This morning was rough, waking up in a rusty box, sent to the ‘Glade’, and now you were at a bonfire with sixty or some boys; drinking and rough-housing.

A tall, blonde boy you can recognize as Newt from earlier, approaches, plopping down beside you and shoving a bottle of god knows what into your hands.

“Drink up, Greenie. It’s ya’ bonfire, shuck-face. Enjoy it.” He had a lopsided grin, and you weren’t surprised if he was tipsy himself.