Minho said nothing, just nodded, his face devoid of expression.

“Are there more of them? Did we just kill them all?”

Minho snorted. “Somehow we made it to sunrise, or we would’ve had ten more on our butts before long.” He shifted his body, wincing and groaning. “I can’t believe it. Seriously. We made it through the whole night—never been done before.”

Thomas knew he should feel proud, brave, something. But all he felt was tired and relieved. “What did we do differently?”

“I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to ask a dead guy what he did wrong.”

Thomas couldn’t stop wondering about how the Grievers’ enraged cries had ended as they fell from the Cliff, and how he hadn’t been able to see them plummeting to their deaths. There was something very strange and unsettling about it. “Seems like they disappeared or something after they went over the edge.”

“Yeah, that was kinda psycho. Couple of Gladers had a theory that other things had disappeared, but we proved ’em wrong. Look.”

Thomas watched as Minho tossed a rock over the Cliff, then followed its path with his eyes. Down and down it went, not leaving his sight until it grew too small to see. He turned back toward Minho. “How does that prove them wrong?”

Minho shrugged. “Well, the rock didn’t disappear, now, did it?”

“Then what do you think happened?” There was something significant here, Thomas could feel it.

Minho shrugged again. “Maybe they’re magic. My head hurts too much to think about it.”

With a jolt, all thoughts of the Cliff were forgotten. Thomas remembered Alby. “We have to get back.” Straining, he forced himself to get to his feet. “Gotta get Alby off the wall.” Seeing the look of confusion on Minho’s face, he quickly explained what he’d done with the ropes of ivy.

Minho looked down, his eyes dejected. “No way he’s still alive.”

Thomas refused to believe it. “How do you know? Come on.” He started limping back along the corridor.

“Because no one’s ever made it …”

He trailed off, and Thomas knew what he was thinking. “That’s because they’ve always been killed by the Grievers by the time you found them. Alby was only stuck with one of those needles, right?”

Minho stood up and joined Thomas in his slow walk back toward the Glade. “I don’t know, I guess this has never happened before. A few guys have been stung by the needles during the day. And those are the ones who got the Serum and went through the Changing. The poor shanks who got stuck out in the Maze all night weren’t found until later—days later, sometimes, if at all. And all of them were killed in ways you don’t wanna hear about.”

Thomas shuddered at the thought. “After what we just went through, I think I can imagine.”

Minho looked up, surprise transforming his face. “I think you just figured it out. We’ve been wrong—well, hopefully we’ve been wrong. Because no one who’d been stung and didn’t make it back by sunset has ever survived, we just assumed that was the point of no return—when it’s too late to get the Serum.” He seemed excited by his line of thinking.

They turned yet another corner, Minho suddenly taking the lead. The boy’s pace was picking up, but Thomas stayed on his heels, surprised at how familiar he felt with the directions, usually even leaning into turns before Minho showed the way.

“Okay—this Serum,” Thomas said. “I’ve heard that a couple of times now. What is that? And where does it come from?”

“Just what it sounds like, shank. It’s a serum. The Grief Serum.”

Thomas forced out a pathetic laugh. “Just when I think I’ve learned everything about this stupid place. Why is it called that? And why are Grievers called Grievers?”

Minho explained as they continued through the endless turns of the Maze, neither one of them leading now. “I don’t know where we got the names, but the Serum comes from the Creators—or that’s what we call them, at least. It’s with the supplies in the Box every week, always has been. It’s a medicine or antidote or something, already inside a medical syringe, ready to use.” He made a show of sticking a needle in his arm. “Stick that sucker in someone who’s been stung and it saves ’em. They go through the Changing—which sucks—but after that, they’re healed.”

A minute or two passed in silence as Thomas processed the information; they made a couple more turns. He wondered about the Changing, and what it meant. And for some reason, he kept thinking of the girl.

“Weird, though,” Minho finally continued. “We’ve never talked about this before. If he’s still alive, there’s really no reason to think Alby can’t be saved by the Serum. We somehow got it into our klunk heads that once the Doors closed, you were done—end of story. I gotta see this hanging-on-the-wall thing myself—I think you’re shuckin’ me.”

The boys kept walking, Minho almost looking happy, but something was nagging at Thomas. He’d been avoiding it, denying it to himself. “What if another Griever got Alby after I diverted the one chasing me?”

Minho looked over at him, a blank expression on his face.

“Let’s just hurry, is all I’m saying,” Thomas said, hoping all that effort to save Alby hadn’t been wasted.

They tried to pick up the pace, but their bodies hurt too much and they settled back into a slow walk despite the urgency. The next time they rounded a corner, Thomas faltered, his heart skipping a beat when he saw movement up ahead. Relief washed through him an instant later when he realized it was Newt and a group of Gladers. The West Door to the Glade towered over them and it was open. They’d made it back.

At the boys’ appearance, Newt limped over to them. “What happened?” he asked; he sounded almost angry. “How in the bloody—”

“We’ll tell you later,” Thomas interrupted. “We have to save Alby.”

Newt’s face went white. “What do you mean? He’s alive?”

“Just come here.” Thomas headed to the right, craning his neck to look high up at the wall, searching along the thick vines until he found the spot where Alby hung by his arms and legs far above them. Without saying anything, Thomas pointed up, not daring to be relieved yet. He was still there, and in one piece, but there was no sign of movement.

Newt finally saw his friend hanging in the ivy, and looked back at Thomas. If he’d seemed shocked before, now he looked completely bewildered. “Is he … alive?”

Please let him be, Thomas thought. “I don’t know. Was when I left him up there.”

