Didn't give me much choice in the matter, did you? Kind of hard to sleep when someone's talking
directly into your skull.
Waa, waa. Go back to bed, then.
No. I'm good. He stared at the bottom of the bunk above him - featureless and darkly fuzzy in the
shadow - where Minho was currently breathing like a guy with ungodly amounts of phlegm lodged in
his throat. What've you been thinking about?
What do you think? Somehow she projected a jab of cynicism into the words. I keep seeing Grievers.
Their disgusting skin and blubber bodies, all those metal arms and spikes. It was way too close for
comfort, Tom. How're we gonna get something like that out of our heads?
Thomas knew what he thought. Those images would never leave - the Gladers would be haunted by the
horrible things that had happened in the Maze for the rest of their lives. He figured that most if
not all of them would have major psychological problems. Maybe even go completely nutso.
And above it all, he had one image burned into his memories as strongly as a branded mark from a
searing hot iron. His friend Chuck, stabbed in the chest, bleeding, dying as Thomas held him.
Thomas knew he would never forget that. But what he said to Teresa was: It'll go away. Just take a
little time, that's all.