Time passed in a blur. Hank, Doug, and Will's names were added to the Wall along with the others, and they were buried beside Ric in the Deadheads. After miner deliberation, everyone agreed that P.F. would receive the antidote Elizabeth had brought with her, and after a few days he was in full health. While no one regretted using their only antidote on P.F., the Gladers were much more aware than usual that they did not have any more of it. Dave was released from the Slammer for good, but the heavy weight from Ric's death had returned a hundredfold.

A month passed, and then another. Winston was sent up, followed by Louis and Snow. Clint and Jeff became the first Med-Jacks, realizing their interest in doctoring the other Gladers. The two of them became fast friends and spent the bulk of their time together, which Elizabeth thought was sweet. Louis joined the Builders and Gally replaced Hank as leader, though he wasn't too thrilled about the prospect at first. He really missed Hank and his silent, yet authoritative presence.

Winston became Keeper of the Slicers and Snow joined Elizabeth and Zart as a Track-hoe. He wasn't Ric, but Elizabeth enjoyed working with him. He had a lot of enthusiasm and liked to keep things positive. Like Ben, he expressed interest in Elizabeth and told her as soon as he knew. Unlike Ben, he left her alone and stopped bothering her about it after she turned him down. That alone was enough to earn him her respect. He didn't make things awkward, and their relationship did not change when she turned him down. In fact, it improved.

Chris and Ben were still problems for Elizabeth. She had to explain almost every day to Ben that she was not interested in him romantically, and twice Chris cornered her and made uncomfortable contact. Nothing as serious as the first time when he'd touched her breast, but he came dangerously close to her bottom once, and he liked to grab her waist. He mostly tried to elicit unease. He took some sort of sadistic pleasure in Elizabeth's reactions. She had yet to tell anyone about his behavior. Every time she tried working up the courage to say something, embarrassment and shame stopped her.

At night, Elizabeth and Newt walked to the Wall together and talked about their day, leaving nothing out. Elizabeth was honest with her feelings and daily sorrows, and Newt confided in her about his grief over the unexpected Griever attack. They did their best to comfort each other and share each other's burdens. It was great and all, but Elizabeth got the feeling that he was keeping something from her. It hurt her to see him so reserved and withdrawn from everyone. She tried to get him to talk about it, but he was being so awkward with her. She was closer with him than ever before, but she was also farther away. He couldn't always bring himself to look her in the eyes, and every time they shared physical contact he flinched away and got shy. It was odd, certainly, but more than that it was painful and heart-wrenching for her.

"You know you can tell me anything, right, Newt?" she told him one night. She reached for his hand, but he pulled away before she could grab it. So instead, she leaned in to him and pressed against his side, savoring the feeling of the heat from his body on hers. She closed her eyes and turned her face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him. He shifted uneasily.

"I know," he said, his voice somewhat strangled.

---

Elizabeth was holding the vial of green liquid again. The memory potion. She stared at it and tried to imagine what remembering would be like. How would it feel? Would it smell different? Taste different? Seem different? Once her eyes had been opened, would she be able to go back? Not knowing was hard, but maybe knowing was harder. She remembered the first time she and Newt talked together at the Wall.

"I can't," she whispered. She held the vial at her chest and blinked away tears that were forming. "I'm sorry, but I can't do it."

She carefully wrapped the vial in bubble-wrap and put it in it's usual place in the wooden crate. She still hadn't worn any of the clothes, or opened the candy. It remained in the corner farthest away from her bed, like an unwanted guest.

---

Running helped take the edge off the harsh reality of their imprisonment. Dalton shook the sweat off of his hair and stretched his legs and arms with the others. The day had been uneventful, which was a welcome relief. The Grievers had been more active lately, but at the same time less inquisitive about the Gladers' movements. Dalton looked over at P.F. and the other boy gave him a head nod. Ever since getting stung by the Griever, P.F. had been acting strangely. Dalton was relieved that there was a healthy flush to his cheeks and he had survived the Griever-sickness because of Elizabeth's antidote, but something was different.

"Some day, eh?" he asked. P.F. shrugged and didn't reply. Dalton was disappointed. Usually he and P.F. could talk together about anything, even the most random things. He didn't like all the one-sided conversations he was getting after Running. It was like P.F. was holding something back; like he knew something none of the rest of them did.

"Shank," he muttered under his breath, hoping P.F. would retaliate to the word. Nothing. The other boy took no notice of Dalton's insult and started walking to the Homestead. Ruffled, Dalton followed him and grabbed his shoulder.

"Are you even listening to me, ya shuck-faced idiot?" he demanded. P.F. shoved his hand off.

"Get off my case, Dalton," he said, and tried to resume walking, but Dalton wouldn't let him. He couldn't take this anymore. P.F. was his best friend, for heaven's sake! He was grateful for Elizabeth and her antidote, but it had done more than heal P.F.'s body. It had stolen a bond that he had treasured. P.F. didn't talk to him anymore. He didn't listen, and he didn't seem to even care. Dalton was done. He wasn't going to let this continue.

Without another word, he grabbed P.F.'s shoulder again, swung his fist back, and punched his friend in the jaw. P.F. stumbled forward and hit the ground, his hands effectively catching his fall. For a beat he was quiet and very still. And then, he jumped up and rushed at Dalton with his own attack. The two of them smashed together with an awful 'thwack.'

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" P.F. shouted, kneeing his friend in the abdomen. Dalton grunted, then landed another punch in.

"STOP IGNORING ME, SHANK!"

The fight continued, catching the attention of the other Gladers.

"YO" Minho said, jogging over to them. "Break it up, guys, we just got back from running!"

