Ahhh, chapter two at last! Ennnnnjoy!

CHAPTER TWO

ROSE

I jerk awake, bolting upright like someone poked me with a cattle prod. And then I'm scrambling across the room, dashing for the door. Someone's arm flashes in front of me and I run into it, accidentally slamming my stomach into it.

"Whoa, calm down." It's the same boy from earlier, Newt. He takes my shoulders and pushes me back into the middle of the room. His eyes are a dark brown, holding mine, serious. "Calm down, okay?"

My mind is alight with what he is able to do to me. I tense myself. Be ready for anything. I slowly shrug his hands from my shoulders.

"I'm not gonna hurt ya," he says.

"Right," I snap, and he looks surprised by the sharpness of my voice.

Before either of us can say anything else, I feel another wave of dizziness. I drop to my knees.

Newt speaks, and even though the dizziness is fading away, I can't understand him. "Sorry?" I slur as politely as I can. Judging from his worried look, it didn't sound like an actual word. He crouches beside me, the sound of his voice washing over me. I shut my eyes, some intact part of my mind wishing for the confusion to go away.

When I'm next aware of anything, Newt is less than three inches away, behind me and to the left, his hand between my shoulderblades. He's softly repeating "hey".

My instincts react before I do. I roll forward, spin, and kick him in the face. He falls to the side, his hand flying to his face where my boot struck.

I scramble backwards, horrified. "I—I—"

The door's flung open, and I know it's Thomas. I spring up. "I didn't mean to—"

"Get behind me," he commands, shoving me into the corner and standing protectively in front of me.

I just kicked someone in the face, I want to say. I don't need protection. But it seems that I may be the only girl here, judging from the way Newt's treating me, so I keep my mouth shut.

A tall kid, with cropped blond hair and strangely—no, creepily—arched eyebrows, bursts into the room. His eyes flick over Newt, but he doesn't bother to help him up. He turns to Thomas. "Where is the thing in the Box, Greenie?"

Thomas stays silent, but from the tensing in his shoulders, he's probably giving Creepy Eyebrows a big-brother-protectiveness death glare.

There it is again. Brother.

I don't have time to ponder this, though, because Creepy Eyebrows lashes out with a fist and punches Thomas, right in the jaw. Thomas stays up, but another hit like that and he won't. I've seen punches like that. I'm surprised Thomas did stay up.

Another punch and he's collapsed on the ground.

Creepy Eyebrows's eyes go wide at the sight of me, then rake over my body. His gaze hovers at my chest, flicks over my legs and face, and then settles back on my chest. A greedy look is on his face. I realize how stupid kicking Newt in the face was. He's still down. I may have knocked him out. If he were awake, could I rely on him to keep me out of harm's way?

Can I rely on any of these boys to keep me safe?

Obviously not Creepy Eyebrows.

He takes a step towards me. "My, my, look what we have here." He reaches out and closes a hand around my arm. Tight. My hand starts to lose blood.

And I get mad.

I stomp on his knee, twist my arm to get his off, and kick him in the groin.

Use your elbows. You're fast and small.

I don't know where this comes from, but I use the advice. I spin and ram my elbow into Creepy Eyebrows's throat. He chokes. I dance around him, feeling confident, and get kicked in the stomach. All the air goes out of my body. I fall to my knees, trying to gasp in air but coming up empty.

Creepy Eyebrows grabs my hair and drags me up, shoves me against the wall. "You're gonna pay for that," he wheezes.

I suck in a huge breath, thankful for the air, and squeak in surprise as he pulls me away and slams me back onto the wall. It successfully knocks the breath out of me again.

Then I get scared. I'm literally trembling when Creepy Eyebrows smirks and forces his mouth onto mine, pressing himself against me. As much as I scrabble to break the kiss—it's more like he's trying to eat my face—I can't. At least, until I scratch his face, raking my nails over his cheekbone. Then he jerks back as though scalded. I get my first breath in ages, the air cool and sweet on the back of my throat.

His hand moves to the waist of my jeans.

And then he collapses. I shriek, clapping my hand over my mouth. Newt stands behind Creepy Eyebrows's body, a huge knife in his hand. It's more of a miniature sword. It also doesn't matter what it's technically called, because I'm freaked out either way. He must have slammed the hilt into Creepy Eyebrows's head.

Newt sheathes the sword and kicks at Creepy Eyebrows's body disgustedly. Then he looks up at me. Concern flits across his face. "Did he hurt ya?"

"No," I say, my voice breathless. "Not really."

We watch each other.

