We move him onto the stretcher. He's too badly injured for us to use the supplies in our emergency kits, the best chance he has is back in the Medhut. The entire journey he doesn't make a sound. Jeff and I struggle to move him, more on Jeff's end than mine. We call Gally over to help, he's less nosy and strong enough to lift it with us.

When we get to the Medhut, we transfer Alfred from the stretcher to the bed. He doesn't make a sound, still completely unresponsive. That's more worrying than anything. A million reasons for his worsening condition run through my mind; his head, his ribs puncturing his lungs, blood loss, shock. Any of those could result in his death.

"Gally," I murmur, moving to check Alfred's pupils. "We might need some help."

"Whatever you need," He responds, face grim. "Just ask."

"I need both Clint and Jeff here, but someone needs to run us a steady stream of warm water." Alfred's pupils are blown, almost encompassing his green irises. "Shit."

"I'll handle it." He promises, just as Clint bursts in with a pot of boiling water, hands clad in mitts. It's obvious he's taken it straight off the kitchen stove, probably from Frypan. Doesn't matter, this situation is more important than whatever food they were cooking.

"We'll need more than that," I make eye contact with Gally. "Work with Fry and the others. The water doesn't need to be boiling, just warm." We didn't have to time to boil it and then wait for it to cool.

He nods, leaving the Medhut swiftly. The water in the pot is still bubbling, Clint pinches salt from our jar into it, creating makeshift saline. Jeff comes to my side with a knife and the small bottle of iodine. I take the knife from him and he places the iodine on the beside counter. I use the candle next to me to heat and sterilize the knife. So many things could go wrong here, even with the precautions we were taking, the risk for infection was immense. If he didn't succumb from the injuries he had, an infection during recovery could kill him just as easily.

"Jeff, check his neck."

The boy moves to do so, feeling along the ridges of Alfred's vertebrae. "I don't — it feels fine to me?" He looks panicked, afraid to make the wrong call.

"We need to secure it, just in case." I pass off the sterilized knife to Clint and cut Alfred's pants off with the same knife I'd used to remove his shirt. Clint holds the offered knife carefully by the hilt, eying the pot of water. We can't wait any longer. The water might be a little too warm, but he's out anyway.

I meant it, what I said to Ben all those months ago. I'm not a doctor, I'm just a kid who's good at basic first aid. This is beyond me, the injuries Alfred sports are intense on a level I'm not sure he'd survive even if we had access to proper medical care. This boy, not even a man yet, with his bright green eyes and too-long russet hair, dopey grin and tongue-in-cheek humor, could die here. Right before our eyes. Alfred had been in the Glade before me, he'd always been a fixture in my life, a constant. I'd never gone a day without seeing him — we'd never lost a Glader during the length of my stay.

"Eddie! I'm flushing the wounds!" Clint's voice snaps me out of my head. He moves around to splash the saline solution into the compound fractures on Alfred's right forearm and shin. I kick into motion, slipping on a pair of latex gloves ( a packet of them had come up two months ago ) and spreading iodine across the skin near the injuries.

"Keep it coming, we need to clean it as much as possible." I lift the knife over the fractures, needing to cut into Alfred's skin to widen the area and stabilize the bones. The blade is familiar and steady in my hands, despite the nerves I feel. Jeff begins checking for any skull abnormalities or blood in Al's ears or nose. He winces when he runs a hand over Al's cheek, where the bruises are already vivid purple-black.

"His cheek is crunching." he breathes, looking ill.

"Broken zygomatic bone," I mutter, slicing into skin. Blood wells around the incision, but is quickly wiped up by Clint and then flushed away with more saline. "If he's not bleeding from his ears or nose, patch up the cut on his skull. Stop the bleeding. Then focus on his ribs."

Sweat beads at my temple. Gally runs in and out of the room with water, refilling buckets over and over. He's diligent, I'll have to thank him later. Bones crunch under my hands. I feel sick.

"C'mon, c'mon," I murmur, clearing a splinter of bone away and pressing the two parts of his radial bone back into one. "SPLINT!"

Clint is at my side immediately, holding out two wooden planks padded with bandages. I tell him to press them against the sides Alfred's arm, leaving the wound open but the bones held in place. He does. We need more hands. We're not gonna be fast enough, he's still bleeding out from other places.

"We need volunteers, ones with steady hands." It's a whisper, but then I repeat it, louder. Clint hears and screams it out. Gally shoves a pot beside us and says, "How many?"

"Three? Maybe?" I dab at the blood still welling up from his arm. "Anyone who isn't squeamish and thinks they can handle stitching skin together."

Rob, Ben and Jim come in, Gally having firmly taken over water duties. It's chaos for a little bit, everyone trying to get situated and fit around the bed. Rob is now holding the splint in place while Ben shakily stitches up Alfred's arm. Jim is cleaning and stitching the slice on the Runner's head, Jeff was keeping track of airflow and heartbeat, wrapping a splint around Al's neck to keep his head in place. Clint had the other splint held tight against the fractured shin while I cleaned out the wound and pressed the bones back together.

Please work, please work.


Alfred never wakes.

Clint, Jeff and I stay up all night trying to help him, his wounds long bandaged but his condition still critical. Not once did he stir during the entire time, even with my fingers in his flesh poking his bones. I didn't know what else to do to help him. It could be his lungs, his head, or just the culmination of all the injuries, but he was fading. We were at a standstill. His wounds were too severe for us to handle, we knew that, even if we refused to acknowledge it. I was pretty sure he was bleeding internally, and I could do nothing to fix it. Cutting him open wasn't an option, he'd die instantly under my untrained hand.

So we made him comfortable.

When the dawn light started slipping over the Maze walls, Alfred's breathing stopped. He let out a single, deathly rattle, and simply ceased. I ran my hand over his wrist — no pulse. Attempting CPR was impossible due to his ribs, I'd only shatter them even further and end up puncturing his lungs. He was too broken for us to fix. I just didn't know what to do.

