The First Glader

25

"Not good enough."

"Ada—"

"Not good enough." Her voice cracked. She grabbed another sheet, flipping it over, pressing her charcoal down so hard it snapped. She threw it aside, breath shaking. "They keep dying, Nick."

"I know."

"We're supposed to protect them. All of them. And George—Stephen—Alejandro—every single one—"

"I know."

She slammed her palm on the table, the lantern trembling. "Then help me find what I missed!"

Nick didn't flinch. He stepped behind her, laying a hand gently on the back of her chair.

"You didn't miss anything," he murmured.

"That's worse," she whispered.

Nick's voice softened. "Ada... we've searched the Maze. All of it. Hundreds of times. Thousands."

Ada stared down at the map until her vision blurred.

"If there's an exit," Nick said, "it's not one we can reach. Not yet."

She shook her head. "There has to be something."

Nick knelt beside her so he could look up at her face instead of down. "Then we'll keep looking. But not like this."

Ada's jaw trembled. She pressed her fingers against her eyes, willing the sting behind them to fade.

Nick didn't touch her again.

He knew she didn't need comfort.
She needed space to break without breaking open.

After a long moment, Ada pulled in a breath so deep it hurt. She set down the broken charcoal and reached for another.

Nick reached out and gently closed her hand instead.

"Not tonight," he said quietly.

Ada didn't argue. She didn't agree either. She just breathed—uneven, exhausted.

Nick squeezed her hand once and stood. "I'll be outside."

Ada nodded.

He left.

When she was alone again, Ada lifted her eyes to the wall of maps—every desperate attempt, every failure, every calculated possibility.

And the truth she hadn't dared say aloud settled over her like dust:

She knew the Maze better than she knew herself.
And she still didn't know how to save them.

Her fingers—unsteady now—traced the line of George's last route. Her voice shook as she whispered into the empty room:

"Why isn't it enough?"

She didn't expect an answer.
The Maze never gave one.

Newt walked slowly across the Glade, his limp more pronounced when he was tired. Today, it was sharp enough that Ada could tell he hadn't slept well again. His jaw was tight, face pale under the afternoon sun, but he didn't complain—Newt never complained.

Ada matched his pace without calling attention to it.

"You shouldn't be on your feet this long," she said gently.

Newt snorted. "You sound like Clint."

"He's right."

"And you listening to him would be a shock to everyone."

Ada shot him a look. "I listen."

"Only when it's convenient."

She didn't deny it, which made Newt grin—tired but real.