Newt

The Glade's sun was merciless, but Mia had felt only a chill beneath her ribs since the Lift had lifted her into this stony prison. Her armor—barbed glances and sharp retorts—separated her from disaster. The Gladers considered her a brash "newcomer," and she did everything she could to make them think so.

The truth was too dangerous: every sidelong glance caused trembling in the hands, and every harsh word pierced the heart.

"Shank! Can you even do anything properly?!" Gally nearly snatched the shovel out of her hands. "If you can't dig, go wash Frypan's boilers!"

Mia raised her head. "I can do without your advice, Gally!" she spat, though there was a bitter lump in her throat.

She turned and walked away, trying to keep a steady gait until she disappeared around the corner of the hut. There, against the wall, she collapsed to the ground and began to sob silently.

The rustle of footsteps made her freeze. “Go away,” she said hoarsely.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Newt’s calm voice came.

He sat down opposite her, leaning against the wall. "Gally's a jerk. He's not worth worrying about."

"I'm not killing myself!" Mia looked up.

“It’s hard,” he finished for her.

She quickly looked away.

• It's okay, Newt. Go join the others.

Newt looked at her carefully. "Normal" is the most deceitful word in the Glade. You don't have to be strong all the time. Don't become part of the stone.

His words hit home. Mia sobbed. Newt crawled toward her and hugged her tightly. She tensed, but quickly relaxed.

“No need to cry, everything is fine,” he whispered.

She didn't know how to ask for help, but Newt knew how to offer it in such a way that asking wasn't necessary.