"Ya sure he didn't hurt ya?" Newt asks.

I nod. "I can't say the same for you, though."

He smiles and winces. "It's fine."

I shoot him a look.

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. It's not bloody okay. But I'll cope. I have before."

There's no point in protesting.

We watch each other again. The wariness in his eyes is surely reflected in my own. I'm not surprised he's wary of me. I did kick him, after all. When he was just trying to help.

I glance down at Creepy Eyebrows and decide not to be too sympathetic for Newt. What if he had been like Creepy Eyebrows? I wouldn't have stood a chance, not with that knife of his. I don't trust him. What if he was actually trying to make the moves on me when it seemed he wanted to help?

Thomas stirs, rubbing his jaw. I hop over Creepy Eyebrows and crouch beside the boy who my instincts say is my brother. "Thomas. You okay?"

He nods. "Who is that kid?"

"Creepy Eyebrows," I say.

"Gally," Newt says, at the same time.

We stare at each other.

"You call him Creepy Eyebrows?" Newt asks.

"His name's Gally?" I demand. At the same time.

"Okay, look," we both say, and stop. Then: "You go."

"Did I miss something?" Thomas asks, sitting up, then standing shakily. "And what the hell is with that guy? He's messed up."

"The Maze does crazy things ta people," Newt says. "Gally didn't take it too well." He shrugs, oblivious to the fact that Thomas and I are staring at him. "Better'n others, though." He glares at his feet and I get the feeling he's blaming himself for something.

"Okay," Thomas says. "So I got a look around, sort of . . . where are we?"

"The Maze?" I add. "What's the Maze?" Is it Maze or maze? It sounds like he's saying it with a capital M, so I probably should too.

Newt stares at both of us, then sighs and rubs his jaw up by his ear, head tilting. "Greenie, go find Chuck. I'll take care of her." He gestures at me.

"Like you took care of her last time?" Thomas spits. "And the name's Thomas, not Greenie."

"Uh, to be fair," I say, "that was me who kicked him, not Creepy-Eyebrows-a.k.a-Gally. Just saying." I shrug apologetically. "I didn't do it on purpose."

"Seemed like it," Newt mutters, a smile flashing across his face.

"Seemed like you were hitting on me," I retort.

"Oh, dear God, you're like a fiftieth-anniversary couple," Thomas exclaims. "Newt, take good care of my sister." He starts out the door, then freezes and turns back to me and Newt. Newt's staring at him like he's growing reindeer horns, me like someone's just learned they're not insane. Because really, I have.

"S . . . sister?" Newt repeats.

"Did I say that?" Thomas looks at me for confirmation. "Did I seriously say 'sister'?"

I nod. "But that's okay, because I've thought of you as my brother about five or six times already." I meet Newt's appalled brown eyes and give him a look that says, "Hey, I was too busy being manhandled by Gally to mention anything, so don't blame it on me please!"

Judging by his return look, it didn't get through.

I smile at Thomas, who's glancing between me and Newt like he's trying to connect pieces of a puzzle but can't figure it out. "Ta-ta, bro. How old are you, anyway? I want to call you Big Bro, but I'm not sure if you're actually older than me . . ."

"I think I'm sixteen," he says unsurely.

I don't feel sixteen.

"Big Bro it is, then," I say, smiling a smile that is too charming for him to be unsuspicious of. "Again, ta-ta."

He frowns at me, a clear "shut up, you're blabbering" glare, and moves out of the room. I turn to Newt, crossing my arms. "Okay, spill. What is the Maze?"

He sighs. "I'd take you on a tour, but there are a lot o' buggin' people in this Glade I don' trust. If they see you, they might get the wrong idea."

"Like Gally," I say.

He nods. "Like Gally, the stupid shank."

"They will have to see me eventually, you know," I point out reluctantly. "Or else you could have a riot on your hands. And I can protect myself. Sort of." I drag my sleeve across my mouth, aware I'm making a disgusted face.

"What's wrong?" Newt says.

"Gally kissed me," I say, rubbing my mouth again. It's almost like he's still there, slobbering all over me.

Newt's lip curls, and he holds out a canteen. "Try this. It's water." He pauses, eyes bright. "That is, unless you're goin' ta trip and faint again."

"That wasn't a faint," I protest.

He raises an eyebrow. "Then what was it?"

I hesitate.

He smirks.

"Fine, it was fainting," I admit. "One could also call it blacking out from a combination of dizziness and the feeling of someone driving an ice pick through my skull." And I can feel it coming on again, dammit. I see colorful spots at the edge of my vision.

