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Minho awoke just before sunrise. He looked around, a little disoriented as he took in his unfamiliar surroundings. Understanding dawned on him as memories of the previous night surfaced in his mind. He had been awakened by the sound of Thomas’s cries a little past 1AM and had sprinted over as quickly as he could, worried that Thomas might’ve been in trouble. Minho hadn’t been completely wrong, as he had found Thomas curled up in a ball on his bed, tears streaming down his face with a far, distant look in his eyes. Minho had recognized that look instantly, having sported it himself several times the last few days while mourning the people they had lost in the Maze and in the Scorch. He hadn’t known who Thomas was thinking about at the time, but that had been a fairly trivial detail, and so he had sat down next to the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder and whispering comforting words that he knew would not be as helpful as he would’ve liked.
Once Thomas had calmed down, his gaze had fallen on Minho, his eyes widening and eyebrows shooting up, as if he had just noticed that Minho was next to him. He had immediately jumped up and run out of the room, leaving only a few stammered and incomprehensible words behind. Minho had let him go, knowing that forcing himself onto Thomas when Thomas wanted to be alone would be futile.
Minho grimaced. He had originally wanted to stay up so that he could be there for Thomas when the boy returned, but apparently, he had fallen asleep. His grimace was soon replaced by a frown, however, when he realized that the fact that he slept until morning meant that Thomas had not come back. He entertained the idea that Thomas may have just went to sleep in Minho’s shelter when he saw Minho asleep in his, but shook his head, rapidly discarding it. They had become close friends throughout the Trials, relying on each other for support and to stay alive, and had gotten even closer over the past few days as they mourned their friends together. Minho knew that if Thomas had calmed down enough to return to his shelter, he would have woken up Minho to talk through any residual grief. No, if Minho slept until morning, then that means Thomas had not come back.
He was just about to leave the room in search of the boy when he noticed an empty bottle lying near the foot of the bed. He stared at it for a bit, wondering how he hadn’t seen it earlier, before bending down to pick it up. It was a pretty generic bottle, and nothing on it gave Minho any clues as to what it used to contain. That changed, however, when Minho uncapped it and was hit immediately by the scent of Gally’s moonshine. “Oh shuck…” he whispered to himself as it slowly dawned on him that Thomas must have been heavily inebriated the previous night. Minho cursed at himself for not recognizing Thomas’s drunken state and for letting him wander off alone before running out of the room, worry building up inside him.
“That shank better be okay,” Minho muttered under his breath.
~ ~ ~
Minho didn’t get to spend much time searching for Thomas that morning. Since arriving in Paradise, he had become the de facto leader of their group and as such had several responsibilities that needed attention. Top of his list that morning had been discussing with Gally what the builders should work on now that they had completed their makeshift shelters. They had settled on having the builders collaborate with Jack, who had been an architect before the Flare hit, to design more permanent residences, as well as a storage building for any excess food they may produce in the future. As their meeting concluded, Gally had inquired about Thomas’s absence, as Minho usually liked to bring him along when making such decisions, to which Minho gave a slight shrug, hoping that he didn’t look as concerned as he felt. When lunchtime rolled around with Thomas still nowhere to be seen, though, Minho decided that finding Thomas took priority over everything else.
Looking around, he spotted Brenda walking toward the kitchen and jogged over to her. He figured that if anyone would have a clue as to Thomas’s whereabouts, it would be Brenda. She had spent quite a bit of time with Minho and Thomas over the past few days, listening to them tell stories about Alby and Chuck and Teresa and offering encouraging words every now and then. Minho felt his chest tighten as he thought of the one person they never discussed: Newt. He hated that they never talked about Newt. Minho and Newt had been friends for over three years, and now he couldn’t even bring himself to mention the blond. He knew why of course; mourning the dead was one thing, but Newt had suffered a fate far worse than death, and as much as he wanted to, he did not have the courage to bring it up first.
