I know very few things about this place.

I know I'm trapped between boys.

I know that those boys stink.

And I know something about this place is very messed up.

I don't know my name.

I don't know why I'm here.

I don't know anything, to be honest.

That's the weird thing. I know things but I... don't. I can name animals but I can't remember who taught me the names. I am able to calculate things in my head but I can't remember who taught me that either.

That's the worst thing. Knowing but not knowing.

Perhaps if I didn't know anything at all, I would've just believed that weird elevator that brought me here is some kind of version of a stork bringing babies. I think I would've been better off like that.

But no. I know for certain that I was born at least more than ten years ago—by the looks of it—and that I am not supposed to be here.

I know I'm scared, too. The boys here can't be older than thirteen and they all look like little sticks, so I doubt that they'll hurt me. They've been nice so far. Yet I am scared of every single thing here, even them.

I'm currently sitting against a tree, watching those kids stumbling around with blocks of wood. They place it unsteadily on a whole stack of wood. I think it's supposed to become a house.

Kids are clearly not made for building houses, by the looks of this.

It looks like the blocks of wood aren't even stuck together. It's not neatly done; some blocks are bigger than the other, some stand out, some have been placed in a wrong way. The doorframe is just a round, big hole. I wonder how they want to make the ceiling.

There are about twenty boys here. They haven't explained anything to me. They told me to wait against this tree, in fact. Which felt weird; being commanded by someone my age. Something I'm clearly not used to, even without any memories.

"Hi." A pair of shoes make a crunchy sound as they steps on leaves and sticks.

I look up, finding out it's the boy who told me to come sit here. He has pale skin. Little beads of sweat are running down his forehead, matting his brown hair onto it. He wears glasses, a pair he readjusts now and then because it keeps slipping off.

It's not extremely hot here, but I can imagine carrying all that wood in a burning sun is tiring.

"Hi," I reply. I'm not sure what else to say. I have so many questions that it will take him hours to answer them all, and I don't want to do that to the poor boy.

"My name's Nick," he announces.

"Hi, Nick. I don't know who I am."

A tiny smile curves on his lips at that already. "Thank God you're not one of the crybabies."

I shrug. "Would it be so bad if one got here crying? No, because this is scary. Wouldn't take much for me to start bawling right now, too."

"Please don't," he responds. "You being a girl gives enough problems already. It's a... change in pattern. It was the same every month and now this."

"Be happy that's the only change in pattern you have every month."

"I like you," he comments.

"Thanks. I guess you're not bad, either."

He gets up. Holds out his hand. It's a bit dirty and I can see little scars on his fingers, yet I still take it. "I'll give you a short tour around. There isn't a lot to see, but you'll like some answers, right?"

"Yes."

"So we call this place the Glade," he begins. "I got here about four months ago, along with twenty other boys. The following month, on the exact same day, another boy arrived. The next month, another. This month, it's you."

"What was that thing?"

"We call it the Box. Gives us supplies every week, and a Greenie every month. If you ever need somethin', just put a note in that thing and it'll fulfill your dearest wishes."

I nod. "Can you—"

"—no TVs," he adds. "We tried that already."

"Too bad. And I'm guessing a Greenie is a new person?"

"Yeah. Newbean, Greenbean, Newbie, whatever." We walk up to the sloppy, unfinished house. "This here will be our Homestead. A place where we can sleep."

"Where have you been sleeping the previous months?"

"Hammocks or below the ivy on the walls." He points at the green on the enormous stone.

That's the thing I'm most confused and scared about. The four gigantic stone walls trapping us in this field, which is about eight hundred meters in both width and length.

There is a big gap in the middle of them, though. A gap that I don't even want to come close to. It freaks me out. I think I'm safer here.

"It's so thick it can be easily used as a blanket, though it isn't even that cold at night," Nick explains. "We want to use the Homestead for multiple things. One, a sleeping place for those who don't want to sleep outside. Two, a better version of our kitchen. Our cook now just uses a picnic table. Three, at the back of it, jails for whoever doesn't follow our rules."

It's surprising how organized these boys already seem to have everything in just three months.

"Jails? What kind of misbehavior do these boys show?"

"Look." Nick comes to a stop. He crosses his arms to look tougher. "We have three rules. Never go outside the Glade unless you're a Runner. Two, never hurt another Glader. We're all friends. And number three, everyone does their part. No slackers."

Runner. So whatever is out there involves something with running.

"Got that?"

Quickly, I nod. "Do you know why we're here? I'm sure the rules are important but they're not the first thing I want to know right now."

"To be honest, no. I have no idea. I just know we arrived here someday. We figured out we wouldn't escape soon, so we started making our lives as best as we could. For that, we do need jobs to be done. Food needs to be cooked. Someone has to get that food. Fruits and vegetables? We have Track-Hoes for that. But we also like meat, don't we? So we—"

"Track-Hoes?" I repeat. 