Newt looks worried. "Have ya been drinking water?"

"Oh, yeah," I make myself say, my tone laced with sarcasm. "Because I had so much time to do that, and there was a ton in that box thingy I came up here in." The spots start crowding in.

Newt says something, but even though I can see his mouth moving, I can't understand what he's saying. I cup my ear. "Say what?" At least, "say what" is what I want to say. I think it comes out more as "shmugi whaksj?"

He yells a word. I read his lips. SIT. Now how do I do that . . . ? One leg behind the other . . . fall?

Newt catches me under my armpits as I start to sit clumsily. He's behind me, his chest against my back. He wraps an arm around my waist to hold me up, flicks my temple with his other hand. I blink, then squeeze my eyes closed.

My mind clears.

I drop like a stone, catching myself awkwardly and spinning on my butt to face Newt. He crouches in front of me. "Drink."

I take the flask and make to knock back half the contents. Newt grabs my wrist, his fingers slender and standing out against my pale skin. "Slowly."

I take a small sip, my lips parting in a smile when the cool water hits the back of my throat. I want to gulp the water down so badly it hurts, but Newt's been here longer—

Do you TRUST him? My inner common sense screams.

I drop the flask and move back as fast as my hands and feet will carry me. "That's not poisoned, is it?"

"How many times do I hafta tell ya?" Exasperation clogs his voice. "I am not tryin' ta hurt you! If I was, you'd already be injured. So please: drink the water."

"What if there's a sedative in it?" I fold my arms across my chest, aware of how silly I seem but not caring. "And you're waiting until I drink all the water to—"

He stands up. "Okay, fine. Come with me. I'll take ya to the buggin' stream, which is untreated, and then you can drink to your buggin' heart's content. Okay?"

"I get your sword."

"What'd ya say?"

I stand up. "I said, I get your sword."

"No." He frowns.

"Then say goodbye, because I'll go out into that Maze thing and you'll never see me again." I move towards the door, then freeze as his knife/sword embeds itself in the wall, the handle quivering approximately six inches from my face.

"Go on," he says, tossing me a strip of leather. I wind it around my waist, yank the knife out, and stick it in my makeshift belt.

"Water."

He walks out the door, motioning for me to follow. He leads me down a hall, a set of stairs, and out a door into sunlight.

My mouth drops open.

We're in a huge clearing, one that looks to be the size of a small island. Behind me is a rickety-looking building; in front of me, a huge stretch of bright green grass and then a cluster of paddocks in the distance, and behind that, a large red barn. On my left is a copse of trees. On my right, another huge stretch of green and then forest. Across the clearing, which I am starting to realize is quite square, are a bunch of gardens and behind those, loosely spread trees. If I squint, I think I can see hammocks between said trees.

"This is beautiful," I breathe.

"This is a death trap." Newt heads towards the forest. I jog after him, one hand on the knife in my belt. "Why do you say that?"

He points to our right. A huge stone wall, looking to be a mile high and covered with vines near the top, looms over the clearing. There's a large break in the wall, and some sort of corridor, with other corridors branching off.

"That's the Maze," I whisper, fascinated. I don't know why it appeals to me. It looks amazing. Ha. A-MAZE-ing. Very funny.

I take a step towards the Maze, intoxicated by the harsh light and stone. Newt darts in front of me. "Don't go in there." His eyes are wide with alarm and struck through with seriousness.

"Why not?" I blurt.

"It's against the rules." He glares at me. "Only the buggin' Runners are allowed in the Maze, ever. You'll just get lost or . . . yeah. So don't go in there."

Something in his tone tells me to listen.

"I won't," I say.

He starts for the trees again, this time on my right, where the Maze is.

"What's in there? Why shouldn't I go in there?" I ask, blurting out my curiosity.

"You don't want ta know," he says darkly.

"I just asked you," I say. "Doesn't that mean that yes, I do want to know?"

"Trust me on this." He glares at the nearing trees. "You don't want ta know."

He's limping. Why's he limping? I glance down at his legs. He's favoring one. Definitely a limp. I touch his shoulder. "Newt . . ."

He shrugs my hand off and picks up the pace. I take this not-so-veiled-hint to shut the hell up and follow him into the trees in silence. He threads through them deftly, and I get the feeling that he could walk this place with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back.

After a few minutes, we reach a three-or-four-foot wide stream. Newt nods at it, voice distant when he speaks. "Go ahead."

I take a few sips, then sit back on my heels next to him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Fine."

