"You're sure focused, aren't you?" Minho teases, and I glance up at him.
"I guess. There's a lot to be thinking about, isn't there?"
Minho shrugs. "I don't know. It makes sense to me. WICKED has us, and they told us what to do. We're going to do it, or we're going to die."
"And you're just going to let them pull the strings?" I can't help the accusatory tone that slips into my words. It bothers me that he's the leader and he's not trying to find a way out of this trap.
"What else can we do?" he says, his voice softer than normal. "It's like when we figured out the Maze. We can't stay here. You know as much as I do that they killed the boys who stayed in the Glade. They'll kill us directly if we don't go. And the only way to get cured from whatever disease we have is to run their little course. I don't like it, but I don't want to watch my friends die. Well... more of my friends."
I nod slightly. "Okay. I understand."
He smiles sadly at me. "You disagree." It's not a question.
"It... it makes sense for you. I think it should be how you act. But there's just one of me, and I'm not in charge. I'm going to find a way out of this, and maybe I can burn down enough of WICKED so you guys can get out, too. I have to try."
"Man," Minho answers, his tone back to its normal amused sarcasm, "I knew you got along with Alby, but I didn't think you were his mental twin."
"Oh, shut it," I say, shoving him. "I'm not nearly as boring as Alby."
He laughs and moves on. I sit beside some of the other boys, waiting.
A few minutes before six, Minho stands in front of us, looking for the first time like an actual leader.
"Alright, listen up," he says.
"I thought you wanted us to ignore you," Newt sasses, and Minho turns to glare at him.
"Look here, Newt. I'm in charge now, and you'd better act like it. We're not getting through this if we aren't working together, so you need to treat me like the shucking leader." There's a slight snarl in Minho's tone, and Newt blinks with surprise. Then he nods.
"Okay, then. Lead away."
Minho turns back to the rest of us. I'm strangely calm, even in the face of uncertainty. Whatever happens, I'll be a fighter. I'll survive.
"This is your last chance," Minho says. "If you want to stay here, you can. But if you go through that flat-trans, whatever that is, you're with us. And you can't start crying for your mommy out there. We need to rely on each other, which means you need to be reliable. The flat-trans is almost here, and once it is you have to choose. Stay or go."
No one answers. We're all going. The boys who would have stayed have already died back in the Glade.
Minho nods. "Alright, then. We're going in single file. I'll go first. Thomas, you take the rear. Make sure we don't leave anyone behind. Keep a tight grip on your packs and bags of water."
I stand up, my watch declaring that it's 5:59. I slip my arm through the knotted sheet, slinging it onto my shoulder. I grip my water with my other hand, feeling the box of matches shift against my leg from inside my pocket.
The rest of the Gladers follow me, and in a few seconds we're all standing at the ready.
The wall behind Minho begins to turn a murky grey, almost as if it has transformed into a dense mist.
"Well, that must be it," Minho mutters. He grabs his own supplies, and gives us a cheeky grin. "See you on the other side, idiots." Then he steps into the wall, and vanishes from sight.