Chapter Text
The ocean never stopped moving.
Thomas had noticed that pretty quickly after arriving at Safe Haven. No matter what happened on the island, no matter how many arguments broke out over supplies or where they should build the next set of shelters or who was supposed to take watch after midnight, the waves kept coming in exactly the same way.
At first, he had hated them for it.
Now he just sat there and listened.
The sand beneath him was still cool from the night before, damp where the tide had crawled up the shore hours ago. The sun had barely started climbing, pale gold spilling across the horizon in uneven streaks, most people were still asleep further inland. A few cookfires had started up already, smoke threading lazily into the morning air, but the beach remained mostly empty.
Thomas preferred it that way.
He rolled the leather cord between his fingers again, thumb catching against the tiny metal capsule hanging from it.
Newt’s necklace.
Even after nearly a year, he still could not fully comprehend the fact that it belonged to him now.
The necklace wasn’t borrowed or temporarily handed over. It wasn’t forgotten somewhere by accident, the thought sat like broken glass in his chest every single time it crossed his mind.
Thomas exhaled slowly through his nose and tightened his grip around the capsule until the edges dug into his palm.
He had read the letter so many times the folds had started wearing thin, but he didn’t read it every day anymore.
That had been worse at the beginning.
At the beginning, Thomas had read it constantly, his brain thought that if he kept looking at the words long enough they would rearrange themselves into something different. Something better, or some hidden message he had missed the first hundred times.
There never was one.
Just Newt’s handwriting Thomas had rarely seen before the letter.
Thomas stared blankly at the water, Safe Haven itself barely felt real half the time. After spending so long fighting through concrete ruins and scorch storms and cities full of Cranks, this place looked impossible. It was full of dense trees, beautiful fresh water, crops growing in uneven rows near the center of camp. Even Children ran around barefoot without fear.
The safe haven was a future, that was what everyone kept calling it. Sometimes Thomas wondered if everyone else had arrived here emotionally before he had.
People were changing slowly, like learning how to sleep through the night again. Most people were now laughing easier and planning things further ahead than the next twenty four hours.
Some had even started talking about expanding deeper inland, building permanent housing instead of temporary cabins.
Thomas tried.
God, he tried.
But there were moments where he still woke up convinced he could hear alarms blaring through WCKD corridors. Moments where he would glance over his shoulder expecting to see Newt beside him only to remember, all over again, that he never would.
A pair of footsteps crunched softly over the sand behind him.
Thomas did not turn around.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Minho said.
His voice sounded rough with sleep.
Thomas shrugged a little.
Minho dropped down beside him with a grunt, stretching his legs out toward the water. For a while neither of them spoke, they had gotten good at that over the past months.
Minho glanced sideways eventually, eyes landing briefly on the necklace twisted around Thomas’s hand.
His expression shifted almost invisibly before he looked back toward the sea.
“You sleep at all?”
“A little.”
“Liar.”
Thomas huffed quietly through his nose.
Minho picked up a handful of sand, letting it pour through his fingers. “Frypan’s looking for people to help move supplies later.”
“Mm.”
“You should go.”
Thomas finally looked at him then. “You volunteering me?”
“I’m saying you sit out here like a depressed old man every morning.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“At least I’m a productive depressed old man.”
Thomas barked out a short laugh before it faded again almost immediately.
Minho’s mouth twitched faintly at the sound, it was any small victory these days.
“You talked to Sonya lately?” Minho asked after a moment.
Thomas’s shoulders stiffened slightly. “Yesterday.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She asked me what his favorite food was.”
Minho sighed a little.
“She said she keeps trying to remember things on her own,” Thomas continued quietly. “Not the Maze stuff. Before that, when they were kids.”
He stared down at the capsule hanging from his fingers.
“She remembers pieces now, I think, only tiny ones.” He paused. “Apparently he used to steal food for her.”
Minho snorted softly. “Sounds about right.”
“She said every memory feels like losing him again.”
That silenced both of them.
Because that was the problem with getting memories back after the Maze, people talked about it like healing but half the time it just gave grief more places to live.
Sonya had only remembered Newt was her brother after his death and Thomas could still remember the sound she made when it hit her. God, he never wanted to hear anything like that again for as long as he lived.
Minho rubbed both hands over his face tiredly. “Harriet thinks she should stop trying to remember.”
“She won’t.”
“No,” Minho agreed. “Probably not.”
Thomas looked out toward the horizon, jaw tightening unconsciously. There were days he could almost talk about Newt normally, then there were days like this one, where every memory felt sharpened at the edges.
Newt’s trembling hands gripping that knife, Thomas shut his eyes hard. He remembered the blood, Newt’s tears and Newt gasping out apologies Thomas still heard in his sleep.
Please, Tommy, please.
Thomas’s chest constricted violently, he could still remember screaming his name.
A hand shoved roughly into his shoulder. “Hey.”
Thomas blinked hard, Minho was staring at him now, concern breaking through his usual guarded expression.
“You disappeared for a second.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.”
Thomas looked away.
Minho sighed heavily beside him. “You know Frypan threatened to throw a fish at you yesterday?”
“What?”
“He says you’re becoming emotionally constipated.”
Despite everything, Thomas let out an actual laugh this time.
“Emotionally constipated?”
“His words, not mine.”
“That doesn’t even mean anything.”
“It means you mope too much.”