“When you left him …” Newt shook his head. “You and Minho get your butts inside, get yourselves checked by the Med-jacks. You look bloody awful. I want the whole story when they’re done and you’re rested up.”

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.”

And Thomas knew he was right. He relented, glancing back up at Alby, then followed Minho out and away from the Maze.

The walk back into the Glade and then to the Homestead seemed endless, a row of Gladers on both sides gawking at them. Their faces showed complete awe, as if they were watching two ghosts strolling through a graveyard. Thomas knew it was because they’d accomplished something never done before, but he was embarrassed by the attention.

He almost stopped walking altogether when he spotted Gally up ahead, arms folded and glaring, but he kept moving. It took every ounce of his willpower, but he looked directly into Gally’s eyes, never breaking contact. When he got to within five feet, the other boy’s stare fell to the ground.

It almost disturbed Thomas how good that felt. Almost.

The next few minutes were a blur. Escorted into the Homestead by a couple of Med-jacks, up the stairs, a glimpse through a barely ajar door of someone feeding the comatose girl in her bed—he felt an incredibly strong urge to go see her, to check on her—into their own rooms, into bed, food, water, bandages. Pain. Finally, he was left alone, his head resting on the softest pillow his limited memory could recall.

But as he fell asleep, two things wouldn’t leave his mind. First, the word he’d seen scrawled across the torso of both beetle blades—WICKED—ran through his thoughts again and again.

The second thing was the girl.

Hours later—days for all he knew—Chuck was there, shaking him awake. It took several seconds for Thomas to get his bearings and see straight. He focused in on Chuck, groaned. “Let me sleep, you shank.”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

Thomas rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Know what?” He looked at Chuck again, confused by his big smile.

“He’s alive,” he said. “Alby’s okay—the Serum worked.”

Thomas’s grogginess instantly washed away, replaced with relief—it surprised him how much joy the information brought. But then Chuck’s next words made him reconsider.

“He just started the Changing.”

As if brought on by the words, a blood-chilling scream erupted from a room down the hall.

CHAPTER 23

Thomas wondered long and hard about Alby. It’d seemed such a victory just to save his life, bring him back from a night in the Maze. But had it been worth it? Now the boy was in intense pain, going through the same things as Ben. And what if he became as psychotic as Ben? Troubling thoughts all around.

Twilight fell upon the Glade and Alby’s screams continued to haunt the air. It was impossible to escape the terrible sound, even after Thomas finally talked the Med-jacks into letting him go—weary, sore, bandaged, but tired of the piercing, agonized wails of their leader. Newt had adamantly refused when Thomas asked to see the person he’d risked his life for. It’ll only make it worse, he’d said, and would not be swayed.

Thomas was too tired to put up a fight. He’d had no idea it was possible to feel so exhausted, despite the few hours of sleep he’d gotten. He’d hurt too much to do anything after that, and had spent most of the day on a bench on the outskirts of the Deadheads, wallowing in despair. The elation of his escape had faded rapidly, leaving him with pain and thoughts of his new life in the Glade. Every muscle ached; cuts and bruises covered him from head to toe. But even that wasn’t as bad as the heavy emotional weight of what he’d been through the previous night. It seemed as if all the realities of living there had finally settled in his mind, like hearing a final diagnosis of terminal cancer.

How could anyone ever be happy in a life like this? he thought. Then, How could anyone be evil enough to do this to us? He understood more than ever the passion the Gladers felt for finding their way out of the Maze. It wasn’t just a matter of escape. For the first time, he felt a hunger to get revenge on the people responsible for sending him there.

But those thoughts just led back to the hopelessness that had filled him so many times already. If Newt and the others hadn’t been able to solve the Maze after two years of searching, it seemed impossible there could actually be a solution. The fact that the Gladers hadn’t given up said more about these people than anything else.

And now he was one of them.

This is my life, he thought. Living in a giant maze, surrounded by hideous beasts. Sadness filled him like a heavy poison. Alby’s screams, now distant but still audible, only made it worse. He had to squeeze his hands to his ears every time he heard them.

Eventually, the day dragged to a close, and the setting of the sun brought the now-familiar grinding of the four Doors closing for the night. Thomas had no memory of his life before the Box, but he was positive he’d finished the worst twenty-four hours of his existence.

Just after dark, Chuck brought him some dinner and a big glass of cold water.

“Thanks,” Thomas said, feeling a burst of warmth for the kid. He scooped the beef and noodles off the plate as fast as his aching arms could move. “I so needed this,” he mumbled through a huge bite. He took a big swig of his drink, then went back to attacking the food. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he’d started eating.

“You’re disgusting when you eat,” Chuck said, sitting on the bench next to him. “It’s like watching a starving pig eat his own klunk.”

“That’s funny,” Thomas said, sarcasm lacing his voice. “You should go entertain the Grievers—see if they laugh.”

A quick expression of hurt flashed across Chuck’s face, making Thomas feel bad, but vanished almost as fast as it had appeared. “That reminds me—you’re the talk of the town.”

Thomas sat up straighter, not sure how he felt about the news. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, gee, let me think. First, you go out in the Maze when you’re not supposed to, at night. Then you turn into some kind of freaky jungle dude, climbing vines and tying people up on walls. Next, you become one of the first people ever to survive an entire night outside the Glade, and to top it all off you kill four Grievers. Can’t imagine what those shanks are talking about.”

A surge of pride filled Thomas’s body, then fizzled. Thomas was sickened by the happiness he’d just felt. Alby was still in bed, screaming his head off in pain—probably wishing he were dead. “Tricking them to go over the Cliff was Minho’s idea, not mine.”

“Not according to him. He saw you do the wait-and-dive thingy, then had the idea to do the same thing at the Cliff.”