I stare at his pale, waxy complexion, looking feebly for a sign of life on his expressionless face. He's so still, body still warm. Probably only fourteen, I think, numb. Too young to be like this, to be dead.

"Eddie," Clint's voice breaks, tears caught in his short eyelashes. He places a hand on my shoulder and pulls me away from Alfred's body. "Eddie, breathe."

Like a switch has been hit, I realize my lungs are burning almost as badly as my eyes. I blink and breathe in, shaky and trembling. I taste salt on my lips. My next breath is a gasp and like a dam, I break, falling to my knees and letting out a mournful cry.

I should have done better, should have tried harder! Just yesterday he was laughing at breakfast, alive and whole and eager to start the day. Now he was a corpse, pale and still and covered in bruises and abrasions. So young, still growing into his body, still flailing gangly arms and carrying baby fat in his cheeks. Frozen now, in this state, in this age.

Hands curled under my arms, hauling me to my feet unsteadily. I didn't look to see who it was, eyes glued to Alfred's face until it vanished from view, Clint placing a sheet over the body respectfully. Both him and Jeff had seen death before, many times. How many boys had died before I'd shown up? Six? I should — I should be more mature about this! Shouldn't I?

"I failed him," I wail, finally truly feeling the hands dragging me out of the Medhut. "Oh god, he's dead!"

"Shh, shh, breathe Eddie, breathe." Newt coos against my scalp, his grip on my arms shifting to wrap around me tightly. I still feel bone in my hand, the squish of tissue and flesh between my fingers.

"Let me go!" I scream and struggle, shoving my palms against Newt's chest as he cradles me. I don't deserve this comfort, not when Alfred is lying dead, his whole future cut short! "Please, please, please…!"

Newt suddenly seems so huge compared to me, easily gripping my wrists with one hand and wrapping his other arm around my shoulder.

"Eddie — dammit, listen to me, will you?!" he breathes, voice low against my temple, "There was nothing you could do! Everyone here bloody knows it, we all saw how bad it was and how hard you and Clint and Jeff worked to help him! You can't shuckin' blame yourself for this, you hear me?" His hand flattens down the length of my spine, sliding up and down in what's meant to be a comforting manner. "We're all gutted, love — but you didn't push him off that wall."

Feeling vulnerable like this, in full view if someone else...I've never done it before. At least, not in my current memories. I feel awful knowing that Newt and everyone else is suffering as well, especially since most of them had known Alfred longer than I. Yet here I am, crying and bemoaning my sadness while relying on another to comfort me — relying on Newt to comfort me. Newt who had been a Runner with Alfred, who had been here when Alfred arrived in the box and had known him longer than he'd known me. I sag against his chest, his grip on my wrists loosening enough for me free my hands and slide them around his waist. My cheek presses against his collarbone, just able to pick up the thrum of his heartbeat. It's comforting, feeling life beneath me.

"I'm sorry." my voice trembles, nose stuffy and wetness on my cheeks staining his shirt.

"I know you are," he whispers, "but you have no reason to be."

It's not okay. It won't be okay for a while. I'm sad, so terribly, achingly sad — but there's something warm in my chest. Like liquid comfort, or a hand in my own. They're feelings within me, but I don't know where they're coming from. Comforting myself? How weird would that be? But that isn't the case, I just know it. The emotions are fractured, coming in like static.

I don't have the energy to think about it.


That night I dream of blackness. It's not scary, despite my fear of the dark. There's a presence beside me, a weight in my hand. Silent comfort in an unseen space. Whoever it is speaks words I don't understand and squeezes my hand, grounding me. I feel whole, content in a way I've yet to be my entire time in the Glade.

When I wake, it's to sun against my face and a hollowness in my chest. I feel it, deep and visceral within every part of me, that something is missing. There is no space in the hammock for someone else, but I knew I felt empty laying there alone. Shifting, I got out of the hammock, swaying on my feet and holding a hand to my head. I feel ill.

"Awake, are you?" Newt asks, announcing his presence. We still slept near each other even after having moved the sleeping arrangements to the outdoor canopy space following Sven's arrival, in preparation for boy number twenty-one - Rob. That was over five months ago. The population was now at twenty-five - no. It was twenty-four now, wasn't it?

"How - " I cough, clearing my throat. "How long was I asleep?"

"Slept through the whole day 'n night." he replies, getting out of his own hammock and approaching me slowly. "You needed it, you were up for almost two days."

For a long moment, neither of us speak. I mull over the fact that I've missed a whole day - that I'd been allowed to miss a day of work. "...Alfred?" I ask, staring a hole into the ground before me. Newt's feet come into view, stopping just inches away.

"Billy and Jackson are taking care of him." his fingers twitch. "Eddie, are you…"

"I know…" I inhale deeply, releasing what feels like a weight off my chest. That weird dream had settled me more than I realized. "That it's not my fault. Logically, anyway. I can't help it if I don't have the skills needed to - to save someone like that. But it still hurts and I still feel bad, like it was my fault, even though there was nothing we could do."

"I get it, I do." Boldly, Newt reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing my fingers. It brings a different feeling than the hand in my dream had given me, but it's nice all the same. "You don't think I wish I could'a done something? I'm a shuckin' Runner too, I keep thinkin' - if only I'd run with him that day, ya know? Maybe I could have stopped him from climbing up. It's survivor's guilt, Eddie. You gotta live with the aftermath but you can't let yourself drown in it. No thinking about 'what ifs', you'll drive yourself bloody crazy!"

He speaks with all the clarity and maturity that's only brought on by experience. Six times, seven now, he'd likely felt this way. Wondering if a single action could have changed the course of time, turned a moment of dread into something else entirely. I shift the hand in his grip, intertwining our fingers. Sunlight slips through the raggedy curtain-walls, dappling our skin and setting Newt's hair alight. I've probably slept for at least twenty hours, but I still feel exhausted deep in my bones. Sighing, I slide forward an inch or two and rest my head against his collarbone again, like I had the day before. His chest hitches as he exhales, startled. But he doesn't tell me to move, instead I can feel his neck pulse as he swallows, the calloused hand not being held sliding around my waist and settling in the small of my back. With my own free hand, I grip the bottom of his shirt and settle fully against him.