Thomas shoved his shoulder weakly, Minho shoved him back harder. Thomas’s smile faded slowly, his gaze drifting back toward the ocean. The tide had started creeping closer while they talked, thin fingers of seawater stretching across the shore before retreating again. The breeze coming off the water smelled sharp and clean, tangled with smoke from the campfires behind them and damp earth warming beneath the rising sun.
Some mornings the island felt peaceful.
Other mornings it felt unbearably quiet.
Minho must have noticed the shift in him again because his expression flattened slightly, less teasing now and more careful.
“You wanna know something?” he said.
Thomas hummed absently.
“You’ve gotten really good at pretending you’re okay.”
Thomas let out a tired breath through his nose. “I am okay.”
Minho gave him a look.
“I mean it,” Thomas insisted, though the words came out weaker than he intended. “Most days, anyway.”
“Yeah?”
Thomas shrugged one shoulder, fingers still wrapped tightly around the necklace. The leather cord had warmed against his skin by now, softened from how often he handled it.
“It’s just…” He trailed off, searching uselessly for words. “A lot sometimes.”
Minho stayed quiet.
The camp behind them was waking properly now, Thomas could hear distant voices carrying through the trees. Someone hammering wood together near the newer shelters with Frypan shouting at somebody loud enough that it made Minho snort quietly beside him.
It was life, actual life. The life they had spent years trying to reach.
“A year ago,” Thomas said slowly, “I thought if we made it here, if WCKD was gone and people were safe, then maybe it would stop feeling so…” He swallowed. “Heavy.”
Minho picked at the sand beside his knee. “And?”
Thomas laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. “Turns out trauma doesn’t magically disappear just because the scenery changes.”
“No shit.”
Thomas rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. “It’s stupid because compared to everything before, this place is…good— better than good. Nobody’s hunting us anymore. Nobody’s locking us up or experimenting on us or throwing us into another death trap every five minutes.” His voice roughened slightly. “People get to sleep without worrying they’ll wake up to alarms or Cranks tearing through walls.”
Minho nodded once.
“But then there are days where I remember all the people who should’ve made it here too.” Thomas stared down at the sand. “Chuck should’ve seen this place.”
Minho’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, Thomas could still picture him sometimes with horrible clarity. Mud streaked across his face back in the Glade, big stupid grin, endless questions and the way he had looked at Thomas like he hung the moon just because Thomas had shown up in the Box and changed things.
The memory hurt differently now than it used to, sharper somehow because Chuck had died before any of this. Before the scorch, before WCKD collapsed, before Thomas had even understood how many more graves would follow.
“He would’ve loved the beach,” Thomas murmured. “Probably would’ve tried to eat half the island by now.”
Minho huffed quietly. “Kid was basically a raccoon.”
“Winston too,” Thomas said. “Alby. Hell, Alby would’ve hated this place at first.”
Minho laughed a little. “He would’ve spent the first week yelling at everyone for not building things properly.”
“And then secretly fixed everything himself at night.”
“Yeah.”
Thomas looked back out at the waves, the sunlight had strengthened while they talked, spilling gold across the water until it almost hurt to look at directly. It made the ocean glitter in a way that felt unreal, it was too beautiful for a world like theirs.
“Mary,” Thomas added quietly.
That one still sat strangely inside him.
Mary Cooper.
Kind eyes with a steady voice, one of the first adults in years who had looked at Thomas like he was a person instead of a test subject or a weapon or a problem to solve.
She had died helping them, another name added to the pile.
Minho’s shoulders slumped slightly beside him.
Neither of them mentioned Newt yet, Thomas could feel him there anyway, in every unfinished sentence.
“Teresa too,” he admitted eventually.
The guilt around Teresa had changed shape over time. In the beginning it had burned hot and confusing. He had not known what to do with loving someone and resenting them at the same time.
“She made awful choices,” Thomas said softly, almost to himself. “But she was trying to save people.” He paused, “She believed in WCKD longer than she should’ve, but we all did at some point. And in the end she still came back for us.”
The memory of Teresa falling still made something twist painfully inside his chest, maybe he never really had been in love the way he once thought. But because she had been woven through his entire life from the beginning, every version of himself he could remember had included Teresa somehow. Losing her had felt like losing the last piece of the world before everything collapsed.
The wind blew harder suddenly, lifting sand around their ankles.
Thomas shut his eyes briefly. “Ben,”
Minho frowned slightly.
Thomas gave a weak shrug. “I still think about him sometimes.”
Ben’s sickly face flashed through his mind, begging them to listen while the infection twisted him apart from the inside. Back then Thomas had thought the Maze was the worst thing imaginable.
He had been so stupid.
“So many people died before we even understood what was happening,” Thomas whispered.
Minho stared ahead quietly, elbows resting against his knees. Thomas could feel the pressure building in his chest now, words he usually kept locked down clawing upward whether he wanted them to or not.
“And that kid,” he said suddenly.
Minho blinked. “What kid?”
“The one from the compound.”
Recognition flickered across Minho’s face slowly.
“When we escaped WCKD.” His voice grew rougher. “There was that boy who came with us, younger than us with dark hair.” He frowned slightly, trying to force the memory into focus. “He died in the mall.”
The mall flooded back violently, Cranks screaming somewhere below them with the smell of blood and mildew and smoke choking the air.
Thomas could still remember the sound the boy had made when the Cranks grabbed him. It wasn’t even a scream really, more like surprise, like he genuinely had not expected to die there.
“I don’t even know his name,” Thomas admitted quietly.
