Read the Maze Runner by James Dashner

For Lynette. This book was a three-year journey, and you never doubted.

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He began his new life continuing up, surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air.

Metal ground confronting metal; a lurching shudder shook the floor beneath him. He fell down at the sudden movement and shuffled astern on his easily and feet, drops of sweat beading on his forehead despite the absurd air. His back struck a difficult metal wall; he slid along it until he hit the corner of the room. Sinking to the floor, he pulled his legs up tight confronting his body, hoping his optics would presently adjust to the darkness.

With some other jolt, the room jerked upwards like an quondam lift in a mine shaft.

Harsh sounds of chains and pulleys, like the workings of an ancient steel factory, echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls with a hollow, tinny whine. The lightless elevator swayed back and along equally it ascended, turning the boy's stomach sour with nausea; a odor like burnt oil invaded his senses, making him feel worse. He wanted to cry, merely no tears came; he could just sit at that place, alone, waiting.

My name is Thomas, he thought.

That . . . that was the but affair he could call up about his life.

He didn't understand how this could be possible. His mind functioned without flaw, trying to calculate his surroundings and predicament. Noesis flooded his thoughts, facts and images, memories and details of the world and how information technology works. He pictured snow on trees, running downward a leaf-strewn road, eating a hamburger, the moon casting a pale glow on a grassy meadow, swimming in a lake, a busy metropolis square with hundreds of people bustling nigh their business.

And however he didn't know where he came from, or how he'd gotten inside the dark elevator, or who his parents were. He didn't even know his final name. Images of people flashed across his mind, only there was no recognition, their faces replaced with haunted smears of color. He couldn't think of one person he knew, or recollect a single conversation.

The room connected its ascension, swaying; Thomas grew immune to the ceaseless rattling of the bondage that pulled him upward. A long time passed. Minutes stretched into hours, although it was incommunicable to know for sure because every second seemed an eternity. No. He was smarter than that. Trusting his instincts, he knew he'd been moving for roughly half an hour.

Strangely enough, he felt his fear whisked away like a swarm of gnats caught in the wind, replaced past an intense curiosity. He wanted to know where he was and what was happening.

With a groan and then a clonk, the rising room halted; the sudden modify jolted Thomas from his huddled position and threw him across the difficult flooring. As he scrambled to his feet, he felt the room sway less and less until it finally stilled. Everything fell silent.

A minute passed. Ii. He looked in every management but saw only darkness; he felt along the walls again, searching for a style out. But there was naught, just the absurd metallic. He groaned in frustration; his echo amplified through the air, like the haunted moan of death. Information technology faded, and silence returned. He screamed, chosen for help, pounded on the walls with his fists.

Nothing.

Thomas backed into the corner once once more, folded his arms and shivered, and the fear returned. He felt a worrying shudder in his breast, every bit if his heart wanted to escape, to abscond his trunk.

"Someone . . . help . . . me!" he screamed; each give-and-take ripped his throat raw.

A loud clank rang out above him and he sucked in a startled breath every bit he looked up. A direct line of calorie-free appeared across the ceiling of the room, and Thomas watched as information technology expanded. A heavy grating sound revealed double sliding doors existence forced open. After so long in darkness, the light stabbed his eyes; he looked away, covering his face with both easily.

He heard noises above—voices—and fright squeezed his chest.

"Expect at that shank."

"How one-time is he?"

"Looks like a klunk in a T-shirt."

"You're the klunk, shuck-face."

"Dude, information technology smells like feet downwards in that location!"

"Promise yous enjoyed the one-way trip, Greenie."

"Ain't no ticket dorsum, bro."

Thomas was striking with a wave of confusion, blistered with panic. The voices were odd, tinged with echo; some of the words were completely foreign—others felt familiar. He willed his eyes to adjust equally he squinted toward the light and those speaking. At first he could come across only shifting shadows, but they before long turned into the shapes of bodies– people angle over the hole in the ceiling, looking down at him, pointing.

And then, as if the lens of a camera had sharpened its focus, the faces cleared. They were boys, all of them—some young, some older. Thomas didn't know what he'd expected, just seeing those faces puzzled him. They were just teenagers. Kids. Some of his fear melted abroad, just non enough to calm his racing eye.