His heart beat is so loud, I can see the pulse jumping in his neck and feel his chest fluttering against my own. I'm hyper aware of it, focusing on these obvious life signs, on the flow of blood still safe within his skin and the nervous rise and fall of his chest. The slight tremble in his hand, the sweat collecting between our bodies from the humid air and the scent of grass from his shirt - he's so very alive.

"Okay," I sigh, words spilling into the hollow of his throat and tickling his skin. "I hear you."

"G-Good that." his voice breaks, fingers briefly sliding up the curve of my spine. "Let's get you somethin' to eat, alright?"

"Yeah," I agree, though in truth I don't feel all that hungry just yet. Maybe a bit thirsty. I step out of his space, his hand sliding off my back as I move away. "Thanks, Newt. You're a good friend, you know that?"

An odd half-chuckle slips from his mouth, eyes flickering darkly. I'm not sure what to make of his expression, it switches to something more neutral too quickly.

"That's me," he says quietly, following me as I slowly make my way to the Homestead. "Newt. Best friend."

"Now, I didn't say best friend," I tease, cracking a small smile even though my heart feels tight and my mouth too dry. Newt tosses me a scandalized look before breaking into a real smile at my mockingly innocent expression. "Kidding. You're amazing, really. The greatest best friend I could ask for."

"Cheers," his smile turns strained. Must not be in a teasing mood. Neither am I, to be honest, I'd only attempted it to try and bring back some normalcy. Now I just felt awkward. It's too soon. I can't feel genuine humor right after Alf-don't.

Phantom comfort in my chest. I breathe a little easier.


Within the week, Alfred is buried in the Deadheads and his name on the Maze wall has a line scratched through it. I can't stand the sight of the graves, so I spend a lot of my mourning time at the wall. The line through his name is stark white in comparison to the weathered look of the etching beneath it. He'd almost been here a year before…

Anyway, all the new names still stick out a bit more. Stephen, Dan, Jackson and Wyck. Sven and Rob's names had started to look less new. Mine seemed ancient for six months, liked it'd been carved into the stone for eons. Month twelve was approaching - my seventh month in the Glade. A whole year since this whole thing began. Crazy.

It's weird, I wasn't even as close to Alfred as I could have been, but his death still left a hole in me. In such a small community of boys, it was impossible not to know practically everything about everyone. Here, everyone was your friend. Everyone was family. We'd lost one of our own in a messy, bloody way and it left scars seeing that happen in front of you.

"It's not that it gets easier," Clint had said to me, hand on my shoulder. "It's just that you get used to the feeling and you're able to adjust around it."

Sounded kinda unhealthy to me, compartmentalizing your negative emotions. But it's all we know. We carry around these sharp, painful bits of ourselves, wearing down the edges so they no longer sting as much as they once did. Even if those pieces of you aren't sharp anymore, they're still pieces, broken off of a whole. You can't break a mirror and then put it back together again, not perfectly.

"There you are," Minho appeared beside me, glancing at the wall. He frowns for a second. "Hey, you know it's not healthy to sit around here all day."

"...I know." For some reason I'm not ready to move on yet. I don't know how everyone else has done it - or maybe they're just better at hiding their pain. "I'm working on it, I swear."

Minho observes me for a moment, considering the truth to my words, "Just...don't let it get to your head too much, sitting out here by yourself - no need for dark thoughts."

"I get it." I stand up a little straighter, not annoyed so much as tired of everyone hovering over me, acting like I'm gonna break or off myself. "Minho, you don't gotta try and convince me of-of whatever you're trying to convince me of. I'm not gonna do anything drastic. I don't wanna die. I'm just a little sad."

"No, no, no," he waves his hands placatingly, "I'm sorry, I get it. You must be sick of everyone sayin' the same thing. Shuck, I - I didn't even come over here to talk about this!"

"...Oh?" Interest peaked, I turn my gaze from the wall to look at Minho. "What? You got a health question or somethin'?"

"Or something." he shrugs, shifting on his feet. An awkward expression crosses his face, lips pursing as he considers his next words. "I don't wanna - I dunno, make any assumptions but...I think there's something wrong with Newt."

"Assumptions?" I narrow my eyes, instantly a little more worried now that I know it's about Newt. "Assumptions about what?"

"He's - he's different lately." Minho shrugs again, scuffing the dirt and grass with his shoe. It's odd seeing him so serious and considerate. Not that Minho isn't a good friend, but he's usually more headstrong and humorous. "I thought you might know why, since he trusts you 'n all."

"You know if he had a health problem and shared it with me, I wouldn't be able to tell you." I cross my arms, "Not if he wanted to keep it confidential."

"No, no, I know. I just - I'm worried and I wanna at least know if he's talking to someone." Minho runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up. He'd cut it recently, it looked nice. Short hair suited Runners, helped keep them a little cooler during the day. Newt needed a cut soon, his hair was longer than mine, almost brushing his shoulders.

"...I'm sorry," with a heavy exhale, I shake my head, "Newt hasn't come to me about anything at all. Medical or emotional."

Minho taps his fingers against his thigh, looking off to the side with a stony expression. That obviously hadn't been the answer he'd been searching for, but there wasn't anything either of us could do about it. "Would you talk to him?"

"Me?" I wasn't the best at giving advice. It seemed that everyone else gave me pointers and tips and helped me deal with my problems, not the other way around. Dealing with the emotions of others wasn't one of my strong suits, I always felt awkward and disconnected. It wasn't that I didn't care about the problems my friends had! It's just that I hadn't the slightest idea on how to comment on it, especially if my response was liable to leave an impact on them. That was a lot of responsibility and failing in some way terrified me.

