I don't see anyone for two hours after I get back, going back to my room to reflect on my therapy session while everyone else is in classes.
Every time I go to think of what was discussed, the only thing that rings through my mind are his last words. Be careful with Thomas.
What could he possibly have meant? In what way should I be careful? Is he less "normal" than he's let on? What if he's a liar? Hundreds of questions race through my head, my paranoia increasing.
Maybe the Thomas I know is just an illusion. Someone I created in my mind to fit what I wanted him to be. After all, I really don't even know anything about him. Does Chuck? How would he do this to everyone?
The notebook I was given sits on the bed next to me. If I can't trust Thomas, maybe I should take to writing my thoughts and feelings.
Eventually five rolls around, second medication time—which I manage to sneak through without being seen—then six. Dinner.
I groan to myself as I get out of bed, wishing I didn't have to do anything. Therapy, while not entirely helpful, is draining. Especially when you try.
It takes me a while to get to dinner, the lack of motivation being a main reason for it. But when I get there, the tone is jarring. At first glance, the whole Normals table is nothing but quiet.
If I had anywhere else to sit, I'd sit there now. I'm looking for an empty spot elsewhere when I hear Chuck.
"Newt." I turn to the boy who's now patting the seat next to him, same one I'd used the day before.
I walk over in larger steps with dread seeping into my brain, having to only pause once before making it over and sitting down. A few of them look up to nod greetings, but other than that they're eerily somber as I uncomfortably finish my tens.
My gaze absentmindedly switches to Thomas, who hasn't looked up from his plate. Almost none of his food has been eaten, the boy just staring at it and occasionally pushing it around with his fork.
"Here you go," I jump when I hear the voice from behind me. It's Frypan, setting down my plate in front of me and nodding.
"Thanks," I say so softly I can barely hear it before awkwardly picking my fork up, thankful for a distraction.
Tension builds up for another five minutes like that. Fry joins us at some point, but he eats in silence too, not helping the situation. Finally, Minho breaks the silence.
"When are we going to hear something? It's been an entire day at this point, and what, they expect us to believe nothing has changed?" he nearly yells. I feel Chuck tense up next to me and the urge to hug the kid suddenly overwhelms me.
"They'll tell us something," Thomas mutters, still staring down.
At least I have an answer now. Of course, it's Winston that they're all upset over. They really haven't heard anything by now?
"Why would they? We're not even people to them," Minho says angrily, his volume not lowering. "They're not gonna tell us—"
"That's enough." Thomas cuts him off sharply, finally looking up from his plate. He looks at Chuck, his face softening. "You alright, bud?"
Chuck nods, looking embarrassed but grateful for Thomas' interjection.
Minho seems to calm down slightly, pulling himself back. "I'm sorry, Chuck. I am, I just... I wish they would tell us. It's not fair."
"It's okay," Chuck says, obviously trying and failing to sound unbothered.
"We have to hear eventually. I'll ask tomorrow, if it makes you feel better. He's probably in recovery," Thomas says unconvincingly.
Minho doesn't respond, the tightness of his fist on the table making me nervous.
"Newt." My head snaps up, looking at Thomas. "How was therapy?"
My heart beats fast in my chest, meeting his eyes. "It was fine."
"See? There was nothing to be nervous about," Thomas says with a small smile.
I need to find out as much about Thomas as soon as I can. What could he have done to make a therapist feel the need to tell me to be careful with him?
What does that even mean? Don't talk to him? Has he given the same advice to Chuck? Can Dr. Janson even be trusted? I haven't trusted therapists up to this point. Maybe I can only trust myself. This is a mental institution, after all. Making friends wasn't exactly on the agenda.
The rest of dinner goes by without many words exchanged, everyone either too upset over Winston or walking on eggshells because of Minho. But I don't mind, not being in a particularly chatty mood.
Before I leave the dining room, Chuck calls for me to wait for him. I do, not wanting to be rude, and keep the number four strongly in my head while waiting by the door.
Chuck is talking to Thomas, smiling in response to something he'd said a moment before. I only realize I'm staring when Thomas' eyes look up to meet mine, making me look away abruptly.
