Chapter Seven

Katniss

I awake with a pounding head and stinging eyes, and if not for the length of rope securing both me and the sleeping bag to my perch, it would be quite the trip to the ground from this high up. It takes me a minute to remember where I am and figure out why I'm so dizzy and sore. Though I stayed awake long enough to be sure my Gamemaker-fueled fire was sticking to the high ground, the smoke has settled all around the mountainside, no doubt with a little help. If it's even smoke; it could well be a creation of the Gamemakers. I have a feeling that any natural smoke would either have dissipated or drifted off by now, whereas this choking vapour clings to the arena floor, seeming to clear only a few feet above my head.

Head spinning and limbs stiff, it takes much longer than it should to get my pack put back together and slung over my shoulders. Climbing back down to earth is another surprising challenge, and I stumble at the last, throwing out a hand to stop from going flat on my face. My stomach roils, threatening to bring back up last night's rabbit.

Then the mere thought of rabbit brings back Senan's bloated face and bulging eyes, and a second later my I am indeed getting a second look at my dinner from the previous night. My throat is scorched and dry, and I fall away, wheezing, and collapse onto my butt. Fumbling for the water bottle strapped to my pack, I swish a mouthful around before spitting it out and taking a big gulp. A minute with my head between my knees struggling to breathe brings no relief, and I take another gulp of water before I secure the bottle and clamber to my feet.

Eager to get out of the sickening smog as soon as possible, I start walking in what I'm reasonably sure is the direction of the Cornucopia, thinking on the events of the previous night. That the Gamemakers took control of my fire is beyond question. No natural blaze could have spread so quickly or in such a uniform pattern. What's strange is that the fire itself never came after me; instead all I get is this smoke, which could well be dangerous by itself - certainly the exposure while I slept has had its ill effects - but isn't quite the definitive action I expected from Crane. From what I heard Haymitch tell the others while I eavesdropped on them after my training score was announced, Crane likes having his work known, and his attempts on me haven't exactly been subtle so far. He's used what he meant as a dud weapon to trap me at the Cornucopia, and even went so far as to directly arm a Tribute who had it in for me.

So, why the smoke? It was thoughts of Seneca Crane that kept me awake, warily watching the fire to be certain it wasn't going to come roaring down the mountain at me. The only thing I can think of now is that I could be closer to the Career girls than I thought. Last night I was certain they'd flee the woods altogether, but it's possible that like me they stopped once they felt relatively safe, and opted for cover rather than sleeping in the open. If so, they could still be nearby. The Capitol audience doesn't want a repeat of the Annie Cresta debacle. The Hunger Games is about children murdering each other, not being picked off by Gamemaker traps.

I can't see very much further ahead in this pall than I could in the dark, and the more I walk the more the world spins, but I nock an arrow and walk ready to draw.

It takes a little less than half an hour to reach fresh air, and the relief is instantaneous. The stinging ceases and my mind clears, and if there's a sour note it's that once I can finally see the sky I realise it's well past midday. I groan at my foolishness; sleeping in the open would have been safer. It's only once I'm out of the smoke that it occurs to me how lucky I was to wake at all. I might easily have choked to death in my sleep.

I shake off the sour thoughts. Nobody found me in my unnatural slumber, I did wake, and now that I'm in the clear, I imagine I feel a good deal more refreshed after a night in the wilderness than most Tributes.

The side of the mountain I've come down leads into a rocky valley with sheer walls to the left and right. great for visibility, terrible for cover. On such uneven terrain line of sight will be best on the high points, but there's very little greenery other than the low grass, and the clothes they've got us in won't do much to hide anyone against this background. Still, this can work to my advantage; as far as I know I've got the only long-range weapon in the arena, and should have far less to fear when it comes to being seen.

I chug a little water and force myself to eat the last rabbit leg and a little dried fruit before I set off, reminding myself to keep an eye out for another stream. There's no telling when all the sources can suddenly dry up, if only to drive Tributes together.

Once underway again I go back over the first day of the Games. It was a day of firsts - the arena bombed, at least three dead before the gong, and all the Career boys dead by the end of the melee, which I'm sure none of the gamblers could have predicted. Technically, Senan's demise came after the first day had ended, but it's invariably the boys everyone puts their money behind in the beginning. This time, the longest-lived Career boy was the one nobody but himself was betting on, and of the two others who'd drawn any notice, one is dead and the other injured, perhaps seriously. A girl got the most opening kills, the Career pack is a trio of girls, and the remaining boys are either lamed or otherwise beneath the backing of those whose support can turn the tide.

