stop.
“Why aren’t you one?”
Newt’s gaze returned to Thomas, sharply. “Was till I hurt my leg few months back. Hasn’t been the bloody same since.” He reached down and rubbed his right ankle absently, a brief look of pain flashing across his face. The look made Thomas think it was more from the memory, not any actual physical pain he still felt.
“How’d you do it?” Thomas asked, thinking the more he could get Newt to talk, the more he’d learn.
“Runnin’ from the buggin’ Grievers, what else? Almost got me.” He paused. “Still gives me the chills thinkin’ I might have gone through the Changing.”
The Changing. It was the one topic that Thomas thought might lead him to answers more than anything else. “What is that, anyway? What changes? Does everyone go psycho like Ben and start trying to kill people?”
“Ben was way worse than most. But I thought you wanted to talk about the Runners.” Newt’s tone warned that the conversation about the Changing was over.