Nick caught up to them: "At least wait until after dinner, ya shanks!"

"Who's winning?" Chris asked, chuckling. Newt shot him a death glare.

"What does this look like to you, Chris?" he asked, his voice tense. Chris put up his hands defensively and looked over at Dalton and P.F., who were on the ground screaming at each other. Dalton's nose was bleeding profusely and P.F. was on top of him, hitting his face and kicking his side. After a moment Dalton rolled over and coughed, before reaching out a hand and wrapping it around P.F.'s ankle. He pulled and P.F. tripped, which gave Dalton leverage. He slammed P.F.'s head into the ground and roared angrily.

"OKAY THAT'S ENOUGH, BREAK IT UP I SAID!" Nick yelled. It was becoming obvious that this wasn't one of their normal, more friendly wrestling matches. Gally, Zart, and Alby gathered around the two of them and tried to pry them apart.

Minho had never seen Dalton and P.F. so angry before. He had been surprised when they started fighting - they all had. He never in a million years expected those two to turn on one another. The shanks were best friends. Everybody knew that. Out of everyone in the entire Glade, Minho would say that Dalton and P.F. had one of the closest relationships. And now here they were, trying to bloody kill each other!

Newt watched as Gally and Winston pulled Dalton away while Alby and Zart grabbed P.F. Both boys were bleeding and their faces were muddy and bruised. He watched them struggle against their captors to break free from the hands that held them. He watched as they cursed and spat and yelled. He had seen the moment they had turned against one another; had seen the look of hatred in their eyes. One minute they had been walking, and the next, they were on top of each other with fists and teeth and elbows. Newt felt bile rise in his throat.

They had saved P.F., but at what price? If saving someone's life meant they had to lose everything else, then what was even the point?

"Newt?" Newt looked over at Minho, who was staring at him, and raised an eyebrow.

"You okay? You look a little stressed," Minho said. Newt smiled and shook his head.

"Nah, I'm fine. Just tired from running, is all," he replied. It wasn't all a lie. He really was tired, just not necessarily from running.

"Good that." Minho nodded and they stood together, waiting for Dalton and P.F. to finally calm down.

---

"I'm worried about you, Newt," Elizabeth said.

She was sitting with him at dinner, but she wasn't really excited about the meal. Newt could feel her eyes on him, but he refused to look at her. He felt her leg pressed against his under the table, and smelled the soap on her skin. Her hair was wet from a recent shower, and every once-in-a-while a wet strand would hit his cheek when she turned to talk to Gally who was sitting on her other side.

The table was starting to get crowded and too small for the number of Gladers. Honestly, Newt was fine with Elizabeth being so close, but Snow was on his left and was no further away. They couldn't even bring their elbows up without bumping up against some other shank. It was making him feel claustrophobic.

"You don't like the soup? I think it's pretty good," he said. Elizabeth frowned at the sudden change of subject, but thankfully didn't pressure him.

"It's fine," she replied, and then started eating.

After dinner, Newt said goodnight the them all like usual. He was friendly and chappy. He hugged Elizabeth after saying goodnight and didn't let her go until she let out a muffled protest. When she pulled away her face was flushed prettily.

"Your eyes aren't as blue as I thought they were," he said. Elizabeth's nose wrinkled.

"What do you mean, not as blue? They're plenty blue!" She swatted his arm.

"They're more grey than blue," Newt explained. He smiled at her but Elizabeth just gave him a funny look.

"O-okay," she said, "That was kind of random."

Newt shook his head, "Not random, just...true." He sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair.

"You're silly," Elizabeth teased. Her nose was still slightly wrinkled. It made Newt's chest warm. He always felt warm around her.

"You'll always be my best friend," he told her. It was the truth. He had told Minho and Alby something similar, and it had been the truth, too. They were all his best friends, just in different ways. Elizabeth looked startled again, but then she smiled widely.

"You'll always be my best friend too, Newt!"

---

It was easy to climb up to the top of the wall, with all the vines growing around. When he reached the top, he took a minute to catch his breath, and then looked out. All around him was the Maze. He looked down and saw the stone beneath him. His head swam and he took a step back and turned around, facing the Glade.

It looked so peaceful. There was a slight breeze moving through the trees of the Deadheads, and smoke was rising from the fire pit in the middle of the Homestead. If he listened hard enough, he could hear voices, deep and soft. The sounds of dusk, the sounds of another day ending.

Newt took a deep breath and looked down. There was soft grass below, but it was far away. He closed his eyes and thought of his friends. He thought of Minho and all of his lame jokes. The way he was always the one who encouraged the rest of the Runners as the ran around the Maze, looking for a way out. He thought of his friendly smile and dark thatch of hair, so unlike any of the other Gladers.

He thought of Alby and his calm, steadfast nature. His natural way of leading things that made it hard and almost awkward to treat Nick as the higher position. The way he used a loud voice at the dinner table and never asked for things before reaching across the table for whatever he needed.

He thought of Gally and his familiar broodiness, and Frypan with his crazy laugh. He thought of Zart and Louis and Winston and all the newer Greenies. He thought of Ric and Hank, and all the others they had lost. He thought of Elizabeth and the way her nose wrinkled whenever she was upset or confused or just because. Elizabeth and her girlish laugh and button nose and more-grey-than-blue eyes. She was kind and brilliant and witty and had a bloody-good sense of humor. He didn't remember any of the girls in the real world outside the Maze, but he didn't need to. Elizabeth was beautiful. She was special. She was a part of the Glade. She was his, and theirs, too.

Newt opened his eyes, took a deep breath...

I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I promise I will miss you the most.

...and he jumped.