Most nights he woke up screaming, frantically touching his head to make sure that the skin was blemish-free and uncorrupted by sharp scalpels or jagged stitches. Thomas would shake his head, just to reassure himself that his brain was still rattling around inside.

After the first week, he'd decided to sleep away from the rest of the group, isolating himself near the forest. Thomas shivered from the cold, but told himself that this was fine; this was OK, that he deserved this.

He'd blink back tears, repeating that mantra of self-loathing. He would remember Newt, half-crazed from the Flare and begging for death in his last few moments of sanity. Thomas tried to push back the memory of Teresa's crushed figure as she sputtered out her final words. Then there was Chuck, forced to sacrifice himself in order to fulfill another Variable… Thomas couldn't handle the pain and guilt any longer.

Most mornings he would get up, stretching his limbs before running. He would run for hours, spotting the now-familiar landmarks of their paradise and reinforcing them into his mind as he continued to run. It was almost like being back in the Glade, back when all of his friends were alive. Thomas shoved away the darker memories: the terrifying Grievers with their pulsating, moist bodies; being trapped in the Maze with the desperation of survival thrumming through his veins. Thomas beat back all of that and pushed himself forward, one leg after another.

When he couldn't run any longer Thomas would walk back to the meager settlement that the Immunes had constructed. In most ways the buildings were sturdier than the Homestead had been, if only because they were smaller and housed less people. Thomas stopped in front of the one that he used to share with Minho, Jorge, and Brenda, before the nightmares became too frequent.

Thomas touched his forehead; it was still smooth and unhindered.

"And where were you, slinthead?"

Thomas felt his mouth twitch, the closest it came to a smile these days. He turned around, now facing a scowling Minho. He was holding an armful of supplies, carefully scavenged from the wild.

"Hey," Thomas said, fingers lightly touching his temple. Minho narrowed his eyes suspiciously and Thomas suddenly felt the urge to run away. The moment passed with Minho shaking his head, as if Thomas had said something stupid.

"If you're gonna be all feet-springy, you might as well put it to good use and help out," Minho said.

"Feet-springy?" Thomas repeated, now grinning a little. Minho still used the old Glade lingo, but new made-up vocabulary had been creeping into his speech as of late.

Feet-springy.

"You're out there running aimlessly all day, every day," Minho replied, "Not exactly a well-kept secret now is it?"

"With you letting yourself go," Thomas teased, "Someone needs to stay in peak condition as a Runner around here."

"Hey," Minho growled, "Don't get cocky on me, shuckface. I can still beat your ass in a race with both hands tied behind my back." He walked off, on his way to deliver the supplies to one of the buildings. Thomas watched him go.

Minho stopped suddenly, looking over his shoulder and nodded at Thomas. "That wasn't a suggestion!"

Thomas' mind finally caught up, and he bounded over to Minho, now walking side by side as they made their way over to the supplies building. A tired-looking blonde woman named Aimee opened the door for them, beckoning them inside before instructing them on where to place things. Aimee was in her early thirties; she remembered what life was like before the sun flares had struck. She'd been around Thomas and Minho's age before life went to hell.

She was also in charge of organizing the building materials gathered from the woods nearby. "Me and my brother built our own tree house when we were kids," she had told Thomas once. "It took us all summer because we refused to have our father help us. He was a trained carpenter, but Dennis said that would be cheating if we took advantage of his skills." She would never say anything else about her past, and Thomas didn't push. He didn't have anything worthwhile or innocent-sounding to add to the conversation anyway.

Ten minutes later Minho grabbed Thomas' forearm and dragged him out of the building. Thomas vaguely wondered what his friend was up to before remembering the challenge from earlier.

Minho wanted to race.

He wrangled a few kids that were sitting nearby to act as witnesses. "Now I need you little shanks to act as markers," Minho instructed them. "One of you for the starting line and the other for the finishing one. Make sure that this dumbass doesn't balk out or cheat."

"Same for him," Thomas added, earning him a glare from Minho. The kids looked blankly up at them and he could practically see the question marks floating around their heads.

