he　stepped　back,　the　courage　he’d　felt　the　previous　evening　melting　away.

        “what　is　that　thing?”　he　asked.　something　shivered　in　his　gut,　and　he　wondered　if　he’d　ever　be　able　to　eat　again.

        “grievers,　we　call　’em,”　newt　answered.　“nasty　bugger,　eh?　just　be　glad　the　grievers　only　e　out　at　night.　be　thankful　for　these　walls.”

        thomas　swallowed,　wondering　how　he　could　ever　go　out　there.　his　desire　to　bee　a　runner　had　taken　a　major　blow.　but　he　had　to　do　it.　somehow　he　knew　he　had　to　do　it.　it　was　such　an　odd　thing　to　feel,　especially　after　what　he’d　just　seen.

        newt　looked　at　the　window　absently.　“now　you　know　what　bloody　lurks　in　the　maze,　my　friend.　now　you　know　this　isn’t　joke　time.　you’ve　been　sent　to　the　glade,　greenie,　and　we’ll　be　expectin’　ya　to　survive　and　help　us　do　what　we’ve　been　sent　here　to　do.”

        “and　what’s　that?”　thomas　asked,　even　though　he　was　terrified　to　hear　the　answer.

        newt　turned　to　look　him　dead　in　the　eye.　the　first　traces　of　dawn　had　crept　up　on　them,　and　thomas　could　see　every　detail　of　newt’s　face,　his　skin　tight,　his　brow　creased.

        “find　our　way　out,　greenie,”　newt　said.　“solve　the　buggin’　maze　and　find　our　way　home.”

        a　couple　of　hours　later,　the　doors　having　reopened,　rumbling　and　grumbling　and　shaking　the　ground　until　they　were　finished,　thomas　sat　at　a　worn,　tilted　picnic　table　outside　the　homestead.　all　he　could　think　about　was　the　grievers,　what　their　purpose　could　be,　what　they　did　out　there　during　the　night.　what　it　would　be　like　to　be　attacked　by　something　so　terrible.

        he　tried　to　get　the　image　out　of　his　head,　move　on　to　something　else.　the　runners.　they’d　just　left　without　saying　a　word　to　anybody,　bolting　into　the　maze　at　full　speed　and　disappearing　around　corners.　he　pictured　them　in　his　mind　as　he　picked　at　his　eggs　and　bacon　with　a　fork,　speaking　to　no　one,　not　even　chuck,　who　ate　silently　next　to　him.　the　poor　guy　had　exhausted　himself　trying　to　start　a　conversation　with　thomas,　who’d　refused　to　respond.　all　he　wanted　was　to　be　left　alone.

        he　just　didn’t　get　it;　his　brain　was　on　overload　trying　to　pute　the　sheer　impossibility　of　the　situation.　how　could　a　maze,　with　walls　so　massive　and　tall,　be　so　big　that　dozens　of　kids　hadn’t　been　able　to　solve　it　after　who　knew　how　long　trying?　how　could　such　a　structure　exist?　and　more　importantly,　why?　what　could　possibly　be　the　purpose　of　such　a　thing?　why　were　they　all　there?　how　long　had　they　been　there?

        try　as　he　might　to　avoid　it,　his　mind　still　kept　wandering　back　to　the　image　of　the　vicious　griever.　its　phantom　brother　seemed　to　leap　at　him　every　time　he　blinked　or　rubbed　his　eyes.

        thomas　knew　he　was　a　**art　kid—he　somehow　felt　it　in　his　bones.　but　nothing　about　this　place　made　any　sense.　except　for　one　thing.　he　was　supposed　to　be　a　runner.　why　did　he　feel　that　so　strongly?　and　even　now,　after　seeing　what　lived　in　the　maze?

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