Minho’s face tightened.
“I can still see him,” Thomas continued, words spilling easier now. “I remember grabbing for him and missing.” He looked down at his hands like the failure still lived there physically. “And afterward we just… kept running.”
Because they had needed to, stopping would have gotten all of them killed.
“I don’t know where he came from,” Thomas whispered. “I don’t know if he had family. I don’t know if anyone even realized he disappeared.”
The guilt rose hot beneath his ribs.
“That’s the part that gets me sometimes.” He laughed weakly, shaking his head. “Not just the people I loved, but the people I barely knew. The ones we couldn’t save long enough to even know properly.”
Minho was quiet for so long Thomas wondered if he had said too much.
“You think you were supposed to save everybody.”
“I know I couldn’t,” Thomas said after a moment. “Logically, I know that.”
“But.”
Thomas dug his fingers harder into the necklace, the metal capsule pressed painfully into his palm.
“But sometimes it feels like people die around me and I just keep walking away.”
Minho turned toward him fully then, expression sharper now. “You think you’re the only one who feels like that?”
Thomas frowned faintly, Minho scooped up another handful of sand aggressively before throwing it back down.
“I see Alby’s face every damn week in my dreams,” Minho muttered. “And Newt…” His voice faltered almost invisibly before hardening again. “Don’t think you’ve got some monopoly on guilt, shank.”
Thomas looked away immediately because of course Minho hurt too, of course he did. Sometimes Thomas got so trapped inside his own grief that he forgot everyone else was carrying pieces of it too.
Minho exhaled hard through his nose. “We survived,” he said flatly. “That’s messy, that’s all this is.”
Thomas stared at the horizon.
Messy? Yeah.
That was one word for it.
The sunlight had fully broken over the island now, warming the beach in uneven patches of gold. Further inland, more voices drifted through the trees as people started their day properly. For a second Thomas could almost picture what this place might look like years from now, with permanent houses, maybe some proper gardens and actual roads carved through the hills.
A real home.
The thought hurt unexpectedly, because Newt should have been here for it.
Thomas could picture him so clearly sitting on this exact beach complaining about the heat while secretly loving the ocean. Teasing Minho, arguing with Gally about construction and falling asleep during late night watches with his head tipped against Thomas’s shoulder.
“You know what the worst part is?” he asked quietly.
Minho glanced at him.
Thomas’s voice cracked slightly around the edges. “I’m scared I’m starting to forget things.”
Minho’s expression shifted.
“Not big things,” Thomas rushed to explain. “Just…” He swallowed hard. “Small stuff, you know?”
The confession made him feel sick immediately.
“The sound of Chuck’s voice.” His chest tightened painfully. “The exact way Alby laughed, Teresa’s face before all this started…Even Newt sometimes.”
That last part barely came out above a whisper.
“I remember him,” Thomas said quickly, almost defensive now. “Obviously I do. But there are moments where I can’t…” His breathing stuttered unevenly. “I can’t remember little things properly anymore.”
The terror in that realization lived under his skin constantly now. Because what happened when memory faded enough? What happened when grief was all he had left of someone?
Minho stared at him for a long moment before speaking. “You’re human, Thomas. He’d be pissed as hell hearing you blame yourself for surviving.”
Thomas looked back down at the necklace in his hand. The leather cord lay tangled loosely across his palm, worn smooth with age and handling. Newt had probably spent years unconsciously twisting it between his fingers the exact same way Thomas did now.
In the beginning the grief had been violent, raw enough that Thomas had thought it might physically hollow him out from the inside. Back then every reminder had felt catastrophic, each memory had knocked the breath from his lungs hard enough to leave him dizzy.
There were still bad days, obviously. Days where he woke with Newt’s voice trapped fresh in his head, where the guilt crawled back under his skin and stayed there no matter how much work he buried himself in. But there were other days too, where he could laugh at old memories instead of breaking apart from them.
Thomas hooked the necklace back over his head carefully, fingers brushing the cool metal capsule as it settled against his chest beneath his shirt.
Thomas rubbed both hands over his face, then exhaled hard enough for his cheeks to puff slightly. “Alright,”
Minho raised an eyebrow. “That sounded dramatic.”
“I’m serious.” Thomas shoved himself upright, brushing sand off his jeans. “I’m done sitting around moping for the morning.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Thomas ignored him. “I’ll go help with something productive.”
Minho squinted suspiciously up at him from where he still sat sprawled across the sand. “Productive how?”
Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know, gardening or something.”
Then Minho barked out a laugh loud enough to startle birds from the nearby rocks. “Gardening?”
Thomas frowned. “What’s wrong with gardening?”
“You,” Minho said immediately. “You are what’s wrong with gardening.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “I can garden.”
“You can’t garden.”
“I literally grew food in the Glade.”
“You dug holes for a day, there’s a difference.”
Thomas opened his mouth to argue, then paused. “Okay, fair.”
Minho grinned smugly and Thomas leaned down to grab his boots where he had kicked them off earlier, shaking sand from them before tugging them back on.
The beach had warmed considerably while they sat there. Sunlight stretched fully across the shoreline now, bright enough to make Thomas squint toward the water. Further inland, Safe Haven buzzed with quiet activity.
Minho finally stood too, groaning dramatically as his joints cracked.
“You sound eighty years old,” Thomas said.
“I’ve earned it.”
“You’re like nineteen.”
“Nineteen and ancient.”
Thomas snorted softly as they started making their way back up the beach together.
