Newt, Minho and the other Runners have just discovered that the pattern of the walls keeps repeating itself without revealing an exit.

There was no way out.

Newt stared at the heaps of maps that surrounded him as all the hopes and beliefs that had carried him through the past year collapsed. There was no way out. He'd be stuck in the Maze for the rest of his life. He'd wake up every morning in the shadow of those daunting grey walls, have them in front of his eyes wherever he went during the day, and fall asleep with them towering over the Homestead like the waves of a tsunami about to crash over his head.

He'd live and die without ever seeing anything but grey on the horizon.

He was dimly aware of the other Runners talking seriously next to him, but Newt couldn't make out the words since his head had started to swim. The lines on the maps blurred and flickered, thousands upon thousands of lines, of walls, rising out of the paper and growing, shooting upwards as they closed in on him. He staggered, gasping for breath while the room around him seemed to grow tighter and tighter.

"Newt?"

The sound of his name somehow made it through the buzzing and ringing that was filling his ears. He clung to it, letting the familiar sound drag him out of the constriction of his mind. He opened his eyes and let out a deep breath as he saw the low, familiar walls of the map room surrounding him.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked.

"Do we tell the others or not?"

Newt looked into the faces of the seven boys around him and ran his hand over his face tiredly. He was still feeling dizzy, and thinking made his head hurt. "Nick and Alby have to know," he said. "As for the others, it's Nick's call. Not a single bloody word until he announces it himself."

The others nodded, and Newt leaned back against the wall. There was no way out. There was no hope.

"What do we do tomorrow?" one of the Runners asked. "Just go out there same as always?"

What's the point, Newt meant to say. There's no exit. There's nothing we can do. But Minho forestalled him.

"We'll go out there tomorrow and every day after that until Nick tells us to stop, klunkhead," he said resolutely. "That's our job. Besides, who says an exit won't turn up eventually? Maybe they're just testing our patience." He looked over at Newt. "Anyway, I say we go to bed. No use yappin' about it."

Newt nodded slowly, and the others started to file out through the door. Minho made to follow. When Newt didn't move, he turned around. "Are you coming?"

Newt shook his head. The thought of going out there, into the Glade, having to see those bleak grey walls again knowing that he would never escape… he couldn't face it. He just couldn't.

Minho was watching him with a strange expression on his face. "Do you want me to get Nick and Alby?" he asked cautiously.

Newt nodded, but when Minho moved to leave he said, "No."

The Asian boy turned back to look at him, worry now plain across his features. He was the only one who knew.

"I can't tell them, Minho," Newt said. "Not this. Not yet." He looked away. "Not me."

"You're the Keeper of the Runners," Minho said slowly, watching him. "You're gonna have to do it eventually. I mean, you could wait… maybe it is just a test of patience. But even if-"

"It isn't," Newt interrupted him. He spread his arms to point at the maps that were scattered about the room. "Look at this," he said, not even trying to keep the bitterness and desperation out of his voice. Minho would know anyway. He always knew. "If they wanted us to get out, why isn't there an exit?" he asked. "What is the point of a maze if you can't get out?" He looked up, meeting his friend's eyes with weary resignation. "This isn't a test. It's a prison."

"Don't say that," Minho objected. "We can't know-"

"Exactly!" Newt said bitterly. "We will never know. We'll just keep running around like lab rats trying to find a way out for the rest of our lives." He let himself slide down along the wall until he was sitting on the floor, looking up at his friend. "There is no way out," he said quietly.

Minho swirled around and slammed his fist into the wall. "Those shucking bastards!" he exploded. "What sick kind of person takes a group of innocent shanks and puts them into a place like this!"

"Maybe we're not innocent," Newt said indifferently. "Can't remember anything, can we."

"Well, nothing we could have done would justify this!" Minho snarled.

"No," Newt agreed tonelessly. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes, weary and exhausted. "Nothing justifies this." They were silent for a while. Finally, Newt murmured, "I'd like to see a horizon again, Minho. A decent one. I want to stand in the open and be able to see for miles and miles, right to the point where the ground touches the sky. And not a wall in sight."

Minho had turned to look at him, his expression showing pity and tenderness. "Did you use to do that?" he asked quietly, "Before?"

Newt let out a deep breath. "I don't know," he said wistfully. "I can't remember."