I try to put together a count, but it makes no sense; can there really only be twelve of us left? Bannock, the Career girls, the boy from Six, and who else? The Careers killed someone last night after the count, and I got Senan. I try to piece together the faces in the sky last night. I go over it three times before I'm sure. We're only a day in, and already we're coming close to the final eight. Only three Districts have both Tributes, assuming the girl last night wasn't from Three or Eleven.

With that field, maybe our original plan could still have a shot. Maybe Bannock's injury wasn't that bad; if that backpack he carried away from the Cornucopia had a first aid kit, he might be doing okay. We're the highest-scoring Tributes left, with the only other boy who swept a ten having been blown to pieces before the gong. Even if Haymitch is conscious, the odds of me surviving alone aren't in my favour. He was so adamant about the target on my back rendering me a hopeless cause that I've little doubt he'll back an injured Bannock before me - but if we're together, he has to support us both.

Even if his injury isn't serious, Bannock isn't going to be fit for moving quickly, and probably can't cover much distance. He'll need cover and a source of water. I had both yesterday, but Bannock was headed in the opposite direction when he left the melee, and I think the sharp incline of those woods might have been a little beyond him. Wherever I might find him, it won't be here. To the north and the south of this ever-deepening rocky valley, sheer rock walls seem to be getting taller the further east I go. Even with my bow, I'm starting to feel both boxed in and exposed at the same time. Injured and without a long-range weapon? This place would be a tomb.

The first step to finding Bannock is getting out of this place. I'm fairly certain if I can get over the south wall I'll see the Cornucopia, but everywhere I look the cliff-face is a risky climb, with precious few handholds and a surface that looks almost polished. Even Seneca Crane would be disappointed if I were to kill myself in a fall.

After two hours of walking, I finally find a spot I might be able to scale. I'm examining a likely route when the sound of trickling water catches my attention, luckily just after I've drained the last of mine. I find a small, bubbling rock pool apparently fed by an underwater stream, return my drawn arrow to the quiver and set down my bow to grab my bottles and fill them up. The one I took from Senan is half the size of my own, but water is often the most precious commodity in the arena. It's also usually the first thing the Gamemakers take away when they want to force the final few Tributes together. All the food I can hunt is worthless if there's nothing to drink.

As I add the iodine, I wonder what this water means for Bannock. A lot of Hunger Games tend to place a large source of water near the Cornucopia, but I didn't notice anything like that yesterday. Instead I've stumbled onto two small sources with almost no searching. If the rest of the arena is like this, having something to drink won't be a problem, but the more plentiful these little streams are, the more places there are Bannock could hole up. The more options he has, the harder he'll be to find.

I drop the smaller bottle into my pack, and I'm just attaching the larger one to a strap when a blur of movement catches my eye. What I thought had just been part of a boulder starts to shift, and a mottled grey mass slowly unfurls and detaches itself from the whole. The first distinct shape I see is a cat-like paw the size of my head attached to a thick, sinewy leg.

My hunter's instincts kick in immediately. Careful not to make any sudden moves, I follow the animal's leg up the rest of its body. The 'cat' is as tall as a bear and almost as broad, covered in of mottled greys, browns and black; a perfect camouflage among the rocks. A squashed face that would simply be ugly on any normal cat is made absolutely terrifying by a pair of massive, protuberant teeth the length of my wrist jutting out from below the top lip.

The muttation - for it must certainly be one of the Capitol's lab-grown monstrosities - stares at me with eyes like nothing I've ever seen on a cat. The soft brown orbs look almost human, and as the mutt stretches to rouse itself from rest, they never leave mine, regarding me with a disturbing sort of calculation.

Not taking my eyes off of his, I search with my hand for my bow, and sling it over my shoulder very slowly. The mutt takes a step towards me, and my hand goes to the sheath on my belt, drawing one of the throwing knives I have there. My racing heart skips a beat when the mutt follows the movement. He has one paw in the pool, just outside of striking distance. On the rock, three sets of claws repeatedly click like impatient fingers drumming on a table as he watches the hand with the knife.