Minho sighed heavily, cracking his neck. He bent down, squatting next to the kids and drawing them close. "What do you kiddies like the best in the entire world? If you say jetpacks then I'm gonna smack you."

"Raspberries," said a little girl of five. Minho squinted at her, wondering whether or not to believe her. Thomas wondered if she had ever tried raspberries before; he didn't remember seeing a variety of fruit in Denver.

"Me too," said her companion, a young boy about four. Minho stood up, stretching his legs and swinging his arms in circular motions.

"Fine then," Minho said, "act as our race markers and I'll go find you pipsqueaks the biggest damn bushel that I can find. The loser,"—and here Minho glanced mischievously at Thomas—"will be forced to watch you and the winner eat them all."

"He won't get any?" said the little girl, astonished.

Minho winked. "It raises the stakes, doesn't it?"

It took a while to set it up. The boy served as the starting line, since waiting at the other end of the race would cause him to be too jittery and impatient. The girl—Chantal—made her way to the farthest part of Paradise, running on her short legs and stumbling a couple of times along the way. Minho was grinning, and Thomas could practically feel the reckless energy cascading off of him.

"Are you going to be able to hold up your end of the bargain?" Thomas asked.

"Of course," Minho snapped, his playful look softening the sharpness of his words. "Why would I promise something that I couldn't follow through on?"

Newt's desperate look as he held the gun's barrel against his head flashed through Thomas' mind. He shook it away, trying to push it back to the corners of his memory. He tried to replace it with the better ones, before his friend had fallen apart.

"On your mark," began the little boy. "Get set…"

"I'm gonna enjoy eating those berries in front of your face," Minho grinned. Thomas remained silent, focusing on what was ahead.

"GO!"

They began at the same pace, nearly toe-to-toe as they bounded toward Chantal. Minho suddenly gained the lead, his long legs giving him momentum. Painful stitches jabbed at Thomas' sides, but he forced himself forward. Minho would kill him if he allowed him to win.

For once, he allowed the bad memories to crack through, bringing the Grievers to the front of his mind. He imagined them chasing him, curling their moist, stinging bodies into balls before pursuing their targets. That imagery was frighteningly effective, causing Thomas to gasp in pain and horror as he passed Minho and finally Chantal.

Minho swore in defeat as Thomas collapsed to his knees, digging his fingernails into the soft grass. He forced oxygen in and out of his lungs, his arms shaking. His chest felt constricted, as if they were trying to squeeze out his innards. He gasped, his breath coming out harshly.

Thomas felt pressure on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Minho crouching down next to him, gripping his shoulder in reassurance.

"Christ, you didn't need to go all out, shuckface." The words were uncharacteristically soft, coming from him.

"You'd… be pissed if… I went… easy… on you…" Thomas wheezed out.

Minho scoffed, rolling his eyes before dropping to his knees. He fell back, lying in the green grass as he gave Thomas a scrutinizing look.

"Stop thinking about it," Minho said. Thomas blinked, staring at his friend.

"I'm fine," he insisted.

"You can't lie to your Keeper," Minho replied. "I can see right through your ruse."

Thomas' heart hammered against his ribcage, and his arms were trembling so violently that he pressed his forehead against the ground. He hugged his chest, now trying to regulate his breathing.

Chuck, Newt, Teresa. Chuck, Newt, Teresa.

Thomas suddenly tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. He choked back a sob, trying to force it back down his throat. It was nearly impossible with the lump forming there, suffocating him.

Minho reached over, pressing his palms on either side of Thomas' face. He lifted his head, forcing Thomas to look at him. Minho trailed his thumbs over Thomas' temples, which were still smooth and free of surgical scars.

Nothing had been touched; Janson and his team didn't have enough time to—

Minho groaned, letting go of Thomas before standing up. "Great, now I have to go hunt down those raspberries that I can't even eat," he said, just as the children raced over to them. He gave Thomas one last look before sprinting off in the direction of the forest.

Thomas watched him go, tenderly touching his head before mouthing a silent thank you in his friend's direction.