It doesn't feel polite to dig deeper, seeing as I've just met this guy, but there's something about the way he's currently holding himself that makes me want to help. "Are you sure?"

"Drink your shuckin' water," he says tiredly.

I obligingly take a few more sips.

"Say, what's your name?" Newt asks. "It doesn't feel right callin' you Greenie, but . . ."

I lift my head from the stream and a word tears from my lips. "Rose."

"Rose?" He eyes me carefully. "You don't look like a Rose."

"You don't look like a newt," I reply. "For one, you don't have orange skin—"

"Shut it," Newt says, but the corners of his mouth are twitching. "So, Rosie, do ya—"

"Rose," I correct.

He gives me a mischievous grin. "Too late now."

I roll my eyes.

"Anyway," Newt says. "Do ya wanna have a tour of the Glade, or not really?"

I cup water in my hands and splash my face with it, then smooth down my hair. It's probably getting frizzy, and it'll just be frizzy about thirty seconds from now, but that can't be helped. "Not really. I want to know exactly what this place is."

Newt shakes his head. "We don't know either, exactly."

"I need the story."

He leans back on his elbows, his feet dangling over the edge of the bank he's on. "The whole story?"

I nod.

He stays silent, collecting his thoughts. Finally, just as I'm about to prompt him, he speaks. "About four years ago, Alby came to in the Box, the same thing you and Tommy came up in. He had ta survive all alone, up in this shuckin', bloody Glade and the shuckin', bloody Maze, for a month. Then I came. It wasn't until the tenthish Glader arrived that we erected a set of rules, started ta accept that we'd hafta stay here forever. The civilization grew as we did, and now you're here, just another addition." He frowns. "I wonder if they're gonna start sending up girls. Ta . . . you know, mate."

I breathe out through my mouth, relieved he didn't say "breed". That would have been offensive. "How do things work here? Like, what are the rules?"

"You've already got one," Newt says, shifting his weight to one elbow so he can drag a hand through his hair. "There's basically only three. One: don't go in the Maze unless you're a Runner. Two: do your part. And three: never harm another Glader."

Then shouldn't Gally be screwed, because he hurt me? I watch the water in the stream run over the rocks. "I can follow those rules. How do I do my part?"

Newt stands up. It's like a ballerina unfolding, his movements slow but sure and almost graceful. I blink hard and jump to my feet. "Where are we going?"

Newt glances at the sky, checking the time. "I'll show ya around the camp. If you're hydrated, that is."

I bend down and take one last cupped-handful of water, draining it and not caring when a few drops escape my mouth, traveling down my neck. "I am."

We start walking.

"There're about a dozen jobs around the Glade," Newt says. "The bosses of those jobs are called Keepers. There are Runners, Slicers, Cooks, Track-Hoes, Builders, Med-Jacks, Baggers, Sloppers, and Bricknicks." He glances sideways at me, as though here is where I ask a question.

"Baggers?" I say.

"Bag up the dead guys."

Oh. Okay. Just toss it out there like that, Newt. I won't care. Ew, that is gross. "Ohhhhhhhkay. Sloppers?"

"They do the dirty stuff," Newt says. "Cleanin' the bathroom and toilets, sloppin' the klunk."

"Med-Jacks are the nurse dudes?"

"Bingo."

"Slicers?"

"Slaughterhouse, basically," Newt says, his expression darkening a fraction. "Butchers. Not my favorite."

"Track-Hoes?"

"Gardeners." The dark expression on his face vanishes. "I hang out there the most, when I'm not dealin' with everythin' else in the Glade."

I fish around for another question. "You said that only the Runners are allowed in the Maze. What do they do, run around in it?"

"Dead on," Newt says. He gives me an appreciative look. "Bloody smart and calm for a Greenie, you know. Are you just hidin' how scared you are?"

"Nope," I say, shaking my head. "I'm just pretty calm." Funny, now that he says it I feel like I should be freaking out. I start breathing hard, then let out a piercing scream and shoot backwards, whirling and scrambling up a tree at the last second. Newt jumps about three feet in the air, eyes going wide. "Whoa, Rosie—"

"Who are you?" I shout, glaring at him and snapping a stick off the branch I'm crouched on.

"I'm Newt," he says carefully, holding palm-out hands up. "I'm not goin' ta hurt ya."

I can't hold in my laughter. I literally fall out of the tree I'm laughing so hard, but when I hit the ground I don't feel anything snap, so I'm fine. As I'm rolling around in the dirt, clutching at my stomach, Newt frowns and steps back, then rolls his eyes, pressing a palm to his heart. "Bloody shuckin' hell, Rosie. Not cool."