Out of nowhere I have to force down a fit of giggles, thinking of Bannock talking up my amazing archery skills and the lynx I brought down a while back. What he doesn't know was that the thing had been following me around for weeks, begging for scraps. When I'd finally decided his effect on game outweighed any potential benefit of having him around, he'd done nothing but stare stupidly at my drawn bow, not reacting at all until the arrow caught him in the throat. This cat's stare is anything but stupid, and if anything, it seems amused by my pathetic little knife.

'Catnip', Gale started to jeer when the lynx had taken to following me; the same name he'd mistakenly heard when he first caught me at his snares. The lynx had barely acknowledged him, but seemed to adore me.

"Nice kitty," I breathe, still inexplicably giddy at the prospect of this thing having me for dinner. Damn Gale; if I somehow manage to get out of this with my skin, I'm never shaking that stupid name.

The mutt cocks its head, watches me edge very slowly away.

Then it starts talking.

"Nice... kitty," it growls in a horrible, mewling voice, like some grotesque mix of a cat and an infant child.

The knife almost slips from between my sweaty fingers. I tighten my grip and bring the blade up between us. The mutt hisses, tensing and lowering its head. "Kat...niss."

We spring at the same time, the mutt leaping towards me while I scramble frantically away, shrieking as a clawed foot passes right in front of my eyes. Throwing up my hands in panic, it's sheer luck that I both avoid being slashed open and manage to hurt the cat. The knife is torn from my grip, stuck deep into its forepaw. It gives a furious shriek as it recoils, then another as it tries to set its paw down, and tumbles clumsily sideways, splashing down in the reddening pool.

I scramble to my feet and sprint the hundred or so feet to the rock wall, almost reaching it before the mutt is in pursuit. I hit the wall at a run, scrambling upwards with no regard for the bloody cuts my carelessness opens up on my hands as I dig into the small cracks and handholds. The heavy pack threatens to deposit me back on the valley floor, but I manage to hang on, hauling myself up to harder-to-reach spots by main strength.

"Katnisssss!" I look back to see the mutt tearing across the valley.

It closes the distance quickly, having apparently dislodged the knife from its paw. Reaching the cliff-face, it leaps a good six feet into the air and tries to run right up it. I've stalled in my climb, trying to find a place to grip to take me higher, and can only stare, frozen in terror as the beast starts snapping at my ankles, a deep red maw opening behind the enormous front teeth which brush against the soles of my feet as it tries to get a grip on me. It's the teeth that save me; a normal hunting cat would be able to grip my feet and pull me down, but from this angle the tusklike incisors are in the way, preventing it from getting a grip.

The mutt jerks its head wildly, trying to slash at me with the giant teeth. Still trying to find my next handhold, I pull my feet out of the way with another shriek. Desperate to reach me, the cat reaches further up the wall with its injured paw, slips, and gives a frantic shriek of its own as it falls. Its massive teeth gouge two long scratches in the wall, before the left tooth breaks with a sickening snap, and the mutt crashes back down to rocks below. The fall isn't much, certainly not enough to kill it, but it does seem to take a little fight out of it. It lies on the ground, mewling pitifully as I try to get a grip on myself and maintain my grip on the wall.

Wiping my bloody fingers on my jacket, I pull myself up and repeat the process with the other hand. I'm over the top in a little more than ten seconds, flat on my back, sobbing and gasping for breath before I remember the audience. Rich Capitolites don't throw their money at little girls who break down at the first brush with gruesome death by lab-grown monstrosity.

Furiously wiping the tears away, I take a deep breath and pounce to my feet, brandish my bow, nock an arrow and draw as I lean out over the drop.

The cat is gone.

I keep the bow drawn, scanning the entire visible length and breadth of the valley. The mutt may be able to hide among the rocks, but it should stand out clearly in the low grass that makes up most of the immediate landscape. Just a few seconds ago it was howling right below me; where could it have gone so quickly that I'd lose sight of it?

One awful possibility occurs to me. Maybe the cat is only grey and black and brown when it needs to be. Maybe the lunatics who bred it gave it the ability to camouflage in any surroundings.

Well, I'm not waiting around to find out. I'm up here, he's down there and I prefer to keep it that way. I return the arrow to the quiver, sling my bow and take off at a jog. Short of breath, with my sides hurting, I grab my canteen, then return it with a disgusted groan when I remember the iodine. It'll be almost thirty minutes before I can drink any of it.

After ten minutes of half-jogging, half staggering across an open plain with even less cover than the valley, I spy the Cornucopia in the distance. I'm at slightly higher ground, and though this place is even more sparse than the one I just left, at least it's not a prison. If the arena has any kind of defined borders, I'm sure I can see past many of them, and the only place I can't travel is the north, back to the valley and the cat.