Brenda saw the runner approach from a distance. “Hey Minho!” she said with a smile as he neared. She wiped her brow with a sleeve, though it didn’t help very much considering she was completely drenched with sweat, having spent the morning helping the builders establish foundations for their living spaces. The fact that Paradise was still very much at the mercy of the scorching sun didn’t help either. Her smile quickly faded, though, as she noticed Minho’s concerned look, and promptly added, “Why the long face?”
“Have you seen Thomas?” Minho asked, pushing thoughts of Newt out of his head for now. There would be a time and place to mourn him – preferably when Thomas was around, as Minho knew that Thomas was fond of the Brit – but this wasn’t it.
“Uh… not since yesterday afternoon. Why? Is something wrong?” Brenda’s eyebrows furrowed together and she tilted her head to the side, examining Minho’s countenance. Minho almost smiled as he watched her expression. There was just something about her genuine concern that almost seemed to reassure Minho.
The moment was fleeting, as Minho’s mind snapped back to the issue at hand. “You might say that. That shank had a rough night last night and apparently drank a bottle of Gally’s moonshine. I can’t find him.”
“Oh…” came the response. Her gaze became distant, and Minho could see the gears turning in her brain. “Well he probably has a killer hangover right now. He’s probably just sleeping it off somewhere?” Brenda supplied hopefully, eyes refocusing on Minho as she tried to reassure the Asian. Unfortunately, the concern in her face betrayed her positivity, and Minho was not convinced in the least.
“No way,” Minho shot back. “It’s already noon. I don’t care how shucking hung over he is; we should have heard from him by now.” Minho paused, contemplating his options. “I’m going to go out looking for him after lunch,” he said finally. “Can you keep an eye on things here?”
“What?” Brenda exclaimed, much louder than Minho was expecting, and he flinched back. “Absolutely not! Thomas is my friend too. If you’re going looking for him, I’m coming with you.” Minho could see the fire in her eyes as she dared him to challenge her, and Minho sighed, knowing there was no way he’d win this argument.
“Fine,” Minho conceded. “Then let’s grab some lunch and we’ll head out.”
They hurried to the kitchen and ate quickly, eager to start their search as soon as they could. Minho ended up leaving Frypan in charge, though the way the boy’s face lit up – lips curling up into a stupid grin and eyes adopting a mischievous glimmer that reminded Minho of none other than Newt – at the news made Minho just a tiny bit apprehensive about his decision. Nevertheless, Minho decided not to dwell, instead focusing his attention on the task that lay before him.
They started with the nearby creek, where they got their drinking water and occasionally fished, as it had been Thomas’s favorite spot. More than a few times, Minho had found him sitting by the water, gazing longingly upstream as though he were expecting the flowing current to bring him something he had lost. Whenever Minho had asked him about it, he had always looked conflicted for a moment, before smiling at him with sad eyes, reassuring him that it was nothing. Minho had never pried – though he now wish he had pressed just a tiny bit harder – believing that when Thomas was ready, he would come talk.
When they saw no sign of Thomas there, they made their way back to their little clearing and began searching all the makeshift buildings they’d constructed. Eventually, while making their way through the shelters, they happened upon Amber, a middle-aged woman who had escaped with her toddler and who was now in charge of taking care of the young kids during the day.
“He ran off sometime last night, you say?” Amber asked with a thoughtful look on her face. Minho nodded. “Well I don’t know if it was Thomas, but in the middle of the night, someone stumbled right into this line of laundry I had set out to dry yesterday,” she continued, pointing to several damp articles of clothing that hung by a thick piece of twine between two of the shelters. “Wouldn’t have noticed it at all, except for the loud string of curses he let out! When I came out to investigate, he was heading down that way toward the forest and all my laundry was on the ground. Had to wash them all again today!”
“Brilliant, thanks!” Brenda said as she and Minho started toward the forest.
“And sorry about the laundry!” Minho added quickly, apologizing on Thomas’s behalf.