Thomas skids into the clearing where we are, eyes snapping around as he spins in a circle, scoping out the forest. A shortish, plump kid with curly brown hair and cheery blue eyes runs up, panting. "How many times do I have to tell you, Greenbean, there are no girl . . ." He sees me and stops.

"No girls in the Glade, huh, Chuck?" Newt says.

Thomas drops to his knees beside me. "Are you okay?" He helps me sit up even though I don't need it, and I push him away in frustration. "Go away, Thomas. I'm fine. Played a joke on Newt is all."

"Damn near gave me a bloody heart attack," Newt says, his palm dropping from his chest. "Greenie, your sister is a right shuckin' clown."

The curly haired kid's eyes go wider. "Thomas, she's your sister?"

"Both of you, shuck off." Newt offers me a hand and I shove it to the side, rising by myself. "I dislike sexism, you know."

"Whoop-de-doo," Newt says sarcastically. "I'm serious, you two," he adds to Thomas and the kid, who I think he called Chuck.

"I have a right to stay here," Thomas protests, voice hard.

"I'm fine, Thomas." I lay a hand on his arm. "Really. Go hang out, take a walk."

He stares at me. "How are you so calm?"

A faint smile tugs at my lips. "I don't know."

Reluctantly, Thomas walks away, with Chuck trailing after him and sneaking obvious glances at me.

"That was weird," Newt observes.

"Who's the short kid?" I ask, just to make sure I know who he is.

"Chuck," Newt says. His eyes soften. "He's a Slopper. Poor kid. I'd give 'im a different job, but he's not good at anythin' else."

I bite my lip.

I get a closer look at the gardens, which are quiet and peaceful, and the slaughterhouse (big red barn), which is just the opposite, with bloodstained flooring and the reek of rotting animal parts. I nearly throw up when we walk in, the stench is so overwhelming. When we exit I scrape my skin with my fingernails. "God, that was terrible. Can I go submerge myself in acid for three years to clean myself?"

"Mind if I join ya?" Newt says.

"Be my guest."

"NEWT!"

Alby's standing in the doorway of what Newt says is the Homestead, waving his arms. "OVER HERE, SHUCK-FACE! BEN'S GOING CRAZY!"

Newt breaks into a stuttering run. I jog alongside him, trying not to rub in the fact that he can go half as fast as me. "Who's Ben? Why's he going crazy?"

"Shut it," Newt grunts, and this time there's no smile to soften the words. I blink but keep pace with him anyway. Alby stops me in the doorway. "You can't come in."

"Alby, use your shuckin' brain," Newt snaps. "Do you want to leave her to fend for herself in this place?"

Alby hesitates.

"Bloody shuckin' idiot," Newt hisses under his breath. He shoulders past Alby. "How's he goin' crazy?"

I slip past Alby, following Newt like some lost puppy. I don't know what to do. "Is there any way I can help?"

"Stay out of the way," Alby growls, passing me and taking the stairs two at a time. Newt follows, and I jog after them. I can't help but peek inside the room where I woke up. Gally's gone. I feel every muscle in my body tense up and I dart into the room that Newt and Alby go into, feeling nervous. Instantly I want to race back outside.

There's a bed, and a table beside it, some shelves ringing the room above head height. But that's not what makes me want to dive out the window. It's the boy on the bed.

He's deathly pale, skin whiter than snow. His eyelids are purple and swollen, his mouth blue. Greenish blue veins are standing out in his skin. And he's going absolutely insane, spasming around on the bed, arching his back against the leather restraints on his wrists and ankles. He's going to pop his arms out of his sockets if he doesn't stop soon.

The restraints on Ben's legs snap. His foot slams Alby (who has been trying to get near him) in the jaw and the teen flies backwards into the wall, slumping to the floor.

Newt flings himself across Ben's chest. "Get his legs!"

I stare, shock freezing my muscles.

"NOW!"

I hesitate for a split second longer, then dive onto Ben's feet, pinning them beneath my stomach. I lock my fingers around the bedframe. It starts shuddering. "We need help!"

"I know," Newt grunts. One of Ben's fists slams into his kidney repeatedly. Newt grows paler with each blow but stays put. "Go—get—Minho—" he grunts out.

"Who's Minho?"

"Keeper of the Runners." Ben's other hand breaks free and starts raining hits on Newt's shoulders. Ben himself is screaming obscenities and it's obvious that he's fully aware of his violent actions. He kicks my stomach, hard, knocking the breath out of me for the third or fourth time today. Sorry if I don't keep track.

