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The Orphan opens the book.
It’s worn and old, like the man that gave it to him. Frypan, one of the storied Gladers. They’d talked, late one night when all of the others had gone to bed.
—
“Minho,” Frypan had said. “After mine?”
He’d flushed, dark skin warming.
“We hear stories about them– you. I didn’t have a name, and Minho– Minho was amazing. I want to be like him,” he’d whispered. Frypan smiled.
“You know, I haven’t known you long, but you remind me of him. Minho was a brave man, and he would’ve done everything for us. Did a whole shuckin’ lot for us.” The old man’s voice was quiet, lost in memory. “They would’ve liked you.”
The boy wrapped his arms around his legs, tucking his chin into his knees. Minho. For him, the man was a legend, a pillar of strength and dedication. For Frypan, he was human.
“What was he like?” he asked.
Frypan shifted around, pulling things out of his big pockets. A wood pencil, cloth-bound rations, and a little book, obviously handmade.
“I don’t share this with a lot of people. My friends– I don’t want to forget them, or anything that happened. So I wrote things, they wrote things, and that’s how I made this.” The old man offered it. “Sort of a record of the Gladers. Minho’s is the last one.”
The boy just held it. He couldn’t quite make himself open it, scared he’d find someone completely different from who he’d imagined, completely different from himself.
“Take your time. Just give it back, yeah?” Frypan hauled himself to his feet. “Think that’s about it for me. These old bones need their rest.”
He left the boy alone by the burning-out embers.
The stars were bright and clear, stark against the barely-there sliver of moon. They were the same stars the boy saw from his post every night, but they felt different to him, now surrounded by family. Roxy’s snores sounded out across the swathe of sand, and he smiled. Tomorrow. He’d read the book tomorrow.
—
The next day, everything had changed. People had died, and they may or may not have brought upon the end of the world. Most of them survived, though, and they’d live to fight another day. The boy was exhausted, not letting his guard down until they’d managed to find a safe place to shack up for the night, lit by soft lantern light as the group settled down into sleep. Even so, he was the last one awake, the small bundle of Frypan’s book heavy in his coat pocket. He curls up against Roxy’s back, pulling the leatherbound book out as he decides to face it. He’d like to think that maybe, after today’s battle– maybe he would be closer to his hero.
The first page has Gladers (plus the honorary) scrawled in two different, but equally-messy handwritings. The boy swallows as he flips through, accounts of the legends as messy, annoying, alive teenagers, and their love for each other bleeds through the pages.
Finally, he stops on the page labeled “Minho.”
Like the others, a white-rimmed photograph is tucked in with the writing. The boy squints at it. The snapshot is upside down, taken by someone leaning over. Minho grins at the camera, arm wrapped around a pale, dark-haired boy as they both lay in the sand. He looks… young, and happy, almost impossibly for his history. The boy moves it to read his description.
Minho
A-7 “The Leader”
Short he’s fun-sized! Black hair, black eyes, tan skin
Member 2 of the Council, core member
Sarcastic, witty, probably came up with half of our swears
Invaluable leader
He stops there. Already, Minho sounds larger than life, much more than the boy’s. He swallows.
“Hey.” Isaac drops down next to him, quietly to not wake the others. “Haven’t had the chance to say thanks for earlier– what’s that?”
“The Gladers.” The boy shifts over, letting Isaac come closer. “Mister Frypan let me borrow it.”
“Oh, neat!” Isaac smiles. “We learn about them in the Haven, but Fry’s stingy with his book. Guess this is the first history you’ve read?”
“Yeah. I mean, I grew up with the legends, but– but this is real. I haven’t gotten through much of it, though. Feels like setting high expectations” The boy brushes his fingers over the page.
“Why’d you choose Minho?” Isaac asks carefully. “If you want to talk about it, actually. It’s fine if you don’t.”
The boy pauses. He’d chosen Minho, years and years ago, a little rebellion of his own.
“His friends. How he loved. After everything he went through alone, he fought to get back to them no matter what. I wanted that,” he whispers.
“Well, I’d say you’re a dead ringer.” the boy looks over at Isaac, who’s engrossed in the entry. “I mean, I haven’t known you that long, but how we met? What you did for Roxy? Plus today, how you saved all of us, I’d say Minho is the perfect match.”
“Oh. I– thank you.” the boy blinks. “I guess I didn’t really see that.”
“‘Course you didn’t, that’s why you’re so like him.” Isaac smiles softly, handing over the book as he stands. “It’s worth reading, by the way. Maybe you can start seeing those similarities.”
Isaac heads back to the corner where Sadina and Trish sleep pressed together, leaving the boy alone with his thoughts.
Minho had been a hero, and the boy had just been trying to get his friends out alive. Maybe… maybe sometimes that can be the same?
He smiles, tucking his corner of the blanket under his legs. The lantern still burns bright, and Isaac’s helped chase away the last of his doubts. He takes a deep breath.
Minho opens the book.