Amber waved them off. “Nah, don’t worry about it! Little extra work never hurt anyone. Good luck with your search! I sure do hope he’s okay…” Minho and Brenda thanked her again and proceeded toward the line of trees behind the shelters. When they arrived, though, they stopped, unsure of how to continue. There weren’t exactly any obvious Thomas-shaped holes in the foliage that they could follow.
Minho sighed. “I suppose we should split up to cover more ground.”
Brenda agreed, though it was obvious that she’d rather they stick together, and the two went their separate ways, calling out Thomas’s name repeatedly and getting rewarded with silence. As the afternoon wore on with no significant progress, Minho’s shouts became more and more desperate. Despite his exhaustion, he pushed himself to run faster than he ever had before in an attempt to cover as much ground as he possibly could. He didn’t stop until the sun had kissed the horizon, at which point he fell to his knees, gasping for breath, wishing he had had the foresight to bring along some water.
“I’m gonna kill that shuck-faced shank when I find him,” he growled to no one in particular.
It was slowly getting dark by the time Minho had caught his breath, and he knew he had to start heading back. He jogged at a much slower, but still brisk pace, secretly hoping that, against all odds, he’d find Thomas there waiting for him. Perhaps Brenda had found him, or he had finally recovered from that hangover and come out from wherever he had been hiding. He smiled bitterly to himself. He had done a lot of hoping in the relatively short amount of time he could remember. He had hoped that he’d find an exit every morning when he ran out into the maze. He had hoped that they were safe when they finally did manage to escape. He had hoped, every minute of every day, that his friends would all survive until the night, so that they wouldn’t have to add one more name to the list of people they’d lost. In the end, hope had failed him time and time again. And yet with each new challenge that came before him, he had always gone back to it, hoping for the best. He knew firsthand that hope could be a dangerous thing, but just like every time prior, it was all he had.
As he walked into the kitchen, Minho espied Brenda sitting at one of the long tables, halfway across the room. She met his gaze, and they stared at each other with hopeful eyes for a moment before they were replaced with looks of defeat as they both realized the other had no good news either. Minho walked back out then, having lost his appetite for dinner, and returned to his shelter.
“He’s okay,” he whispered to himself. “He’s a tough little shank. He’ll be able to handle whatever gets thrown at him.”
Deep down, he remained unconvinced.
~ ~ ~
Minho lay awake on his bed, long into the night. His plan had been to sleep early, since he wanted to catch the runners the next morning before they headed out to map the surrounding terrain and enlist their help in finding Thomas. But sleep had eluded him, his mind unhelpfully offering snippets of memories that sowed seeds of unrest in his soul.
First on his mind, of course, was Thomas’s safety. Thomas had been instrumental in their escaping WICKED and finding their way to Paradise, and even though he had opted to take the second-in-command role, letting Minho become the leader, Minho knew that Thomas was more valuable to their new society than he was. Thomas had always been the risk-taker, blindly charging into danger as long as it meant that he could protect his friends. Minho chuckled to himself, recalling the first substantial interaction he had had with Thomas. Thomas had just sprinted into the maze as the doors closed after seeing that Minho and Alby had no chance of making it to safety. The look on the Greenie’s face when he realized what he’d done had been priceless. And yet, Minho reminded himself, Thomas was the reason Minho and Alby survived that night. Without him, Minho would not be laying here on his bed right now.
Minho sighed. It wasn’t like Thomas to disappear for a day without a trace. As terrifying as the thought was, Minho knew that something must have happened to him that night. Perhaps he had wandered off too far into the woods and had gotten lost. Maybe he had run into a wild animal. They hadn’t seen any other than the occasional squirrel or rabbit thus far, but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there. Or maybe WICKED had managed to find them and taken him. Minho shook his head roughly. No, he couldn’t get caught in rampant speculation. Newt had taught him that. Whenever anything had gone wrong and the Gladers had started getting panicked, their imaginations running wild, Newt had always put a stop to it immediately, urging them all to wait until they had additional information. He had kept them sane more than once during their long three years in the Glade.
