A freezing cold liquid hit Thomas in the face, waked him from his peaceful slumber. His eyes flew open and his gaze moved feverishly from one place to another, trying to make sense of what was happening. The first thought he had was, am I ever going to be able to wake up by myself? Do I always have to be woken up by other people? Because I'm not sure I'm okay with that.

Thomas brought his hands up to get rid of the excessive water—he was sure it was just that, water—from his face.

"Thomaaas!" yelled out a voice, to which several others cheered. Thomas couldn't see who was talking, as the bright lanterns all around him blinded him quite a bit. "Wake up, you lazy shank!"

"Wh—what's going on? Why—"

"You've survived the Night of the Greenies—and with flying colours!"

The figures cleared up, and Thomas now saw dozens of faces looking down at him, nearly all of them smiling, some from being genuinely happy, others laughing at his reaction. "The night of what?"

"Night of the Greenies. Come on now, it's not over yet!"

He'd never seen the boy talking to him before, and it disturbed him that a total stranger knew his name, but he did suppose he was something akin to a celebrity at the moment. The dark-haired boy stepped forward and grabbed Thomas by his arm. "You ready?" he asked, his tone full of amusement and something that vaguely resembled excitement.

"Ready for wh—" Thomas was cut off by a sudden yank which forced him into a standing position. "What are you—" He didn't finish his sentence, as the other boy pulled him along once again, this time into a run. Okay then, fine, show me the way.

They ran. Thomas and the other boy were at the front of the mass of people, everybody else following close behind. Some of them ran next to them, the ones who were faster, apparently.

At least fifteen minutes went by before they arrived their destination: the East Wall. Do they want to wait here until the gates open? So I'd see how it works? he thought with growing disappointment.

Then, he saw it. Lots and lots of words, no, names, carved into the wall, a few branded with a prominent line going through them. It didn't take Thomas long to understand what was in front of him.

"What you can see here are..."

"...the names of all the Gladers ever been," finished Thomas the sentence, nodding along. "I'm gonna get to put my name on here, too?"

Although the other boy seemed surprised by the interruption, he quickly pulled himself together. "Yes, you are. Here," he said, offering Thomas a carving chisel. "If you want to, you can ask somebody else to write your name for you."

"Thanks," said Thomas in return, taking the chisel, "but I don't think that'll be necessary."

Cheers erupted from the crowd once again, and Thomas stepped closer to the wall, a smile making its way onto his lips.

It became clear quite quickly that stone-carving was a lot easier said than done. He had to use a lot of force to scratch the six letters into the hard material, but it was okay; his enthusiasm kept him energised. What if I remember my name tomorrow? came a highly unwanted thought. Another thought reassured him. Even if that happens, the lot would probably still call me Thomas anyway.

A considerable amount of time later, he was done. The first hints of the sun rising appeared to the sky, colouring everything a nice shade of red.
"Congrats, Thomas-boy. You did it! You're one of us now."

The crowd went wild and chanted, "One of us! One of us!" over and over again. In any other occasion, Thomas would've probably found it incredibly disturbing, but right now, he just went with it. He let out a sincere laugh and shook hands with at least ten people, hugging thirteen. It was great to feel accepted.

.oOo.

After a morning like that, it seemed like almost a crime to return to normal day-to-day activities, but that was exactly what needed to be done. For Thomas, it meant he had to team up with a guy named Zart and head to the Gardens. It wouldn't have sounded half as bad if the said guy hadn't looked like he was about to fall over from boredom.

As Thomas walked beside Zart, he couldn't help but notice the other boy's height; he must've been, what, two meters tall? He had black, messy hair and a strong build. Thomas didn't know what to think of him.

"What we're gonna do today," began Mr. Tall, "is get rid of the weeds. It's a simple enough job, and you should be able to do it."

Likely so, yes, he thought, but instead of saying it out loud, he nodded.

"Great. D'you think you need gloves, or you'll do fine without them?"

"I think I'm good, thanks."

Zart raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. They stopped in front of a row of bushes which carried black berries. Blackcurrants? Sure resembled those.

"Your things are there," said Zart, motioning towards the closest bush. "If you need anything, I'll be that way." He pointed to the left. "Any questions?"

"Yeah, actually. How long do I have to do this? The whole day? Or can I do something else later?"

"It depends on how good and how fast you do your job. I mean, if you're a total fail in doing the simpler tasks—like this one—then I guess you understand that I can't let you near more valuable plants."

"Sounds logical, yeah."

Zart walked off without another word, leaving Thomas alone with his thoughts—and, apparently, a bucket. Because that's what the big, grey thing beside the bush must've been.

He grabbed the bucket, brought it with him to the bush, sat down, and placed it next to him. But before he could even reach his hand out to start with the weeding, he noticed something that didn't quite fit. A figure, a... toy? He closed his fingers around the tiny thing, carefully shaking it free from between the branches.

