In which there is a rabbit and conversations

Picks up directly after the end of Chapter 2

Teaser at the bottom

That day I wind up with Frypan in the kitchen.

The low ceiling keeps it warm, and there's a hollowed out pit at the back where they keep a fire stoked for cooking. Benches are all around, pans lined up against the walls and a long hand-made table sits in the middle.

The cooks are a bit of a hectic bunch, and there's not as many. They seem to be a bit more serious, which I guess is a good thing, as we'd starve if it weren't for them.

Its only halfway through the day I realise I'm referring to the Gladers as 'we' not 'they'.

It doesn't bother me as much as I expected it to.

Frypan calls me by name, not Greenie, and I get a glimpse of what I lost when I didn't even have that.

When we sit for supper, this time outside the Homestead while it's still a little light, I have managed to burn water, flick a spoon over a pan so hard it whacked a kid called Stan in the back and nearly set fire to a table.

Alby drops down beside me as I sit, apologising to Stan yet again, and assures me we'll find something.

I nod. It's not so bad; at least I'm getting to know everyone this way.

…

My third full day in the Glade sees me under Gally's command with the Builders.

I'm there for less than two hours and I know it's not going to go well.

The younger boy called Eric from the Box Night wrestling match teaches me different knots, and we slowly construct a simple panel of branches.

But I don't have the upper body strength to support it when it comes time to hoist the thing into place as part of a roof. I can feel my grip sliding on the rope, my hands starting to burn as we lift.

And then another pair of hands catch the rope above me, hauling back with a single, easy movement.

"I got it."

I look up, surprised to see Newt standing there, smiling lightly. His arm is braced against the weight of the wooden panel on the other end of the rope, and I'm reminded that he was stronger than he looked the first day I ran into him.

"Thanks," I say. Dropping a roof onto the Keeper's shack and knocking out all the walls is probably not beyond my capabilities, and I really don't want to tick off Gally more than I have done already.

Newt's smile brightens a fraction. "Twist your hand around it," he instructs, showing me with his other one.

I do as he says, and the weight locks off easier against my wrist than it did through my fingers. He slowly lets go.

The panel tilts, but Eric – holding his own rope a little way down – gives me a smile and a nod. Newt stays nearby as we lower the roof into place. As everyone approaches to shuffle it properly and tie it down, he heads over to Gally.

They have a brief, whispered conversation before Gally calls out to me.

"Alright, Greenie; out of here."

It's probably as nicely as he could have said it, and I'm a little too relieved to be hurt.

Newt tilts his head, and I get the idea. Throwing a hasty 'thanks' over my shoulder I follow Newt away from the Builders.

"I figured with your track record so far, it was better to get you away from that before you flattened the Village or yourself," Newt says.

I'm surprised at the laugh that bubbles up my throat, but I'm quite pleased I haven't forgotten how. I can't deny that he has a point, though, and I shrug.

Newt seems amused at this, and he keeps smiling as he leads me across the field to the Medi Tent.

It's cosy inside this hut. There's partitions made from rows of twigs that separate pallets for the sick and a bay at the back with a workbench, stools and crates upon crates of supplies.

"We're going to try this instead," he says. "Clint, Jeff – Greenie's yours."

By supper time I've had my own scratches looked at and patched, I've practiced bandaging on Jeff's arm and I've reorganised half their stock crate. It's the least destructive day I've had so far, but I'm not certain it's right.

Without any real injuries – which we definitely didn't want – it could be a slow day. Clint spent a couple of hours helping the Track-Hoes with planting corn while I re-rolled bandages.

Clint and Jeff are a riot at supper; telling me stories of who they've had to patch up and why in the past. Clint has yet to amputate a Glader, which seems to be his keenest wish.

Zart seems disappointed in the lack of catastrophes I've caused. Eric stops by just to tell me the roof is on fine and its okay I didn't stay.

I spot Newt with Frypan and he nods at me. I smile back.

…

Day four has me with the Slicers.

I've only seen most of them in passing before, but they welcome me in. I fare with the morning well enough; I'm actually interested in seeing the different knives they have; some are tiny – like the one I have concealed in my hammock. Some are long, slender blades, and some are broad cleavers.

