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Chapter 11

           TheimageofBen’sheadpoppedintohismind,cockedatanunnaturalangle,bloodrunningdowntheshaftofthearrowuntilitcollected,dripped,splatteredontheground....

           Theimageofitwasthelaststraw.

           Hefelltohiskneesbyoneofthescragglytreesontheoutskirtsoftheforestandthrewup,retchingashecoughedandspatouteverylastmorseloftheacidic,nastybilefromhisstomach.Hiswholebodyshook,anditseemedlikethevomitingwouldneverend.

           Andthen,asifhisbrainweremockinghim,tryingtomakeitworse,hehadathought.

           He’dnowbeenattheGladeforroughlytwenty-fourhours.Onefullday.Thatwasit.Andlookatallthethingsthathadhappened.Alltheterriblethings.

           Surelyitcouldonlygetbetter.

           Thatnight,Thomaslaystaringatthesparklingsky,wonderingifhe’deversleepagain.Everytimeheclosedhiseyes,themonstrousimageofBenleapingathim,theboy’sfacesetinlunacy,filledhismind.Eyesopenedornot,hecouldswearhekepthearingthemoistthunkofthearrowslammingintoBen’scheek.

           Thomasknewhe’dneverforgetthosefewterribleminutesinthegraveyard.

           "Saysomething,"Chucksaidforthefifthtimesincethey’dsetouttheirsleepingbags.

           "No,"Thomasreplied,justashehadbefore.

           "Everyoneknowswhathappened.It’shappenedonceortwicesomeGriever-stungshankflippedoutandattackedsomebody.Don’tthinkyou’respecial."

           Forthefirsttime,ThomasthoughtChuck’spersonalityhadgonefrommildlyirritatingtointolerable.

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