"Yeah, you, slinthead!" Minho scoffs, looking at me in disbelief. "I'm pretty sure Newt would listen to every word you say to him."

"I don't understand." There had to be other people in the Glade that knew Newt better, Minho included. There were seventeen...sixteen boys that came before me, who had been here longer than I. Thirteen of them had been with Newt that first day in the Glade. "You don't think he'll talk to you? Or Alby? Nick? One of the other Runners?"

"Oh my god," Minho stared at me, mouth agape. "You - I can't believe this."

"...what?" I shifted, uncomfortable under his judging gaze. Was this about the best friend thing? Was I somehow Newt's go-to now?

The other boy just shakes his head, looking a little amused and a lot exasperated. "Nope, I'm not touchin' this at all. Not my place. But listen to me when I say - your word means a lot to Newt. More than you might think."

"I...okay?" I'd have to take his word for it. Minho probably knew Newt the best after all.

"Eddie, I'm serious." The Runner puts his hands on his hips, "Just give it a try, alright?"

"Minho…" Frowning, I run a hand through my hair. It's curling past my ears, near my jaw by now. It gives me an idea. "Does he know how to cut hair?"

I get a blank look in response. "What?"

"Newt, does he know how to cut hair?" I repeat, rolling the dark strands between my fingers. "I think I can talk to him without it seeming like a callout, ya know?"

"Oh." Minho pauses, posture lightening. "Yeah, I mean, none of us are experts with hair or anything, but it's never been too awful. Newt's alright at it I guess."

That was fine in my book. I wasn't really worried about how my hair looked, we were all in the same situation here and hair grew back. "Ok, then I'll just ask him to cut my hair - and see if he wants his cut in return. Pretty as it is, the length can't be too comfortable while he's running all day."

Something like a laugh slips from Minho's smiling lips, his eyes incredulous. "Pretty?"

"Yeah." Newt's hair is a shade of golden-red-brown that I can't describe. It's absolutely stunning in the light, especially during the sunrise or sunset, when orange and pink reflect in his hair and make it look like a halo. It feels a little silly, knowing that I've waxed poetic about Newt's hair color of all things. There was no way I was breathing a word of this to Minho, though. He'd never let me live it down - or worse, tell Newt and creep him out. "Why? You don't think it is?"

"Never really thought about it, to be honest." Minho deadpans, rocking back and forth on his heels. I don't like the look in his eye - like a cat that caught the canary. "But yeah, play hairdresser with him, talk about your feelings, yada yada."

"Shut up," I roll my eyes goodnaturedly, biting the inside of my cheek in a vain attempt to stop a smile from blooming across my lips. "You're the one who asked me to check in on him in the first place."

"Yeah, well, if you got outta that head of yours you'd have seen for yourself that something was wrong and I wouldn't have to confront you about it." It's not meant to sound accusing, because a lot of the boys are used to my quiet, internal nature.

But it still stings a bit because he's right. I've been more disconnected than usual this past week, because of what happened with Alfred. Newt had comforted me and seemed fine enough - but had he really been? Was I even looking close enough? Was I even looking at all? I hadn't been. I'd been focused on my own problems. It was a fault of mine, hyperfocusing and withdrawing in on myself. I already have a hard time making sense of other people's emotions, but retreating within my head only made it more difficult because I couldn't see past my own thoughts. I liked to think I was considerate but I was constantly anxious and constantly thinking about why I was anxious. Not very good friend material when I spent more time judging and condemning myself than I did paying attention to those who needed me.

"Shit, I'm sorry Eddie, I didn't mean - " Minho shifts when I don't respond, expression regretful. "I know you have trouble speaking up about any ol' klunk."

"No, Minho, you're right." Lips quirking into a smile that looks more like a grimace, I grasp my elbow with a hand, posture sinking. "I haven't been a very attentive friend lately - or at all, really. I'm not good at...at being open or speaking my mind and the idea of talking about feelings makes me wanna run in the other direction. But I do care about Newt and you and the other Gladers."

"Shuck, man, I know you do," Minho takes a step forward, hand out like he wants to comfort me in some way. "I didn't mean to imply you don't."

"You didn't, not really." I shrug one shoulder, trying to dismiss whatever bad blood Minho thinks he's created. "More of a reality check, if anything. I have been living in my own head. I feel...safer in there. Can't get hurt if you don't open yourself up to people."

"Eddie," Minho finally drops a hand on my shoulder, looking directly into my eyes. His grip is strong. Grounding. "That's no way to live. We're already in a cage, man. Don't put yourself in another one."

God, if only it was that easy, to just let these weird insecurities and trust issues fade. I didn't even know where they were coming from! They'd just...always been there. Ingrained in the deepest parts of me. But Minho was right. This mental shield I'd created, I was the one who built it and I was the one who could take it down. I needed to live in the real world now.

"I know - I know, you're right."


"Cut my hair."

Newt glances up, fork halfway to his mouth. "Uh." he responds.

"I mean," Nervously, I wring my hands and peer at him from under my eyelashes. "Would you? I don't think I can trust myself to do it."

"But you...trust me?" he asks, still looking confused. "To cut your hair?"

I shrug, trying my best to appear nonchalant. While it's true I have ulterior motives, I do need a haircut, which makes this a whole lot easier. I'm not very good at lying and manipulating, I get too anxious. "If you don't want to…."

"N-No, I'll do it!" Newt stands a little too quickly and smacks his knee against the underside of the table. "Ow, bugger!" he hisses, fork slipping from his hand and clattering against his plate.

I can't help it - I snicker, pressing my lips together tightly to stop a full laugh from escaping. Newt glances up at me, embarrassed and disgruntled. Coughing, I do my best to school my expression.

"Sorry," I bite my lip, grinning at his reddening face. "Are you okay?"

"Sod off," he grumbles, picking up his plate. "Lemme just finish here and I'll meet you outside."