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" I wheeze.

"Go!"

I spring off Ben, barely ducking a heavily booted foot, spin, and crash out the door. I scramble down the stairs, knowing I can't leave Newt to face the psychotic boy upstairs alone for too long or he'll end up like Alby.

Hanging around in the room with the door to the Glade are a few boys, one of whom is Gally. I ball my hands into fists. I can fight him if necessary. "Where's Minho?"

Gally smirks, taking a few menacing steps towards me and looming over me.

All of a sudden I am completely fed up with him. I wallop him in the jaw, then spin and slam my boot into his sternum. I don't know exactly what comes after this, but I end up kneeling on top of his chest, pressing my forearm into his throat. "Where. Is. Minho?"

Gally chokes out "the gardens" and I'm on my feet, bursting out the door. I pause for a split second, then shoot across the Glade for gardens. As I near I start shouting. "MINHO! MINHOOOOO!"

I slow down. "MINHO!"

A thick, muscled Asian kid of at least sixteen skids around the corner. "What the shuck do you—holy klunk nuggets!"

"So what," I snarl. "I'm a girl. Get over it and c'mere." I jerk my head towards the Homestead.

He crosses his arms.

"It's Ben." I put as much force into my tone as possible. "He's going crazy and it's just Newt up there."

If he's surprised by my familiarity with the Glade, he doesn't show it. "Why the shuck did you even leave?" he demands, and breaks into a run.

I keep pace with him more easily than I thought I would. "To get you, idiot!"

He glances at me and runs faster. I push harder against the ground to catch up. He smirks, then bolts off, running faster than humanly possible towards the Homestead.

An equally smug smirk crosses my face and the next thing I know, I'm whirling past him in a rush of wind and kicked up grass and dirt. My muscles start straining and I know this is as fast as I can go. Minho catches up, grinning despite the confusion tingeing his eyes. "You're shuck fast," he exclaims.

I shrug while running (I have no idea how I manage it). "Thanks. Cool, I guess." The door to the Homestead nears; when I show no signs of stopping, Minho falls back half a step. I nearly break down the door in my haste to get in—I fly past Gally and his cronies, who look shocked to see me back so soon, and bound up the stairs three at a time. I burst into Ben's room. He's still flailing and hailing blows on Newt, who is glassy-eyed and dazed-looking from pain but trying to help Ben nonetheless. I dive onto the crazed boy's legs, hoping Minho knows what to do.

Newt glances at me, the glassiness of his eyes fading a bit. "Fancy meetin' ya here."

"So strange," I reply, and duck as Minho leaps over my head, landing knee-first on Ben's shoulders. He stabs a wicked-looking needle into Ben's neck. After a few more flails the boy goes limp. Minho and I scramble off. Newt drags himself up slowly, looking pained and angry. Now that he's not being bounced around by some crazy dude, I can tell he's bleeding in several places.

"Bloody shuck-faced shuckin' slinthead," he growls, glowering at Ben. "I hate it when these jacked klunk-butts decide to get shuckin' stung by shuckin' Grievers."

I want to ask what a Griever is, but this is obviously not the time. And Newt's not done talking either.

"Minho, get the Med-Jacks in here and Alby out," he says. He gingerly touches his lower back and hisses through clenched teeth. "Kidneys . . ."

"Sit," I say, gesturing at the floor.

Newt gives me a confused look that is way too exaggerated: then he says, "Ulbushfapiw?" and cups his ear, smiling a little.

I laugh, ignoring a "WHAT THE HELL" look from Minho. "Just sit, you . . ." I search for a word and come up with the one he used when talking about Gally. "Shank."

Newt grins at Minho and lowers himself to the floor stiffly. "She learns fast."

I get down on my knees. "Oh, yes. I learn way too fast." I move around behind Newt and he cranes his neck to look over his shoulder, see what I'm doing.

"Could I get a look at your back, please?" I say.

"Go ahead," Newt says, looking at Minho, who quirks an eyebrow. They're obviously communicating with facial expressions. I wait for a moment, then sigh. "Could you take off your shirt?"

"If that's what you want." I can hear the smirk in his voice, and Minho gives a fleeting evil grin. Newt unstraps the sheath over his shoulder and pulls his dirty, once-white shirt off over his head.

Minho smirks. "I'll get the Med-Jacks," he says, even though Newt already gave that order. He hoists Alby up and drags him out of the room with him. Newt sheds his brownish-reddish-orangeish tank top and sits there, holding himself awkwardly with one shoulder lower than the other, probably because of his kidneys.

