The box was terrifying – it was too dark to see, but the stale air seemed to retain a nauseating mixture of all the scents the box had ever contained. The girl was anchored to the floor, held there both by fear and the speed with which she was ascending into god-knew-what. She tucked her knees to her chest, making herself as small as possible; all around her, animals snorted and whined, and crates crashed unceremoniously from one side of the small enclosure to the other.

Her heart was pounding so hard that it caused her body to jerk with every loud thump, rocking her so hard that she almost didn't notice they had stopped moving. Even the animals fell silent and froze in the anxious few moments in between their old lives and their uncertain new. The occupants of the box let out a collective gasp as metal ceiling creaked open, blinding them with bright sunlight; the panic returned as her eyes desperately sought to adjust to the new amount of information they were capable of taking in.

There was a moment of relief when her gaze landed on a pair of kind brown eyes. The boy smiled, but it was more sad than comforting. The tenuous connection was broken when a sound – almost like a grunt, and much more animal-like than any of the sounds the pigs and chickens had made – snapped her head to attention.

To her left was a group of about five boys. They didn't speak, but moved fluidly, like they were a single unit, a pack – when one stepped forward to investigate, another would take his place, holding the formation. In her peripheral vision, she saw some of the other boys begin to pick off supplies from the outer ring of the box, uninterested in the new resident of the place, but unwilling to get too close; but the five, they began to stalk slowly around her, as if circling their prey. The girl – she didn't even know her own name – avoided eye contact and didn't make any sudden movements.

"Come on, Whit, leave her alone," the boy with the kind eyes insisted, though his voice held no authority.

"Shut it, Newt," Whit snarled before cocking his head and taking a step toward the girl; he must have been the leader, because as soon as he moved, the other four formed around him. "Mmm, but didn't the Creators send us something sweet this time," he purred in a heavy Southern drawl. He leaned in close, looking but not touching. Yet. "Look up at me, sweetheart. I won't bite," he promised, flashing a cheshire cat grin that showed too many teeth.

"Don't touch me," she warned, soft but serious.

When she didn't comply with his request, he reached under her chin and pulled her face up until her eyes found his. "Don't be scared now, pretty thing. We'll take good care of you."

As she stared into Whit's eyes, a chill ran down her spine. His slow, lilting speech belied the predatory cunning that emanated from behind the cold, blue-grey orbs. In once glance she could tell he was smart and cruel and always got what he wanted – either willingly or by force. She wondered how many of these traits he was born with, and how many he had acquired in enduring whatever trap she herself had just been thrown into.

Unwilling to accept their "protection," and before the victorious glint left his soulless eyes, she felt around for the nearest hard, heavy object. Her fingers brushed a thin plank that had splintered off from one of the crates. Quicker than a rattlesnake strike, she swung the across Whit's face hard enough to draw blood and snap the piece of wood in half.

She took off running, not knowing where she was or where she was going, only where she was getting away from. A colorful array of curses followed her hasty escape.

"She really shouldn't have done that," Newt sighed.

Another voice, deep and velvety, chuckled in response. "She did warn him."

She ran until her chest burned and her legs buckled, collapsing against a tree and sliding down until her butt rested on the cool dirt. When she was no longer gasping for air, and after nearly jumping out of her skin every time there was a small noise, she was satisfied that no one had followed her and she could finally think. But thinking almost proved to be worse than running.

Name, name, name, name. Why couldn't she remember her own damn name? God it was frustrating – like her brain knew the answer, but only in a language that she didn't speak, and therefore couldn't give voice to. She growled in frustration and slammed her head back against the tree trunk a few times. A twig snapped to her right and she was just about to take off again when Newt stepped into view, hands raised in surrender and peace.

"I just wanted to see if you were alright," he explained, taking another step forward in question. She nodded her head – both in answer to his query and as an acknowledgement that she wouldn't try to bludgeon him too if he came closer. The dry leaves crumpled beneath his weight as he sat down several feet in front of her, intimate but not crowded. "What you did when you came up from the box, now I'm not saying Whit didn't have it coming," Newt said, and this time a genuine smile crinkled up the corners of his eyes, "but we're stuck here together, so you'd probably do better making friends rather than enemies," he suggested.

"I didn't see you with any friends to back you up back there," she said petulantly, picking at the dirt that had gathered beneath her fingernails.

The sadness returned to taint Newt's expression. "There weren't always so few of us."

She was instantly contrite. Her plight had begun all but an hour earlier, and already she was ready to start clawing at the walls. What did she know about the struggles this boy – who had been nothing but kind to her – had gone through? "I'm sorry. I didn't –"

"It's alright, love," he interrupted, already back to his genial tone. She suspected that he was used to a little verbal abuse, based on his interaction with Whit earlier. "Do you remember your name?" She shook her head. "It'll come back to you. No one knows anything at first. Well, you know things, I guess, but you don't remember how you know things."

She was beginning to get a headache. "Newt – it's Newt, right?" Newt's head bobbed up and down with enthusiasm, releasing his curly mop of hair into his eyes. "I'm sure you're just trying to be nice – make friends instead of enemies," she repeated his own advice back to him, rolling her eyes, "but I'd just really like to be alone for a while."