"You know, garden tracks and those shovel things; hoes," he states.

"Why not call it Gardeners?"

"Track-Hoes sound cooler."

I blink. "...no, they don't. Not really."

"Whatever." He waves it off. "This gets me to the jobs. As said, Track-Hoes and Runners. We have three Cooks at the moment. The Keeper, AKA leader, is our lovely Frypan. Along with that, Builders and Slicers."

"So that's the 'everyone does their part' thing you spoke about?"

He nods in confirmation, readjusting his glasses again. His nose is straight and small, so it doesn't give much grip. Besides, the glasses are big.

And still, sweat.

"Are you the leader of this place?" I wonder.

It would make sense. He explains things very well and calmly, and why else would he be the one giving me this tour in the first place?

"Nope. We don't have any leaders here. But you can say that there's certain boys we don't allow to give tours as they... aren't really made for that, you know?"

I nod, but frown. "I guess?"

"Moving on: you get to choose a job. We're thinking of doing applications, but right now, we're busy mapping out the Maze and building the first things, so this is faster."

"Maze?" I stop walking. "Is that what's outside the walls?"

"Yes. Very shocking, very disturbing, blah blah, let's continue—" Nick softly pulls my arm. With a shake of my head, I continue following him. "So, what interests you?"

"What do Builders and Slicers do?"

"What do you think Builders do?" He asks dryly. He makes heavy motions towards the Homestead.

"That thing looks like anything but building. Looks like a stack of wood."

"Careful. Most Builders haven't gotten a lot in their heads, but they do have fists they can put to good use," Nick warns. "Slicers are slaughters. We've gotta get the meat somewhere."

"So the Box also sends up animals?"

"Yes, but some of them were already here when we arrived. Like the dog, Bark. Winston wanted to kill him off but we decided to keep him. Ironic thing, Bark never barks."

"You boys are very original, aren't y'all?"

He rolls his eyes, though there's a hint of another smile. "Again, anything that interests you?"

Definitely not Runners. After walking in the sun for a few minutes, I realize running in it will not be very nice, and neither do I feel like being exhausted all the time. Or losing my way in that labyrinth.

Cooks... possible. It sounds good, but is it really? Nick makes the meat and fruits and vegetables sound luxurious and very tasty, though it might be shitty.

I don't want to be a Track-Hoe. One, the name is weird. Two, I don't want to be bent down to ground the whole day. My back will kill me. Other than that, it doesn't sound too bad.

A Builder? Absolutely not. Looking at that so-called Homestead makes me frown already.

But slaughtering animals is also... something.

"Is there a job that for now only includes one person?"

"Yeah. The Slicers. Well, Slicer. Winston is the only one. No one wants to deal with that bloody mess."

I hum. "Where is he located?"

"Watching him slaughter was so disgusting that we already built him a hut. It's called the Bloodhouse. Right over there."

He points at a small barn in the distance. It looks more steady than the Homestead and is actually decorated.

With skulls and death signs, but still.

"He's all alone?" I ask again. "No one else is?"

"Yup. We've got the three Cooks, five Track-Hoes, four Runners, maybe seven or eight Builders, and one Slicer. We are also working on getting a few doctors in case someone gets hurt."

"I can't choose," I say.

"That's why we want to do the applications. The Keepers will then have a Gathering about what the Greenie fits best for. They won't have to choose, whether they like it or not."

"I'll go for Slicers then. It's sad that he's alone. And I may hope that I get to raise the animals before we slaughter them?"

"Surely. I guess that part isn't that bad."

"Slaughtering is necessary for meat, just like you said," I tell him. "It's all useful. And I get to be around that dog."

Nick shrugs, then nods. "Guess you're a Slicer then. Congrats, Greenie." A short pause. He's thoughtful during that, eyebrows slightly furrowed. "I don't think you remember your name yet? It'll come back to you soon."

"I don't. I'm glad to hear I will eventually, though."

"We figured out we're all named after historical important people. Some say I'm named after Nikola Tesla. We have Alby, after Albert Einstein, and Newt, after Isaac Newton. Frypan is actually named Siggy, but we call him Fry. He's named after Siggy Egmund. Gally after—"

He rants on and on about the names. At some point, I stop listening. There is no way I will remember all of this anyway. I don't even know who these boys are—

"Newt!" Nick calls out.

Now I know one of them, I guess.

A blonde boy approaches. He's smiling brightly at me, excited to meet me, I guess?

Whatever it is, he acts less tough than Nick. If I would hear Nick's words without seeing him, I'd believe he's a grown man.

He'll probably take that as a compliment, though.

But this boy in front of me looks like a five-year-old. It's just his height that convinces me he isn't. He's quite tall.

