He wanted to be a Runner. He would be a Runner. Deep inside he knew he had to go out there, into the Maze. Despite everything he’d learned and witnessed firsthand, it called to him as much as hunger or thirst.
They had to go back to Gally.
Well, except Newt – he calls me Tommy.
Sorry, Tommy,” Newt muttered in his ear. “Could’ve been a bit more gentle.
Thomas and Teresa.
Stephen, Stephen, Stephen. My name is Stephen.
Newt closed his eyes and tried not to see Tommy in the darkness of his mind.
Be careful. Don’t die.
You don’t understand, shuck-face! You don’t know anything, and you’re just making it worse by trying to have hope! We’re dead, you hear me? Dead!
Thomas let out a slight laugh. “The Maze. The Grievers. WICKED. You name it.
Just don’t plan on hugs every time I see you.” “The feeling’s mutual.
What he saw seemed natural enough, and despite his sudden indifference to the world, it gave him a small squeeze of comfort that saddened him a little. Saddened that he’d never have a chance to live a full and meaningful life under the skies above.
He tore it out and sat down to write a message. Pen was almost to paper when he stalled, as if he’d had the perfect thing to say but it floated out of his mind like vanished smoke. Sighing, he itched with irritation.
He didn’t remember any of the stories, and the thought filled him with a heavy sadness.
But you need to understand your history. What got us here, why we’re in this mess. You’ll never figure out where you’re going until you understand from where you came.
People love, Thomas. Best of times, worst of times. People love. You should make sure she knows how you feel.
He didn’t know what he needed in life, or what he was meant to accomplish. Friends were what he had, and they were all that mattered.
It scared him, too, but for some reason it was now the sole purpose of his life, the only thing that prevented his mind from slipping into that ever-expanding void of... dissonance.
Dawn seemed to come late the next day, as if the sun had decided to sleep in, the sky wrapped in gray clouds, the threat of rain heavy and imminent.
He’d kill Newt. He’d shot his own friend in the head.
But life and death are the beginning and end of beauty. You can’t have one without the other.