The First Glader

1

Thomas opened his mouth. For a terrifying half-second, nothing came. Then the scrap of paper in his mind unfolded again.

"Thomas," he said. "I think. Yeah. Thomas."

"Thomas," the blond boy repeated, like he was trying the word out. "Right. I'm Newt." He jerked his chin at the smirking boy. "That shuck-face there is Gally. Don't mind him."

"Hey," Gally protested. Then he smirked again. "Fine, mind me a little."

Newt ignored him and offered Thomas a hand. Thomas hesitated, then took it. Rough skin, firm grip. Newt hauled him up with practiced ease and steadying strength.

The world swayed. Thomas blinked hard. He wanted to ask a thousand questions and choke on them at the same time.

"Easy," Newt said. "You're gonna feel off for a bit. Happens to all of us."

Thomas nodded like that made sense. It didn't.

The circle around them shifted. Some boys drifted away, losing interest. Others wandered closer to look him over like a new animal in a pen. A short boy with curly hair and a round, earnest face hovered just behind Newt, eyes wide.

Newt clapped Thomas on the shoulder. "You're okay. You're safe enough here. We'll give you the tour, yeah?"

Safe enough. The qualifier made the back of Thomas's neck prickle.

"What is this place?" he asked. "Why can't I remember anything?"

Newt's smile faded a little. "That's two questions. You'll get half an answer now and the rest later."

Gally snorted. "Same answer we all got. Now quit yammerin' and let the Greenie breathe, Newt. He looks like he's gonna puke on my shoes."

Thomas's eyes flitted past them, searching for something that made sense. His gaze snagged on her before he even knew what he was looking for.

She stood at the edge of the group, not in the circle but not entirely out of it either. Leaning against a thick wooden post, arms crossed loosely over her chest. Tall for a girl, lean but athletic, shoulders broad enough to carry weight. Sunlight caught on the pale scatter of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. Her hair—dirty blonde, tangled and tied back in a quick knot—framed a face that might've been the prettiest thing in the Glade if it weren't so carefully blank.

While everyone else orbited the Box, she was still. Watching.

Her eyes—blue, sharp, and so, so tired—met his for a fraction of a second.

It hit him like a jolt.

Something about her made the noise drop away. There was no smile, no welcome, just assessment. Measuring. Like she was cataloging him as another problem to solve.

He opened his mouth, not sure what he meant to say. Hi? Who are you? Why do you look like you've already seen the ending?

Before he could decide, she pushed off the post, turned, and walked away.

Not hurried. Not flustered. Just done.

The conversation around Thomas snapped back into focus.

"C'mon," Newt said quietly. "Let's get you away from the Box. It can be a bit much at first."

Thomas watched the girl's retreating back for a heartbeat longer, something twisting in his chest, then let Newt steer him away.

"Who was that?" he asked, trying to sound casual and failing.

Newt glanced over his shoulder, then back at Thomas. "Who?"

"The girl." Thomas nodded toward where she'd been. "Blonde. Standing over there. She just left."