The path leading inland curved through tall grass and low dunes, flattened from months of constant foot traffic. Thomas could smell damp soil warming beneath the sun now, mixed with saltwater and woodsmoke and something Frypan was probably already burning accidentally.
Thomas noticed things more these days. In the beginning after arriving, Safe Haven had felt temporary in his head. Like they were only resting before the next disaster arrived, he had moved through the island detached from it, barely paying attention to where paths led or who slept in which cabin.
Now he knew things, like which trees gave the best shade during midday heat and which routes flooded after heavy rain, which shelters belonged to families instead of former Gladers.
Minho shoved his shoulder lightly. “You know Brenda’s gonna lose her mind if you suddenly decide to become useful.”
Thomas scoffed. “I am useful.”
“Sure.”
“I help with supply runs.”
“Yeah, once every few weeks when Gally threatens to drag you outside.”
Thomas flipped him off automatically.
Minho grinned. “She’s been worried about you, though,”
Brenda had changed over the past year too, she was less guarded than before but still sharp-tongued, still impossible to win arguments against, but calmer somehow.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Minho glanced sideways at him. “You could maybe try talking to people before they start staging emotional interventions.”
“I do talk to people.”
“Whatever you say, you shank.”
As they crossed deeper into camp, more people became visible between the trees and a few children darted past carrying baskets nearly too big for them, Harriet looked to be arguing with Gally near one of the half-finished cabins while he looked one sentence away from developing a migraine.
Somewhere nearby Frypan shouted, “If you touch that before it cools, I swear to God!”
A teenager yelled something apologetic in response and Thomas slowed slightly as they approached them.
Rows of vegetables pushed through dark soil in surprisingly organized sections, Beans climbing makeshift supports with tomatoes, some herbs that Thomas still struggled naming correctly.
A few people worked among the plots already.
They stopped near the gardens, watching as Frypan emerged from the outdoor cooking area carrying a crate against his hip. The second he spotted them, his eyes narrowed immediately.
“Oh no,” Frypan said.
Thomas blinked. “What?”
Frypan pointed directly at him with alarming accusation. “Why are you standing near my vegetables?”
Thomas looked offended. “Your vegetables?”
“Yes,” Frypan said firmly. “Mine! Mine that you are not allowed to contaminate with your sad beach energy.”
Thomas stared at him. “What does that even mean?”
“It means every time you mope within ten feet of the tomatoes, something dies.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.”
“Tell that to the lettuce last month.”
Minho was nearly laughing beside him now.
Thomas pointed angrily toward him. “You’re encouraging this.”
“Because it’s funny.”
Frypan set the crate down near one of the prep tables before folding his arms. “What do you want, anyway?”
Thomas hesitated. Then, with far more reluctance than he wanted to admit. “I was thinking maybe I could help out?”
Frypan blinked and Minho actually made a choking sound.
“With gardening?” Frypan asked carefully, like Thomas had just confessed to a crime.
Thomas immediately regretted everything. “You know what, forget it.”
“No no no,” Minho interrupted quickly, wiping his grin from his face. “Please let him.”
Frypan looked between them slowly, clearly trying to determine whether this was some elaborate joke.
Then his expression shifted into something deeply entertained. “Oh, this is gonna be incredible.”
Thomas groaned loudly. “Forget it, guys”
Thomas ended up sitting on the edge of one of the raised garden beds while Frypan complained about literally everything within eyesight.
Apparently the tomatoes had bugs, someone had harvested onions wrong, someone had planted the potatoes too aggressively.
Minho looked up from the crate between his legs. “How do you aggressively sort potatoes?”
“You tell me, man!”
Thomas chuckled quietly to himself, rubbing dirt off his palms onto his jeans. The sun had climbed higher while they talked, burning away the last of the early morning chill. Safe Haven felt different at this hour, Thomas liked mornings best.
They reminded him least of WCKD. The Nighttime was worse. It was always too quiet with way too much room to think.
“You’re staring again,” Minho said.
Thomas blinked. “What?”
“That weird zoning out thing you do.”
“I was listening.”
“No you weren’t.”
Thomas opened his mouth to argue before realizing he genuinely had no idea what the conversation had been about.
Minho pointed triumphantly. “See?”
“Shut up, Minho”
Frypan shoved a wooden basket into Thomas’s chest without warning. “Here.”
Thomas caught it awkwardly. “What’s this?”
“Beans.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“You’re picking them.”
Thomas stared down at the basket, then back up at Frypan. “You’re really committed to this gardening thing.”
“You said you wanted to stop moping around.”
“I was being vaguely inspirational, I didn’t really think you’d make me.”
Minho barked out a laugh loud enough that a few people nearby looked over.
“There he is,” Minho said. “That’s the most alive you’ve sounded all week!”
Thomas rolled his eyes automatically, but the comment still lodged somewhere under his ribs. He didn’t like that they worried, mostly because he knew there had been stretches where he deserved it.
Months of it, honestly.
There were entire weeks after arriving at Safe Haven that Thomas barely remembered clearly, it was full of grief and exhaustion and this horrible numb feeling that sat over everything like fog. He had gone through motions because everybody else had needed him to keep moving, but emotionally he’d felt stuck somewhere back in that ruined city with blood all over his hands.
He slept more now, ate properly most days and talked to people instead of disappearing for hours on end.
“You know,” Frypan said while reorganizing vegetables with alarming intensity, “Brenda threatened to drag you into the ocean last week.”
