?????? - TMR, Minho

"Okay. Chuck's with us today," Fry starts. "Our little trainee—"

"He's a Cook?" I interrupt.

"No, no. He's just trying out some jobs."

"Trying them out? We never got to try our jobs out. We just chose what we liked."

And I chose Slicers because I felt bad for Winston. He was all alone, every single day.

Now he's alone again. And he doesn't even seem to mind. He barely looks at me. When he does, his eyes tell me 'sorry', but he never actually says it out loud.

"Alby's rule." Fry shrugs. "We decide what the Greenie will become, based on their results at every job. As I said, he's with us, today."

Chuck waves nervously. "Hi."

I take him in with my eyes once again. He can't be older than thirteen. Beautiful brown curls on his head. Big eyes, which twinkle half of the time.

Then I look back at Fry, swallowing and blinking at once. For a second— just a split second, his face morphs into Stan's, but then everything is back to normal.

"We need to make lunch and dinner. For lunch, we'll make sandwiches. Dinner's a cup of soup and some bread. Nothing too difficult."

"Do we have the ingredients here yet?"

"Partly. Newt will bring the tomatoes for the soup after lunch. We do have the toppings for the sandwich. You and Chuck will make some egg salad; you know how to make that, Zee. I will do all the chopping."

"But—"

"You make the egg salad, I do the chopping," Fry repeats, a smile now on his face. Not a mean one, not a teasing one— just a 'I know what you're implying, but it's not going to happen' kind of smile.

Helplessly, Chuck looks up at Frypan. "It's okay if she doesn't want to work with me. I can help you or do something else."

I feel bad, and I wish to just be kind to him, but for my own sake, he needs to stay out of my way.

"No. The egg salad is simple. Just go do it before we get some hungry and moody Gladers here."

I walk over to the counter without a word. The eggs, mayonaise, green onions, and dill are all ready to be used, along with bowls and cutlery.

"What do we do?" Asks Chuck. He has trouble reaching the counter.

"Peel the eggs," I say. "They're already boiled."

"Okay." He grabs the bowl with eggs and another empty bowl to put the peels in. But as he does, his elbow slams into another one of the bowls. Before I know it, it has shattered on the ground.

Chuck flinches, jumping away from it. I stare down at all the pieces of glass, then up at him. His eyes are wide. Frightened, as if he thinks I'll hit him or something.