His back is crisscrossed with old, silvery scars, marring the slight tan that spreads across his skin. Approximately where his kidneys are is turning purply-bluey-black, a spread of vicious bruising. Up by his elbow are three thick scratches, spilling blood. They look like someone dragged their fingernails over his skin over and over again. Ben probably did.

I stare at the scars, inexplicably moved by them. Imagine what he must have gone through, how he got them . . .

I blink. Focus, Rose. I take a deep breath, preparing for an elbow or knee in the stomach or face, and gently prod at his bruises. Newt hisses in pain, his head whipping around to level a freezing-cold death glare at me. I shrug and move his elbow out of the way, getting a closer look at the scratches. If I look hard enough, I can see flecks of dirt and grime on the edges. It'll need to be cleaned and bandaged. With clean bandages. The bruises will go away on their own time, but to ease the pain—if he wants too—he'll have to ice them.

"Well?" Newt says. "What's your analysis, Doctor Rosie?"

Does he even know that his back has so many scars? Does he care?

I put my chin on his shoulder, speaking into his ear. "Call me Rosie one more time and I'll do this." I brutally knuckle one of his bruises. He jerks upright, letting out a yelp that cracks in the middle. When he recovers enough to speak, he spins around and glares at me. "Bloody hell, Rosie! That was not cool."

I try not to look at his bare, finely-toned, muscled chest. "Sorry. Had to get the point across."

He gives me a dirty look. "I'm sure it was so necessary."

I roll my eyes.

The door opens and three or four boys come in, gawking at me, then tearing their eyes away when Newt snaps at them. One speaks timidly to me, his face filled with awe, gesturing at Newt. "He—"

"Clean the scratches and put bandages on them," I say, trying to soften my tone and failing miserably. "Ice for the bruises, maybe clean up his face. I kicked him. Accidentally."

The boy, probably one of the Med-Jacks, runs off to get supplies. I hand Newt his shirts and stand up, moving to the wall where I won't be in the way. Newt pulls on his shirts and restraps his empty knife sheath, Minho whispering in his ear. Newt nods, murmurs something back, and turns to Ben's bed. Minho beckons for me to follow him. I hesitate, but go with him. Newt obviously trusts him, so I probably can too.

Minho leads me out of the Homestead. I glance around the Glade. Judging by the growing shadows, which are climbing up the walls, it's around six o'clock.

"Where are we going?" I ask, wondering how I can have such an accurate, immediate sense of time.

"To visit the unicorns," Minho says, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

"Yeah, aren't you such a clever guy," I say scathingly. "Ha ha, let's play a joke on the new kid. Well guess what, slinthead? Your sense of humor—not all that humorous."

Minho shoots me a surprised look. Maybe no one's ever talked to him like that, maybe he didn't think that someone as small as me was able to pull off such an acerbic attitude. Then the expression clears. "To get food. Aren't you hungry?"

The second he mentions it, I smell barbecue and my stomach growls. I nod. "Food sounds great." Not just great, but terrific. Astounding. I need more energy or I'll start biting everyone's head off, literally and figuratively.

Minho jerks his head at a stretch of wall covered in what looks like names, crudely carved into the stone. "Go sit over there and I'll get us some chow. Nom-noms. Whatever the shuck you wanna call it." He turns and strides away without waiting for me to answer.

A wire of nervousness tightens in my stomach. I don't think Newt intended for me to sit by myself for five minutes when he told Minho to stay with me. Leaving me alone is not one of the greater ideas mankind has ever had. Not in a Glade full of boys who've probably never seen a girl in their life.

My fingers wrap one by one around the hilt of Newt's knife, still stuck in my belt, as I stride with fake confidence across the grass separating me and the wall. As I near the stone, I realize that yes, there are names in it, and more than half are crossed out.

The people who've died.

I don't feel like eating anymore, but I sit down, making myself comfortable in the longer grass by the wall. Even if I don't feel like eating, I have to keep my strength up.

And my guard.

Minho joins me approximately three minutes later, with two plates of barbecue chicken and cornbread, two cups of water, and a Mason jar of suspicious-looking amber liquid. He leans back against the wall, handing me my plate, and stares up at the sky. "It's been a shuck long day."

"Don't I know it," I mutter.

He looks sideways at me. I pretend not to notice, lifting a piece of chicken to my mouth.

"We've never had a girl in the Glade before," he says.

"I figured," I say.

"Everyone's going to be encroaching on your personal space."

"I figured."