Newt. Minho groaned out loud. What he would give to have Newt back. He would know what to do at a time like this. Well, the old Newt anyway. The last time Minho had seen Newt was at the Crank Palace, and Newt had looked absolutely awful. His clothes had been in tatters, covered in dirt and blood that didn’t appear to be his, though he had plenty of scratches and scrapes of his own that had stood out against his fair skin. His normally light, blond hair had been matted down against his forehead, slick with sweat and mud. But the most painful part of that encounter had been his voice. Minho had known Newt for a long time, and never once had Newt spoken with the venom and fury that he had then. Much of it had seemingly been directed at Thomas, which Minho didn’t understand, but he had had a few choice words for Minho as well. At some point, Newt’s expression had softened a bit, as he seemed to regain some control over his mind, but his voice had been no more reassuring, coming out as a mere whimper, begging them to leave him alone. They had acquiesced, and as they were leaving, Minho had sneaked one last look back at the Brit. He wished he hadn’t.
Minho squeezed his eyes shut and forced his mind to wander elsewhere, not willing to submit himself to remembering his broken-down friend any longer. Newt didn’t want to be remembered that way anyway. His last words popped into Minho’s head: So let’s say our bloody goodbyes and you can promise to remember me from the good old days. And so Minho let his thoughts wander back to the Glade. He reminisced about the simpler times, even though they hadn’t seemed like it at the time, until he slowly dozed off, submitting himself to a restless sleep.
~ ~ ~
The next day, he dragged himself out of bed early, regretting his inability to fall asleep at a reasonable hour the night before. He trudged to the kitchen, grabbed some food for breakfast and his pack, and left Frypan in charge again. He felt a little better after eating, though in the back of his mind, he was well aware that today was going to be a long day. He managed to intercept the runners before they started their routes for the day, explained the situation, and ran out into the forest as a group. Gradually, they split up, each runner heading off in a different direction.
Minho had run for two hours before he came across a hill overlooking a small clearing. His throat was parched and sore from his running and his screaming Thomas’s name over and over, so he decided to take a quick water break. He found a rock at the top of the hill and sat down, gazing out at the grass and trees below him. It would’ve been a nice spot for a picnic had circumstances been different.
Minho knew he should keep moving but he couldn’t quite force himself to leave his spot. Something about the landscape in front of him just seemed a little off, but he couldn’t quite place his finger on what. Suddenly, he realized what was bothering him. While the hillside was far from perfectly cultivated, there was one particular trail down the side that seemed particularly disturbed, as if a large boulder had rolled down the hill recently.
Minho got up and walked a few paces to his right to where the trail started. The ground there was uneven, with many roots and stones protruding from the earth, creating an almost mosaic pattern. He followed the trail down, but paused before he reached the bottom. His eyes were fixated on a particularly large and jagged rock embedded in the dirt that was covered with a dull reddish paste. He bent down and touched the sticky substance, and his heartbeat quickened. It was blood. Dried blood. Minho didn’t have to guess how long that had been there.
He hurried to the bottom of the trail and found a larger pool of dried blood, this time soaked into the dirt. His eyes searched the area frantically.
“Thomas!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, hoping the injured boy was nearby and would hear him, but he received no response. He forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths before looking around more carefully, hunting for additional clues. He noticed some more blood on the grass a few paces away, though it was strangely distributed, looking neither like drops nor smears. He walked over and was surprised to see that the blood was in almost a zigzag pattern on the grass. His mind slowly put the pieces together. The pattern must have been from Thomas’s shoe. Thomas must have tripped at the top of the hill, tumbled down the side, cutting his leg on the rock in the process. The blood must have then dripped down the side of his shoe, thus leaving partial footprints as he walked away.
