The W.I.C.K.E.D Girl

12

Had it not been for the bright morning light, prodding at my eyelids until I groaned and stirred, I would not have woken so soon, my body craving rest like it did air. However, my drowsiness vanished as though I'd taken a plunge into freezing waters as soon as I opened my eyes and noticed the wooden bars above me. I remembered falling asleep in the forest, but nothing after that, but somehow now I found myself lying on the floor of what I supposed was the Slammer. 

My body protested as I stood, having barely enough room to do so. The ache that stiffened my body spanned from my muscles to my bones—I felt heavy and dirty and the tendrils of rage were slowly creeping back into my mind.

I didn't hear Chuck as much as I saw him, his curly head of hair blocking out the harsh rays of the sun. The sight of my friend sent a wave of ease coursing through me. I opened my mouth to speak, but he held a finger up to his lips, silencing me. He made quick work of the trapdoor above me, then lowered himself to the ground to help me up. 

I crawled out of the Slammer, glad to be done with it. Chuck quietly refastened the trapdoor's lock. He jerked his head away from the Slammer, and away we went. As I stretched my limbs, I realised what the reason for Chuck's silence had been: I hadn't been alone in the Slammer, and he wasn't too keen on waking the other person in it. 

Chuck gazed up at me. "How did you sleep?" he probed.

I'd been so exhausted from my first venture into the Maze that my sleep was deep and filled with vivid dreams I couldn't remember in the daylight. "Fine," I said. "I'm thinking I should have a wash."

Chuck nodded, and we made for the showers. It wasn't long before my pressing question came to mind again. "How did I get in the Slammer?" I asked. "I don't remember---"

"Well, uh"—Chuck scratched the top of his head—"Newt brought you."

To say I was mortified would be an understatement. "Did anybody see him—I mean, us?"

Chuck pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. "Save for, like, half of the Gladers, no, I don't think so."

I was already imagining the rumours. And if anyone had seen us holding hands at yesterday's Gathering . . .

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, slightly thicker due to the bite in the air, Chuck accompanied me to the Homestead. My stomach had growled so savagely it had startled him. As soon as the door opened, the Gladers' heads snapped in my direction. More than a few winks and sardonic nods were sent my way, and I had to dig my nails into my palms to keep myself from reacting. 

The atmosphere was as quiet as ever, but then a shout tore through the silence. "Everybody say hello to our new Runner!"

A chorus of whistles and deafening claps rose to fill the Homestead. I looked to Chuck for an answer, my eyes wide with bewilderment. He just grinned.

Minho popped out of nowhere, clapped his hands on my shoulders. "How's our Runner feeling this fine morning?"

Observing my pleading facial expression, he gave a dramatic sigh. He gestured towards our usual table, where we sat down. Frypan laid a plate full of food in front of me and said, "Congratulations, sugar."

"What's going on? I just spent my night in the Slammer and now—"

"You're a Runner, yeah. We spoke to Alby last night. Turns out, he was the most appreciative in regards to your act of bravery. Although it didn't come easy to some of us"—Minho coughed expressively, and I was instantly aware of whom he meant—"it was decided that you are to become a Runner. If you want to, of course."

I was speechless, joy unfurling in my chest like a flower in bloom. "Shuck, I—yes! Of course I do." The excitement I felt knowing I would contribute to finding a way out and the fear that I might face the same dangers I did the previous day mingled, but there was no backing down without looking weak now.

And so it was settled. I was, officially, a Runner.

I scarfed down Frypan's scrumptious bacon and scrambled eggs in mere minutes. Minho explained that, most of the time, Runners only headed into the Maze twice or thrice a week; that meant I had the following two days off, to rest and do whatever my heart desired.

Everyone left to get on with their daily chores when I realised that somebody was missing. "Minho, where's Newt?" 

The boy shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know. I haven't seen him since he brought you to the Slammer last night." Then, in typical Minho fashion, he wiggled his eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes. "But what exactly happened last night?"

"Well, after the first Gathering, where it was decided that you would spend the night in the Slammer"—He winced as he saw my sharp look—"sorry about that, by the way. We had to do it to appeal most of the Gladers. Otherwise, they would've thought we'd gone mad. We later held a second Gathering with just a couple of shanks. We discussed your job possibilities. Zart said you did fine at farming, Clint and Jeff seemed indecisive, Bricky just huffed, and I, of course, had the best opinion about you. I proposed we make you a Runner. Newt went off. He started ranting that it's too dangerous and that you're the only girl, blah, blah. I reminded him that he's a Runner, too, and that he should suck it up. He left after that."

"Oh."

Newt's behaviour was turning out to be a mystery to me. He'd tried so hard to prevent me from becoming a Runner, even after I proved I could handle it---even better, that I'd been able to achieve something they hadn't while doing it.

I spent the rest of the morning going over the details of my newly acquired job with Minho. He showed me the maps they'd managed to sketch, told me of the secrets that lurked within the Maze, of practices I should always follow, and so forth. As he did, I realised I couldn't hold a grudge on him for running when the Griever had come—after all, it had been a mere survival instinct taking over. I supposed I would've done the same to save my own neck. Fear was not something that could be reasoned with.

After a hearty lunch and a few more congratulations, Newt still not anywhere in sight, I decided to lend a hand to the Gladers that needed help. I found myself bombarded with questions, the boys begging for details from the Maze, from the moment of the Griever's murder. I was reticent, but I offered them the truth, remembering how bad I'd felt when they were keeping me in the dark. In return, the boys told me what they filled their time with when they weren't working, ways to keep boredom at bay. They gifted me a worn pack of cards and some kind of a puzzle carved from a block of wood as wide as my hand. Although I didn't figure it out immediately, I soon fathomed that this had been their way of thanking me—not necessarily for what I'd done, but for giving them hope. 

Hope that we stood a chance.

Hope that the Creators could be defeated.