I jerk awake to a metallic scraping sound, deafening. I sit up with difficultly and take in my surroundings. A metal box, almost like a cage, with ropes and boxes. It is moving upwards. I jerk from side to side, my head banging against the bars of the box.
"Help!" I scream, but my voice is croaky and indistinct. How did that happen?
I do not remember anything. How did I get into this box? Who am I? Where am I? What is going to happen to me?
"Someone? Anyone!" I shout. No one is there. Am I going to be moving up in this box forever?
Then, all of a sudden, I stop with a horrible shudder. Red lights glare in my eyes, but then the two lids of the box open, revealing blindingly white light. I put my hand over my face and crouch, terrified, in the far corner of the box. With what little visibility I have, I squint and see dark figures, about fifty of them. And I hear voices.
"We got us a Greenie!"
"Go get him then!"
"Alright, shut up, you shanks!"
Shanks? What does that mean?
Suddenly, someone hops down into the box, and I press myself further into the corner. It's a boy.
"What the hell?! It's a shucking girl!" says the boy, in a British accent, like mine. This comment is met with outraged and confused murmurs from above the box. The boy climbs back up and for a moment I think they're going to leave me there, but then a hand goes down into the box, an open palm. I falter. Should I trust these people? Who are they?
"Oi!" yells the British accented boy again. "Oi Greenie, we haven't got all day you know!"
Suddenly without a warning, another hand reaches down and hauls me up by the armpits. Both hands deposit me on the grass outside, and sharp kicks and nudges rain down on me.
"Leave off, you shanks!"
Shanks again. What is this?
Someone helps me up, and I blink a couple times and look at his face. I stare. He has floppy brown hair, and his face is dotted with smudges of mud and dirt. His clothes are in the same state, but my eyes cannot help but drift back to his face. Achingly handsome.
"I'm Newt," he tells me, and I identify him as the boy who pulled me up. I nod, because I can't remember anything about me; not even my name. I nod, looking round at the fifty-odd boys who are staring at me.
"Don't worry, you'll remember your name in a couple days." he says, shooing all the other boys away. "Shanks," he mutters under his breath.
"Shanks?" I ask him, confused.
"Glader slang." he replies. "You'll get used to it."
"Glader?" I ask again. Newt sighs.
"I think I'd better start from the beginning." he says. "This is the Glade. For the past three years the Box sends someone up every month. We're the Gladers. We all work together, cooperate, we never fall out. Well, almost never."
"Why does the Box send people up?" I say.
"No-one knows. Everyone here was like you - they remembered nothing - not their name, where they came from. Nothing. You remember your name in one or two days - that's the only part of you get back."
Suddenly, I see large gaps in the stone walls that surround the Glade.
"What's out there?" I point to the holes. A firm look replaced the laid-back one of Newt's face.
"Out there - that's the Maze. You don't want nothing to do with it." he tells me. "Only the Runners - the most experienced of us all - get to go in the Maze. They know the place better than any of us. Besides, I bet you don't want to get stung by a Griever!"
"A Griever?"
"Yeah. Monsters. If you get stung, it's the end for you. At night, the entrance to the Maze closes and if the Runners don't make it back in time, they're stuck in the Maze for the night. And no-one has ever survived a night in the Maze."
He's looking at me, and I shudder.
"How do you guys survive?" I whisper.
"There are three rules here that help the Gladers survive. Rule one: Everyone does their part. You're lazy? Not a chance for you here. Rule two: No-one hurts another Glader. If you do, you're done for. And Rule three: Never. And I repeat never: go into the Maze if you're not a Runner. That's the most important rule. Go into the Maze when you're not experienced, and you'll most probably going to die."
He looks at me again, and his face breaks into a wide grin.
"No need to look so worried Greenie, you'll get used to it." he smiles. He gets up and pats my back. "Every month we have a celebration for the new Gladers. You'd best go get ready; maybe get some rest and when tonight comes round, you can meet everyone."
I manage a small smile at him. He smiles back and walks - no - limps away. When did that happen? Did someone break a rule?
"Welcome to the Glade, Greenie."

Then he's gone.