Newt

You've grown accustomed to living within the Maze, each day pouring into the other with routine. As it turned to summer and days had become longer while nights shortened, Alby, declares a celebratory Bonfire Night for harvesting season. This had lit hope within the Gladers, all needing a night to get drunk and lose all worry, at least for a night. Cast aside the rationale behind its occurrence, dismiss the burdens of today and yesteryears. Tonight, finally, abandon restraint and revel in teenagehood.

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You sit on a log alone, seeing the fire before you reflect in your eyes. Be it summer, nights in the Glade were still cold, making you subconsciously shiver and hold the hot cup of tea in your palms a little tighter, hugging it to your chest for the warm steam to rise to warm your face. “Not drinkin’? Heard Gally’s new batch of Moonshine tastes like klunk anyways, so you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout missing out.” Newt's British accent is thick, something that--like the dimples on his cheeks or the freckles on his nose--would not go away even after the years spent in the Glade. The warm fire illuminated his face, dancing on the strands of his blonde hair and reflecting in his brown eyes.