In which there is a bonfire and an attempt at gardening.

Notes and teaser at the bottom.

Alby starts as soon as we're clear of the trees.

He walks around the Glade, pointing out the various places they've established for themselves, and the people we come across. He keeps up a running commentary, needing no input from me.

"Over there's the Homestead. That's the centre of civilisation here; all the huts, the mess, the kitchen, the stores…over there you can see the Council Hall – we built that right into the corner. All big decisions are made there, problems, issues, things that need consideration. That there's Zart. He's Keeper of the Track Hoes – the Gardens. Over there's the Lookout Tree. One of the earliest builds; did it with just a handful of the boys you see now. And that's the Infirmary. Our Medi Tent. Clint and Jeff are the Med-Jacks. You saw Jeff earlier. Good at patching up the rest of us…"

He continues.

I try to put the images to the names he gives. The kitchen is a wide hut with a low roof and an open doorway. The Council Hall is a fan shape in the corner with a tunnel entrance. The mess is the largest; some kind of gathering hall with a coned roof of sticks and hay. The hammock huts where everyone sleeps all range in build and size. The Lookout Tree is a dead one with thick boughs reaching out a little way before they've been broken off. A rope ladder sways next to the trunk, secured at the bottom and tethered to a platform of wooden beams at the very top. The Medi Tent has a slanted roof and a panel outside the door to block a draft.

We walk around the field and back through the tree line towards Homestead before Alby stops and really looks at me.

I gaze back at him, unflinching, but deliberate about the space I keep between us.

"So this is it. Home. Supper's probably waiting now; you gotta be hungry."

"Thanks," I say, quietly. "But I can't. I just…need to be…"

Alone. Leave me alone. Please.

"Alright, fine," Alby says. "You stay inside the wall, understand?"

I nod, already backing away.

I see him shake his head and duck into the nearest hut – one that looks like the largest.

I turn and run.

But I'm not headed for the doors; ones that stand open onto a long, shadowed tunnel of yet more ivy-covered stone.

I run for the box that brought me here.

It still sits as I left it, maybe hours before – I can't tell how much time has really passed.

There's goose feathers in the grass at the edge, and some in the bottom of the cage. Most of the barrels and other supplies are gone; they've been collected by the other boys.

I drop into it.

The metal clangs at the impact; groaning quietly as I sink down, trying to see something, anything in the gloom below.

This tunnel brought me here. Like an offering. The strobe lights that line the subterranean walls are dark. Everything is black.

I pick up a goose feather and feed it through the grill. I let go.

It drifts aimlessly, turning over and over as it falls. It gets smaller and darker and then it's swallowed entirely by the nothing below.

Much as I may want it, this is no way back out.

I climb from the box again, only to find that the sky has dimmed. The brilliant sun has fallen behind the towering wall and shadows blanket the Glade.

From the doors, a loud groaning sound erupts. It sounds like the grate of rock and the turn of rusted gears combined with something living and animalistic.

The doors slowly move to press together. Inside the Glade, everything is quiet but for the low hum of voices and energy in the Homestead. Outside of it, I can hear more groaning noises, like more doors and walls shifting.

I leave the box and make my way to the far corner of the Glade.

I don't know who I am, so I at least want to know where I am.

I start to run.

I sprint from the corner, right across the open field, past the worn earth where the Doors stand, past animal pens and the gathering of huts and past the Lookout Tree until I stop hard on the other side of the Glade.

I look back and mentally record the count in my head. Exactly how many strides. I don't know what drives me to do it, but the emptiness in my head presses more and more with the passing minutes, threatening to suffocate, and if running helps me breathe and memorising numbers gives me something to focus on, I'll take it.

I pivot in my new corner. This time I aim for the next one. I'll be running around the back of the Homestead and the Medi Tent, into the first line of trees.

And I take off.

When I stop this time, I have a different number in my head.

The Glade isn't square? Or the terrain makes a difference?