Thomas looked up. “What?”
“She said if you kept skulking around looking haunted she was gonna drown you for morale.”
“That feels counterproductive.”
“She had support,” Minho added.
Thomas looked genuinely offended. “From who?”
“Me.”
“You suck.”
Minho grinned. “You love it, Thomas.”
“Debatable.”
A shadow crossed over the garden bed beside Thomas.
“Who’s debatable?”
Brenda.
Thomas looked up instinctively.
She stood there with her hands shoved into the pockets of her cargo pants, dark curls pulled back badly enough that strands already escaped around her face. She looked sun-warmed and slightly sweaty like she’d already been working for hours.
Which, knowing Brenda, she probably had.
Thomas realized belatedly he was staring and looked away.
Minho, unfortunately, noticed immediately. “You, your personality’s under review.”
Brenda looked deeply unbothered. “That’s devastating.”
She nudged Thomas lightly with her boot. “Why’re you covered in dirt?”
“Apparently I’m a farmer now.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“See?” Thomas pointed at her immediately. “That was my reaction.”
Frypan looked offended. “None of you appreciate food production.”
“You yelled at me for touching basil, the other day!” Thomas said.
“Because you ripped it out of the ground!”
“I said I was sorry.”
“You called it leaf flavored garnish.”
“It is leaf flavored garnish.”
Frypan looked moments away from committing violence and Brenda laughed under her breath as she lowered herself beside Thomas on the edge of the wooden garden frame, it was close enough that their shoulders bumped.
Then Thomas became aware of it all at once and shifted slightly before he could stop himself, Brenda noticed, because she noticed everything, usually.
“You alright?” she asked quietly.
Thomas nodded once. “Yeah.”
Brenda studied him for another second like she was deciding whether to call bullshit, then seemed to let it go. “You disappeared after dinner yesterday,”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Minho said you went mysterious beach loner again.”
“I was sitting quietly, not joining a cult.”
“You had a dramatic ocean view and everything.”
Thomas groaned softly into his hands. “Yeah, yeah. I get the picture.”
Brenda always understood Thomas’s silence in a way most people didn’t.
“You know what your problem is?” she asked suddenly.
Thomas frowned. “I feel like this is gonna insult me.”
“You think too much.”
“That’s not a real criticism.”
“It is when you sit around staring at waves for three hours.”
Thomas pointed at her accusingly. “You know, you’re meaner since getting to this island.”
“No,” Brenda corrected. “I’m well rested, actually.”
“That’s worse.”
The breeze shifted through the clearing, carrying the smell of saltwater inland. Thomas leaned back slightly against the wooden frame behind him, squinting up toward the sunlight flickering through the trees overhead.
Brenda looked at him for a second longer than usual. Thomas had gotten better over the year at understanding her expressions, right now she looked thoughtful.
“You look tired,” she said finally.
“That’s because Minho made me do manual labor.”
“Picking beans isn’t really labor.”
Thomas glanced sideways at her without thinking, sunlight caught along the curve of her cheekbone as she looked down at the basket in Thomas’s lap, absentmindedly turning one of the beans between her fingers while Frypan lectured Minho about “proper vegetable respect.”
There was dirt smudged across the side of her wrist, Thomas had no idea why he noticed that or why the realization made his stomach do something weird.
He looked away quickly.
“You know,” Brenda said casually, “you’re less miserable lately.”
Thomas made a face. “Thanks?”
“I mean it.” Her voice softened slightly around the edges.
“Yeah,” Thomas admitted after a second. “I think…” He stopped, searching for words. “I think it’s all getting easier to carry.”
Minho stretched his legs out with a groan. “Alright, I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving, man.” Frypan said.
“Because unlike Thomas, I contribute to society.”
Thomas looked offended. “I picked at least six beans.”
“You murdered basil, right?”
“One time.”
Brenda started laughing again and Thomas felt the sound settle warm beneath his ribs before he could stop it.
Thomas leaned back on his hands slightly, letting himself breathe for maybe the first time all morning, Then a sound came.
A deep metallic boom echoed across the island, not thunder or construction. Loud enough that every conversation in the clearing seemed to stutter at once.
Thomas straightened immediately, Minho’s expression sharpened beside him so fast it was almost frightening. Years of survival instincts snapping awake in real time.
The sound came again, metal scraping violently against rock somewhere far down the coastline.
Thomas was already on his feet before he consciously realized he’d moved.
“What the hell was that?” Brenda said sharply, rising beside him.
Across the camp, people had stopped what they were doing entirely now. Heads turning toward the southern shoreline where the noise had come from.
A yell carried through the trees, Thomas caught movement down the beach beyond the dunes, a few figures near the shoreline waving their arms frantically toward camp.
“That can’t be good,” Thomas muttered.
“No shit,” Minho replied.
Near the center of camp, Vince was already moving.
The older man shoved past a cluster of startled teenagers with the kind of immediate authority Thomas had seen too many times during emergencies. Jorge was right behind him, swearing loudly in Spanish as he grabbed one of the rifles propped beside the supply shed.
That alone made Thomas’s pulse spike harder.
“Move!” Vince barked across the clearing. “Everybody stay calm until we know what’s happening.”
Which naturally caused the exact opposite effect, questions erupted instantly around camp.
“What was that?”
“Did something crash?”
“Are we under attack?”
Thomas barely heard any of it.
Adrenaline had already started crawling beneath his skin, cold and familiar and horrible.
