“I don’t know,” Thomas replied. “Why don’t you go ask him.”
“I can hear every bloody word you guys are saying,” Newt called in a loud voice. “No wonder people hate sleepin’ next to you shanks.”
Thomas felt like he’d been caught stealing, but he was genuinely concerned—Newt was one of the few people in the Glade he actually liked.
“What is wrong with you?” Chuck asked. “No offense, but you look like klunk.”
“Every lovin’ thing in the universe,” he replied, then fell silent as he stared off into space for a long moment. Thomas almost pushed him with another question, but Newt finally continued. “The girl from the Box. Keeps groanin’ and saying all kinds of weird stuff, but won’t wake up. Medjacks’re doing their best to feed her, but she’s eatin’ less each time. I’m tellin’ ya, something’s very bad about that whole bloody thing.”
Thomas looked down at his apple, then took a bite. It tasted sour now—he realized he was worried about the girl. Concerned for her welfare. As if he knew her.
Newt let out a long sigh. “Shuck it. But that’s not what really has me buggin’.”
“Then what does?” Chuck asked.
Thomas leaned forward, so curious he was able to put the girl out of his mind.
Newt’s eyes narrowed as he looked out toward one of the entrances to the Maze. “Alby and Minho,” he muttered. “They should’ve come back hours ago.”
Before Thomas knew it he was back at work, pulling up weeds again, counting down the minutes until he’d be done with the Gardens. He glanced constantly at the West Door, looking for any sign of Alby and Minho, Newt’s concern having rubbed off on him.
Newt had said they were supposed to have come back by noon, just enough time for them to get to the dead Griever, explore for an hour or two, then return. No wonder he’d looked so upset. When Chuck offered up that maybe they were just exploring and having some fun, Newt had given him a stare so harsh Thomas thought Chuck might spontaneously combust.
He’d never forget the next look that had come over Newt’s face. When Thomas asked why Newt and some others didn’t just go into the Maze and search for their friends, Newt’s expression had changed to outright horror—his cheeks had shrunk into his face, becoming sallow and dark. It gradually passed, and he’d explained that sending out search parties was forbidden, lest even more people be lost, but there was no mistaking the fear that had crossed his face.
Newt was terrified of the Maze.
Whatever had happened to him out there—maybe even related to his lingering ankle injury—had been truly awful.
Thomas tried not to think about it as he put his focus back on yanking weeds.
That night dinner proved to be a somber affair, and it had nothing to do with the food. Frypan and his cooks served up a grand meal of steak, mashed potatoes, green beans and hot rolls. Thomas was quickly learning that jokes about Frypan’s cooking were just that—jokes. Everyone gobbled up his food and usually begged for more. But tonight, the Gladers ate like dead men resurrected for one last meal before being sent to live with the devil.
The Runners had returned at their normal time, and Thomas had grown more and more upset as he watched Newt run from Door to Door as they entered the Glade, not bothering to hide his panic. But Alby and Minho never showed up. Newt forced the Gladers to go on and get some of Frypan’s hard-earned dinner, but he insisted on standing watch for the missing duo. No one said it, but Thomas knew it wouldn’t be long before the Doors closed.
Thomas reluctantly followed orders like the rest of the boys and was sharing a picnic table on the south side of the Homestead with Chuck and Winston. He’d only been able to eat a few bites when he couldn’t take it anymore.
“I can’t stand sitting here while they’re out there missing,” he said as he dropped his fork on the plate. “I’m going over to watch the Doors with Newt.” He stood up and headed out to look.
Not surprisingly, Chuck was right behind him.
They found Newt at the West Door, pacing, running his hands through his hair. He looked up as Thomas and Chuck approached.
“Where are they?” Newt said, his voice thin and strained.
Thomas was touched that Newt cared so much about Alby and Minho—as if they were his own kin. “Why don’t we send out a search party?” he suggested again. It seemed so stupid to sit here and worry themselves to death when they could go out there and find them.
“Bloody he—” Newt started before stopping himself; he closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. “We can’t. Okay? Don’t say it again. One hundred percent against the rules. Especially with the buggin’ Doors about to close.”
“But why?” Thomas persisted, in disbelief at Newt’s stubbornness. “Won’t the Grievers get them if they stay out there? Shouldn’t we do something?”
Newt turned on him, his face flushed red, his eyes flamed with fury.
“Shut your hole, Greenie!” he yelled. “Not a bloody week you’ve been here! You think I wouldn’t risk my life in a second to save those lugs?”
“No … I … Sorry. I didn’t mean …” Thomas didn’t know what to say—he was just trying to help.
Newt’s face softened. “You don’t get it yet, Tommy. Going out there at night is beggin’ for death. We’d just be throwin’ more lives away. If those shanks don’t make it back …” He paused, seeming hesitant to say what everyone was thinking. “Both of ’em swore an oath, just like I did. Like we all did. You, too, when you go to your first Gathering and get chosen by a Keeper. Never go out at night. No matter what. Never.”