Just like the Griever's Hole, the dead men hung by hooks, the Rat Man, the Cranks and the brick walls, Minho had hopes that Frankie's death was just another illusion. As much as he tried to distance himself from disappointment, this was one thing he...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"I TOLD YOU to bloody talk!" Newt exclaimed in between laughs, "Not make out in front of the kids! Keep it PG!"
Someone wolf-whistled before everyone burst into another cheer.
Frankie blushed, since she didn't really mean for everyone to see.
Or maybe she was fine with everyone seeing, but she didn't mean to kiss him that long.
"Grow up, Newt. Get a girlfriend on your own," Minho winked as he circled his arms around her, encasing her in a possessive hug.
"Oh, I would, if there's an actual girl around."
"Brenda?" Steven playfully joked.
"Dude, she's already smitten."
"So," Minho looked down at Frankie, not releasing his grip on her, "We're all good now, right?"
Frankie gave him a small but genuine smile, "Yeah."
"Because you've been an absolute slinthead, I have to say."
"Shuckface."
"Aren't you going to tell us all—"
"Jorge— Jorge!" Brenda's frantic calls cut through the warm reunion, "This is bad."
"What?" Jorge shuffled to where Brenda was. She was kneeling on Thomas' bedside.
"I'm supposed to change his bandage. Look. It's... red, raw, with white spots."
That caught the Gladers attention and they began to approach Thomas' sickbed. Frankie could see the fat beads of tears rolling down his forehead, how his chest was heaving heavily and how his whole body was shivering. Clint put a hand over his forehead, "Fever's not coming down."
"It's definitely infected," Reggie stated.
"Infected?" Brenda paled.
"Well, shame on that," Jorge scratched his head, "We can't do nothing about infections, hermana. It's unavoidable —the place and the equipments, we just don't have the proper ones."
"But— But, Frances!"
"Frances is very lucky to be here, alive," Jorge casted a fleeting look in her direction, "I'm sorry, muchacho."
Minho frowned, "What do you mean you're sorry? Are you giving up on him?"
"We can do nothing, okay?" Jorge huffed, "Once the infection get into his bloodstream, he'll be dead in a matter of hours. That bullet was rusty, dirty, and definitely full of microbial germs. I did all that I can do. It's up to him and his freaking immune system now."
"Shuck this," Minho kicked the foot of the bed in frustration. Thomas was so lost now, he didn't even react to the sudden quake.
"Clint?" Newt called out hopefully, but the Keeper of Medjacks shook his head in response, "I'm sorry, Newt. He's right. We should wait it out till tomorrow and make our choices then."
