JONO

15.
He scrambled to his feet and sprinted forward. Sounds of pursuit, this time from all four Grievers, followed close behind. Sure that he was pushing his body beyond its physical limits, he ran on, trying to rid himself of the hopeless feeling that it was only a matter of time before they got him.

Then, three corridors down, two hands suddenly reached out and yanked him into the adjoining hallway. Thomas’s heart leaped into his throat as he struggled to free himself. He stopped when he realized it was Minho.

“What—”

“Shut up and follow me!” Minho yelled, already dragging Thomas away until he was able to get his feet under him.

Without a moment to think, Thomas collected himself. Together, they ran through corridors, taking turn after turn. Minho seemed to know exactly what he was doing, where he was going; he never paused to think about which way they should run.


16.
A few feet before the end of the corridor, Minho pulled up, holding his hand out over Thomas’s chest to make sure he stopped, too. Thomas slowed, then walked up to where the Maze opened out into open sky. The sounds of the onrushing Grievers grew closer, but he had to see.


17.
“These things may be vicious,” Minho said, “but they’re dumb as dirt. Stand here, close to me, facing —”

Thomas cut him off. “I know. I’m ready.”


18.
Thomas quickly scrambled to the edge of the abyss, poking his head over to see the falling Grievers. But impossibly, they were gone—not even a sign of them in the emptiness that stretched below. Nothing.

His mind couldn’t process the thought of where the Cliff led or what had happened to the terrible creatures. His last ounce of strength disappeared, and he curled into a ball on the ground.

Then, finally, came the tears.


19.
A half hour passed.

Neither Thomas nor Minho had moved an inch.

Thomas had finally stopped crying; he couldn’t help wondering what Minho would think of him, or if he’d tell others, calling him a sissy. But there wasn’t a shred of self-control left in him; he couldn’t have prevented the tears, he knew that. Despite his lack of memory, he was sure he’d just been through the most traumatic night of his life. And his sore hands and utter exhaustion didn’t help.


20.
Thomas wanted to wait and see if Alby was okay. He started to speak but Minho grabbed him by the arm and forced him to walk toward the Glade. “We need sleep. And bandages. Now.”


21.
With no more words for Gally, Newt pointed at Minho. “Go ahead, last but not least.”

Thomas was elated that it was finally Minho’s turn; surely he’d defend him to the end.

Minho stood quickly, taking everyone off guard. “I was out there; I saw what this guy did—he stayed strong while I turned into a panty-wearin’ chicken. No blabbin’ on and on like Gally. I want to say my recommendation and be done with it.”

Thomas held his breath, wondering what he’d say.

“Good that,” Newt said. “Tell us, then.”

Minho looked at Thomas. “I nominate this shank to replace me as Keeper of the Runners.”


22.
“We get the point,” Gally snapped. “Tommy here is a lucky shank.”

Minho rounded on him. “No, you worthless shuck, you don’t get it! I’ve been here two years, and I’ve never seen anything like it. For you to say anything ...”

Minho paused, rubbing his eyes, groaning in frustration. Thomas realized his own mouth had dropped wide open. His emotions were scattered: appreciation for Minho standing up to everybody on his behalf, disbelief at Gally’s continuous belligerence, fear of what the final decision would be.

“Gally,” Minho said in a calmer voice, “you’re nothing but a sissy who has never, not once, asked to be a Runner or tried out for it. You don’t have the right to talk about things you don’t understand. So shut your mouth.”

Gally stood up again, fuming. “Say one more thing like that and I’ll break your neck, right here in front of everybody.” Spit flew from his mouth as he spoke.

Minho laughed, then raised the palm of his hand and shoved Gally in the face. Thomas half stood as he watched the Glader crash down into his chair, tipping it over backward, cracking it in two pieces. Gally sprawled across the floor, then scrambled to stand up, struggling to get his hands and feet under him. Minho stepped closer and stomped the bottom of his foot down on Gally’s back, driving his body flat to the ground.

Thomas plopped back into his seat, stunned.

“I swear, Gally,” Minho said with a sneer, “don’t ever threaten me again. Don’t ever speak to meagain. Ever. If you do, I’ll break your shuck neck, right after I’m done with your arms and legs.”


23.
“Well, you’re not the bloody saint in the room,” Newt said. “What were you thinking? That was a little overboard, don’t ya think?”

Minho squinched up his eyes and pulled his head back, as if he were baffled by Newt’s question. “Don’t give me that garbage. Every one of you loved seeing that slinthead get his dues, and you know it. It’s about time someone stood up to his klunk.”

“He’s on the Council for a reason,” Newt said.

“Dude, he threatened to break my neck and kill Thomas! The guy is mentally whacked, and you better send someone right now to throw him in the Slammer. He’s dangerous.”


24.
“Look, Tommy,” Newt said. “We just elected you as a buggin’ Runner. Quit your cryin’ and get out of here. Minho has a lot of training to give you.”

It hadn’t really hit Thomas until then. He was going to be a Runner, explore the Maze. Despite everything, he felt a shiver of excitement; he was sure they could avoid getting trapped out there at night again. Maybe he’d had his one and only turn of bad luck. “What about my punishment?”

“Tomorrow,” Newt answered. “The wake-up till sunset.”

One day, Thomas thought. That won’t be so bad.

The meeting was dismissed and everyone except Newt and Minho left the room in a hurry. Newt hadn’t moved from his chair, where he sat jotting notes. “Well, that was good times,” he murmured.

Minho walked over and playfully punched Thomas in the arm. “It’s all this shank’s fault.”

Thomas punched him back. “Keeper? You want me to be Keeper? You’re nuttier than Gally by a long shot.”

Minho faked an evil grin. “Worked, didn’t it? Aim high, hit low. Thank me later.”