Someone lowered a rope from above, the terminate of it tied into a big loop. Thomas hesitated, then stepped into information technology with his right foot and clutched the rope as he was yanked toward the heaven. Hands reached down, lots of hands, grabbing him past his clothes, pulling him up. The earth seemed to spin, a swirling mist of faces and colour and light. A storm of emotions wrenched his gut, twisted and pulled; he wanted to scream, weep, throw up. The chorus of voices had grown silent, but someone spoke equally they yanked him over the sharp border of the dark box. And Thomas knew he'd never forget the words.

"Nice to meet ya, shank," the boy said. "Welcome to the Glade."

CHAPTER 2

The helping hands didn't stop swarming around him until Thomas stood up directly and had the grit brushed from his shirt and pants. Still dazzled by the low-cal, he staggered a chip. He was consumed with curiosity but even so felt too ill to await closely at his surroundings. His new companions said nothing as he swiveled his caput around, trying to accept it all in.

As he rotated in a slow circle, the other kids snickered and stared; some reached out and poked him with a finger. In that location had to be at to the lowest degree fifty of them, their apparel smudged and sweaty equally if they'd been hard at work, all shapes and sizes and races, their pilus of varying lengths. Thomas suddenly felt dizzy, his optics flickering between the boys and the bizarre identify in which he'd establish himself.

They stood in a vast courtyard several times the size of a football game field, surrounded by four enormous walls made of gray rock and covered in spots with thick ivy. The walls had to be hundreds of feet high and formed a perfect square around them, each side split in the verbal middle past an opening as tall equally the walls themselves that, from what Thomas could see, led to passages and long corridors beyond.

"Look at the Greenbean," a scratchy vocalisation said; Thomas couldn't see who information technology came from. "Gonna pause his shuck neck checkin' out the new digs." Several boys laughed.

"Close your hole, Gally," a deeper voice responded.

Thomas focused back in on the dozens of strangers effectually him. He knew he must look out of it—he felt similar he'd been drugged. A tall kid with blond hair and a square jaw sniffed at him, his face devoid of expression. A short, butterball boy fidgeted back and forth on his feet, looking upward at Thomas with wide eyes. A thick, heavily muscled Asian child folded his arms every bit he studied Thomas, his tight shirtsleeves rolled up to show off his biceps. A dark-skinned boy frowned—the aforementioned ane who'd welcomed him. Endless others stared.

"Where am I?" Thomas asked, surprised at hearing his vox for the start time in his salvageable memory. It didn't sound quite correct– college than he would've imagined.

"Nowhere good." This came from the dark-skinned male child "Just slim yourself nice and calm."

"Which Keeper he gonna become?" someone shouted from the dorsum of the crowd.

"I told ya, shuck-face," a shrill voice responded. "He'southward a klunk, and then he'll be a Slopper—no doubt nearly it." The child giggled like he'd but said the funniest thing in history.

Thomas one time over again felt a pressing ache of confusion—hearing so many words and phrases that didn't make sense. Shank. Shuck. Keeper. Slopper. They popped out of the boys' mouths so naturally information technology seemed odd for him non to understand. It was as if his retention loss had stolen a chunk of his language—it was disorienting.

Dissimilar emotions battled for authorization in his mind and centre. Confusion. Curiosity. Panic. Fear. But laced through it all was the dark feeling of utter hopelessness, like the world had ended for him, had been wiped from his retentivity and replaced with something atrocious. He wanted to run and hide from these people.

The scratchy-voiced male child was talking. "—even do that much, bet my liver on information technology." Thomas nonetheless couldn't see his face.

"I said shut your holes!" the dark boy yelled. "Keep yapping and next break'll exist cut in one-half!"

That must be their leader, Thomas realized. Hating how anybody gawked at him, he concentrated on studying the place the boy had called the Glade.

The floor of the courtyard looked like information technology was made of huge stone blocks, many of them cracked and filled with long grasses and weeds. An odd, battered wooden building near one of the corners of the square contrasted greatly with the gray stone. A few trees surrounded it, their roots similar gnarled hands earthworks into the rock floor for nutrient. Another corner of the compound held gardens—from where he was standing Thomas recognized corn, tomato plants, fruit trees.