Thomas examined it more closely. Despite its shape being rough, it was meant to be a figure of a human, a man, to be more specific. Its arms and legs were directly connected to the body, leaving no space between, and a short, stick-like thing grew out of the man's back. It took him a while to understand what it was: a gun. The whole thing was meant to be a toy soldier; he got that now. The lines on his upper body and legs weren't as random as he'd previously thought; they were supposed to mark the lines of the man's uniform. Its face consisted of two holes as eyes and a straight line as mouth.

Why was it there? Whose was it? Thomas had no idea. Perhaps Zart would know, though? He's been here longer than I, so... but no. Why'd he know the story behind some random wooden toy?

With a shrug, Thomas put it into the pockets of his trousers. He'd figure it out later.

.oOo.

"What did you think of gardening, though? Think it's something you'd want to do?" asked Chuck, his mouth half-full. The two of them were sitting on the same spot as the day before, enjoying the spaghetti.

"Not really, no," said Thomas. "I don't... Gardening's not my thing. On a scale from one to ten, I'd say it's a two."

Chuck's lips quirked upwards. "And what would cooking be? Wait, no, let me guess. A three? Four?"

Thomas smiled in return, shaking his head. "Nope, not even close. It'd be a solid seven, I think."

The younger boy raised his eyebrows. "You're into cooking? Honestly? You look like the last person to find cooking, of all things, enjoyable."

"Well, one thing's finding something enjoyable and the other is actually being good at it. Frypan didn't seem too impressed with my cooking skills."

"That's because he himself is awful good in it; he tends to forget not everybody's a born cook. And I'd not worry about that, if I were you. Shanks who are total klunk at cooking have become Cooks, so..."

Thomas widened his eyes, amused. "No way. Why'd Frypan let anybody like that into the Kitch? Makes no sense."

"Because their enthusiasm makes up for the lack of actual skills. His words, not mine, by the way."

Thomas gave a short laugh, not sure how to answer to that. He took another mouthful to have an excuse for not saying anything. "Wait," began Thomas moments later, "what do you do around here? I can't believe I still don't know that."

Chuck's face fell, almost unnoticeably. "I'm a Slopper. You know, the one who does stuff nobody else wants to do?"

To say Thomas was surprised would be an understatement. "No kidding? And here I was, thinking you were a Builder or something."

"I wish."

The next minutes passed in silence, if one didn't consider the loud chatter all around them. Thomas' eyes kept drifting to the tables. He had still trouble understanding why there even was this pathetic excuse of a caste system going on. From what he'd seen so far, there was little to no difference between the castes, so why bother keeping it up?

"What am I gonna do tomorrow?" asked Thomas, genuinely curious. "Please say it's Running."

He'd put a lot of thought into this in the past day. There were a couple other ways to rise to a caste high enough to be permitted the access to all the secret information, but they all required his being there for a few years the least; becoming a Keeper didn't happen overnight. However, by becoming a mere Runner, not even the Keeper of the Runners, he'd be granted access. Plus, I might go crazy between all these walls if I can't leave to see what's on the other side.

When he'd first heard it from Galileo, he'd been confused as to why it was that way. Why did all Runners, without exceptions, be promoted to Rank 3, the lowest Rank that knew everything? It had taken some time, but he'd figured it out.

The thing was, not only they knew exactly what was waiting for them on the other side of the walls, but they were also trained to fight. Yes, fight, because although it was rare, the Grievers—giant monsters who vaguely resembled mechanical spiders—occasionally came out during the day, too, which meant the Runners had a higher chance of surviving if they knew how to fight. That very fact made them invaluable to the Gladers; should anything happen, they could protect them. The Runners had like three tasks at once: making sure nothing changed near the Death Circle, helping to keep order in the Glade, and in case it should be needed, protect the rest.
It raised the question why wasn't everybody in the Glade trained in fighting. They could defend themselves instead of relying on others for that. So far, the only thing Thomas had come up with was that perhaps the Highs feared the Gladers would decide to solve more conflicts with fists rather than words, but that made little sense. Presuming all the boys had functional brains and they weren't suicidal, why would they go against the Rule Number One anyway? They would just get themselves banished.

Anyways, coming back to the previous thought, because the Runners had so many responsibilities, it would have almost been a crime to not fill them in on the details. So yes, becoming a Runner was the best—but definitely not the safest—way of getting into the Elite.

"Hello? Earth to Thomas! You still with me?" came a voice from someplace far away.

Thomas blinked rapidly, seeing a waving had in front of his face. "What?"

Chuck smirked. "You like him?"

"Who?" asked Thomas, knitting his eyebrows together in confusion as his gaze moved to Chuck. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Him. Newt. You've been staring at him for like two minutes now."

"I—what? Have not."

"Have too," said Chuck, nodding.

Thomas settled for a shrug. "I was lost in thought, I guess, nothing else."

Chuck didn't seem to believe him. "Whatever you say. But just so you'd know, it's not a good idea to even try to get close to him."

"Why not?"