I think my fascination was unexpected, but it's well received. I actually enjoy getting to use them on old potatoes for practice. All of them, no matter the shape, somehow feel familiar in my hands.

I'm also shown around the livestock pens; there's well build little units for a couple of goats, ducks and chickens, one more goose, several rabbits and even a wild pig.

I'm shown what to do from throwing out food for them to clearing the muck corners. None of it is familiar, but when they leave me with the goats, I feel settled in a way I can't explain.

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?

It's a fluffy thing, the mottled colour of earth and thunderclouds with round, liquid eyes and a single white foot.

Dan picks it up off the table and drops it in my hands. "I'll get a chicken," he says.

I can't help giving him a tiny, grateful smile.

I put the rabbit in a woven crate behind the Butcher's hut and knot a strong piece of twine in the way Eric showed me to keep the lid shut. I'll hide it later.

That evening, we eat just as the sky gets dark. We start a fire in the pit and sit around the logs.

I'm half listening to Dan and the others chat when Newt leans down next to me.

His brown eyes are golden in the light of the fire.

"I'm sure rabbit was meant to be up tonight," he says.

I look back at him, realising too late that I've bitten my lip and it's probably a giveaway.

He raises an eyebrow, stands up and walks on without any further comment.

But he knows.

I decide the Slicers are maybe not for me.

…

I decide not to hide the rabbit.

I'm not naïve enough to think there's really a happy ending for it, so I leave it back with the other rabbits and go to see it once a day.

Other rabbits go missing – I prefer to think of it that way – as time goes on, but the one that looks like storm clouds and earth stays.

I do a day with the Sloppers. Most of it is menial tasks, clear up, laundry and so on. There's only a handful of them; boys who didn't fit in with any of the other jobs, and nice as they are, I'm easily bored in clearing up Homestead and sweeping the Council Hall.

I just hope I can find another place.

…

I don't even spend a trial day with the Baggers. Dan explains to me that they mainly guard the Glade, but they also handle the dead, and your friends turning up dead isn't as uncommon as you'd like, given the situation.

If I can't watch someone put a bunny in a pie, I don't think I can watch someone bury a friend.

Instead, I return to the Medi Tent on day six, when a boy called Lee, who can only be fifteen, nearly takes his hand off with a knife in the Butchery.

I'm somewhat surprised to find that the blood doesn't bother me; just knowing he's in pain. I'm able to clean the cut and apply a poultice to it, as Jeff shows me, while Clint feeds Lee some nasty looking concoction that will apparently fight infection and help with the pain.

Thankfully I was exaggerating a little, and the cut isn't deep. He'll live; he'll even use the hand again just fine.

Jeff clasps my shoulder when the boy leaves, and his smile is proud.

…

It's just after the break for lunch after I've patched up Lee that Frypan tells me the Keepers are meeting in the Council Hall. He gives me a contemplative look and says, "I think you should come along."

I'm not a Keeper, but I don't question it.

I join him as he strides across the field to the fan shaped hut built into the far corner of the Glade. We duck under the main entrance and around the propped open twig-panel door just inside.

The stone steps were neatly swept by me just yesterday, and the other Keepers are already gathering around.

Gally stands in the pit in the centre, hands braced on his hips, eyebrows making his expression severe. Zart sits on a step, turning a small, rusted trowel over and over in his hands. Clint sits near to him, leant forward with his elbows braced on his knees. Newt is there, too - leaning against one of the branch rails, expression carefully neutral under his mop of honey coloured hair. Alby stands next to him, silent. He seems to generally let the others decide what they want; only stepping in when it looks necessary.

All eyes turn up as Frypan leads me in.

"What's she doing here?" Is Gally's first question.

Frypan shrugs, "I think we all know what this meeting is; I think she should hear it."

Gally throws a look at Newt. Newt's eyes flick up to him, then to Frypan, and Finally on to me, before he says, calmly, "Anyone else?"

Zart sends me a quick smile. "I wouldn't want you discussing my job without me."

Clint nods in agreement.