Beyond the courtyard from there stood wooden pens holding sheep and pigs and cows. A large grove of trees filled the final corner; the closest ones looked bedridden and close to dying. The sky overhead was cloudless and bluish, only Thomas could run into no sign of the sun despite the brightness of the solar day. The creeping shadows of the walls didn't reveal the time or direction—information technology could be early morning or late afternoon. Equally he breathed in deeply, trying to settle his nerves, a mixture of smells bombarded him. Freshly turned dirt, manure, pino, something rotten arid something sweetness. Somehow he knew that these were the smells of a subcontract.

Thomas looked back at his captors, feeling awkward but drastic to ask questions. Captors, he thought. Then, Why did that word pop into my head? He scanned their faces, taking in each expression, judging them. One boy'due south eyes, flared with hatred, stopped him cold. He looked and so angry, Thomas wouldn't have been surprised if the kid came at him with a pocketknife. He had black pilus, and when they fabricated eye contact, the boy shook his head and turned away, walking toward a greasy atomic number 26 pole with a wooden bench next to it. A multicolored flag hung limply at the pinnacle of the pole, no wind to reveal its blueprint.

Shaken, Thomas stared at the boy's dorsum until he turned and took a seat. Thomas quickly looked away.

Of a sudden the leader of the group—perhaps he was seventeen– took a step forward. He wore normal clothes: black T-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes, a digital lookout man. For some reason the article of clothing here surprised Thomas; it seemed like everyone should be wearing something more menacing—like prison garb. The nighttime-skinned boy had brusque-cropped hair, his confront make clean shaven. Simply other than the permanent scowl, in that location was nothing scary near him at all.

"It's a long story, shank," the male child said. "Piece past piece, you lot'll learn—I'll be takin' you on the Tour tomorrow. Till then . . . just don't break annihilation." He held a paw out. "Name's Alby." He waited, clearly wanting to shake hands.

Thomas refused. Some instinct took over his actions and without saying anything he turned away from Alby and walked to a nearby tree, where he plopped down to sit with his dorsum confronting the rough bawl. Panic swelled inside him once once again, well-nigh besides much to acquit. But he took a deep breath and forced himself to effort to accept the situation. Just get with it, he thought. You lot won't figure out annihilation if yous give in to fearfulness.

"And so tell me," Thomas called out, struggling to keep his vox fifty-fifty. "Tell me the long story."

Alby glanced at the friends closest to him, rolling his eyes, and Thomas studied the crowd again. His original estimate had been close—at that place were probably fifty to sixty of them, ranging from boys in their midteens to immature adults like Alby, who seemed to be ane of the oldest. At that moment, Thomas realized with a sickening lurch that he had no idea how one-time he was. His heart sank at the thought—he was so lost he didn't fifty-fifty know his ain historic period.

"Seriously," he said, giving up on the show of courage. "Where am I?"

Alby walked over to him and sat downwardly cantankerous-legged; the crowd of boys followed and packed in behind. Heads popped up here and at that place, kids leaning in every management to go a better look.

"If you own't scared," Alby said, "yous ain't man. Act any dissimilar and I'd throw you off the Cliff because it'd mean you're a psycho."

"The Cliff?" Thomas asked, blood draining from his confront.

"Shuck it," Alby said, rubbing his optics. "Own't no mode to offset these conversations, you become me? We don't kill shanks like you lot here, I promise. Simply try and avoid being killed, survive, whatever."

He paused, and Thomas realized his face up must've whitened even more when he heard that terminal part.

"Man," Alby said, then ran his hands over his short pilus as he let out a long sigh. "I ain't good at this—you lot're the first Greenbean since Nick was killed."

Thomas'southward optics widened, and another boy stepped up and playfully slapped Alby across the caput. "Expect for the bloody Tour, Alby," he said, his vox thick with an odd accent. "Child's gonna have a buggin' heart attack, nothin' even been heard yet." He bent down and extended his hand toward Thomas. "Name'southward Newt, Greenie, and we'd all be correct cheery if ya'd forgive our klunk-for-brains new leader, here."

Thomas reached out and shook the boy's paw—he seemed a lot nicer than Alby. Newt was taller than Alby too, but looked to exist a year or so younger. His pilus was blond and cutting long, cascading over his T-shirt. Veins stuck out of his muscled arms.

"Pipe it, shuck-face," Alby grunted, pulling Newt down to sit down next to him. "At least he can understand half my words." There were a few scattered laughs, and and so everyone gathered behind Alby and Newt, packing in fifty-fifty tighter, waiting to hear what they said.

