Desire ❃ newt

cнapтer 9

An odd moment of complete silence hung over the Glade. It was as if a supernatural wind had swept through the place and sucked out all sound. Newt had read the message aloud for those who couldn't see the paper, but instead of erupting in confusion, the Gladers all stood dumbfounded.

I would've expected shouts and questions, arguments. But no one said a word; all eyes were glued to the girl, now lying there as if asleep, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Contrary to their original conclusion, she was very much alive.

Newt stood, and I hoped for an explanation, a voice of reason, a calming presence. But all he did was crumple the note in his fist, veins popping from his skin as he squeezed it, and my heart sank. I wasn't sure why, but the situation made me very uneasy.

Alby cupped his hands around his mouth. "Med-jacks!"

I wondered what that word meant—I knew I had heard it before—but then I was abruptly knocked aside. Two older boys were pushing their way through the crowd—one was tall with a buzz cut, his nose the size of a fat lemon. The other was short and actually had gray hair already conquering the black on the sides of his head. I could only hope they'd make some sense of everything.

"So what do we do with her?" the taller one asked, his voice much higher pitched than I expected.

"How should I know?" Alby said. "You two shanks are the Med-jacks—figure it out."

Med-jacks.

They must be the closest thing they have to doctors.

The short one was already on the ground, kneeling beside the girl, feeling for her pulse and leaning over to listen to her heartbeat.

"Who said Clint had first shot at her?" someone yelled from the crowd. There were several barks of laughter.

"I'm next!"

How could they joke around?

The girl's half dead. I felt sick inside.

Alby's eyes narrowed; his mouth pulled into a tight grin that didn't look like it had anything to do with humor. "If anybody touches this girl," Alby said, "you're gonna spend the night sleepin' with the Grievers in the Maze. Banished, no questions." He paused, turning in a slow circle as if he wanted every person to see his face. "Ain't nobody better touch her! Nobody!"

Why wasn't he that strict when they were saying stuff like that to me?

The short guy who'd been referred to as a Med-jack—Clint, if the spectator had been correct—stood up from his examination. "She seems fine. Breathing okay, normal heartbeat. Though it's a bit slow. Your guess is as good as mine, but I'd say she's in a coma. Jeff, let's take her to the Homestead."

His partner, Jeff, stepped over to grab her by the arms while Clint took hold of her feet. 

She did seem familiar; though it was impossible to grasp in his mind. The idea made me nervous, and I looked around, as if someone might've heard my thoughts.

Thomas seemed to recognize her too, by the way he couldn't take my eyes off of her.

"On the count of three," Jeff, the taller Med-jack, was saying, his tall frame looking ridiculous bent in half, like a praying mantis. "One . . . two . . . three!"

They lifted her with a quick jerk, almost throwing her up in the air—she was obviously a lot lighter than they'd thought.

"Guess we'll have to see what she does," Jeff said to no one in particular. "We can feed her soupy stuff if she doesn't wake up soon."