Gally throws a slightly annoyed expression but says nothing when Newt just nods as well.

There's a whole lot of nodding going on in general.

Frypan shuffles me towards a step and I sink onto it.

We only wait a moment before Tim, Keeper of the Sloppers and Dan, Keeper of the Slicers, both show up and take seats.

Dan sends me a friendly smile as he sits beside me.

"Right, let's call this," Gally says, as Billy finally enters to represent the Baggers, though we know that's not going to be for me. "Greenie's done a day with most of you. Anyone feel like she'll get along okay?"

Zart snickers. "Sorry, Evie, but no."

I hold in the laugh and nod. I like the Gardeners well enough, but the job did not go well for me.

"I have to agree," Frypan says.

"She's alright with us," Clint puts in, nodding at me. "But unless one of you Shanks tries to amputate yourselves, there's not a lot to do day-to-day with just two of us. There'll be even less with three."

I've heard that word before – Shank. It's been used around me, but not to me as of yet. Someone told me it was Glader slang; something derogatory, usually. I let the thought pass.

"Well, she might have to work up to the actual butchering," Dan says. "But she's good with the tools, and the animals. We're happy to take her, too."

I bite my lip. I appreciate this more than he can know, but I really don't want to work up to gutting a chicken. I'd much rather never have to do it.

"Eva?"

I look up, surprised, to see that Newt is giving me an expectant look.

"What do you think?"

I shoot Dan a brief, apologetic look. "I like working with the animals, but I really don't think I'll be working towards skinning a goat anytime soon."

I can't help a shudder and both Dan and Newt smirk.

I'm reminded that they both know about the rabbit I spared from being soup.

"I'm thinking not with us," Gally says, and it comes as no surprise. I'm actually grateful.

"We should talk to Minho, too," Zart says, out of nowhere.

The hut goes quiet.

Gally's expression contorts to one of incredulity. Newt's eyebrows raise and he grips a support post to lever himself upright.

Even I look at the Keeper of the Gardens.

Zart shrugs. "It's worth asking. We all saw you bolt out of that Box on your first day. None of us could catch you, and then you hid, too. And I saw you later; just running around the walls like you were doing drills."

Frypan gives an odd sort of shrug at this, and I wonder for the first time how many of them just watched me racing the borders, counting strides.

"A Runner?" Gally demands. "Are you insane?"

He gives Newt another of those 'back me up here' looks, but Newt's eyes are fixed on the floor, something contemplative flickering in them, and Gally wheels around to Alby instead.

Alby takes a breath.

"Here's what we'll do," he says, and all the Keepers look at him. He and Newt share a look before his eyes fix on me. "You work with Clint and Jeff. In down time, when there's not much to do, you work with Dan and the Slicers. You work with the livestock, or you clean the tools if you can't do the cutting. And we'll talk to Minho about a trial."

But being a Runner is the one job that no one's really mentioned to me.

I've picked up over the last week that beyond the wall is a maze, and it's not your bog-standard fun-for-an-afternoon kind of one. And I know that the Runners go out there every day, looking for a way out.

I figure, based on the name, there's a lot of running involved.

"What is the trial?" I ask, not prepared for everyone to turn and look at me.

"We don't know," Alby says. "Minho will have to decide. Usually we wouldn't suggest it like this but…if you're good at it; we need all the Runners we can get."

His voice is serious, and it puts a hush on the hut. Newt's eyes drop to the floor and stay there.

"Let's get back to work," Alby says. He claps Newt on the back as everyone begins to move.

Dan nudges me. "See you around, Greenie."

I nod at him. Slowly, everyone leaves the tent.

I'm left with Clint and Newt.

"I'll talk to Minho as soon as he's back," the latter says. "I'll find you later. Watch yourself, alright?"

"Sure," I say, quietly.

His eyes stay on me for a moment, like he's uncertain about something, before he finally just leaves without another word.

Clint jerks his head towards the door.

"Come on, Eva. I'll get Jeff to teach you about tourniquets today."

…

I don't know Minho very well at all.

I see him in the mornings and the evenings, but he's always in the Maze during the day. And when he is in the Glade, he's usually with the other Runners – a very small group of just four; Minho, Ben, Doug and Justin – muttering quietly amongst themselves, or walking with Alby or Newt.