To the northwest is the hillside forest where I spent the night, and I can see now that my fire obliterated everything from the peak to one hundred feet below in all directions, before the Gamemakers apparently decided to force a particular path on the destruction. The slope leading up from the Cornucopia is black and barren the entire way.

Directly south of the Cornucopia, what I guess to be a few hours walk, I can make out the fuzzy shapes of small buildings. I can't be sure, but they don't seem to be in good shape. A ruined village or small town, maybe. I prefer greenery. Anytime the Games drift into any kind of urban environment, things get messy. A lot of kids playing a deadly game of hide and seek in places with a lot of dark corners and too many places to hide, usually ending in the most brutal fights. One year a couple of Careers brought a building down on each other. One survived the initial destruction, only to slowly suffocate, screaming and begging for help until he couldn't.

So I'll avoid the south while I have a choice, and try to stick to more familiar environments, where the hiding places are more to my taste. Like the east, where Bannock was headed after the Cornucopia. The terrain is fairly flat, but it's mostly dense trees, occasionally separated by small patches of open field. Shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun, I make out what must be the shimmering of a good deal of water. Following at well as I can through the trees, I deduce that it's a river, running north to south, it's path coming from behind the rock valley - probably starting in the hills where I spent the night, before sharply turning away from the arena at some point, heading further east and out of sight.

Trees. Water. Where I find the two, odds are I'll find food. And it's in the right direction if I want to find Bannock.

But first I need to do something about my hands. The cuts and scrapes from my frantic climb are superficial, some barely breaking the skin, but I need to clean them up and bandage the ones that are bleeding. The Cornucopia's as good a place as any to do that, and while I'm there I can see if anything survived the fire.

It takes an hour or so to reach the Cornucopia, and the instant I'm there I collapse in a heap against it. The day is almost spent; between patching myself up, and a little scavenging, I'll be lucky to hit the nearest treeline by sunset.

I gratefully guzzle half a bottle of water while making my way around to the mouth of the Cornucopia. A river of that size is most likely the only source of water in my planned direction - the better to draw Tributes together - and barring any problems it'll be late morning or mid-afternoon when I get there. Parched though I am, I don't want to get careless with water. Who knows what will go wrong tomorrow - or what Crane will do next? With my luck, the river will be home to some new horror that knows my name and wants to eat me.

Once I'm inside, I know I can forget about scavenging. The girls were thorough; all that's left is the remains of a bunch of packs and containers, and scraps of metal in various stages of melting. This fire burned hot. Curiously, I place a hand against the Cornucopia wall. It's a little warm, even in the dimming light of early evening, and must have been absolutely blazing in yesterday's inferno. But the only damage is soot and a little scorching which I think is from everything else burning. It makes sense, I suppose. If ever there's a feast, it's always at the Cornucopia. They'd want it able to withstand a lot of punishment - and this isn't the first time it's been torched. The symbol of the Hunger Games being deliberately destroyed by those forced to play would be a powerful protest, and an embarrassment for the Gamemakers.

Of course, this year the Tributes did better than they would have even if they had managed to cause any real damage to the Cornucopia. Well done, Resa. My burning the woods added insult to injury, even if Crane was the one to turn my little protest fire into a full-on blaze. If I get out of here alive, Haymitch will murder me in my sleep.

I dig out the first aid kit, clean my hands with a medicated wipe and start examining the cuts. The worst damage is a partially torn fingernail, which hurts a lot more than I would expect from a little fingernail, but once it's cleaned - and I'm hissing and swearing from whatever they put on those wipes - I bandage it up and forget about it. It's on my left hand, which is good. If it were the same finger on the right, it might interfere with drawing the bow, or the bandage might get caught on the string.

Of the other cuts, I lightly wrap up two more. They probably didn't need it, but it's better to keep them clean, and the dressings won't get in my way.

I kick through the charred bits and pieces to make sure there's nothing useful, and take what I promise myself will be my last swig of water before morning, and set off to continue the search for my ally.

The last light of day is fading, and the timing for what happens next is just too perfect to be a coincidence. Just as I'm hitting the trees, a feral howl sends shivers down my spine, and I turn to find an enormous grey streak crossing what only seconds ago was an empty sea of green between the Cornucopia and the woods. Even on three paws, its speed is something to marvel at, but I don't have time for that.