Newt's face fell and his shoulders slumped. It wasn't a question, and he wasn't one to push people beyond what they were willing to tolerate; but Newt had been desperate for someone to talk to for months. After Alby – who was in no condition to speak to anyone – and Minho – who was less talkative than the grievers – Newt had been there the longest. At first, the box had come up more frequently; once a week, then once every other week, and each time there were fewer and fewer supplies. He suspected that they were being tested, expected to become self-reliant and sustainable. But, because no one wanted to listen to his philosophies and speculations – and since the girl's arrival marked the first time an entire month had elapsed before the box came up – food was running low and desperation had begun to set in. Whispers ran through the Glade about the lengths each person was willing to go if the box never came back up. So by the time it did, everyone had grown tense and suspicious of those they once called friends, then pounced on the lifeline they had been thrown. Newt wasn't sure they should be so trusting of the gifts that could only have come from the damn people who put them there, but what else were they going to do?

Newt tossed her a can of food and a piece of fresh fruit. She didn't reach for it, only eyed it with suspicion. He sighed. "There are a plethora of horrible ways to die in this place. Starvation isn't one of them. At least, not yet," he joked, though half serious, before stalking away in disappointment.

Though it was easier for her to stay hidden in the night, the cover of darkness also made it easier for others to conceal themselves. As the sun set over the Glade, the woods began to feel too exposed – too many nooks and crannies to slip into undetected. She left the relative safety of the trees in favor of sleeping with her back to the wall; at least then no one could catch her unawares from behind. Still, sleep did not come easy.

Eventually, a much needed slumber came over her and her eyes drifted shut, only to be awakened in the cruelest possible way. At the small window under which she slept, a terrifying creature howled and clawed. The sound was a mixture of clanging metal and wailing moans, both painful and sinister. She screamed, louder even than the griever that longed slice into her flesh, and tore off in the direction of the dimming campfire across the Glade. Even the most wretched of her human companions, she reasoned, could not be worse than the mechanical monster she left behind.

Minho had seen her lay down next to the wall, knew what hunted them just on the other side of the massive stone barrier. He knew, but he made no move to try and warn her. Perhaps it was cruel, but so was the world she now lived in; her actions that morning had intrigued him, and he was hoping she would surprise him once again. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they reacted when they felt their life was in danger. He was disappointed when he heard her piercing cry, saw her take off from one side of the great expanse to the other – but god, was she fast. Maybe she could be useful.

He sighed, pushing himself up and out of his not uncomfortable makeshift tent. When he found her, she was curled up in a ball, still whimpering softly, eyes squeezed so tightly shut that she must have been seeing stars behind them. Minho knelt down beside her and tried to suppress the upwelling of sympathy he started to feel for the frightened girl. Putting on a well-practiced mask of stoicism, he cleared his throat, alerting her to his presence. She flinched, but didn't look at him – perhaps wondering if she'd stumbled into a worse fate than she left behind.

"They can't get in at night," he explained, keeping his voice monotonous and informative, devoid of emotion or judgment.

She stilled at the sound of his voice, but avoided his gaze. "What are they?" she asked, voice still shaking though her body had ceased.

"Don't know," he replied honestly. "We call 'em grievers. Been here at least as long as we have."

"Why are they here?"

Minho sighed; that was a loaded question if he'd ever heard one. "Why are any of us here? Who knows? Who cares? It won't get us out of here any faster."

"I hate this place," she whined, hugging her knees tighter to her chest.

Minho was tiring of her petulance and naivety. "Oh get over it," he spat, more harshly than he had intended. There had been no one there to hold his hand when he'd first arrived in the Glade. Alby was damn near comatose when he'd come up in the box. Then Newt was almost worse, with his relentless optimism and unending supply of grating empathy. "This is your life now. So buck up, or you might as well go ahead and make yourself a tasty meal to that griever over there."

With those inciting words, the girl's terror was overtaken by her anger. She lithely flipped over onto her back and sprung into a crouch before Minho could even stand up. She had every intention of flinging back a seething retort, but when she finally gazed upon his face, her mind went completely blank and she nearly toppled over; Minho grabbed her arm to steady her – out of instinct, he told himself.

"Minho." A name she'd never heard before fell from her lips, as effortlessly as if she'd said it a thousand times before. The boy in front of her was as familiar to her as her own name, she knew; she knew, but still could not remember. Though her mind battled to keep her memories trapped firmly behind the dam that held back the entirety of her previous life, it could not stop the way her body responded to his touch.

Her pulse fluttered and a desperate longing pulled deeply at her core, pulling like a pit in her gut. She wondered what would be flooding her mind at that moment, should the dam break. Did she know this boy before her memories were taken from her? Did his soul, too, resonate with familiarity?

Minho was confused. The girl's eyes had flashed first with anger, then recognition. Then her lips formed his name – urgent, almost reverent. Did he know her? He didn't think so, but his memories had been gone a lot longer than hers, and he had never wanted to try to recover them. Now he almost wished he had.

Minho mentally shook himself. It didn't matter if they'd known each other before the Glade. As far as he was concerned, there was no before; only the present and, if they were lucky, the after. It had taken far too long for Minho to learn that it was easier to simply not get attached to anyone in this place. This girl would be no different. She would only be valuable if he could use her to escape the goddamn prison.

"Remember what I said, girl," Minho continued, releasing his hold and clearing his throat before standing up. "If you're ready to stop being a victim and start taking control of your own damn future, meet me by that wall at dawn." He pointed toward the direction from which she'd run – now the place she'd associate with her greatest fear, but she would soon learn there were worse things than those that went bump in the night.

"Emily. My name is Emily," she corrected. Remembering Minho's name must have shaken something loose in her brain – as if the two words were a set, a pair, always together, and you couldn't remember one without also thinking of the other. Minho gave one tight nod of acknowledgement before trudging off back toward his haphazard shelter.

The disappointment she felt from Minho's lack of reciprocation was easily overwhelmed by the relief and contentment that flooded over her at finally being able to articulate her most basic identity. Emily. Tomorrow, Emily decided, she would begin her new life.