Minho looked at him once, that was all it took.
Then both of them were running.
Sand kicked up beneath Thomas’s boots as they tore across the edge of camp after Vince and Jorge. Brenda cursed behind them before following too.
“Thomas!” Frypan shouted somewhere behind them. “Don’t do anything stupid!”
Minho yelled back immediately, “No promises!”
“That wasn’t to you, shank!”
The beach opened wider as they sprinted over the dunes. Heat slammed into Thomas fully now beneath the direct sunlight, the ocean glaring blindingly bright to their left. Further down the shoreline, maybe half a mile away, a crowd had started gathering near the waterline.
Thomas’s chest tightened harder with every step.
“What do you think happened?” Brenda asked breathlessly beside him.
“No idea.”
“A boat maybe?” Minho guessed.
Jorge glanced back at them while still running. “If it’s a damn wreck, I’m making someone else swim this time.”
Thomas frowned slightly.
Boat wrecks happened occasionally.
Small groups of survivors sometimes drifted near the island by accident after storms or failed scavenging routes. Most were dead by the time they reached Safe Haven.
But this felt different somehow, it was too chaotic.
Another shout carried over the wind. “Hurry Vince!”
“Hurry up!”
Thomas pushed himself faster.
The sand dragged at his legs viciously near the softer parts of the shoreline, making every step heavier. His lungs already burned from the sudden sprint, heartbeat thudding painfully hard against his ribs.
Beside him, Minho still looked irritatingly fine.
Runner bastard.
“What are they waving at?” Brenda asked suddenly.
Thomas squinted ahead.
Near the growing crowd by the waterline, several people were gesturing frantically farther out toward the island itself.
Something dark moved against the shore, a small boat damaged badly enough that one side dragged low in the water.
Thomas slowed slightly as they got closer, confusion knotting through the adrenaline. The boat looked barely functional with wood splintered along one side, metal hanging loose near the front.
“What the hell…” Minho muttered.
By the time they reached the crowd, voices overlapped chaotically from every direction.
“It just appeared outta nowhere.”
“There’s people on it.”
“I think somebody’s hurt.”
Thomas pushed through the cluster toward the front.
The boat had nearly reached shore now, waves smashing against its sides hard enough to rock it violently. It looked ancient, like something scavenged together from scraps barely holding themselves upright.
And there were definitely people aboard, three that Thomas could see immediately.
Maybe four.
One collapsed near the back unmoving.
Another trying desperately to hang on for dear life.
The third was shouting something toward shore Thomas couldn’t fully hear over the ocean.
Vince stepped forward beside the waterline, eyes narrowed sharply. “Hold your position!”
The command cracked across the shoreline sharp enough to cut through every other sound on the beach. Thomas barely had time to register Vince stepping into the surf before the older man had a gun in his hands and aimed directly at the boat.
The atmosphere shifted immediately, a second ago it had been confusion and now it was fear.
The small boat dragged sideways against the tide, engine coughing violently before dying altogether with a grinding metallic screech. The hull looked like it had barely survived whatever journey brought it here, one side had been smashed inward badly enough that seawater sloshed through the lower boards every time a wave hit.
Thomas could see the three people onboard now.
“We’re not infected!” somebody shouted immediately.
A girl.
The boat drifted closer through the shallows, close enough now that Thomas could finally make out her face properly.
Ginger hair matted dark with seawater and blood, a split lip and bruises climbing one side of her throat disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt with one eye swollen badly enough it was almost closed.
Thomas’s gaze flicked instinctively across the rest of them. The girl trying to steady the unconscious boy in the center despite the fact his own hands shook violently. Another older guy slumped near the back clutching his ribs with blood staining through his fingers. Everybody aboard looked exhausted in that frightening hollow way Thomas recognized immediately.
The side of the boat scraped against a rock as another wave shoved it forward, white paint stretched across the battered hull.
E.D.E.N.
Thomas frowned automatically.
“The hell is E.D.E.N?” Minho muttered beside him.
“No idea.”
The girl looked between the rifle aimed at her and the crowd gathering along the shore.
“Please,” she rasped. “We just need help.”
Vince didn’t lower the gun. “How many of you are infected?”
“None of us!”
“Bullshit!”
The girl flinched visibly at the sharpness in his voice.
“We’re not infected,” she repeated, more desperately this time. “Check us if you want! Please.”
Another weak cough came from the unconscious figure sprawled near the center of the boat.
Thomas’s stomach tightened.
“They need help,” Brenda said quietly beside him.
“Nobody moves yet!” Vince snapped.
Jorge had reached the shoreline now too, breathing hard from the run.
His eyes narrowed immediately at the sight of the boat. “What happened to them?”
“Looks like hell happened,” Minho muttered.
Thomas stepped a little closer toward the surf despite Vince’s obvious irritation. The boat was close enough now that he could smell blood underneath the saltwater.
The older man near the back looked barely conscious.
“How long have you been drifting?” Thomas called out.
The ginger-haired girl looked toward him, her expression shifted slightly at the sight of somebody actually talking to her like a person instead of a threat.
“Three days,” she said hoarsely.
“You got food? Water?”
She gave a short laugh that sounded more exhausted than amused. “No.”
Thomas’s eyes flicked toward the unconscious person again. “How old is that kid?”
“Sixteen.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Just sick.” She swallowed hard. “ He’s dehydrated.”
The older man suddenly lurched sideways with a painful cough, blood spotted the inside of his sleeve.
