The First Glader

38

Ada wasn't planning to run into Thomas. She'd just needed a break from Minho's endless commentary about ankle strength and hydration and "proper footwork," so she wandered to the quieter end of the Glade where the tree shadows stretched long across the grass.

Thomas was there, kneeling beside a crate of vegetables, sorting them with the kind of earnest concentration only a new Glader could have.

He looked up when he heard her footsteps.

"Oh," he said, startled but not in a bad way. "Hey."

"Hey," Ada replied, already bracing for him to try asking about her ankle or her run or the Maze rumble again.

He didn't.

Instead, Thomas held up two odd-looking vegetables—lumpy, round, vaguely potato-shaped—and asked, completely serious:

"Do you know what these are supposed to be?"

Ada blinked. "They're onions."

Thomas stared at them like they were foreign objects. "They don't look like onions."

"You've seen onions before?"

"I think so?"

Ada raised an eyebrow. "Then what do you think they're supposed to look like?"

Thomas shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Not... this."

Ada crossed her arms, studying him. "What do you think they are?"

"Honestly?" He looked at the onion suspiciously. "Some kind of mutant egg."

A startled sound escaped her before she could stop it—half scoff, half laugh, abrupt and faint but definitely real.

Thomas's eyes lit up. "Hey. That was almost a laugh."

Ada glared at him. "No, it wasn't."

"It was," he said, grinning now. "Very cute. Very quick. Like a startled squirrel."

Ada blinked. "Did you just call me a squirrel?"

Thomas seemed to realize what he'd said only after it left his mouth. He winced. "Uh—no? Maybe? A... fierce squirrel—?"

She stared at him in disbelief.

He looked horrified at himself.

And Ada...
Ada laughed.

It was soft. Short. More breath than sound. But unmistakably a laugh.

Thomas froze like he'd just witnessed something rare and delicate and wasn't sure what to do with it.

Ada shook her head and sat on a nearby crate, rubbing her ankle lightly. "You're ridiculous."

"Probably," Thomas admitted. "But I'll take that over you glaring holes through me."

"I wasn't glaring."

"You've got a very specific glare," he said. "I've seen it. At least ten times."

Ada snorted. "Try fifty."

"There!" Thomas pointed, triumphant. "That. That sound. That's the one I'm talking about."

Ada rolled her eyes, but her mouth betrayed the smallest upward curve.

Thomas hesitated, then asked casually, "Does it hurt? Your ankle?"

"A little."

"You going to tell Clint?"

"No."

Thomas nodded. "Cool. Great. Fantastic idea."

Ada kicked his boot lightly with her good foot. "I'm fine."