CLARITY, (newt.)

seven

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SAMSON'S NEXT FEW DAYS WENT BY SO QUICKLY,  HE WAS BEGINNING TO FEEL LIKE HE'D BEEN A GLADER FOR YEARS. Despite it only being his fifth day, Samson was finally starting to feel like he belonged. The Gladers had all been so kind to him and even though he wanted nothing more than to be out of the Glade, he had let his new reality sink in. This would be his life for the time being, and there wasn't much he could about that.

On the morning of his fifth day, he was set to try his hand at being a Track-hoe. The day before, he'd worked alongside the Medjacks and similar to his experience with Winston and the Slicers, he really didn't like all of the blood. The day before that, he worked with the Baggers, who didn't have much of a job to do unless someone died or a Glader got into trouble. Thankfully, no one died while he was on duty.

Samson knew that Leo was a Track-hoe, and so was Newt. He had barely spoken to either of them since he'd started trying out jobs. Partly because he had been so busy, but also because he wasn't very good at making conversation or approaching anybody on his own just yet. He knew he would have to get over that anxiety of small talk before the Gladers all began to assume that he was anti-social and strange, but he had no idea where to start on that matter.

Samson got himself up and ready for the day quickly before heading towards the Gardens. But the Gardens were empty. Samson merely shrugged, scanning the area for any sign of Alby, Nick or any familiar face for that matter.

"Somebody's eager," a voice called out from behind Samson, who jumped at the sound. Of course, it was Newt, who was grinning from ear to ear, his entire face glowing under the morning sun. Samson couldn't help but return the smile.

Newt cleared his throat. "Don't you think you should eat something first? You'll faint under this bloody sun on an empty stomach."

With that, Samson followed Newt back across the field to the Cookhouse. The lineup for food was long which surprised Samson. But then again, he was always late for meals.

"Hey," Newt tapped him lightly on the shoulder while they waited in line. Samson turned himself toward Newt. "How about you go find us a table? I mean--if you want to sit with me, you don't have to. You can sit with whoever you want. Gally, or Nick or anyone really--"

"Newt!" Samson laughed, cutting him off. "Sure, I'll sit with you," he shrugged, smiling. He watched Newt loosen up, relaxing his shoulders and lowering his head for what seemed to be embarrassment.

"Alright, I'll get you your plate," Newt said and Samson nodded, turning towards the tables. Most of them were already occupied. The Slicers all ate together in one corner, the Builders in the other. Alby, Nick, and the Baggers sat at the table just in front of him. Leo and two other boys were sitting behind him.

There was one table with three chairs right by the door and Samson sighed out of relief. He scrambled over to the table and quickly took his seat. He was pretty sure nobody would try and sit with him, considering he was still the Greenbean. Above the table was a window, and Samson rested his hands on his chin and stared outside, taking deep breaths. He tried to tune out all of the chatter from behind him for a moment, focusing on the peacefulness the Glade could offer while he still could.

Newt suddenly slammed a plate down in front of him, ruining the tranquillity just like that. Samson glared up at him playfully, taking one of the forks that Newt was holding out for him. Samson examined his plate. Eggs and bacon again. He didn't mind at all, but it almost felt weird to have such good meals in a place like this. He was very thankful for Frypan and his Cooks.

"So," Newt started, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth. Samson glanced up at him when he took a swig of water from his cup. "How're you liking the Glade?"

Samson's smile faded. In the few conversations he had been able to have, nearly every Glader had stopped to ask him the same question. The problem was, he didn't know how to answer it.

He simply gave Newt a shrug, just as he'd done to the others.

Newt sighed. "Yeah, well, nobody really likes it here. I guess what I meant was, how're you feeling about all this? Have any other questions? I'll try to answer as best I can." Newt had already finished all his eggs. He didn't seem to care about chewing and swallowing his food before talking, unfortunately for Samson.

However, he found himself smiling. Nobody had really asked him if he was okay. And he did have questions, so many questions, but he knew Newt wouldn't really be able to help him with any of them. Nevertheless, he wanted to be Newt's friend. They'd both agreed to try and he knew he didn't want to just keep on with the small nods and smiles. Samson wanted to be able to talk to him. Samson couldn't remember any of his friends from before the Glade, or if he had even had any at all,  but he did have common sense. Friends told each other things, friends trusted each other. Samson needed a good friend in this place.

After a moment, Samson said, "The Runners seem really mean. They're the only group of Gladers I haven't really gotten a chance to talk to, besides Ben," Newt raised an eyebrow at this but let Samson continue. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, how come they're never around, and how come they always seem so crabby?" his voice grew softer with every word and he glanced around the room cautiously. He didn't want to be so quick to judge the Runners, but he watched them carefully when he could. They didn't seem like they wanted or needed friends. They kept to themselves and all wore the same cold, blank stare. He just wanted to know why they acted that way.

Newt nodded, clicking his tongue. "The Runners take their job quite seriously. They get up early, run and map the Maze all day. Get back just before the Doors close and draw out all their maps for a few hours. They don't have any time in between to make friends," Newt sat back in his chair, arms folded. Samson did the same, pushing his plate forward and cocking his head.

"How come you know so much about the Runners?" he asked. His question was only to keep the conversation alive. He was already anticipating the answer, and could almost hear Newt say it. I was one of the first Gladers up here.

Newt's face fell. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I was a Runner," he said quietly. Samson's mouth fell open and Newt darted his eyes away from the table.

"What? Really?"

Newt frowned, rolling his eyes. "Why don't you believe me?"

Samson shrugged. "I don't know, you didn't strike me as the Runner type,"

Newt frowned lightly and Samson laughed, contemplating whether or not to apologize.

"How come you're a Track-hoe now? Did you get fired?" Samson teased in an attempt to break the tension of the conversation, but Newt shook his head. It seemed he didn't find his joke funny and a wave of embarrassment rushed over Samson. His first time trying to crack a joke in the Glade had gone horribly wrong.