"Just isn't. Mainly because he refuses to become friends with almost anyone. Plus," he said, drastically lowering his voice as if about to tell something of the utmost importance, "personally I think he has a thing with Galileo."

Thomas' eyebrows rose, and he tried hard to keep a straight face. "And why, exactly, do you think that? You've seen them snogging somewhere?" The mental image of those two passionately kissing under a tree made it even more difficult for Thomas to appear nonchalant, but he managed. Chuck seemed serious about it.

"You haven't probably been here long enough to notice," began Chuck, his voice staying low, "but those two are nearly always together. They constantly give each other these... looks... as if communicating without words. It's weird."

"Yeah but have you considered this: maybe they're just really good friends."

Chuck's eyes narrowed. "Maybe."

Not too much later, the boys finished with their supper. As they carried their now empty plates to the Kitch—one of the three rooms existed solely for this purpose—a thought hit Thomas. "Hey, where am I sleeping tonight? Are you gonna do that disappearing trick again? Because if so, I swear to—"

Chuck gave a slight head-shake. "Nope, nothing like that. Well, you remember the place you fell asleep yesterday, don't you?"

"Yeah, but what's that got to do with anything?"

"That has everything got to do with it, considering that's your new home 'til the end of time. Or, until you become Rank Three or higher; whichever comes first."

Thomas almost stumbled over his own two feet. "Really?"

"All true," answered Chuck. "Although this time around, you don't need to sleep on the bare ground. Unless you want to, that is. You can get a sleeping bag."

Okay, I can work with that. "How can I get it? And when?"

"Whenever you want. You just have to go by the Sleephouse; your stuff should be right next to the door."

Thomas fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Sleephouse? Everything's got a name like that here?"

Chuck opened the Kitch's door, walking right in without waiting for Thomas. "You're still aware the whole place is called the Glade, right? What else did you expect?"

The kid had a fair point, but that didn't mean Thomas would've admitted that. In the room, three boys stood before the sinks and... cleaned the dishes? But why? Wasn't everybody's workday over?

"Are you... working?" asked Thomas, adding his plate to an already high pile of dishes. Realising he probably didn't seem like the most intelligent person in the world by asking the question, he rushed to fix it. "I mean, isn't the workday over?"

Two of the three didn't even bother to look up, and even the third one did so with obvious reluctance. "You're new here, aren't you?" he asked, his tone anything but friendly.

"Yeah, he is. Sorry," said Chuck quickly, pushing Thomas out of the door.

"What was that all about?" Thomas asked once outside. "What has my being new got to do with anything?"

"Because," Chuck said, his pace fast, "only Greenies ask such dumb questions."

"How were my questions dumb? It's not my fault I don't know how everything works yet."

Chuck didn't answer. Instead, he took a left turn, disappearing from Thomas' view for two seconds. If he hadn't known better, he'd thought the other boy tried to avoid answering his question. But why would he?

"I'm still waiting for my answer," he reminded after catching up with him.

"I don't think I'm the best person to explain all that..."

"If you know what's going on, then you're the best person to explain it to me. Who cares if it's you or Galileo saying the actual words?"

The boys took a right turn. "It's—ah—complicated. But you're right, I guess... Well, the thing is, certain Ranks have night shifts. They work during the night, not the day."

"Yeah, yeah, I know what a night shift means. But why's that? Why can't they work during daytime?"

"There's just too much work to do, you know? Can't do everything in twelve hours."

That's why there are lanterns on at night; some people are still up and running. "So, those we saw were Sloppers, right? Are there any other jobs that have to do that?"

"Just two: the Cooks and Newt."

"Newt has his own Rank?" asked Thomas, bewildered. "How can I become a Newt?"

"No, it's not like that. Technically, Newt's job's name is Second-In-Command, but since he's the only one doing that..."

"He's Rank One, right?" he asked, recalling the chat they had at the party.

"Yep. See? You're already getting the hang of the system."

"I guess."

Their conversation was cut short when they turned another corner and found themselves from the front of a large building. It had two storeys and four windows, making for an interesting sight. Bright, yellow letters on top of the door announced the boys had found their way to the Sleephouse.

This time, Chuck decided to let Thomas go in first, and upon entering, Thomas understood why. Cold liquid fell from heavenwards when he opened the door, drenching him completely in just a matter of seconds.

The few boys who'd been in the room sent a mocking smirk Thomas' way, one or two laughed out loud. Chuck joined the latter ones.

"Man, I forgot I put that up. Sorry! I would've warned you, but..." a blond boy said, the end of his sentence disappearing into giggles.

"Real funny," Thomas said, not impressed. For the second time in the span of a day, he brought his hands up to get rid of the excess water on his face and in his hair. "I could've drowned, you know. Then my death would've lay on your shoulders."

The room was as large as he'd imagined it'd be. Sleeping bags, pillows, and backpacks were scattered all over the room, leaving far too narrow paths for maneuvering between them. His bag was right next to the door, just as promised, and he grabbed it without another thought. He was ready to get out of there. Thank God I can sleep outside and don't have to share the room with these guys.