Nodding, I leave the Homestead and make my way to the Medhut to grab the shears. They're kinda clunky and likely to take off an ear if you're not careful, but it's better than using a knife and just hacking chunks of hair off. It'd been three months since my last cut, obvious in the way the strands now hung annoyingly low in front of my eyes and tickled my neck. I found myself blowing or brushing strands away more than once throughout the day - it'd be a relief to get this over with.

"Where did I - " I mutter, rifling through the drawers. I'm pretty sure this is the last place we had them. Something cool against my fingers - "Ah-hah!"

"You ready then?"

"Ah!" I jolt, the shears slipping from my grasp. Newt stands in the doorway, arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

"You…!" I stammer, nose scrunching. "You did that on purpose!"

"Little bit." he shrugs, looking completely unapologetic about startling me as he steps inside. "Now c'mon, we doing this or what?"

Grumbling, I shoot him the stink eye and pick the shears up. I resolutely do not start thinking about the sun on his hair again. Instead I make my way over to one of the stools and sit myself down, holding out the shears. Even though the sun is setting, all the lanterns in the Medhut are lit, giving us enough light to work with. Newt takes the scissors from my hand and sighs, walking around me in a circle.

"How do you want it, hm?" he asks, snapping the shears open and closed.

"Uh, shorter?" I shrug, offering a sheepishly smile he can't see. As long as it's out of my face and no longer sticking to my skin uncomfortably, I'm fine with anything. Well...mostly anything. I don't wanna be bald.

"Helpful," he mutters, a hand tentatively shifting through my unruly strands of hair. Feels nice.

"So." I swallow as he begins snipping. "Uh, how….how have you been?"

Ugh. Awkward. Could I have been any more obvious? This is why I didn't have talks like this - secret conversations within conversations, meant to sneak information out of a person without them realizing. Being upfront was always much easier for me.

Newt cuts away the hair near the base of my skull, "...as well as I can be."

Not very informative, but I didn't wanna push in case he started getting suspicious. It wasn't like I knew how to broach the subject anyway. What could I say? Hey Newt, are you feeling depressed? Like that would go well! That might not even be it, he could be having trouble with something else entirely. Newt continues to carefully measure out handfuls of hair and cut it as evenly as he can. The silence is actually quite comfortable, being in his presence has always been easy.

"What's your favorite color?" I ask, after a significant pause. The snipping falters momentarily. He brushes a few clumps from my shoulders.

"My favorite color?" he repeats, sounding bewildered. "Uh, I guess...it's...I haven't really thought about it."

"Not at all?" That's a bit sad, that he's focused so hard on getting out of the maze he hasn't taken the time to enjoy the small things. It's too much stress for someone so young.

"Well," he brushes a hand past my right ear, pulling at some of the curls around the appendage. "...I suppose if I had to chose one...maybe gold."

"Gold?" That is a lovely color, I don't fault him for favoring it. It's one of my favorites too. "Like the sunset?"

"...yeah. The sunset." his voice sounds odd, but I don't move to catch his expression, wary of the blades close to my scalp.

"I get that - I really love the colors in the sky right as the sun rises or sets." I sigh wistfully. "Orange and red and bright yellow…and I -" My breath catches as I pause, realizing I was about to admit my admiration of his hair color.

"What?" he prods. There's actual interest in his voice, I hadn't noticed it was missing until it was spoken so clearly. How had I missed it at all? The lack of life previously in his tone was more obvious to me now than anything. "C'mon, what is it?"

"Your hair," Stuttering, stumbling, I bite out the words while pinching at my shirt. "When the sun hits your hair - it's my favorite color."

I feel him freeze behind me, scissors stopped mid snip and one hand half tangled in my messy hair. Fear grips my spine - have I made him uncomfortable? It could pass as a compliment, couldn't it? The scissors continue cutting, the hand in my hair sliding down to my neck. The air feels strangely heavy. My face is, without a doubt, crimson all the way to my ears.

"Y-Your favorite animal?" My voice breaks, embarrassingly enough. The silence had gone on for too long. I'm not even sure where I'm going with this, maybe just hoping to give him a reprieve from thinking about stressful topics. If I can make him more comfortable, maybe he'll open up to me a bit more. Newt's thumb brushes the space where my neck and shoulder meet, making me tense. Something weird's going on. Was this maybe what Minho meant? Newt did seem a lot quieter than usual. He moves his hand from my neck to brush away a few more strands of hair before moving around me until we're face to face.

There's that furrow between his brows again, lips pressed tight together and cheeks a ruddy red. He tugs my bangs between his fingers and raises the scissors. "There aren't many animals in the Glade to choose from."

"Beyond the Glade, Newt." Our eyes meet briefly. He looks contemplative, carefully clipping my unruly bangs into something more manageable. His tongue pokes out between his teeth for a split second.

"Dunno."

"W-Well, mine's a cat. I think. I've got image of 'em in my head - I think they're cute. And they don't have to stress about things, they're allowed to just nap in the sun." I stutter, fingers tapping against my thigh. Was it just my imagination or did Newt get a little closer?

"Hm." he hums distractedly, his expression shifting into something I can't read. I don't think he's even paying attention to our slightly one-sided conversation anymore. "Your eyes."

"My...eyes?" Seemed a bit random to me - what did that have to do with my question?

"They're gold," Another lock of hair is cut away. "Not always, but in the right light or whenever you get real bloody happy - they turn gold."

I suppose if I had to choose one...maybe gold?

No. That couldn't be the reason, that was ridiculous. I couldn't even clarify the thought it was so outlandish.

"Oh," I manage to say, unsure how exactly to respond to that. "That's...nice?"

Newt holds my gaze for a long moment, searching, but for what I don't know. His lips quirk into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. There's suddenly a bit more space between us, I hadn't realized just how close he'd gotten. "Unbelievable. You're completely - "

"Wha - " I start, for some reason feeling incredibly uncomfortable. His tone is more bitter than I've ever heard come from his mouth. Newt shuffles away, dropping the scissors onto the counter.