Tall, with a very slim body, blonde messy hair, and a smile so big his smile lines show. In the sun, his brown eyes have a bit of a glowy look, and his hair nearly looks golden. "Hi," he greets. "I'm Newt."

"I'm I don't know."

"Hi, I Don't Know. It's nice to meet you. Has Nick introduced you to everything yet?"

He has spoken a lot, yes.

But that's fine. He almost makes me feel safe, and I've only been here for... I don't even know, it can't be more than an hour.

I remember waking up in that dark place very well. I didn't dare to touch a single thing. Just sat in the middle of it, my arms wrapped around my knees, trying to hold back sobs. My thoughts were messed up, so unclear and all over the place.

The cold, metal floor below me made me even more anxious. Something drenched my clothes and I couldn't tell if it was water or sweat. Both, maybe. It did feel like I jumped out of water, gasping for air.

"Eh, he was just telling me about names."

"Ah, right." Newt nods. "You don't remember yours yet?"

I shake my head.

"Well, do you know any historical important women?"

"Moana."

"Not a fictional character. A real person."

"Britney Spears."

"No, no—" he palms his face. Sighs. "Like... someone who made something."

"Your mom?"

"Take Jane Austen," Nick tries. "Women like that."

Newt shrugs. "Joan Of Arc? Does that name sound familiar?"

"Rosalind Franklin."

"Any of that familiar?"

I shake my head, hesitant. "They are familiar, but they don't feel like... my name. Will I remember once you say my name?"

"Yup. They guessed my name on the fifth try. It just felt right," Nick says.

"So... I wait until y'all come up with a name that feels right for me?"

Newt shrugs. "Some kids slam their heads on walls until they remember."

"Some don't even remember yet," Nick adds.

"Others remember immediately," Newt says.

To interrupt them, I ask the first question that comes to mind, "What do I look like?"

Newt trails his eyes all over my body without any other question. I bounce from heel to heel, waiting.

"Dark skin," Nick says. "Afro hair."

"Very long. It sits like a ball around your head."

"Eh... thanks? I—"

"You have a lovely smile," Newt quickly adds.

"And you're quite pretty— ow." Nick rubs the side Newt just elbowed. "It's just a compliment."

"Thank you," I reply, slightly embarrassed, but as I let him know with my words, grateful. I don't sound too bad.

I look down at my clothes. Black cargo pants that are a little too short for me. They show off long, black socks and white tennis shoes. Above it all, some kind of dirty tank top and a jacket.

"Did Nick mentio—"

"You motherfucker!"

Very pointed yells begin coming from a distance. All three of our heads snap towards where it comes from; the gap between the walls. "George! Calm. Down. Please— oh, fuck! ALBY! This kid— George!"

"What..." I trail off, not sure what I'm about to ask to absolutely no one, because Nick and Newt have already rushed towards the gap.

Two boys come out of it. Both of them running.

First, a quite short, black-haired kid. He's the one yelling and cursing, almost tripping as he runs into the field.

On his heels follows a brunette. He's holding his hands forward in an attempt to catch the first boy. He's crying out and screaming things that sound like nonsense.

"Get. Him. Off. Me!" The first kid yells when George (?) jumps on top of him, clawing at his face.

The kid tries to spin them around, but is way too small to succeed. It takes both Nick and Newt's help to get George off.

George struggles and screams as the boys pin him down. He's so wild that Newt gets hit in the face and Nick needs to yell for another boy's help.

Kids are not made for building and clearly not for fighting like this, either.

They're all mini. I am taller than Nick, and Newt is just one inch above me.

But in who knows how many months, all of them will be very freaking tall and very freaking strong because of these jobs.

Finally, another boy unfreezes from shock and makes his way to the fighting boys, just when Newt falls off George's body and Nick is unable to take ahold of him.

He's like a wild animal. Scratching, screaming, crying. For a second, he looks at me. Directly at me. Our eyes meet, even with the long distance between us.

His are black. Every single part of his eyeballs, black. As if some kind of oily mixture got poured in them. The black also runs down his face and I don't think I'm imagining it being all over his shirt as well.

The whole situation sends shivers down my spine. I can physically feel the color get drained out of my face when the boy that just approached, begins punching. Like, punches straight into George's face until Nick stops him.

The punching boy pulls away from George, breathing heavily. He seems older than both Nick and Newt. Stronger, too. The immediate punches explained that.

I wonder how old I am, or look. They never mentioned it and I didn't ask.

"Alby!" Nick hisses. Then he starts talking so quickly that I don't catch a single word.

They discuss something and look around to see if no one else just saw that (everyone saw it) before they lift George's now unconscious body up, towards the unfinished Homestead.

I'm left standing, arms uncomfortably clutched at my stomach, which aches from these sights.

What. Was. That?