I look behind me; the paths are very much the same across the open grass. I want to be sure, so I turn and head back to where I started.

I run the two lengths again. This time I get the same number. Two sides left, leave diagonals for another day, I decide.

"Hey, hey, look there's nowhere to run."

I stop and turn on the spot. My hair goes flying.

Newt is standing there. His sword sheath is still strapped to his back, but his hands are spread in an unthreatening gesture. There's a leather cuff strapped around his right wrist.

He approaches carefully, eyes fixed on my face like he's waiting for me to bolt.

I consider it. Ultimately, I decide I need to learn to live with them. And Newt, with what I've overheard today, doesn't seem like a bad start.

"I'm not running to escape, I'm running to learn," I say.

He stops, a frown appears between his eyebrows, two parts puzzled, one part surprised.

"Sorry for knocking you earlier," I continue, before he can reply.

The frown clears. He definitely looks taken aback for a second before he seems to find himself again. He walks closer, a little easier now.

"It's okay. It's not easy," he says. "Trust me, I know"

"But the other one? The one I sacked; I don't think he'll take it so lightly." The memory of the other boy both daunts and amuses me.

Newt's mouth lifts into a faint smile that's gone nearly as fast. "Gally? He takes himself quite seriously. I can't imagine getting outdone by a girl is something he'll get over anytime soon. Don't worry about him. You almost spiked Alby and he still gave you the tour."

I nod slowly.

"I'm Newt," he continues, stopping some distance away. "You knew that, though."

"Alby mentioned it," I say.

Alby hadn't said much about Newt at all, really. He had introduced him at the base of the tree, but I hadn't seen him since, and Alby hadn't brought him up.

Night is truly falling now.

The sky is a star-studded blanket of twilight blue and the woods are a silhouette behind the warm, flickering torch lights of the Homestead.

"Come on," Newt encourages, nodding his head to where the group of boys are emerging. They're all carrying various things with them, from barrels and crates to armfuls of what looks like straw. "Come and meet them."

The words send a shiver of uncertainty up my spine.

"I can't," I say.

Newt, Alby – they are one thing; clearly aware of the mental turmoil of being sent here. But the others; walking straight into the entire community…that's something else.

Newt looks like he's about to say something, but I don't want more assurances. I don't need them.

"Look," I begin. "I don't know anything. I don't know who I am. I don't know where I am or who any of you are. All I have is this pressing emptiness in my head where I used to be and its suffocating." I feel my voice crack and quickly swallow. When I continue, I'm glad that I sound steadier. "It's night time. I heard you say the Doors won't open until morning. Guard them if you want, but I just…

"Just please let me cope with this on my own, okay? You're right; there's nowhere for me to go. We all know that, so please…just let me cope."

Newt is silent.

It's the most I've said at once – maybe ever, since I remember nothing before the Box and the Goose. But there's a spark of something like understanding in the brown eyes looking at me that is more of a reassurance than any words have been so far.

"Alright," he says, quietly.

Behind him the boys have put together a pyre of some kind; wooden supports and dry hay for kindling. They're moving around, laughing and holding fire torches.

"We'll be at the bonfire," Newt says. "Happens every month for the new Greenie. Come and find us, I guess."

I nod again.

I'll have a knot in my neck by morning.

Newt leaves, casting one last look at me.

I wouldn't be sure what to make of me, either.

…

The sky is as black as the wood when I finish running the corners of the Glade. I couldn't even see a metre in front of me as I sprinted through the trees, but I kept going anyway.

The wall is solid, tall and an undeniable prison, even with what look like three more sets of doors on the remaining sides. But that is not why I ran. Good to know the distances during day, but even better to learn them at night.

I'm wary as I approach the gathering of huts and the boys celebrating outside them. The fire still burns strong; its flickering golden light casting a little way across the field and throwing long, leaping shadows.

The boys laugh and dance about. Some form a circle and wrestle in the centre of it, others sit on logs with jars of glinting amber liquid, using arm gestures to embellish stories.