"That should be good, right?" he says, that weird smile still plastered his face. "I'm knackered, it's been a long day. We can cut my hair later, I think I need some time alone."

"I-" Confused, I move to stand but he's already halfway out the door. "Newt?"

But I'm alone now, with only the flickering lanterns and the sound of cicadas buzzing loudly in my ears. I feel like there was some test or challenge just then - and I failed it. Dammit! I bit my lip harshly, feeling more than a bit worried and regretful. This is why I'd thought it would have been better for Minho to approach Newt. I obviously didn't know our friend as well as he thought I did.


"So?!" Minho corners me the next evening, a hand on my elbow as he tugs me off to the side behind the bathrooms. "How'd it go? Is he cool? He didn't seem cool this morning. Please tell me good news."

"Oh man, Minho," I shake my head, feeling ill. My stomach had been cramping from the stress all day. "I messed up. I dunno what I did but he got outta there quick, he's never run from me like that before."

"What? Run from you?" Minho looks just as shocked as I feel. "What did you say?"

"I don't even know! I was just askin' questions, ya know — silly ones like his favorite color to make him open up slowly, but he...he just, I dunno." I shrug helplessly. "He just made a comment about my eyes and how — how his favorite color is gold and I guess my eyes look gold?"

"Oh my god," Minho breathes, "He didn't."

"What?" Exasperated, I toss my hands up, feeling out of the loop or like the punchline of some joke I didn't hear. "What did he not do?"

But Minho just shakes his head, "No, never mind. You— you're just...such a pure soul, you know that? Don't ever change."

"Ok, whatever, the point is," I emphasize, bringing Minho's attention back to the problem at hand, "He booked it outta there right after, and he didn't sound very happy. I—" embarrassed, I shift a little, scuffing the dirt with a foot. "I dunno why but it kinda scared me a little."

"...he scared you?" Minho's expression goes hard, mouth set in a stern line.

"Not exactly…" I mumble, "just, the whole situation...he wasn't acting like himself at the end. It's almost like I couldn't recognize him. Freaked me out a bit, I keep thinking I did something really wrong and now he hates me or something."

"I don't think he could ever hate you, even if you stabbed him." The other boy snorts, looking a little more relaxed after I've explained myself.

"I-" Furrowing my brow, I frown and shake off the weight his words, "That's reassuring I guess, but I seriously think he's mad at me."

"Nah, never." Minho pats my arm reassuringly, "I think he's probably mad at himself, actually. I bet he's beatin' himself up over the way he ran out on you last night!"

I wasn't so sure. Newt had said he wanted some time alone - and maybe that was him pulling away. Pulling away… Not just from me, either. From Minho and apparently everyone else. His closest friends, the people he'd known for as long as his memory allowed. For someone like Newt, who had always been open and charismatic and unafraid to speak his mind - it was worrying. Isolating himself wasn't a healthy sign.

"No, there's more to it…" I cross my arms, exhaling loudly and shaking my head. "Somethin' is really bothering him, like seriously affecting him. Not some silly tense moment. Has anything happened lately? Anything at all?"

There it is - for one quick moment of clarity - an expression of guilt and realization. Minho presses his lips together into a hard line, eyes dancing off to the side. He knows something.

"No." he lies, and he knows that I know he's lying. "It's nothing. Uh, look, it's getting late…"

You're running away. I want to say. I want to call him out, but I don't. Maybe I'm wrong - maybe I've made a mistake reading the look on his face. Interpreting emotions has never been a skill of mine, he could be worried, not guilty. Probably. Maybe. I still wanna ask about it, but Minho is backing away already, tossing a wave over his shoulder and heading back towards the Homestead.

"I'll see you later, alright?" he calls, before I can stop him. "Don't spend too long out here, it's getting dark."

"Yeah...okay." I mutter at his retreating form. Something sinister has settled over the Runners recently. Not scary per se, just dark and unsettling. Every morning they left with reluctant, unmotivated expressions and came back looking stony and exhausted. I didn't know anything about the maze - they said they were still mapping, still looking for an exit. But with every week that passed they just looked more tired and withdrawn. Even Minho looked stressed, seen with deep lines on his forehead more often than not and bags prominent under his eyes. I dread to think what made them look so disillusioned, what could possibly be in the Maze that made their hope falter. Either way, I'd never know seeing as I wasn't a Runner. The Map Room was off limits to everyone else, as well as whatever information about it they'd documented.

The sound of scuttling startles me. A Beetle Blade crawls up the side of the wall closest to me, mechanical limbs twitching creepily and an eerie red dot of light blinking from the general head area. It pauses just feet away, level with my face. They don't usually stick around upon being noticed, so the behavior is a little odd. It's like it's watching me. Creepy.

I eye it carefully, inching away from the wall. They've always freaked me out, especially their size - they were almost a foot long with thin, spindly legs; looking more like massive centipedes than beetles. Ick. Just seeing one so close made me shiver, repulsed. It wasn't moving either. Just watching me as I slowly moved away with it's unnatural glowing red eye.

I felt a lot better once I turned the corner towards the front of the Homestead and the Beetle Blade left my view. They weren't actively aggressive, but touching them wasn't smart - not that I could see why you'd want to to begin with. The boys who had tried to catch or come into contact with them had received brutal needle stabs from their grotesque mechanical legs. Whatever their purpose - because they were clearly not organic and most definitely made by whoever put us here - I had no desire to get up close and personal with the nasty things.

Still...I couldn't shake the feeling that the Beetle Blade had specifically wanted to observe me.


The new kid that came up was a skinny slip of maybe fourteen, with brown hair and thick clusters of freckles. His name was Fynn and he ended up being a Track-hoe. It'd been over two weeks since Alfred had passed and I still spent a few minutes in the evening staring at his name on the Maze wall. It wasn't as bad as it had been before, during those first few days, but I wasn't close to getting 'over' it yet.

