Thomas is crying for help while in The Box Hole on his way to the Glade.
Someone...help...me!
Chuck, how... old do you think I am?
I'd say you're sixteen. And in case you were wondering, five foot nine... brown hair. Oh, and ugly as fried liver on a stick.
Thomas wouldn't allow himself to give in the Minho's hopelessness---he didn't want to give up and die just yet.
Greenie, if you think that was brave comin' out here, listen up. You're the shuckiest shuck-faced shuck there ever was. You're as good as dead, just like us.
He paused, and Thomas realized his face must've whitened even more when he heard that last part
Shuck it, ain't no way to start these conversations, you get me? We don't kill shanks like you here, I promise. Just try to avoid being killed, survive, whatever.
And at that moment in the span of only a few seconds, he learned a lot about himself. About the Thomas that was before. He couldn't leave a friend to die. Even someone as cranky as Alby.
He understood more than ever the passion the Gladers felt for finding their way out of the Maze. It wasn't just a matter of escape. For the first time, he felt a hunger to get revenge on the people responsible for sending him there.