The atmosphere in the map room was strange when the Runners set out the next morning. Some of the boys seemed indifferent to the news, as if they'd known all along that the Maze would never let them go. Some appeared to have found a defiant kind of resolution during the night, the set of their shoulders practically shouting "Now more than ever!" Some tied their shoes only half-heartedly, resignation plain on their faces. And all around them worked the rest of the Gladers, peaceful and content and still wonderfully ignorant of the Runners' grave discovery.

When all the boys were ready, Newt sent them off with a weary wave of his hand. But Minho, who clearly belonged to the 'Now more than ever' group, moved to stand in front of the door.

"This doesn't change anything," he said forcefully. "We're still Runners – we still look for a way out. The fact that it's not an opening in the walls doesn't mean a thing. It could be a hidden mechanism. Today, when you're out there, check every crack in the walls. Look behind the ivy. Examine those shucking plaques again. There is a way out, and we're gonna find it. We're gonna show those shuck faces!"

He stepped aside to let the other Runners pass. When all of them had gone, he looked at Newt. "You heard what I said, didn't you," he said. "It's not over. So don't you dare lose hope. One day, we're gonna get out of here. We're gonna see that horizon."

Newt just looked at him. "It's late," he said simply. "We should go."

Minho nodded slowly, throwing him a wary glance. "See you tonight?"

Newt looked away. "See ya," he said and jogged out of the map room.

Half an hour later, he was running through the Maze. Ivy-covered walls surrounded him on all sides, tons upon tons of concrete looming over him and leaving only a narrow stretch of blue sky visible high above him, unreachable. Newt hated the Maze. In the Glade, at least you had some sort of openness, you saw trees and the sun, and the walls were, depending on your position, as far as half a mile away. Out here, they were always close, stiflingly so. In some places Newt couldn't even extend his arms without touching stone on both sides. It was restricting, claustrophobic. It filled Newt with a desperate desire to be free.

It was this desire that had made him try out to be a Runner. It was this that made him go out and spend his day in the narrow alleys and passageways of the labyrinth, even though it was worse here than in the Glade. He couldn't bear to be stuck in there, doing nothing but farm work and not even trying to get out of this awful place. He had to move, had to do something, he had to help find the way out of the Maze.

But there was no way out.

The knowledge of this pressed down on him, adding its weight to that of the towering walls as he sprinted through the corridors. It seemed to him that they leaned inward, slowly but steadily, blocking his view of the small strip of sky he could still see. In his mind he heard the grumbling and cracking, the noises of a wall with a height of several hundred feet slowly bending and breaking to bury him under tons of stone. He'd die here, his body forever stuck beneath the unyielding concrete.

Newt gasped, fighting to fill his lungs with air. They seemed tight, constricted, as if something was wrapped around his body pressing them together. There was not enough space. He realised he had stopped running and was standing with his back pressed against one of the walls, as if hoping he could somehow push it backwards and put more room between himself and the opposite wall. It didn't work. Still struggling for breath, Newt turned around and grabbed wildly for the tendrils of ivy that were covering the concrete behind him. He felt a desperate desire for air, for space, and pulling himself along with his hands he went up, up, up, trying to free himself from the weight of his worries as much as the threat of the looming walls.

Eventually, he became aware of the burning of his muscles, the stinging of his joints, his sore hands. He wound tendrils around his shoes to give himself a foothold, then turned around to lean his back against the wall. He looked up.

Although the ground was now far below him, the sky didn't seem to have come much closer. It was still no more than a narrow strip of blue that interrupted the endless grey. It was still unreachable.

Newt closed his eyes, his head swimming. He slowed down his breathing. He leaned his head against the wall and stayed there, motionless.

He needed to get back down. He didn't know what time it was, but he couldn't remain hanging halfway up this wall forever. The Doors would close eventually, and anyway, he had work to do.

But then, what good would it do? They already knew that there was no way out, no opening. Newt didn't believe in Minho's theories about patience tests and hidden latches. He didn't believe in the Runners' mission. He didn't believe in a future.

He believed that they had reached a dead-end. This was it; this was the end of the road. Their entire future would take place within a frame of ivy-covered concrete. What was there to be gained by going back? What was he to do with a future in the shadows, with a life lived between towering walls?

Nothing. There was nothing ahead for him.

But there was a way to see the horizon again.