"Sven." I pinch the bridge of my nose upon seeing the blonde's sheepish smile. "Lemme guess, cut yourself again?"

"You know how it is, Eddie," he laughs despite the blood smeared on his palm. As a Med-jack I'd come to expect seeing both of our Slicers in and out of the Medhut on a weekly basis.

"I'd tell you not to make a habit of this, but I've already said it more times than I can count." Smiling in exasperation, I begin the now familiar motions of cleaning and bandaging the cut. I could do this in my sleep by now.

"And like I tell ya every time, it's never on purpose!" he flexes his fingers, winching a little. "Can't really help it…"

"Yeah, yeah," He's right, him and Winston aren't exactly trained knife-wielders. Not like I seem to be. "Alright, you should be all set! Just don't poke at at it or strain that hand."

"Sure thing, Doc. Thanks." Sven salutes me with his unbandaged hand, turning towards the door. "Oh."

I glance up at his pause, seeing Newt in the doorway. Sven offers a smile at the Runner as he slips by, and Newt returns it weakly. The older boy hasn't really been around lately, distancing himself from everyone in the Glade. I'm surprised he's here actually, we hadn't had a full conversation in a week. Biting my lip, I glance from him to the ground, nervous. Clint and Jeff look up, feeling the awkward tension.

"Uh," Clint looks between the two of us. Newt isn't visibly injured, so unless he has some internal problem, then from the looks of it he's here to talk to me. "Um, do you guys want us to...leave?"

"What?" Jeff raises his eyebrows, "Man, why do we have to-ugh!" he's cut off as Clint elbows him in the gut.

"No, no...I just wanted…" Newt scuffs his foot against the ground, wringing his hands, "I wanted to see if...would you - bloody hell. Eddie, would you cut my hair?"

Oh. I do recall him saying something about me cutting his hair last time we'd...talked. It surprises me that he'd actually remembered, or wanted it to happen at all.

"Ah, s-sure." I stutter, jerkily moving to stand. "Clint, where's the-"

He hands me the shears, looking as awkward as I feel. There's also concern there, like he's reluctant to let us go off alone. "Here ya are. We'll just...take a break or something." he says, gesturing to himself and Jeff. The other boy looks disgruntled, but follows the Keeper out of the Medhut without complaint. Newt and I are alone.

"Well," I lick my lips, tugging out a stool. "Sit down then."

The blonde comes all the way inside and sits, hands folded in his lap. We're close enough now that I can see the exhaustion lining his frame and the dark glint in his cocoa eyes. I wasn't even sure why he was here if I was being honest. It wasn't his off day, and dinner wasn't for another hour or two. He'd come in from the Maze early. Despite being curious as to why, I didn't ask, not wanting to send him running once again. Prodding didn't seem right when it looked like he was the one who wanted to do the talking.

"How do you want it?" I ask quietly, moving around him until I'm facing the back of his head. The locks of golden-bronze hair rest just above his shoulders, wavy enough that the ends curl in towards his jaw.

"...shorter. I don't really...care." he replies, voice just as low as mine.

I wait for him to say something else, but when he doesn't I proceed with the cutting. The hair between my fingers isn't as soft as it looks, probably damaged by lack of proper shampoo and constant sun exposure - hair care wasn't the greatest here. Anyway, while it wasn't super soft despite it's fluffy appearance, Newt's hair was still pretty nice. It didn't feel like straw or anything, and it wasn't wiry or greasy. Most of the boys were pretty decent about hygiene, especially now since they were all a year or more into puberty and their body odor had worsened. Newt, thankfully, was one who showered at least every day. Being here for so long made a lot of not nice smells fade into the background, but it was still noticeable if you smelled like klunk.

Strands of sunset hair fall onto his shoulders and the ground as I carefully snip away. The silence feels heavy.

"...I'm sorry."

Pausing, I hover the scissors over a chunk of hair, wondering if I've heard him wrong. "What for? You didn't really do anything wrong."

"I kinda stormed out without an explanation." he shifts a little. I wonder what expression is on his face right now.

"...I guess." I shrug noncommittally, ignoring the fact that I'd stressed about it for days. He's obviously not feeling well and it wouldn't do to make him feel guilty. "It's okay."

"If you say so." There isn't really any relief in his voice, it's more monotonous than anything. He doesn't push for further forgiveness or to try and drive any point home.

"...Newt," Another lock of hair falls as I resume. I'm choosing my words carefully, afraid of making him withdraw in some way. Did I do something wrong? I wanna say, but I also don't want to make it about me. "Are you...doing okay?"

"I dunno, Eddie." he breathes, shoulders heaving. "Maybe."

"...is it...anything you can talk about?" I prod gently, biting at my lip again. It's quiet for another moment, the only sound being the metallic snip snip of the shears.

"No." he says bluntly. Something twists in my chest. "Listen, Eddie, can we just...not do this?"

I freeze, stomach sinking. "D-Do what?"

"The whole 'tell me all your worries' thing." Newt says dryly. "I just want to...be normal. Talk about anything else, please. Talk about yourself or, I dunno, just - anything at all."

"Oh...okay." Swallowing, I wet my lips while considering his words. Now that he's asked me to speak, everything about myself seems to have fled my mind. My dreams, maybe? Things I liked? It was hard to find interesting topics of conversation when all we had was the Glade and a repetitive daily routine. "Did I ever tell you...about my odd feelings?"

Newt grunts out a negative, keeping his head still as I trim the hair around his ear.

"Well," I begin, thinking back to how I'd first noticed it my very first day here, "I know this might sound crazy, but ever since I showed up here in the Box, I've felt like something was missing. More than - more than just the memories. It's like a phantom limb...like there's a piece of myself I don't have, but I know it was there...I just don't know what it is." I purse my lips, feeling sheepishly. "Sorry, I bet I sound crazy."

"...no." Newt murmurs, "You don't sound crazy…I believe you."