"If you need help, don't hesitate to ask," Minho says, and I'm about to explode at him that I can take care of myself when he adds, "But ask the right person."

"And who would that be?" I say.

"Me," he says. "Newt, Alby."

Surprisingly short list. "What about Thomas and Chuck?"

"Yes Chuck, and who's Thomas?"

"The guy I came up in the Box with, slinthead," I say, my tone caustic for the second time in five minutes.

Minho smirks. "Yeah, him too."

He's silent for the rest of the meal and I am too, picking up on his "I'm too exhausted to talk" mood. I'm not surprised he's tired. If he's Keeper of the Runners, as Newt said earlier, then he's probably the last Runner to come back from doing whatever they do in the Maze.

When we're walking across the dusky Glade to the kitchen, Minho finally speaks. "Have you freaked out yet? Cried?"

"Excuse me," I say. "Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I spend half my life crying about tragic stuff. I'm just as sane and smart and strong and fast and durable as you are." I shake my head. "It's so sad. A single pair of breasts and people assume the worst."

Minho shuts his mouth, looking faintly embarrassed. I hide a smirk. Mention girl body parts and guys shut up like a clam. At least, most guys do.

We give our dishes back to Frypan, a dark-skinned guy of maybe fifteen with hair sprouting from every visible part of his body. He doesn't even stare at me, although that might be because he's serving six other Gladers when Minho and I return our dishes.

Newt joins us as we're leaving the kitchen. "How're you two doing?"

"Good," I say, trying to suppress the relief that washes over me at the sight of his face. I don't know why I'm relieved; maybe because the last time I saw him he was hunched over in pain, maybe because I don't fully trust Minho. I feel my shoulders relax.

If I don't trust Minho, does that mean I do trust Newt?

I shouldn't trust anyone.

Not Minho.

Not Newt.

Not even Thomas.

"Rosie?" Newt prompts.

I realize I've been staring over his shoulder at the walls of the Maze and snap my attention back to him. "Sorry?"

"We need ta find ya a place ta sleep," Newt says.

I don't know what comes over me, but suddenly I'm snapping at him like some sort of deranged shark. "Why? You gonna sleep with me? It's not even dark, but nice try, you damn shuck-faced slinthead! I can see right through your crappy pickup lines. Go try them on someone who actually cares."

Minho's eyebrows shoot skyward. Newt looks horrified. "What—where did that come from? Rose, I'm tryin' ta help—"

"By getting me pregnant?" I snarl. My thoughts are wild, confused. I am this close from stabbing both of them and running into the Maze. "Oh, hell yes, because that'll help! Sure, off with the clothes—"

"Rose!" Newt grabs my shoulders and shakes me violently. "Shut up!"

I'm lifting my foot to stomp on his kneecap when a huge boom thunders through the air, followed by a dark rumbling, the grating of stone on stone.

There are doors to the Maze, and they're closing.

"Oh, shuck," Minho mutters.

I slam my foot into Newt's kneecap, spin, and take off at full speed for the forest, terror spiking through me with each footstep. Deep in my mind, my logical self is asking me why I'm running, why I'm freaking out, but I can't listen to it. The fear and stress and anxiety I've been ignoring the entire time I've been here is surging up, rebelling against my mental barriers.

My feet carry me into the forest.

I run until I slam into the corner of two walls, the blow softened by soft ivy. I scale the nearest tree and straddle a high branch, trying to keep my breathing quiet even though I'm close to having a panic attack. My lungs are begging for air, but I can only get it in long, slow breaths, not harsh pants. Breathing like you've just been running for sixteen hours straight generally is noticeable.

I bite anxiously at my fingernails, waiting for Minho or Newt—hell, maybe even Thomas—to run into the clearing beneath me and see me. But as my breathing slows, my heart stops its palpitations, and my sudden flare of angered fear fades, no one comes after me.

I lean back against the trunk of the tree, staring up through the leaves at the stars, which have come out. The rumbling's stopped, it stopped long ago, while I was still crouching like a startled monkey. That has to have been at least half an hour ago.

It hits me.

I'm stuck here.

Possibly for the rest of my life.

Stuck in a Glade full of sick boys (sick being disgusting in every possible way sick not ill sick).

I can never let my guard down.

Not once.

Gally will always be a threat.

Rape will always be a threat.

I will never be able to relax.

I will always be stared at.

Like some animal in a zoo.

This.

Is.

Hell.

Sorry for the wait, dearies! I had a lot going on and this is a pretty long chapter (seventeen pages!). I will try to update more on time from now on. I hope you enjoyed and please tell me what you think!