The First Glader

37

The weeks that followed Ada's twisted ankle settled into a strange, delicate pattern—one the Gladers adjusted to quickly, but Thomas found himself studying with a quiet, persistent fascination.

Ada healed slowly.

Not because the injury was severe—Clint wrapped it, Minho iced it, and within a few days she could walk without wincing—but because Ada refused to let herself rest. She limped through her routines at first, mapping with one knee propped up, leaning against the Map Hut wall while she marked the shifting passages. She would have gone back into the Maze on day two if Alby hadn't physically blocked the doorway with crossed arms and a rare disapproving scowl.

"You're no use to anybody if you break yourself worse," he told her.

Ada rolled her eyes but didn't push past him.

Newt backed Alby up. Minho made it a point to hover. Even Gally grumbled about it in his own rough, graceless way: "You're not running until you walk without looking like a dying beetle."

Ada's response was a silent glower that nearly wilted the grass beneath her feet.

But she stayed.

Reluctantly.
Irritatedly.
But she stayed.

Thomas noticed that.

He also noticed the way Ada seemed... softer with Minho, in a way she wasn't with Alby or Newt. She'd huff at him, threaten him, glare at him—but she let him help her. Let him sit beside her while she mapped. Let him joke until she nearly cracked a smile.

Every time she smiled—barely, faintly, just enough to crease the corners of her eyes—Thomas felt something twist sharply inside him. An ache he didn't have a name for yet.

He tried to ignore it.

He tried to just be a Glader.

And he did get better at that.

He learned basic chores.
He figured out who to avoid in the mornings.
He discovered that Chuck was clingier than a barnacle but somehow impossible to shake off without guilt.
He learned that Alby could be surprisingly funny when he wasn't weighed down by responsibility.
He learned that Newt watched everything with a softness that made Thomas wonder how much pain he hid under his calm.

He learned that Ada trusted very few people—and that trust came in tiny, surprisingly gentle pieces.

Sometimes she spoke to Thomas while they worked in the Gardens, quiet, almost idle conversations.

Sometimes she let him walk with her and Newt to check the animals.

Sometimes he caught her looking at him—not suspiciously, not coldly, but like she was trying to figure out where he fit.

Like she wanted him to fit.

Sometimes.

But other times, she withdrew.

The closer the Maze doors came to opening each morning, the more distant she grew—emotionally, physically, mentally. It was as if she was storing herself away, piece by piece, until she was once again the stone-faced leader everyone depended on.

Thomas didn't blame her.
But he didn't stop wanting to understand her either.

By the second week, Ada could jog again, though Minho shadowed her constantly, nudging her shoulder and muttering things like, "Slow down, limpy," just to annoy her. She only whacked him once.

By the third week, she was running again—carefully, not at full speed. Minho joked that she was babying the ankle, Ada insisted she wasn't, and Thomas kept close enough to memorize every slight falter in her stride.