The Glader

Kiddie Craft Time

 "What took you so long?" Minho asked by way of greeting when I came back, a fistful of black markers in his hand.

"Frypan didn't want to part with his bloody wax paper. Long story," I said, pushing past him into the Weapon's Room to sit down at the work table. Thomas and Teresa were already there, spreading markers and pencils across the desk.

"This had better be good," Minho told the Greenie.

I leaned forward on my elbows, watching to see what Tommy did. "Get on with it, Greenie," I said when he hesitated. 

"Okay," he said after a heartbeat. He handed the knife to Minho, "Start cutting rectangles, about the size of the Maps." He motioned to me. "Newt and Teresa, you can help me grab the first ten or so Maps from each section box."

I walked over to the store cabinet and pulled out the first box I saw. Section seven.

Popping off the lid, I pulled out the first few maps, all labeled in my handwriting.

I had drawn these.

I let myself slide back into memory for a moment, back to when I had been drawing the Maze onto paper, trying my hardest not to die from stress.

"What is this, kiddie craft time?" Minho said, breaking my recollection, "Why don't you just tell us what the klunk we're doing this for."

"I'm done explaining. It'll be easier to show you. If I'm wrong, we can go back to running around the maze like mice."

Minho sighed, muttering something unintelligible.

"Teresa," Thomas said, ignoring Minho, "Can you help me a second?"

They grabbed what maps I had missed.

Then Tommy sat down, grabbing a piece of wax paper that Minho had cut, then a marker. "All right, everybody trace the last ten or so days onto a piece of this stuff," he said, "Make sure you write the info on top so we can keep track of what's what. When we're done, I think we might see something."

"What-" Minho began again.

"Just bloody keep cutting," I interrupted what I was pretty certain would be yet another complaint. "I think I know where he's going with this."

So we cut wax paper and traced lines, copying out the maps onto the clear pages. After what felt my ages, I dropped my pen. My fingers were stinging from overuse, and my lines were beginning to blur into each other— or maybe I was just tired. "I've had enough," I said, fighting down a wave of apprehension, "My fingers are bloody burning like a mother. See if it's working."

Tommy put his pen down, looking nervous. Finally, he said, "Okay, give me the last few days of each section. One here to eight here," he indicated the spots where we should put the piles.

Finally, eight piles, one for each day, sat on the desk. Fingers shaking, Thomas picked up the Day One pile, laying sheet after sheet on top of each other.

The lines layered on top of the other, running crosswise like a grid. As see after sheet fell into place, a single picture slid into focus.

I gasped, Teresa and Minho echoing as twin intakes of breath.

A few lines laid on top of each other, darker than the rest.

Running across each other to form the letter F.