Alby spread his arms out, palms up. "This place is called the Glade, all right? It's where nosotros live, where we eat, where we sleep—we telephone call ourselves the Gladers. That's all you—"

"Who sent me here?" Thomas demanded, fear finally giving mode to anger. "How'd—"

Simply Alby's mitt shot out earlier he could terminate, grabbing Thomas by the shirt as he leaned forwards on his knees. "Get upward, shank, get up!" Alby stood, pulling Thomas with him.

Thomas finally got his feet nether him, scared all once more. He backed against the tree, trying to get away from Alby, who stayed right in his confront.

"No interruptions, boy!" Alby shouted. "Whacker, if we told you everything, you'd die on the spot, right afterward y'all klunked your pants. Baggers'd elevate yous off, and you lot ain't no good to united states then, are ya?"

"I don't even know what y'all're talking almost," Thomas said slowly, shocked at how steady his voice sounded.

Newt reached out and grabbed Alby by the shoulders. "Alby, lay off a chip. Y'all're hurtin' more than helpin', ya know?"

Alby let go of Thoma's shirt and stepped back, his chest heaving with breaths. "Ain't got time to be nice, Greenbean. Sometime life'south over, new life's begun. Learn the rules quick, heed, don't talk. You get me?"

Thomas looked over at Newt, hoping for help. Everything inside him churned and hurt; the tears that had still to come burned his optics.

Newt nodded. "Greenie, you get him, right?" He nodded again.

Thomas fumed, wanted to dial somebody. Just he simply said, "Yes."

"Skillful that," Alby said. "First Day. That'southward what today is for you lot, shank. Night's comin', Runners'll be dorsum presently. The Box came tardily today, ain't got time for the Tour. Tomorrow morning, right subsequently the wake-up." He turned toward Newt. "Go him a bed, become him to slumber."

"Good that," Newt said.

Alby'south eyes returned to Thomas, narrowing. "A few weeks, you'll be happy, shank. Y'all'll be happy and helpin'. None of united states of america knew jack on First Day, you neither. New life begins tomorrow."

Alby turned and pushed his way through the oversupply, and so headed for the slanted wooden building in the corner. Most of the kids wandered abroad then, each one giving Thomas a lingering look earlier they walked off.

Thomas folded his arms, closed his optics, took a deep jiff, Emptiness ate away at his insides, quickly replaced by a sadness that injure his centre. It was all also much—where was he? What was this place? Was information technology some kind of prison? If and so, why had he been sent here, and for how long? The language was odd, and none of the boys seemed to care whether he lived or died. Tears threatened again to fill his eyes, but he refused to let them come.

"What did I do?" he whispered, not really meaning for anyone to hear him. "What did I do—why'd they ship me here?"

Newt clapped him on the shoulder. "Greenie, what you're feelin', we've all felt it. We've all had Get-go Day, come out of that dark box. Things are bad, they are, and they'll get much worse for ya soon, that's the truth. Only downwardly the route a slice, you'll be fightin' true and expert. I can tell you're not a bloody sissy."

"Is this a prison?" Thomas asked; he dug in the darkness of his thoughts, trying to notice a crack to his past.

"Done asked four questions, haven't ya?" Newt replied. "No good answers for ya, not nonetheless, anyhow. Best be quiet at present, accept the change– morning time comes tomorrow."

Thomas said nothing, his head sunk, his optics staring at the cracked, rocky ground. A line of minor-leafed weeds ran along the edge of one of the stone blocks, tiny yellow flowers peeping through as if searching for the sunday, long disappeared behind the enormous walls of the Glade.

"Chuck'll be a good fit for ya," Newt said. "Wee little fat shank, but nice sap when all'south said and done. Stay here, I'll exist back."

Newt had barely finished his sentence when a sudden, piercing scream ripped through the air. High and shrill, the barely homo shriek echoed across the stone courtyard; every kid in sight turned to look toward the source. Thomas felt his claret plough to icy slush equally he realized that the horrible sound came from the wooden building.

Even Newt had jumped equally if startled, his forehead creasing in concern.

"Shuck it," he said. "Tin't the encarmine Med-jacks handle that boy for ten minutes without needin' my help?" He shook his head and lightly kicked Thomas on the foot. "Find Chuckie, tell him he's in accuse of your sleepin' arrangements." And then he turned and headed in the direction of the building, running.

