❝That's the Number One Rule, the only one you'll never be forgiven for breaking. Ain't nobody -- nobody -- allowed in the Maze except the Runners. Break that rule, and if you ain't killed by the Grievers, we'll kill you ourselves, you get me?❞
❝...
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CHAPTER ONE GREENIE
☒☒☒☒☒☒☒☒☒☒☒☒
Business is as usual that day in the Glade.
At least, it appears that way from the East Door.
Joan rolls her shoulders and slumps against the wall, chest heaving, heart racing, and listens to the metal-on-metal clanging that the Box creates before a delivery. She had been meaning to run back early, per Alby's request, so that she'd be present when the next Greenie came up, but Joan had found herself in a bind when it came time to flee the stony prison. Lucky for her, though, the dreaded lift had also adopted a delayed schedule that afternoon.
The noises continue and Joan can feel her hands beginning to quiver. It's the muscle memory, Newt had told her some few months prior, explaining that her body recognizes the fear she'd been in when it was her in that horrid lift.
Guess some things don't get better with time, had been her reply.
Joan shoves off of the cool wall, breaking almost immediately into a steady stride. She rarely thinks about her legs when she runs. And maybe that's because she has never not been a Runner, or at least things tend to feel that way after months upon months of the same routine. The whole process has become of instinct to her. One foot in front of the other. Never trip, try not to stumble, keep your title as fastest in the Glade. Most importantly, though, don't dare to get lost.
And Joan considers it a bittersweet reality—that getting lost in the Glade is almost as impossible as getting out of it.
In the distance she sees a crowd beginning to clutter around the edges of the Box, and she hears the loud clank that sounds before the ceiling would slide open, reveal their latest Greenie. She can feel it reverberate in the grass blades under her feet. As she draws nearer, Chuck takes notice and warns a cluster of Gladers to brace for impact, shanks. That's another thing: Joan halts for no one.
"What's girly doing back early?" she hears from the group.
"We always have 'er back for arrivals," someone returns.
"Huh?"
There's some laughter. "You sure you're not the Greenbean?"
By the time Joan reaches the Box, the throng of boys is wholly alight with talk and laughter. The Greenie himself looks ill, pale and sun-sick. Probably feels a whole lot worse than he looks. The light is likely driving him mad, him having been in the dark for so long. He isn't looking up at the Gladers, not yet, but instead is shielding his face with his hands.