Minho jumped up, eager eyes scanning the ground in front of him for more blood. He finally had a lead, a trail that would take him directly to Thomas. His excitement gradually waned, though, as the bloody prints slowly got smaller and fainter, and eventually they disappeared altogether. Minho called out Thomas’s name a few more times in the hope that he would be close enough now, but again, he received no response.
Minho’s stomach growled. He looked at his watch. 1:02PM. He sighed and sat down, taking off his pack and pulling a sandwich out. He unwrapped it and took a bite, planning his next move. He felt close, so very close, but he had no more clues to follow. He considered heading back and gathering the runners tomorrow to start from this spot, but he knew that would be a last resort. He didn’t want to wait yet another day to find Thomas if he didn’t have to. He could also just keep walking forward. The trail had more or less been straight, and Minho didn't see any reason why Thomas would suddenly change direction at this point. He took a deep breath and decided to continue moving forward.
After he breathed in, though, he froze. Something smelled… salty? He took another deep breath and was met with the same scent, a scent that seemed so familiar yet so foreign, as if it were connected to a memory he had lost long ago that wanted to reemerge but could not. He sat unmoving, trying desperately to draw the connection, when he heard a faint rhythmic sound, like water sloshing against the side of a bucket.
He got up, moving toward the sound. As he neared the source, something in his mind finally clicked, and he remembered being on a beach, the smell of salty seawater in the air and the sound of waves crashing onto the beach like clockwork. There must be an ocean nearby, Minho thought to himself. Soon enough, he could see that the land in front of him dropped off, forming a cliff, with the vast, beautiful ocean beyond it. He reached the edge and looked out toward the horizon, taking another deep breath and feeling his body relax as a light breeze blew in. The water shimmered, reflecting the afternoon sun, and for the first time in a long time, Minho felt at peace.
His gaze traveled across the ocean and back toward the beach below him, and suddenly his insides turned to ice. He stared stunned at what lay below him, at the foot of the cliff.
“No…” he whispered, as he started trembling, his knees feeling weak. Far below him lay a body, facedown in the blood-soaked sand, and even though Minho couldn’t quite identify him, he had a sinking feeling he knew exactly who it was. He fell to his hands and knees, his head still peering over the edge of the cliff, and tears filled his eyes.
“Oh my god, Thomas.”
He felt the tears fall. He shut his eyes and moved back, crumpling onto the ground, not able to continue looking at the boy below him. Sorrow and anger filled him as he cried. We’re in shucking Paradise! We’re supposed to be safe and not lose any more friends! But Minho knew that wasn’t true. They were safe from WICKED, but they were still at the mercy of their environment and, worst of all, their minds. Their minds, filled with memories of the past, of their friends, of the horrors they had faced getting to this point, were their own worst enemy, haunting them every day and every night, and Minho knew that that was what had sent Thomas over the edge. Guilt soon consumed him, as he realized that he could have stopped this, that he could’ve saved Thomas. Why’d I let him leave?
He took several shaky breaths, trying to compose himself. He had to calm down and think clearly. That was another thing he’d learned from Newt. No matter the situation, Newt had always been able to keep a level head and approach the problem logically. Minho once again wished Newt was with him now; he really needed his comforting words at a time like this. But he was alone. And he needed to think.
He took another breath, trying to settle the thoughts racing through his mind. Newt and Thomas, his two best friends, were both gone. He needed to be strong. He needed to lead the rest of them so that they could survive. Why hadn’t he followed Thomas that night? He had to find a way to retrieve Thomas’s body, so they could give him a proper burial.
Minho squeezed his eyes shut. His heart ached, and his brain was starting to hurt too. He crawled to a nearby tree and leaned against it. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not calm the jitters he felt inside. He could not stop the thoughts from flooding his mind. And he could not fill the emptiness in his heart.
Minho stood and walked back to the edge, taking one last look at his friend far below. At some point he would have to figure out how to get down to the beach to get Thomas’s body. But right now, he was in no state to do that. He was in no state to do anything. And so he turned and walked back the way he had come, wishing for the first time in his life that he could erase his memories and start over.