“Vince,” Brenda said sharply. “He needs help now.”
Vince still didn’t lower the weapon and Thomas understood why. After WCKD, after betrayals and traps and Cranks pretending long enough to get close, none of them really trusted first impressions anymore. Safe Haven existed because they protected it aggressively.
Thomas looked at the girl again. There was dirt caked under her nails, rope burns around both wrists, bruises in different stages of healing climbing up her arms like she’d been grabbed hard over and over again.
“What’s your name?” Thomas asked.
She hesitated before answering. “Celia.”
“I’m Thomas.” Something flickered across her face at that.
“Are you armed?” Vince demanded.
Celia shook her head immediately. “No.”
“Anybody else?”
“No!”
Jorge moved a little farther into the water, eyes fixed on the boat carefully.
“Then get off it slowly.”
Celia stiffened visibly. “Please don’t shoot us.”
“Then don’t give me a reason!”
Thomas could practically feel the tension rolling through everybody standing onshore behind them, people waiting for somebody else to decide whether these strangers were dangerous.
The ocean crashed hard against the hull again.
Celia grabbed the side of the boat quickly to steady the boy before he rolled. The movement alone made Thomas decide it, nobody faking this would bother protecting somebody else first.
“They’re telling the truth,” he said quietly.
Vince shot him an irritated look. “And you know that how?”
Thomas gestured vaguely toward the boat. “Look at them.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Thomas exhaled sharply. “Because if they wanted to attack us, they’re doing a terrible job.”
Minho snorted beside him. “He’s got a point.”
Vince looked unconvinced. Still, after a long tense second, he lowered the rifle slightly.
“Minho,” Vince said without taking his eyes off the boat. “Check them.”
Minho nodded once and started into the surf immediately, Celia visibly tensed as he approached.
“Relax,” Minho muttered. “I’m checking for bites, not proposing marriage.”
Thomas huffed out a startled laugh despite the situation.
Brenda groaned. “You really cannot act normal for one second, can you?”
“Nope.” Minho reached the side of the boat and grabbed onto the railing to steady it against the tide.
“Alright,” Minho said, looking over the group carefully. “Anybody hiding symptoms, now’s the time.”
“No,” Celia said immediately.
Minho checked anyway.
Thomas watched him move from person to person methodically, looking at their eyes, skin, injuries. Any signs of infection.
The unconscious boy looked terrifyingly injured up close.
“Definitely dehydrated,” Minho called back toward shore. “And this guy’s hurt bad.”
The older man coughed again weakly, Brenda started moving before Vince could stop her.
“Oh, come on,” she snapped. “He’s bleeding all over the boat.”
Vince cursed under his breath but didn’t stop her.
Thomas followed instinctively. Cold seawater surged around his legs as he reached the tilted hull, up close the damage looked even worse.
“What happened to your boat?” Thomas asked.
Celia rubbed tiredly at her face. “Storm.”
“You were out there during the storm three nights ago?”
She nodded once.
Thomas exchanged a brief glance with Brenda.
Brenda crouched immediately beside the injured older man, hands already moving to inspect the wound at his side.
“He needs stitches,” she muttered.
Thomas leaned slightly farther into the boat, eyes catching again on the faded white lettering painted along the inside panel near the steering wheel.
E.D.E.N.
Weird name.
Official sounding.
Military maybe?
Scientific?
His brain immediately wanted answers.
“What does that mean?” he asked, pointing toward the letters.
Celia’s expression closed off almost on instinct.
Interesting.
“What?” Thomas pressed.
“It’s just the boat,” Celia said quickly.
Thomas frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
“We stole it.”
That shut him up for half a second. “You stole the boat?”
“Yeah.”
“From who?”
Thomas knew that look too, people deciding how much truth was safe.
Vince noticed as well judging by the way his expression hardened again. “Answer him.”
Celia swallowed hard. “People we didn’t wanna stay with anymore.”
Thomas stared at her for a second, then at the bruises on her arms again. Then at the terrified exhaustion written across every face onboard.
He didn’t ask another question after that.
Behind them, more people had started gathering near the shore despite Vince earlier telling everyone to stay back. Whispers drifted across the shoreline while the tide crashed endlessly around the stranded boat.
Thomas rested one hand against the damaged railing, staring at the strangers in front of him. Something about this felt wrong, like this tiny broken boat had carried something larger toward the island with it and judging by the way Celia kept glancing nervously back toward the open ocean, she felt it too.
The boat rocked violently again as another wave crashed against the side hard enough to shove it farther onto the sandbank.
The older man let out a rough sound of pain.
Brenda immediately turned toward shore. “Aris!” she shouted.
Thomas glanced back, Aris pushed through the crowd near the shore, eyes wide from trying to see over everybody else.
“What?”
“Go get Sonya. Now.”
Aris didn’t even question it, he spun immediately and took off running back toward camp.
Brenda looked back toward the boat, already focused again. “And bring the med kits!”
Thomas grabbed the side railing tighter to steady himself against the shifting water. The surf slammed cold against his knees every few seconds, soaking his jeans completely now, but he barely noticed anymore.
All his attention stayed fixed on the people in front of him, especially Celia.
Up close, she looked younger than he originally thought. Maybe around his age, or a little younger, it was to tell beneath the exhaustion carved into her face. Dried blood streaked down from a cut near her hairline disappearing along the curve of her neck, her freckles stood out sharply against skin gone pale from dehydration.
