"Superstes? What does this even mean?"

"Aye, Newt. As you heard," answers Dr. Whitman. "It means survivor or I survive in Latin."

"Survivor?"

"Newt, you might not comprehend this all now," Dr. Whitman answers, "but you are the first in the history of the Flare to live the illness and tell about it." Dr. Whitman then leans her head closer. "Newt, you should now that you are a miracle kid; you've always been special, before WICKED, before the Flare hit you: quite when you existed. It has always seemed that whatever happens to you, you will always survive and kick those who say you will not. If there is anyone I have ever known who can be the symbol, the torch, that the dark days will be over, it's you, Newt. To WICKED, you were only a control subject to glue data together, but when they named you the Glue, they didn't know that you're the glue this world needs to be pulled back together."

Her eyes brighten, sparkling with a light stronger than a hundred torch. I have seen stars, both in the Scorch and the artificial ceiling of the glade; however, believe me when I say that her smile and the light in her eyes dim them all. I don't know what it is or who she does it, but I want more of it. I want to ask more. Why am I special? How am I to glue anything when I can barely fix myself?

"I can't explain it to you all now," she proceeds. "Your brain must be tired. You've had enough for today. You must take some rest. The Flare might be kicked out, but your body still needs time to regain its strength. I see Edwardo has already done good job in that too!"

I stay quiet for a while. "What is going on in that head of yours, kid?" she asks. I bite my lips, clear my voice, and then answer. "I have a request."

Dr. Whitman raises her eyebrows.

"Now that I have survived the Flare, am I immune? I mean, is it possible for me to catch the illness again?"

Dr. Whitman smiles. "According to science, it is not likely. I am not sure if the fancy WICKED classes you had taken explained about memory cells and gaining immunity. If my predictions are correct, you must be immune now. It might require some testing, though. Why are you asking?"

"I want to go out."

"Out?! Where, kid? There is nothing out."

I take a deep breath. "I want to go to WICKED's compound. I have to find my friends."

"But, Newt, you still are-"

"I am alright; you said it now," I interrupt her, feeling myself warming in my skin. "I have to find them. I just ask for this one thing."

Dr. Whitman tightens her lips. "We shall discuss that later. Over excitement is not good for your brain."

"I don't bloody care!" I growl while clinching my fists and throwing myself up. "I have to find them, no matter the cost. We don't even bloody know if they were in during the explosion or not!" I feel tears rising to my eyes. "If there's any way that they can still be alive and that they can be saved, I will risk it." 

"We shall see that.]," she answers coldly, keeping her eyes on the floor. She then raises her head and adds, "I promise that I shall place it on the table today. You can rest your brain and go to your room, Newt. You've had enough for today." Dr. Whitman then rings a bell, and within few minutes, Imelda enters the room.

"Imelda, please, lead Mr. Newton back to his room and inform everyone that an urgent meeting needs to be held today."

"I will do that now, doctor," Imelda answers. She then leads me and we go out the room.