"Now, you're crazy for sure. What do you think you're doing, lad?" Neal questions while pulling me back. I don't answer or resist and just stay quiet, watching the rushing waves in the dark.

"Newt, there's a misunderstanding."

"What misunderstand, Neal?" I answer with a sneering laugh, still refusing to look at him. "I heard and read everything."

"What did you read, lad?"

"My portfolio."

"You've been to the meeting room?!"

"Yes, I did," I answer. "I was suspicious of Dr. Whitman's treatment, especially when she told me that I was just cranking and flaring while searching for my friends. I knew she meant something."

"She told you that?" Neal sighs a deep sigh while closing his eyes and strongly stresses his jaw.

"The door was open so I entered. I didn't have intentions for anything, but when I found my file, I took it. I then read my final results: a part of my brain has been permanently corrupted by the Flare, making controlling my responses harder for me. I should've known."

Neal sighs and stays quiet for a while. After that, he tells me, "You know, Newt, I don't want to give you the cliché everyone is giving you."

"Good that," I answer.

"Well, how are you feeling now?"

"Like clunk?"

"I mean your brain."

"Also clunk."

"But are you able to control yourself this moment?"

"I don't know. I'm dangerous, Neal. Unpredictable," I answer. "I'm not supposed to be alive. I should've died on that street."

"Well, you had the chance to jump off that cliff, but you didn't. Why?"

I think of the question for a long while. I don't know what made me stop. I don't think it's just the memory. I just stay quiet and contemplate the view, looking nowhere exactly.

"You stopped yourself," Neal answers. "You had control over your brain. Your brain told you that there're still many things he wanna do."

I don't answer. Neal stays quiet for a long while. After that, he rises and offers me a walk. We walk on the cliff with him trusting me to walk freely by the edge. "You know, Newt, long time ago, there was a man called Beethoven. He was, and still is, one of the world's greatest symphony writers. His life was music. And then, during a period of his life, he began losing his hearing."

"That's terrible," I say after thinking for a while.

"Well, he continued his passion in music despite that he couldn't hear it. And what many people don't know is that some of his masterpieces were written while he was deaf."

"Impressive," I answer. I look up at the sky and wonder, but then I tighten my lips and look down at where I'm walking.

"Well, Newt," Neal's voice breaks again, "what's trying to be said is that you have an opportunity, and greater than you think. Instead of being afraid of flares, find something that can help you cool down. A thought, or an action, maybe. Is there anything you like to do?"

"Nothing specific," I answer. "I like to do many things."

"Well, as a start, there was something I wanted to tell you," he answers. He licks his lips and continues. "Do you remember when you worked with me in the hangar? You're awfully good with your hands, man! Also, you seemed pretty placid with the work."

"Because I wasn't thinking of anything," I answer.

"And that's what we need," answers Neal. "Lad, believe it or not, all people, cranks and not, need to give a rest for their brains. If you liked the work in the hangar, you can join us. You're seventeen, ain't you?"

"Almost," I answer.

"Well, lads your age used to graduate from school and chose majors. Not sure if any colleges are up now, but I don't think that's a problem when you have a handful of the world's best mechanics that designed WICIKED's facilities and equipment. The Maze itself was a thing. A work of five years now gone with the wind."

I tighten my lips. The Maze might had been beautiful in some terms as a place, but it was a prison. I look up at sky. The sun has begun to rise, and few birds have begun chirping. A beautiful magenta color has begun to strike the horizon. "Can't I work with Bergs?" I ask him. He smiles. "Maybe fly one too one day?" he answers.

I turn to him. His look isn't sardonic or sarcastic. It's serious. I smile and try to push the unpleasant thoughts away. He gives me a pat on my shoulder and tightens it there like he's a close friend I've known for years. We stay quiet for a very long time. At the end, he pauses and tells me, "I think it's time for us to return. Your mum must be worried about you."

I shrink at the term. "You've to have some mercy on her, Newt," he replies. "She's gone through a lot for you."

"But she only sees me as-"

"Her son," he answers. "Your mother sees you as her son. That's why she's so bloody cranking over everything you're doing. She's worried, and with your brightness, you're assuring her worries. Put yourself in her shoes and stop thinking about yourself for a minute, lad."

"I'll consider it," I answer as I fold my arm. The wind's power increases. My jacket has stayed with Julie. I fold my arms and wonder about all that had been said.

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