I move around most of them, until I approach the edge of a feast table and I'm spotted.

It's the black boy, still in his leather apron, who sends me a small, friendly smile. He doesn't call out to the others and I appreciate it.

Instead, he holds out a shallow tin dish, with a kind of vegetable broth inside. I smile cautiously back and take it.

"I'm Frypan," he says quietly. "Keeper of the Kitchens. You'll work with me at some point until you find what best fits you."

All I can do is nod again. I don't know if I'm any good in a kitchen.

"Got any seconds, Fry?"

We both turn to look as another boy approaches.

He's got light skin, turned pink by the sun on his cheeks. His short hair is the lightest blonde and he's wearing a blue-green hooded shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

"Just because it's a Box Feast," Frypan says. He nods to a huge pewter pot and the boy helps himself.

"This is Zart," Frypan continues.

Alby pointed him out some time ago, but I never spoke to him.

Zart flicks his spoon in a kind of salute.

I cast my eyes around, curiosity slowly starting to take seat against the blank space inside me. The fear still in my chest feels numb, now.

"Did someone ask you to take it easy on me?" I ask.

Its not that I don't appreciate the quiet of this conversation, but it is at odds with the heckling from earlier and the general riotous atmosphere of the bonfire celebration.

Zart ducks his head. "Newt said to just give you a chance to adjust," he confesses. "Alby agreed with him."

I cannot see Alby anywhere, but after a moment, I spot Newt across the firepit.

He's sitting back against a log, a jar of the amber drink in hanging from the lazy grip of his fingers as he looks up at me. He smiles.

That tiny knot of muted fear in my chest unravels, and it seems to release something a little more significant, but I can't pinpoint what.

I find I'm able to smile tentatively back before I turn to Frypan again and finally dig my spoon into the broth.

I wasn't aware how hungry I am.

The three of us stand in an easy silent bubble, just on the edge of the party as Frypan keeps watch of the table and points out more of the boys while Zart and I finish our food.

It's not long before Zart sets down his empty dish. "Right. Well, my turn in the Ring," he says.

Frypan flashes a bright smirk at this, but says nothing.

"You want to come and watch?" Zart asks me.

I don't know what the Ring is, but I remind myself that I need to find a place in this world, since I'm clearly not leaving.

"Why not?" I ask rhetorically, letting out a breath.

I follow him past the fire, feeling a few of the boys look at me, some longer than others. I ignore it as best I can until Zart finds me a space in the circle around a sandy pit.

He takes a place inside it, opposite a boy who looks younger, though its clear he does his share of work, based on his strong shoulders.

Their wrestling is sloppy, a bit ineffective and underneath the heckling, good natured. The circle cheers them on, no sides taken.

"First day, Greenie," A boy says to my right. "First girl, too. How does it feel?"

Maybe it's me, but it feels like the noise level drops.

I turn to look at him. He's a stranger to me; not pointed out and named by anyone so far. "I don't know," I say to him. "How does it feel to be a boy?"

A laugh goes up; a few of the boys point at the one I spoke to. Another claps me gently on the shoulder.

I flinch internally and think I probably leap clear off the ground, but it never makes it out, which surprises me. I stay, rooted, as someone else pats my shoulder. The internal flinch goes away as soon as it came.

The uproar turns away as Zart comes skidding towards us on his stomach, leaving a furrow in the sand.

"Whoo! Eric!" The boys cheer.

Zart climbs to his feet, brushing away the sand. He gets consoling pats on his back as he stumbles away from the circle. Already another boy has taken his place.

"Ah well," he says, in between picking sand off his tongue. "Worth another go."

I feel another smile break onto my face. It sounds like he doesn't have much luck.

"I'm going to see if I can sneak some more goose," he says. "Want any?"

But when he says goose, all I can picture is the white bird that I set loose hours ago. I figure it's probably been spit roasted by now, but the thought of it makes me a little queasy.