"It's just," Now that I've opened the 'box' so to speak, I can't help but spill all my thoughts. "Sometimes it gets weird. Like I'm feeling things that...that aren't me. Which doesn't make any sense, I know...but…" I shrug helplessly. "There's this disconnect. With my own emotions, I know that I'm feeling them and what they are and why. But these ones? They come randomly! I'll be sitting here just writing in the journals and suddenly I'll feel sad or angry but it's muted. Like...like static. Now I know that that sounds crazy, but I...I've been thinking about it. What if..."

I take a breath, brushing a hand through the hair at the back of Newt's head and knocking loose strands out. He tilts his head back to make brief eye contact, nothing judging or skeptical on his countenance.

"What?" he asks, turning back around when I gently tap his head. The hair around the opposite ear is trimmed as well. I lean back a bit to check that it's even on both sides before continuing.

"You've seen the scars, Newt." I murmur. The scars are inescapable, a lot of them being on my hands and therefore always in my field of view. "What if...whoever had me, us, before...what if they did something to me?"

"You mean aside from beat the shit outta you?" he scoffs, incredulous.

I roll my eyes even though he can't see it, "Yeah, aside from that, smartass."

"Well," he concedes, "I wouldn't put it past them. Who knows what the Creators can do?"

"Still don't know what exactly it is, but I'm pretty sure it's not normal." At least, as far as I knew you weren't supposed to have secondary emotions like this. "Maybe I am crazy." I muse.

"Nah, you're the most sane here, I'd say." Newt says flippantly, a little more life coming back to him. He seems far more relaxed now than he was initially. "Whatever it is, I don't think you're crazy."

"Well…" Bashful, I duck my head down for a second. Pointless, seeing as Newt is facing away from me and I have no reason to feel nervous. "Thanks. I think. You're the only one I've told, so it was kinda weird to put into words."

"...really?" he seems to perk up a bit at that. "I'm the only one you've told?"

"Well it's not exactly casual conversation, now is it? If I went around tellin' everyone they'd think I really was crazy." Chuckling, I move to the front of him, ready to start on his too-long bangs. "Still, I knew I could trust you not to make fun of me, if anything."

"I wouldn't…" he meets my eyes, looking tired yet imploring. "I'd never make fun of you, not if you were being serious."

"Thanks." I give him a smile, finding his considerate nature adorable. Even looking like he'd rather sleep for a decade or be anywhere but here, he's still watching out for my feelings. I slip my fingers through the strands of hair hanging over his eyes, measuring before I trim. "Ditto."


Newt's hair came out decent, maybe a little choppy, but everyone's hair was like that. We weren't professionals. Luckily his hair was wavy enough that the slight swirls disguised the uneven ends. It was certainly better than my first attempt at cutting hair some months ago. Newt even stayed behind to help me sweep up the hair on the floor, most boys weren't aware enough to stick around. It was nice. Newt was good at thinking about others and looking at the smaller details. It still surprised me that he wasn't chosen to at least be the second-in-command - not that Alby wasn't a good co-leader, he was just a bit...brash and short-tempered. Alby may be kind and good at rounding everyone up, yes, but Newt had a way with words that made you stop and think. Both Nick and Alby actually took his advice when he gave it, and even sought him out when things got out of hand. Newt was like some unofficial third-in-command and he wasn't even a Keeper. Minho was the Keeper of the Runners. It was weird that someone so good at being a leader wasn't one in any shape or form. Not that Minho was a bad Keeper! He was probably one of the best we could ask for to lead the Runners.

"Are you going to dinner?" Newt asks, his back to me as he dumps the wooden pan of hair outside. I put the broom away next to the cabinet, double checking that it's securely closed.

"Yeah, I just wanna stop by the wall for a sec." I make my way over to come up beside him, taking the pan from his hands. He relinquishes it without comment, watching as I turn around to put it away next to the broom.

"The wall?" he questions, not asking which wall but rather why. There's only one place I could be talking about, after all. When I turn back around I see a look of realization cross his pretty features. "Oh….again, Eddie?"

"I know…" I sigh. "Minho already told me that it's not healthy. I get it. I just hate visiting the Deadheads, so this is my way of paying respects."

"No. It's alright. I get it." he follows me when I make my way out of the Medhut, walking the familiar path to the wall of names. "As long as you aren't spending hours here. It's understandable, wanting to pay respects. You're not still blaming yourself, are you? This isn't a guilt thing?"

It might be. I don't know. It doesn't feel like it is. I just like to the look at the crossed out names - well, I don't like it. I hate it, actually. But I look at them and remind myself to do better. I promise myself I'll do better. I may not be able to be a fully certified doctor, but I can learn from my mistakes.

"No." I stop in front of the wall, a few feet away. My eyes seek out the slashed names. They stand out more than the others, like scabbed-over wounds. "I mean, I'll probably always feel a little guilty even if I know it wasn't my fault. But it's not about that. I come here so I can remember them, and to make the promise to keep going. I'm gonna do whatever I can to improve and learn how to be better."

"Ah." Newt nods, glancing at the names and lingering on the slashed out ones himself. "Well. That's good."

"You were right," I mutter, rocking back and forth on my heels for a second before turning around. Newt raises a brow at me, turning as well to head towards the Homestead.

"Oh yeah? About what?"

"I didn't push him off, so I can't feel guilty about him dying. It took a few days and a lot of...of struggling through bad thoughts, but I've accepted it. I don't like it - but..." I shake my head, I'd spent a few nights just thinking about what I could have done differently, but Alfred had been unresponsive the whole damn time we'd had him. He could have been beyond saving before Hank even got him back to the Glade, that head injury alone enough to take him out. "There's no denying it. It was the fall that killed him."

"...yeah." Newt glances at me, voice low and face half-shadowed by the dimming light. "The fall."


holy shit guys, this is most I've ever written for a story in MY LIFE! and we aren't even close to being done...wow. I've been updating about once a week consistently, so here's to keeping that motivation up !