It's strange how as time passes, I keep expecting the sky to be dark. But it isn't, just the same unnatural grey. The urge to sleep grows stronger by the hour until I find myself jerking awake as my chin hits my chest, rubbing my eyes and yawning every few minutes.

Newt fell asleep about an hour ago, and Thomas not long after him. I yawn again, and finally decide to stop fighting my tiredness. I rest my head back against bed, closing my eyes.

I estimate it's about two in the morning when my eyes snap open. Something's wrong. I'm leaning heavily on Minho who is in turn leaning on the wall, my head on his shoulder. I sit up, trying not to disturb him too much. The mechanical clicks and whirs of the Grievers are much closer now, their spikes making disgusting sucking noises as they retract and pop out of their skin.

I stand up slowly, a lot of others are doing the same, and wave my arms, silently shushing everyone in the room. Carefully, I creep to the boarded-up window, peeking through a crack. I count five Grievers outside, roaming the Glade in the stupid fake twilight.

I feel a nudge on my leg and look down to see Thomas looking through a lower gap, his shoulder touching me. I don't bother trying to get him to go back, I know he won't.

After a minute I go back to my spot and sit down, Thomas following shortly. Newt raises an eyebrow and I hold up five fingers. He nods.

I sit, perfectly still, for the next few minutes as various Griever sounds reach my ears. The squeal of tiny engines, spikes digging into the grass, claws snapping and blades spinning and clicking.

If a Griever doesn't kill me, I think, then this suspense sure will.

Fear hovers in the air like a mist, almost tangible. I can feel my hands shaking, and I firmly press my lips together, determined to stay strong.

Newt reaches across Minho and takes my hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of it. I give his hand a gentle squeeze.

One of the Grievers is getting close, I can feel it. Next to me, I can feel Minho's breathing getting faster and shallower, his shoulder moving more where it presses against mine. I try to slow my own breathing, hoping it will somehow help him.

Outside, the sounds of the Griever's spikes over grass turn to something deeper, louder, and hollower. I can almost picture it, the Griever digging into the wood of the homestead, the massive rolling over, tearing at the walls. Light flickers through a gap in the boards, it must have some kind of torch. The noises stop. The light stays still. The shadow of the Griever almost covers the window, and it's as if the whole room is holding their breath. I can't blame them.

Just when the tension is almost unbearable, the door to the hallway whips open, sending a ripple of shock through the Gladers. Most of them jump to their feet, cursing or gasping. We'd all been expecting something to come from the window, not from behind us.

I spin to see who it is, expecting maybe someone from another room or Alby, reconsidering his decision to stay put in the maps room. But when I see who stands there, I almost stop breathing completely.

It's Gally.