hn. He was named John. It seemed oddly suiting of the boy he now knew himself to be. In the few days he'd been in the Glade, he'd proven to himself that he was strong and loyal, and was good at helping others. But there was something bugging him, something deep in the corners of his mind. He shrugged the feeling off and returned to his assigned duty.
"Hey!" John heard Sally yell from across the Glade, "Lestrade! The box! It's coming back up!"
John turned to a Glader who had been working beside him. "I thought the box only came once a month. Isn't that right?" John asked, remembering what Lestrade had told him.
"Yeah," the Glader replied, "something is wrong."
A lump rose inexplicably in John's throat as he rushed over to the box he'd been found in not long ago. Inside lay a boy about John's age. He was unconscious and clutched a note in his long, pale fingers. The sight of his inky black curls made John do a double take. The boy seemed to awaken from his coma long enough to utter a simple word before he slipped back into unconsciousness.
"John."
"They'll hate us, John," he spoke softly, as if John were made of glass. "They'll mark us as traitors."
John shrugged, "what else can we do? We've no other choice. We need to do this."
He nodded. "Don't forget me..."
Don't forget me.
John jolted back to awareness as Sally elbowed him in the side. Lestrade was talking, had been talking to him. He held the note in his hand. "He's the last one ever." Lestrade read from the slip of paper.
"Do you know him, John? He seems to know you." Anderson rounded on John, and all the other gladers seemed to follow suit. John looked to Lestrade for help and saw him with his head in his hands.
Well, John thought, do I know him?