His smiles don't seem to appear as often as the other boys, and I assume that has to do with what he sees every day.

The sky is dark and supper is finished, the Sloppers cleaning up the dishes when Newt leads Minho towards my space by the fire.

"Zart says you might make a good Runner," Minho says by way of a greeting.

I shrug. "I honestly don't know. It can't just be running or more of you would do it."

Newt and Minho share a look. They're obviously the kind of friends who can communicate without words.

"You'd be right," Minho says. "Tomorrow morning, before the Doors open; we're going to run some practice drills. Across the field and through the Deadheads."

I know by now that Deadheads is their name for the woodland.

"And then what?" I ask.

Minho says, with gravity, "Then we'll see. Night."

He stands, claps Newt on the shoulder and heads off for the Runner's Hammock hut.

"What does that mean?" I can't help asking Newt.

He doesn't speak for a moment; he looks half lost as he just stares into the fire, the flames shining in his eyes. And when he looks at me, his expression is full of that same uncertainty from earlier in the Council Hall.

"You don't want me to join them," I say.

I'm not sure what makes me say it, but I know the minute it actually comes out that it's true.

He curls and flexes his fingers absently for a second, before letting out a breath. "You're the first girl ever sent here," he says. "And being a Runner is a dangerous job. I just feel like you would have been put here for a reason; and you doing something to endanger your life so much might mean we never find out what that is if you don't come back."

I didn't expect him to say this.

I was waiting for 'because you're a girl', 'because you aren't fast enough' or any combination of the two. But what he says is honest, and he's right.

If there's a reason I'm here, and if I die out in the maze, no one will ever know why. And maybe it's indulgent to think I'm some kind of key to everything, but some of these boys have been here for almost three years, and any possible answer is something they want to hold onto.

"So why not side with Gally?" I ask, eyes still trained on him.

I remember the way he stayed quiet, letting everyone have their say; asking me what I thought.

If he felt I shouldn't be a Runner, why not say something? As second in command, if he had, I wouldn't even be doing a trial tomorrow.

"Bloody…" Newt mutters, rubbing his fingers across his forehead. His hair ruffles up. "Because that's just what I think, but everyone here has a right to choose for themselves. And it's like Alby said; we need anyone we can get who's prepared to do it."

"What makes it so hard?" I ask, looking away from him.

Newt has always had a very easy way of moving and carrying himself, to me, despite the limp. And since that first day, I've always known he's stronger than his wiry frame would have you believe. But here, in the flickering light of the fire, something about him looks a little bit like shattered glass.

"The repetition," he murmurs, talking to the fire. All the other Gladers seem miles away, even though Stan is the closest, just a couple of metres off. "The dead ends, the minutes counting down. Constantly thinking you're doing it for nothing; that there is no answer; that one day you won't make it back."

My throat closes up.

My question had half been rhetorical. I figured if any answer came, it would be about the physical exertion, the mental exhaustion…but this answer…its something bone deep; something Newt knows without question or doubt.

Something he's lived.

"You were a Runner," I murmur back to him. And as before, I know it's true as soon as I say it.

In the corner of my eye, I see him nod. Just once.

Of course, with his build, he'd have been perfect for it – until the limp.

"You got injured," I whisper. Half a question, half a statement.

He looks sideways at me, and though he's what I estimate to be my own age – seventeen or eighteen – his eyes seem younger suddenly, carrying the heavy ghost of something unbearably sad. He doesn't answer.

Without really thinking, I tilt my head onto his shoulder.

Sometimes words just don't work.

His thin shirt is flame-warmed, and my hair is almost black against the pale fabric. I feel him looking at me a moment longer, before his head turns back to the fire.

The boys around us continue to chatter amongst themselves, but we stay silent until the moon rises above the wall and the fire dies down.

Chapter 4 - Teaser

Gally looks up. He stills for a second before he nods and says, "Greenie."

I'm still a Greenie until the Box comes up again.

"I'm sorry about the sack," I say.

-To be posted Sunday or Monday-