He smiled – it was easy. An unclenching of muscles, a stretching of his fingers, that was all it took. A simple move, and he'd be free, free to outfly these daunting walls like a bird. He'd never have to see a wall again.

He let go.

When Minho rounded a corner and saw a slender shape plummeting through the air, he knew what had happened. He'd already known it before he rounded that corner. In his heart, he'd known it since he set out that morning, although he hadn't realised that until about an hour ago, at which point he'd skidded to a halt halfway down the corridor he'd been mapping and had started to sprint in the opposite direction faster than he'd ever run in his life.

Of course, it had been bound to happen eventually. Minho knew how much Newt hated the Maze, knew how much he suffered, knew how the confinement of the place suffocated him. He'd seen Newt's eyes go blank in mid-laugh when they stepped out of the map room or the Homestead and the walls came into view. He'd seen his friend's expression every morning when the two of them left through West Door – grim and resolute, like a veteran steeling himself for another battle – and every evening when they returned to the Glade – dead and haunted, like a fawn that's been caught between fox and hunter for far too long.

He'd listened to his friend's whispered prayers every night in the dark, and he'd listened to the silence after Newt had stopped believing. He'd lain awake for hours while Newt wept, and he'd woken him from countless awful dreams. He had been with Newt every single day of the life they remembered.

Of course he'd known.

But that didn't make it any easier to bear.

As he saw his best friend tumble elegantly through the air, Minho didn't cry out. He didn't freeze in place and watch in shock. He just ran, with every ounce of strength his body still possessed. He knew he wouldn't make it, knew he wouldn't be able to catch his friend or even break his fall. That was okay for now, the time for guilt would come later. Now all he wanted was to be there. He wanted to see him alive one last time.

When Newt hit the ground, he didn't scream. All that could be heard was the cracking of bones, the snapping of sinews, the tearing of flesh on rock. From the sound alone Minho knew that Newt would die. He skidded to a halt beside his friend a mere second later, bruising his knees as his legs gave way beneath him.

And as he looked down upon his dying brother, he felt his heart crack and snap and tear just like Newt's body had before. Not because his friend was hurt. Not because he was about to die. No.

What broke Minho was that he had never seen the boy look so happy.

"Newt…"

A whisper. A familiar voice, timid and frightened and stricken with grief. A warm hand on his cheek.

"Newt."

Newt opened his eyes. He smiled.

"Minho."

"Why did you do that, klunkhead? Why in God's name did you have to do that?" Minho's voice was thick with tears. Newt looked up at him.

"It was the only way," he said quietly. "Believe me. It's better this way."

Minho shook his head, and his left hand gripped Newt's shirt as if he wanted to shake him. His right hand still rested on his friend's cheek.

"You can't just leave me!"

"I'm sorry," Newt said tiredly. "Please forgive me."

"You shucking bastard. You… you…" Minho turned his face away, biting his lip and shutting his eyes tightly. "We could have worked it out," he said to the wall, his voice nearly breaking beneath the forced calm. "We could have found a way. Even if we're stuck in here for the rest of our lives, there was no need to… to…" He drew a shaky breath.

Newt leaned his head against Minho's trembling hand. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "But I had to."

Very slowly, his friend turned to look at him. Tears were running silently down his cheeks, and the look in his eyes was one of utter desperation.

"Please don't leave me. Not like this. Please."

"It's too late anyway," Newt said sadly. "No use yappin' about it, right?"

He wanted to wipe away his friend's tears, but found that he couldn't move his arms. His head had started to swim too, and the grey and green of the walls blurred before his eyes.

"Shh, Minho," he told his weeping brother dazedly. "It's okay. I just…"

He blinked. The strip of blue far over their heads seemed to grow, to expand as the towering walls fell away beneath him. He saw water, a churning mass of grey and blue beneath a stormy sky. He saw a cliff, a green coast, and on it two boys and a shaggy dog. He smelled the rain, fresh and earthy, and felt the wind tear at his clothes. He felt free.

"I remember," he mumbled, closing his eyes to hang on to the image. "Minho, I remember. There's a horizon, Minho…"

And as he felt his brother's head sink down onto his chest, as his body shook with Minho's stifled sobs, as desperate hands clung to his collar – Newt relaxed, and let himself be carried away by the gush of memories that flooded his brain. Off he went, far away into a kingdom with no walls on the horizon.