I raise and draw my readied bow, sending an arrow arcing towards the cat. It's a perfect shot; right through the eye. Or would be, if the creature didn't seemingly slither right around the shaft without breaking its stride. I think I give it a haircut.

If it dodges a second shot I won't have time for a third, so I sling my bow and dart to the nearest tree, shimmying up the narrow trunk much more easily than I went up the wall. The cat tries to follow, but its injured paw seems to affect its climbing much more than its running, and it can't seem to pull itself up.

Giving up, the beast drops lightly to the ground and snarls at me. The instant I reach a branch to perch on, I grab my bow, draw a third arrow and loose. The beast hops aside, then bats contemptuously at the arrow where it sits sticking out of the ground.

Snarling myself now, I draw another arrow. The cat watches me through narrowed brown eyes, waiting.

Roaring in frustration, I return the arrow to the quiver, and the mutt rolls on it's back, paws in the air like some disgusting mockery of a housecat, giving off a series of wheezy mewls I'm sure is meant to be laughter. It's barely twenty feet away, and I can't so much as scratch it. I could waste every arrow I have up in this tree, which I'm sure is the point.

Throwing the bow over my shoulder, I make my way further up the tree in case the mutt decides to take another shot at climbing. Once I have a better view of the greenery around me, I start to get a bit more confident. The ground may be off-limits, but the trees here are packed together closely enough that getting around might not be impossible.

There are two trees near me that I might be able to make it to. I choose the slightly barer one; the one less likely to see me getting a stray branch in the eye and crashing down to the dinner table.

The branches on my current perch are thick and solid enough to give me a couple of steps, almost a run, to start off my jump. Making doubly sure my pack and bow are secure, and reasonably confident the weight won't drag me down, I rush forward before I can change my mind, launching myself forwards, catching a high branch and using my momentum to fling myself to a thick bough. It's a graceless landing, but I don't injure myself.

"Kaaatnissssss," a soft feline voice calls out mockingly. I don't need to look to know it's coming from directly below my new perch.

"Shut up," I growl.

Immediately scanning for my next move, I climb down a little, take a deep breath, and jump.

I continue this way, moving towards the river as much as possible. Every time I hit a new tree, it's with a careful eye on the next one; sometimes climbing higher, sometimes lower. The further I go into the thickening woods, the more options I have, but I also have to start planning my moves more carefully. More than once I find myself in a tree the mutt feels more confident in its ability to climb, and I have to start looking for trees without low boughs for him to reach. The thicker the trunk, the more it easily it seems able to use its back paws in aiding the climb.

Once it very nearly gets me, taking the tree in leaps and bounds and slashing at me as I scramble to reach my next launch point. The new branch cracks beneath my feet, threatening to deposit me right back down on the forest floor. I stumble, and fly right at the trunk, wrapping my arms gratefully around it even as all the breath is knocked out of my lungs and my ribs protest the impact. Looking back, I see the cat on my last perch. It takes a step further out, then retreats as that branch cracks too. Glaring at me, it turns and goes back to ground. I slump against the tree trunk, giving myself a chance to recover my breath and make sure I haven't really hurt myself before continuing.

I don't know how long this goes on. It's full dark by the time I give up. I haven't seen the cat in quite a while, and I sit in what I hope is a safe spot, trying to think of when I last heard it. My hands are raw, my legs are jelly, and the pain in my chest hasn't faded since a second accident. I think I might have bruised a couple of ribs, which isn't disastrous, but all these little injuries are going to add up if I'm not careful. And to top it off, at some point during all my scrambling I broke my promise about conserving my water, and now I wish I hadn't. Grasping my sore chest, I clamber into a more secure position, lying flat across a wide bough, sore hands rubbing my aching chest. My stomach joins in the protest, but I ignore it. Food is the only problem I don't have right now.

They'll be showing the death count soon. I'm actually sort of surprised they haven't already, but sometimes they'll delay it if there's an exciting enough reason to. I'm sure Catnip Everdeen has provided the Capitolites with plenty of entertainment tonight.

Sore and exhausted as I am, I almost miss the flash of silver flying past my face, and then I nearly fall out of my tree as I reach out to grab it. Grasping the small tin attached to the little silver parachute, I hold it up to the moonlight in sheer disbelief; Haymitch hasn't abandoned me after all.