Thomas slid downwards the crude face of the tree until he sabbatum on the footing over again; he shrank back against the bawl and airtight his optics, wishing he could wake up from this terrible, terrible dream.

CHAPTER 3

Thomas sat there for several moments, too overwhelmed to movement. He finally forced himself to look over at the haggard building. A group of boys milled around outside, glancing anxiously at the upper windows as if expecting a hideous animate being to bound out in an explosion of glass and wood.

A metallic clicking sound from the branches to a higher place grabbed his attention, made him expect up; a wink of argent and crimson light caught his eyes but before disappearing around the torso to the other side. He scrambled to his feet and walked around the tree, craning his neck for a sign of whatever he'd heard, but he saw only bare branches, grey and chocolate-brown, forking out similar skeleton fingers—and looking just as alive.

"That was one of them beetle blades," someone said.

Thomas turned to his right to run across a kid continuing nearby, short and pudgy, staring at him. He was young—probably the youngest of whatever in the group he'd seen and then far, possibly twelve or xiii years old. His brown hair hung downward over his ears and neck, scraping the tops of his shoulders. Blue eyes shone through an otherwise pitiful confront, flabby and flushed.

Thomas nodded at him. "A protrude what?"

"Protrude blade," the boy said, pointing to the elevation of the tree. "Won't hurt ya unless you're stupid enough to touch on one of them." He paused. "Shank." He didn't sound comfortable saying the terminal give-and-take, every bit if he hadn't quite grasped the slang of the Glade.

Another scream, this i long and nervus-grinding, tore through the air and Thomas's heart lurched. The fear was like icy dew on his skin. "What's going on over there?" he asked, pointing at the building.

"Don't know," the chubby male child replied; his vocalism still carried the loftier pitch of childhood. "Ben'southward in there, sicker than a dog. They got him."

"They?" Thomas didn't like the malicious way the boy had said the word.

"Yeah."

"Who are They?"

"Better hope you never notice out," the kid answered, looking far too comfortable for the situation. He held out his hand. "My name's Chuck. I was the Greenbean until y'all showed up."

This is my guide for the dark? Thomas thought. He couldn't shake his extreme discomfort, and now annoyance crept in as well. Nothing made sense; his head injure.

"Why is everyone calling me Greenbean?" he asked, shaking Chuck's hand quickly, and then letting go.

"Cuz you lot're the newest Newbie." Chuck pointed at Thomas and laughed. Another scream came from the house, a audio similar a starving beast being tortured.

"How tin you be laughing?" Thomas asked, horrified by the dissonance. "It sounds similar someone'due south dying in there."

"He'll be okay. No 1 dies if they brand it back in fourth dimension to get the Serum. It's all or nothing. Dead or not dead. Simply hurts a lot."

This gave Thomas pause. "What hurts a lot?"

Chuck'south optics wandered as if he wasn't sure what to say. "Um, gettin' stung past the Grievers."

"Grievers?" Thomas was only getting more and more dislocated. Stung. Grievers. The words had a heavy weight of dread to them, and he of a sudden wasn't and so sure he wanted to know what Chuck was talking near.

Chuck shrugged, then looked away, eyes rolling.

Thomas sighed in frustration and leaned back against the tree. "Looks similar you barely know more I practice," he said, but he knew it wasn't truthful. His memory loss was strange. He mostly remembered the workings of the globe—but emptied of specifics, faces, names. Like a book completely intact but missing one word in every dozen, making information technology a miserable and confusing read. He didn't fifty-fifty know his age.

"Chuck, how . . . former do yous recall I am?"

The boy scanned him up and down. "I'd say you're sixteen. And in case you were wondering, 5 pes nine . . . brown hair. Oh, and ugly equally fried liver on a stick." He snorted a laugh.

Thomas was so stunned he'd barely heard the last part. 16? He was sixteen? He felt much older than that.

"Are you serious?" He paused, searching for words. "How . . ." He didn't even know what to ask.

"Don't worry. You'll be all whacked for a few days, just then you lot'll go used to this identify. I have. Nosotros live hither, this is it. Better than living in a pile of klunk." He squinted, possibly anticipating Thomas'due south question. "Klunk's another give-and-take for poo. Poo makes a klunk sound when it falls in our pee pots."

