This was what they’d been told their whole lives, anyway. From the day they were born, taken from mothers who had the Flare. Although he obviously couldn’t remember it, the Orphan knew that he’d been tested over and over, in every way imaginable, to make sure that he, too, was not infected. Even so, he’d been quarantined for five years, along with others like him, growing, learning, training. Then more tests. These, he remembered, although the day the results came in were a bit foggy. Not that it mattered. Those results had come in negative. Otherwise, he wouldn’t exist. He’d have been thrown in the same pits as his mother, burned for one hundred days.

The Orphan’s name was Minho, even though the Orphan had no name.

He couldn’t tell anyone, of course. Not once in his lifetime had another person called him Minho. Even now, thinking of it, he felt a chill of fright that someone might know, that someone could read his mind, that the Grief Bearers would be informed that he’d blasphemed his calling in life by giving himself a name. The punishment was not in doubt, and it would be swift. There’d be no trial. So it had to remain a secret. No one could ever know. But his fingers gripped the rifle tightly and his lips pressed together and he breathed a little heavier, holding on to this one thing.

His name was Minho.

Despite the best efforts of the Remnant Nation, whispers abounded amongst the Orphans about the days when the Flare spread across the earth and devastated the human race. No one could possibly determine which stories were true and which were mere legends. Like all things, most of them probably lay somewhere in the middle. The tales of WICKED, tales of Cranks, tales of cures, tales of heroism and villainy. Tales about the Maze and those who escaped it. Most of it was a muddy blur on a window, impossible to decipher shapes that made sense. But there was one story that stood above the rest, and from that tale of undaunted bravery, Minho had chosen his secret name.

In his mind, he looked exactly like Minho of the mythical Gladers, thought like him, talked like him, dreamt like him. Fought like him. In his heart, he was worthy of the title.

Minho.

But, courage or not, it had to remain a secret until things changed.