Unscrewing the lid, I take a sniff of the thick cream within. It has a strong, minty smell. Lightly dipping a finger, I smear a little on my hand, and the relief is immediate. The cream is so cold it almost seems to burn, but as I rub it in the effect is actually quite pleasant, and the pain recedes rapidly.

I'm sure this is meant for my ribs, but a little seems to go a long way, so I take care of my hands first, removing all but one of the dressings from earlier. Once that's taken care of I secure my backpack, struggle out of my jacket and tunic and apply the cream liberally to my chest. The night is uncomfortably cool, and the cream makes it even more so, but I hardly care once the pain begins to fade.

Once the cream has more or less dried, I throw my tunic and jacket back on and lay back again, exhausted. This spot will do for the night. Turning my head, I'm trying to remind myself that I can't just nod off like this - no sleeping bag, not tied in - when I notice the glow.

The fire isn't far away; I would have spotted it a long time ago if I hadn't been so caught up in not being eaten. In fact, my first thought after wondering if it's Bannock is that whoever owns it should already have taken my place on the menu.

Grabbing my pack, I check the quiver and give a start – I'm down to four arrows. Gaping, I try to figure out how that happened. The melee; I shot the boy from Seven and never retrieved the arrow when Bannock sent me on my way. Three got destroyed; one while I was shortening the shafts, and two more while I was practicing. I fired one in the dark at the Career girls, and then had to flee the fire. And that damn cat cost me three more.

Furious with myself, I throw the pack onto my back. Chiding myself for wasting rabbit organs, and I've gone and thrown away precious arrows like they were nothing. I've had arrows break on me while hunting, but I've never just left one behind. Now here I am in the fight for my life, wasting my most precious resource.

Grumbling under my breath, I start looking around for the quickest way to the next tree, and feel sore again at the mere thought. Looking around below me, I can barely see the ground, let alone any dark grey monsters curled up at the trunk of my tree. Surely if it was still around, it would have turned its attention to the firestarter, and I would have heard it playing with its food.

There's always the possibility that Crane is controlling the creature well enough that it's ignoring other Tributes in favour of me, but right now I'm not sure the Capitol audience would let him away with that. He's been very clearly – at least, it's been clear to me – gunning for me from the beginning; my stubborn survival will not only have embarrassed him, but greatly benefitted me. Surely after my opening day, someone must have thought I had something to offer these Games. I twirl the medicine container between my fingers. This must have been a huge expense even this early on, and if I have supporters with enough money to send me medicine, how long will Crane pushing his vendetta really be tolerated?

I climb down slowly, stopping at the lowest bough, straining my eyes and ears for any sign of the cat. After a good minute or two, I climb the rest of the way, and nothing immediately devours me. Glancing in the direction of the fire, I'm surprised to see it's barely visible. Whoever was dumb enough to have a fire burning this late, they were at least smart enough to dig a pit. It only stood out to me from above.

Grasping my bow, I pick my way carefully towards the glow, dropping to a crawl when I'm maybe fifty feet out. As I approach, I slip behind a thicket and get a good look at them. In a well-covered little clearing, four figures sit around a hole in the ground, maybe two feet wide and a foot deep. It couldn't have been easy for any of them to dig into the hard earth with the small shovel lying next to the one girl in the group.

My heart sinks. The idea of someone putting in the kind of work to dig an actual pit for a fire out here had me hopeful, but none of those gathered around the fire is Bannock. The girl from Three is the only one whose name I can remember - Nova - and also the biggest among them, quite tall, but somewhere between skeletal and what some might generously call willowy. One of the boys, the only one who seems not to have starved most of his life, is maybe a head shorter than Nova. I think he's from Eleven. Then there's Nova's district partner, a bare inch taller than me with a pair of black-framed glasses perched on his nose, and a third boy I don't recognise. A little shorter than the boy from Eleven, but as skinny as Nova. I think he's from Five, or maybe Nine. Then I remember the boy from Five is dead. Nine, then.

This little group huddled around a fire might be the strangest thing I've seen since Resa's opener. Tributes banding together is nothing new, but it's almost exclusively Careers. Sometimes District partners will work together, but I don't think I've ever seen a pack like this. What's more, they're well-supplied and eating well. Every one of them has a pack, weapons and water, and the boy from Eleven is pouring soup from a pot over the fire into wooden bowls. That makes me blink. Bowls?