Thomas looked at Chuck, unable to believe he was having this conversation. "That'south nice" was all he could manage. He stood up and walked past Chuck toward the onetime edifice; shack was a improve give-and-take for the place. It looked three or four stories high and nearly to fall down at any minute—a crazy assortment of logs and boards and thick twine and windows seemingly thrown together at random, the massive, ivy-strewn stone walls ascent upwards behind information technology. Every bit he moved beyond the courtyard, the distinct smell of firewood and some kind of meat cooking made his breadbasket mumble. Knowing now that it was merely a sick child doing the screaming made Thomas experience ameliorate. Until he thought most what had caused information technology . . .

"What's your name?" Chuck asked from behind, running to catch up.

"What?"

"Your name? You nevertheless haven't told us—and I know you recollect that much."

"Thomas." He barely heard himself say it—his thoughts had spun in a new management. If Chuck was right, he'd just discovered a link to the remainder of the boys. A mutual design to their retentivity losses. They all remembered their names. Why not their parents' names? Why not a friend'due south name? Why not their terminal names?

"Nice to meet you, Thomas," Chuck said. "Don't you worry, I'll take care of you lot. I've been hither a whole calendar month, and I know the place inside and out. You tin count on Chuck, okay?"

Thomas had almost reached the front end door of the shack and the small grouping of boys congregating in that location when he was hit past a sudden and surprise rush of anger. He turned to face Chuck. "Yous tin can't even tell me annihilation. I wouldn't telephone call that taking care of me." He turned dorsum toward the door, intent on going inside to find some answers. Where this sudden courage and resolve came from, he had no idea.

Chuck shrugged. "Nothin' I say'll practise you lot any good," he said. "I'chiliad basically even so a Newbie, as well. But I can exist your friend—"

"I don't need friends," Thomas interrupted.

He'd reached the door, an ugly slab of sunday-faded wood, and he pulled it open to see several stoic-faced boys standing at the foot of a crooked staircase, the steps and railings twisted and angled in all directions. Dark wallpaper covered the walls of the foyer and hallway, half of it peeling off. The only decorations in sight were a dusty vase on a three-legged tabular array and a black-and-white film of an aboriginal woman dressed in an one-time-fashioned white dress. It reminded Thomas of a haunted house from a movie or something. At that place were even planks of wood missing from the floor.

The place reeked of grit and mildew—a big contrast to the pleasant smells exterior. Flickering fluorescent lights shone from the ceiling. He hadn't thought of information technology however, but he had to wonder where the electricity came from in a place like the Glade. He stared at the quondam woman in the picture. Had she lived hither once? Taken care of these people?

"Hey, look, information technology's the Greenbean," ane of the older boys chosen out. With a outset, Thomas realized it was the black-haired guy who'd given him the look of death earlier. He looked like he was fifteen or so, tall and skinny. His nose was the size of a small fist and resembled a deformed potato. "This shank probably klunked his pants when he heard old Benny baby scream like a daughter. Need a new diaper, shuck-confront?"

"My name's Thomas." He had to get away from this guy. Without another word, he made for the stairs, merely because they were close, only considering he had no idea what to do or say. But the bully stepped in forepart of him, property a paw up.

"Agree on there, Greenie." He jerked a thumb in the management of the upper floor. "Newbies aren't immune to see someone who'south been . . . taken. Newt and Alby won't allow it."

"What's your trouble?" Thomas asked, trying to go on the fearfulness out of his voice, trying not to think what the kid had meant by taken. "I don't even know where I am. All I want is some help."

"Listen to me, Greenbean." The male child wrinkled up his confront, folded his artillery. "I've seen you earlier. Something's fishy about you lot showing up here, and I'm gonna find out what."

A surge of heat pulsed through Thomas'south veins. "I've never seen you before in my life. I have no idea who y'all are, and I couldn't care less," he spat. But really, how would he know? And how could this kid recall him?

The bully snickered, a brusque burst of laughter mixed with a phlegm-filled snort. And then his face grew serious, his eyebrows slanting inwards. "I've . . . seen you, shank. Non also many in these parts can say they've been stung." He pointed up the stairs. "I have. I know what old Benny baby's going through. I've been at that place. And I saw you during the Changing."

He reached out and poked Thomas in the chest. "And I bet your get-go meal from Frypan that Benny'll say he's seen ya, likewise."

Thomas refused to break eye contact but decided to say nothing. Panic ate at him once again. Would things ever stop getting worse?

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