I shake my head. "Thanks, I'm good. I'm just going to…" I gesture aimlessly to the fire.

Zart nods, smiles and walks off.

I'm left alone, even within the midst of this crowd of brothers, and it feels like the vaguest idea of home.

I sink to the ground in front of the fire, close enough that I feel the heat press into my skin. I let my eyes close.

It isn't home.

But it's all I have.

…

The party winds down after a couple of hours. The goose and Frypan's broth are both gone, the fire is burned to ash and ember and without its vibrant burn, the night can reach its fingers back in.

Alby, having appeared some time earlier to join in, finally stands and calls it a night. He shows me to the back of one of the huts and helps me set up a hammock under a ceiling of woven grasses and twigs.

I'm left alone with a torch stabbed into the ground beside my new bed, and it's not long before I snuff out the flame and lose myself to sleep.

…

The next day feels daunting all over again, but it's a more manageable kind of fear.

The mechanical doors over the Box I came in are closed tight, and I'm told the Box will have been sent back. The Doors in the huge stone wall stand open in the morning sun, and the fresh smell of the woods has chased away the smoky smells from last night's bonfire.

I spend the day with Zart and the rest of the Track-Hoes in the gardens.

I'm sent for fertilizer, taught to manage the stems of the taller-growing vegetables and help to pull up the ripe ones from the furrowed ground. By the end of the day, my fingers are dirty, I got a carrot stuck in the ground, nearly tied myself to a runner bean stem and accidentally cleaved a rhubarb in half.

Zart, laughing, tells me I'm just not made for gardening.

The evening is a quieter affair than my first.

Big Bonfire nights seem to be a Box Day celebration only, and this time we all file into the main Homestead with a new Broth in each of our dishes. I find myself sitting with the gardeners, who take great amusement in telling the next table over about how I lost a carrot.

…

Its later that same evening, as I'm curled in my hammock, when something comes back to me.

It doesn't feel strong enough to be a memory, but it's too real to be a nightmare.

I can see the cold strobe lights, right above me; a metal board, cold against my back. There's a pressure in my head. There's a pair of detached blue eyes. White spots dance in my vision.

Wicked is good.

The words echo in my mind.

A beeping fills the space around me, and then everything goes black.

I tumble out of the hammock and hit the ground. The back of my head hits the solid earth and a pulsing pain bursts behind my eyes.

I make a noise that's half scream, half groan. I'm already curling into a sitting position under my swaying hammock when Alby and Newt appear around the partition of branches. They are the only other two in this hut with me.

"Bloody hell," Newt mutters.

"You doing okay?" Alby asks, voice firmer.

"Eva," I say.

They share a look as I blink rapidly.

The back of my head just aches now; the shock of it is gone and the impact wasn't too hard. It just jarred one thing from the emptiness.

My name.

Eva.

Alby smiles and it lights up the shadows of the hut.

Newt folds his arms, smile more reserved, but just as sincere.

…

Alby walks me up to a piece of the stone wall, not far from the closed Doors as early as first light.

He hands me a bush knife, the blade wickedly sharp and the wooden handle worn smooth with use.

The wall is scattered with engravings. A mural of names; the only memories we have.

I don't want to ask about the ones that are etched out. George. Alfred. Nick.

A mural and a graveyard.

And when I press the knife into the wall, and scar it with three letters – my name – as deep as I can carve it, it feels a little like vengeance and a little like belonging.

By breakfast everyone knows my name.

INFO: The Glade's layout, shapes and placement of the huts and so on are mainly influenced by what you see in the film. Some aspects of it - the Kitchen, Mess Hall and other specific huts I use some creative licence on. I may draw up a simple map at some point if it helps you visualise things.

Chapter 3 - Teaser

When the afternoon comes, and they bring a rabbit into the Butchery, I'm having serious issues, though.

Dan, Keeper of the team, groans when he sees my expression drop.

But what did he expect?

-To be posted at the end of the week-