Thomas noticed her eyes flicking repeatedly toward Vince standing farther up the shore with the rifle still raised loosely in his hands.
Every time Vince shifted, she tensed, like she expected him to shoot first and ask questions later.
Honestly, with Vince, not impossible.
“Hey,” Thomas said carefully.
Her attention snapped back toward him immediately.
“You should get off the boat.”
She hesitated.
Thomas glanced toward the older injured man. “Brenda’s gonna help him, okay? But you look like you’re about two seconds from passing out.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re really not.”
Minho snorted from the opposite side of the hull. “That’s the worst lie I’ve heard all week.”
She shot Minho a tired glare.
Then the boat shifted again and she grabbed the railing hard enough her knuckles went white.
Thomas held out his hand instinctively. “Come on.”
Her eyes dropped toward it, for a second Thomas thought she might refuse entirely.
Thomas softened his voice slightly. “We’re not gonna hurt you.”
Another wave crashed into the side of the boat, spraying seawater up across all of them.
That finally seemed to decide things, slowly, she reached toward him and Thomas caught her wrist gently.
Jesus.
She was freezing.
The second her boots hit the water she nearly lost balance entirely. Thomas grabbed her arm automatically, steadying her before she could slip beneath the surf.
“Easy.”
She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. Up close Thomas could see bruising wrapped all the way around one ankle beneath the torn hem of her pants.
“You hurt your leg?”
“It’s fine.”
“Sure.”
The girl swayed slightly once she reached shallower water. Thomas tightened his grip before she could fall. He could really feel how exhausted she was now, the type of exhaustion that hollowed people out physically until their bodies just stopped cooperating properly.
“Sit down before you crack your head open,” he told her.
“I’m okay.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I said I’m okay.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
The girl blinked at him slightly, Thomas guided her farther up the shore away from the waterline despite Vince’s visible annoyance.
“Thomas,” Vince warned.
“She’s injured.”
“And we still don’t know who they are.”
Thomas looked back at him incredulously. “You think she’s secretly planning an attack while she can barely stay upright?”
Vince didn’t answer immediately, which was an answer enough. The rifle remained firmly in Vince’s hands.
Thomas sighed through his nose. “She needs water.”
“We’ll give them water after we check everybody.”
“We already checked them.”
“Again,” Vince said flatly.
The girl visibly shrank slightly at the tone.
“Vince,” Brenda said sharply without looking up from her patient, “they’re terrified.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“It should be!”
The older man’s jaw tightened hard for a second, Thomas thought an actual argument might break out right there on the beach.
Then the unconscious boy groaned again weakly from the boat and everybody refocused instantly.
“Minho,” Brenda snapped. “Help me move him.”
Thomas turned back toward the girl beside him. “You dizzy?”
“A little.”
“That means yes.”
She gave him a tired look that honestly reminded him painfully of Newt for half a second.
The dry humor even while falling apart.
The thought hit unexpectedly enough that Thomas’s chest tightened before he could stop it.
Not now.
He pushed it away immediately, glancing toward the lettering painted on the side of the boat without meaning to.
Something about it bothered him. After WCKD, anything with an acronym immediately made his skin crawl.
“You hungry?” he asked.
The question seemed to catch her off guard completely. “What?”
“You heard me.”
She stared at him for a second before giving a small shrug. “I guess.”
“That’s another yes.”
Minho reappeared carrying the unconscious boy over one shoulder while Brenda helped the injured older man barely stumble through the surf behind him.
The entire shoreline erupted into movement again.
The boy looked frighteningly limp, Brenda pointed immediately toward camp. “Medical cabin.”
Minho adjusted the kid higher against his shoulder. “He weighs like twelve pounds.”
“He’s dehydrated.”
“He’s basically soup.”
“Minho.”
“Right. Moving.”
He started up the beach at a jog.
Brenda stayed beside the older man carefully supporting his weight while Jorge finally moved to help too.
Thomas looked back toward the girl again. “You coming?”
She hesitated immediately, her eyes flicked toward the tree line beyond camp toward the gathered strangers watching her. Thomas could almost see the calculations happening behind her eyes.
Run or stay.
“We’re helping you,” he said quietly.
She looked exhausted enough to cry, but instead she nodded once.
Thomas offered his arm this time instead of grabbing her directly.
After a second, she accepted it.
Together they started slowly up the beach, the sand dragged at their feet heavily after the water, sunlight glaring harsh off the ocean behind them. Thomas could feel half the camp staring openly as they passed.
The girl kept her head slightly lowered.
“Is she okay?” Frypan asked quietly as they passed.
Thomas shrugged slightly. “Exhausted.”
“No kidding.”
Harriet narrowed her eyes toward the boat still stranded in the surf. “What the hell even is E.D.E.N?”
The girl’s entire body stiffened beside Thomas. It was easy to miss, Thomas didn’t miss it and neither did Harriet judging by the way her expression sharpened instantly.
But before anybody could ask another question, Brenda’s voice cut sharply across the beach.
“Move!”
Everybody immediately cleared a path as she and Jorge half-carried the injured older man toward the cabins. Thomas glanced sideways at the girl beside him as they reached the edge of camp.
When she stumbled slightly again, Thomas tightened his hold automatically.
“You don’t gotta pretend you’re fine every five seconds,” he muttered.
A weak huff of laughter escaped her unexpectedly and for some reason, that tiny sound made the uneasy feeling in Thomas’s chest grow even stronger.