The only thought that calms the blossoming anxiety in my chest is the fact that I'm not expected to be normal here. And apparently I'm doing a better job than Thomas.
It takes another minute but finally I hear the sound of Chuck approaching and look up again to the boy, who's now wearing as cheery a smile as ever.
"Hey, Newt. So, therapy went well?" He begins walking and I try to keep up, taking bigger strides and continuing my count.
"It did," I say simply. There's silence until I have to stop to snap my fingers, sighing as I complete the task.
Chuck looks at me and laughs a little, making me frown.
"Sorry," Chuck laughs. "It's just... you don't have to do that. You could just walk forward and keep going and nothing will happen because of it."
"You could just stop having panic attacks." The words come out more bitter than intended and I almost wince at them, finishing my ten and freezing. "Chuck, I didn't—"
"You're not wrong," Chuck says, walking forward. As far as I can tell, his tone hasn't changed. "But I can't. Just like you can't stop doing that."
"That's probably why they put us together," I say, recalling Thomas' words from earlier. He's with Minho, Aris is with Frypan. It'd make sense.
Chuck beams as we stop again, nodding. "You're right! We're a good team."
I manage a smile before we resume walking. Thomas is questionable, but one thing is for sure... I can trust this kid.
"Can you play checkers? Or will you only be able to play with ten pieces or something?"
I look up from my book to Chuck, who's sitting on the floor with the game in his hands, his expression too hopeful to say no to.
"I can play checkers just fine," I say, getting up and walking over to sit in front of Chuck. His gleeful face while setting the game up makes it worth it, watching him divide the pieces.
After a few minutes of playing, Chuck being a lot better than I am, I decide it's an okay time to start getting some answers from him. He's in the zone, he'll barely notice.
"Do you play this with Thomas a lot?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant about it.
"He's the best, he taught me everything. It helps him stay grounded to reality, apparently," Chuck says casually, taking another one of my pieces.
Maybe he doesn't know that I don't know a lot about Thomas. That could be my angle, get information by pretending it's not news. I feel bad about taking advantage of Chuck, but nobody has to know.
"That makes sense, with the hallucinations and all," I say, taking a shot in the dark. It's gotta be what he has. So is he schizophrenic?
"It makes him focus," Chuck says.
I move my piece and try my luck, staying on the subject.
"It's nice that you have him. You guys seem really close," I say.
"We are. When I showed up he'd only been back here for a little while, and I apparently reminded him of his little sister, so we stuck together," Chuck says. "Your turn."
I snap out of my momentary stunned state and move one of my pieces, not really paying attention to the game. Chuck just gave me a lot of information. How many people know about Thomas' sister, and what did he mean about back here?
"He seems to have a bit of a reputation here," I say, hoping the blanket statement will make him talk more.
"That's an understatement," Chuck laughs. "He's too smart for the staff. They don't like him very much."
"I can tell," I say. "He seems to be good with Dr. Janson, though."
"What gave you that idea?" Chuck asks. "Rat Man hates him."
"Why?" I ask. When Chuck looks up at me quizzically, I know I've pushed too far.
"Thomas hasn't... never mind," he says, zoning back in on the game.
I debate pressing further, but decide against it. Chuck is a loyal kid, and if he gave something away he'd go running to Thomas. I can't have that.
The rest of the game, I do nothing but mull over the new information. It's impossible that the more I find out about Thomas, the more of a mystery he becomes. Endless theories take over my train of thought, causing me to lose horribly to the younger boy. He rubs the victory in my face until I excuse myself to the bathroom, walking down the hall to it slowly.
It's an intimidating place with people posted everywhere, with waiting eyes. I can't even imagine what they've seen attempted here. The thought always makes me shiver when I walk in there.
I've only just finished a round of tens, hating the echo of my snaps off the tile, when I see him at the sink, a nurse watching him, looking conflicted.
It's Thomas, his hands gripping the corners of the metal, his head down. It only takes me a second to notice.
He's crying.