So it wasn't Senan or the Career pack who burned the Cornucopia; it was a baby pack. The Careers must have been in a big hurry to start their hunt after the melee ended. With only three of them, they couldn't leave anyone to guard the supplies, and they were cocky enough or stupid enough that they didn't bother destroying it all before they left. Why didn't Senan burn it after he went back? I dismiss that thought – of course he wouldn't think to do that. At any rate, making fire would probably have been beyond his abilities if he were in a fuel refinery with a sack full of matches. So this lot, quite possibly the youngest and smallest left in the whole arena besides myself, came back to grab whatever they could carry, and then they made sure nobody else could do the same.

They may not be very physical, but at least they're resourceful. And, I think, looking at the concealed fire, they have a brain or two between them.

They sip silently at the soup until the bowls are empty, and each gets a little bit more from the pot before it too runs dry. Once they're finished, Nova stands up unceremoniously and starts kicking piles of dirt into the pit, dousing the fire.

"I'll take first watch. Tock, I'll wake you in a couple of hours. Sleep while you can."

"They still haven't shown the recap," the boy from Eleven says apprehensively. "What are they waiting for?"

Nova shrugs. "Must be an exciting night. Maybe the Careers are about to pounce on Katniss."

"Or maybe she found them," the boy from Nine suggests with a strange sort of hopefulness in his voice.

"Maybe."

"Or maybe they're about to pounce on us," Eleven murmurs.

"Well, at least we won't die hungry. Get some sleep." Nova picks something out of her pack and walks to the far edge of the clearing.

The others all settle into their sleeping bags - they did very well indeed at the Cornucopia - and I give it to a count of a thousand, by which at least one of the boys is already snoring, before I move again. Crawling slowly away from my hiding spot, a slip around to a gap in the trees where I have a clear line of sight on all four of them. The moon in the cloudless sky makes it all too easy to pick my targets out of the darkness. Nova first, then all of the boys before any of them can even be out of their sleeping bags. Four targets; four arrows. No problem at all; no excuse not to take them out.

So why, ten full minutes later, have I not pulled a single arrow from my quiver?

I sit watching the sleeping bag I know to contain Tock, thinking of the odd excitement in his voice when he talked about me finding the Careers. Is that what they think of me? That I could somehow hunt down the fiercest competitors in the Games, and pick them off as easily as a bunch of turkeys?

Instead I'm sitting watching a bunch of sleeping babes, trying to convince myself to murder them while they dream.

I'm about to lose every sponsor I have. If I don't do this, the Games are over for me. Nobody backs a Tribute with a conscience. If I spare them, nobody will care what horrors Seneca Crane unleashes on me next.

If I kill them, I'm no better than Senan, Crane, or any other mutt stalking the arena.

Defeated, I throw my bow over my shoulder and approach the camp. Picking out a tree near where Tock sleeps, I climb slowly, checking every few seconds to be sure none of the boys stir, and that Nova still has her back to me.

I freeze in place when she does move, turning and moving to the other side of the clearing, staring fixedly out at the spot where, moments ago, I sat trying to talk myself into killing her.

I give it another few seconds and continue my climb, eventually finding a good place to tie myself in for the night. Nova spins at the noise of my fetching the rope from my pack, but she never looks up. I decide not to risk digging out the sleeping bag, instead just zipping my jacket up all the way and pulling the sleeves over my hands. One cold night won't kill me.

In the morning, I can either approach the baby pack, or follow them. They're bound to cross the paths of either the Careers or that thing from Six, as Bannock referred to him. If nothing else, they'll make good bait. And with a little luck, somebody will take the decision of their deaths out of my hands.

The anthem begins at last. Apparently they really were waiting for me to pick off the babies. Who will be more disappointed now; Crane or Haymitch? An hour ago I was a prime target for one and a solid bet for the other. Now Haymitch will either be scrambling to preserve a couple of sponsors or turning all his focus on Bannock. Now Crane can kill me with total impunity, but if he was counting on my putting on a show before I died, he knows now that won't happen.

Senan is first; an arrogant smirk under a mess of dirty blonde hair. Then the girl from Eleven, who the Career girls butchered last night.

I'm about to close my eyes when a final face appears in the sky, and my heart gives a horrified lurch. I sit bolt upright, gaping and trying to remember a cannon I never heard. It turns out my count earlier was wrong. There aren't twelve of us left; there are only eleven. And it looks like Haymitch won't be transferring his support to Bannock Mellark after all.