“Right,” Minho replied. He seemed genuinely interested and ready to understand.
“And that Runner makes a Map every day, and then compares it to Maps from previous days, for that section. What if, instead, you were supposed to compare the eight sections to each other, every day? Each day being a separate clue or code? Did you ever compare sections to other sections?”
Minho rubbed his chin, nodding. “Yeah, kind of. We tried to see if they made something when put together—of course we did that. We’ve tried everything.”
Thomas pulled his legs up underneath him, studying the Maps in his lap. He could just barely see the lines of the Maze written on the second page through the page resting on top. In that instant, he knew what they had to do. He looked up at the others.
“Wax paper.”
“Huh?” Minho asked. “What the—”
“Just trust me. We need wax paper and scissors. And every black marker and pencil you can find.”
Frypan wasn’t too happy having a whole box of his wax paper rolls taken away from him, especially with their supplies being cut off. He argued that it was one of the things he always requested, that he used it for baking. They finally had to tell him what they needed it for to convince him to give it up.
After ten minutes of hunting down pencils and markers—most had been in the Map Room and were destroyed in the fire—Thomas sat around the worktable in the weapons basement with Newt, Minho and Teresa. They hadn’t found any scissors, so Thomas had grabbed the sharpest knife he could find.
“This better be good,” Minho said. Warning laced his voice, but his eyes showed some interest.
Newt leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table, as if waiting for a magic trick. “Get on with it, Greenie.”
“Okay.” Thomas was eager to do so, but was also scared to death it might end up being nothing. He handed the knife to Minho, then pointed at the wax paper. “Start cutting rectangles, about the size of the Maps. Newt and Teresa, you can help me grab the first ten or so Maps from each section box.”
“What is this, kiddie craft time?” Minho held up the knife and looked at it with disgust. “Why don’t you just tell us what the klunk we’re doing this for?”
“I’m done explaining,” Thomas said, knowing they just had to see what he was picturing in his mind. He stood to go rummage through the storage closet. “It’ll be easier to show you. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong, and we can go back to running around the Maze like mice.”
Minho sighed, clearly irritated, then muttered something under his breath. Teresa had stayed quiet for a while, but she spoke up inside Thomas’s head.
I think I know what you’re doing. Brilliant, actually.
Thomas was startled, but he tried his best to cover it up. He knew he had to pretend he didn’t have voices in his head—the others would think he was a lunatic.
Just … come … help … me, he tried to say back, thinking each word separately, trying to visualize the message, send it. But she didn’t respond.
“Teresa,” he said aloud. “Can you help me a second?” He nodded toward the closet.
The two of them went into the dusty little room and opened up all the boxes, grabbing a small stack of Maps from each one. Returning to the table, Thomas found that Minho had cut twenty sheets already, making a messy pile to his right as he threw each new piece on top.
Thomas sat down and grabbed a few. He held one of the papers up to the light, saw how it shone through with a milky glow. It was exactly what he needed.
He grabbed a marker. “All right, everybody trace the last ten or so days onto a piece of this stuff. Make sure you write the info on top so we can keep track of what’s what. When we’re done, I think we might see something.”
“What—” Minho began.
“Just bloody keep cutting,” Newt ordered. “I think I know where he’s going with this.” Thomas was relieved someone was finally getting it.
They got to work, tracing from original Maps to wax paper, one by one, trying to keep it clean and correct while hurrying as fast as possible. Thomas used the side of a stray slab of wood as a makeshift ruler, keeping his lines straight. Soon he’d completed five maps, then five more. The others kept the same pace, working feverishly.
As Thomas drew, he started to feel a tickle of panic, a sick feeling that what they were doing was a complete waste of time. But Teresa, sitting next to him, was a study in concentration, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth as she traced lines up and down, side to side. She seemed way more confident that they were definitely on to something.
Box by box, section by section, they continued on.
“I’ve had enough,” Newt finally announced, breaking the quiet. “My fingers are bloody burning like a mother. See if it’s working.”
Thomas put his marker down, then flexed his fingers, hoping he’d been right about all this. “Okay, give me the last few days of each section—make piles along the table, in order from Section One to Section Eight. One here”—he pointed at an end—”to Eight here.” He pointed at the other end.
Silently, they did as he asked, sorting through what they’d traced until eight low stacks of wax paper lined the table.
Jittery and nervous, Thomas picked up one page from each pile, making sure they were all from the same day, keeping them in order. He then laid them one on top of the other so that each drawing of the Maze matched the same day above it and below it, until he was looking at eight different sections of the Maze at once. What he saw amazed him. Almost magically, like a picture coming into focus, an image developed. Teresa let out a small gasp.