This made Thomas even more curious, though he was just fine going back to the subject of Runners. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“Like I said, best of the best.”
“So what do you do? Test everybody to see how fast they are?”
Newt gave Thomas a disgusted look, then groaned. “Show me some smarts, Greenie, Tommy, whatever ya like. How fast you can bloody run is only part of it. A very small part, actually.”
This piqued Thomas’s interest. “What do you mean?”
“When I say best of the best, I mean at everything. To survive the buggin’ Maze, you gotta be smart, quick, strong. Gotta be a decision maker, know the right amount of risk to take. Can’t be reckless, can’t be timid, either.” Newt straightened his legs and leaned back on his hands. “It’s bloody awful out there, ya know? I don’t miss it.”
“I thought the Grievers only came out at night.” Destiny or not, Thomas didn’t want to run into one of those things.
“Yeah, usually.”
“Then why is it so terrible out there?” What else didn’t he know about?
Newt sighed. “Pressure. Stress. Maze pattern different every day, tryin’ to picture things in your mind, tryin’ to get us out of here. Worryin’ about the bloody Maps. Worst part, you’re always scared you might not make it back. A normal maze’d be hard enough—but when it changes every night, couple of mental mistakes and you’re spendin’ the night with vicious beasts. No room or time for dummies or brats.”
Thomas frowned, not quite understanding the drive inside him, urging him on. Especially after last night. But he still felt it. Felt it all over.
“Why all the interest?” Newt asked.
Thomas hesitated, thinking, scared to say it out loud again. “I want to be a Runner.”
Newt turned and looked him in the eye. “Haven’t been here a week, shank. Little early for death wishes, don’t ya think?”
“I’m serious.” It barely made sense even to Thomas, but he felt it deeply. In fact, the desire to become a Runner was the only thing driving him on, helping him accept his predicament.
Newt didn’t break his gaze. “So am I. Forget it. No one’s ever become a Runner in their first month, much less their first week. Got a lot of provin’ to do before we’ll recommend you to the Keeper.”
Thomas stood and started folding up his sleeping gear. “Newt, I mean it. I can’t pull weeds all day—I’ll go nuts. I don’t have a clue what I did before they shipped me here in that metal box, but my gut tells me that being a Runner is what I’m supposed to do. I can do it.”
Newt still sat there, staring up at Thomas, not offering to help. “No one said you couldn’t. But give it a rest for now.”
Thomas felt a surge of impatience. “But—”
“Listen, trust me on this, Tommy. Start stompin’ around this place yappin’ about how you’re too good to work like a peasant, how you’re all nice and ready to be a Runner—you’ll make plenty of enemies. Drop it for now.”
Making enemies was the last thing Thomas wanted, but still. He decided on another direction. “Fine, I’ll talk to Minho about it.”
“Good try, ya buggin’ shank. The Gathering elects Runners, and if you think I’m tough, they’d laugh in your face.”
“For all you guys know, I could be really good at it. It’s a waste of time to make me wait.”
Newt stood to join Thomas and jabbed a finger in his face. “You listen to me, Greenie. You listenin’ all nice and pretty?”
Thomas surprisingly didn’t feel that intimidated. He rolled his eyes, but then nodded.
“You better stop this nonsense, before others hear about it. That’s not how it works around here, and our whole existence depends on things working.”
He paused, but Thomas said nothing, dreading the lecture he knew was coming.
“Order,” Newt continued. “Order. You say that bloody word over and over in your shuck head. Reason we’re all sane around here is ’cause we work our butts off and maintain order. Order’s the reason we put Ben out—can’t very well have loonies runnin’ around tryin’ to kill people, now can we? Order. Last thing we need is you screwin’ that up.”
The stubbornness washed out of Thomas. He knew it was time to shut up. “Yeah” was all he said.
Newt slapped him on the back. “Let’s make a deal.”
“What?” Thomas felt his hopes rise.
“You keep your mouth shut about it, and I’ll put you on the list of potential trainees as soon as you show some clout. Don’t keep your trap shut, and I’ll bloody make sure ya never see it happen. Deal?”
Thomas hated the idea of waiting, not knowing how long it might be. “That’s a sucky deal.”
Newt raised his eyebrows.
Thomas finally nodded. “Deal.”
“Come on, let’s get us some grub from Frypan. And hope we don’t bloody choke.”
That morning, Thomas finally met the infamous Frypan, if only from a distance. The guy was too busy trying to feed breakfast to an army of starving Gladers. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old, but he had a full beard and hair sticking out all over the rest of his body, as if each follicle were trying to escape the confines of his food-smeared clothes. Didn’t seem like the most sanitary guy in the world to oversee all the cooking, Thomas thought. He made a mental note to watch out for nasty black hairs in his meals.