Minho

The Labyrinth woke up before anyone else. The gray walls began to vibrate first, then the sun cut the Glade into light and shadow, and then the runners awoke.

Leah stood by the infirmary. Minho walked past without even glancing at her. She called out to him.

— Your elbow was cut yesterday. Let me take a look.

He froze and pulled up his sleeve. The wound had healed poorly. Leah pulled him inside: the gates would open in five minutes.

She worked quickly. Minho was silent.

— If you die from infection, it won't make things any easier for anyone.

"I won't die." He covered her fingers with his hand. "You're the only one who doesn't expect a miracle from me. You're just mending."

• Because you're a fool.

He almost smiled. There was a shout from outside—the gates were opening.

— Will there be bandages this evening?

• There always is.

He disappeared. She was left with a rag. In half an hour they'd drag someone to the infirmary. And she was already waiting for night. He always comes. For bandages. For silence. To be just a person, not a Runner.

“Come in already,” she said long after midnight.

Minho walked in, covered in dust and with a scratched cheek.

— I was talking about the elbows, not the face.

He chuckled and sat on the edge of her bed.

“How is your day?” he asked.

She looked at his tired face, at his still trembling hands.