Fire. Fire rains down around me. Pours out of the heavens. Breaks out of the ground. Oozes out of the trees.

It catches on the wind and flies about in sparks of dragon breath.

It rains down as pieces of bark and stone and metal and flesh.

It kills. It destroys. It renews.

And I am helpless.

All I can do is lie on the ground, motionless, my arms and legs and heart too numb to notice anything but how disturbingly beautiful this all is.

I've been in the arena too long. I'm going insane, I know I must be. A logical person would be terrified right now. But I'm not. Well, perhaps I am, but if I am then I'm at the point where terror turns into hysterical joy.

The blue heavens are complimented by the orange flames. The green grass is crying out brown scars.

And all around me are screams. But I do not hear them. My ears are numb from the explosion, and for the first time since I entered the arena, since I joined the Games, there is silence.

Beautiful, tragic, ear-splitting, soul-renewing silence.

And I drink it in. I spread my arms out wide in the grass that supports my body like a pillow. I close my eyes. And I smile.

I let the ashes soothe me like raindrops. I let the sweltering heat from the fire be a comforting hug. I let everything fade away . . . .

The Arena . . . it fades away.

The other tributes . . . they fade away.

My parents, my sister Harriet . . . they fade away . . . and then they come back and I feel a pang of something as I realize that they'll be watching this, they'll be watching the games, they'll see me lying here, giving up . . .

And then I remember him. And he does not fade away.

I bolt up as I remember his galactic-colored eyes and how they pleaded me not to leave him there alone.

And then I'm running.

Running, running, running, despite the agonizing pain in my leg that makes me laugh in hysteria as I jump through this bowl of fire.

I am running, running, running, despite the fact that I was about to die, that I should be dead, that I am dying.

I am running, running, running, into the flames, towards him, instead of running away and saving myself.

Dark masses litter the ground, but I don't look at them. I don't want to know what gruesome secrets they are-whether they are a toppled boulder or a bleeding tribute. It's not that I am trying to leave anyone that needs help . . . it's the fear that the Games have changed me. The fear that if I see someone in danger, I won't be able to help them. That I'll leave them to die, so that I will live.

My foot catches on something, and I topple over. I collide with the ground, but I don't notice the impact. All I notice is what I tripped over.

He is bloody. And he is filthy. And he is covered with ash. And he is motionless. And he is beautiful.

I've lost too much blood, and my skin is burned and scorched, and I know that I'm dying, and I can feel my soul leaving my body and beckoning it to follow into the next realm. But something heavy in my chest tells it no. Something heavy in my chest makes me get up and makes me drag myself over to his mess of curly black hair that's now covered in sweat and blood.

The flames are catching wind and growing larger, so I somehow manage to hoist him up and drag both of us away from their wrath.

There, where we are somewhat safe, I cradle him in my arms, letting my tears wash away the ash covering his face.

He is motionless. And soon I become motionless. And as we lay there, on the floor of the arena, letting the flames consume us, I remember.

The first words he said to me were "Water."

It was the first time we had ever spoken, and all I could say was, "What?"

"Water," he repeated. "Your eyes look like water."

I furrowed my brows. "But . . . my eyes aren't blue."

He shook his head, the messy mop of curls bouncing with the movement. "No. Not because of that. Color has nothing to do with it. Your eyes look like water, because they are vast and calm and beautiful."

I merely stared at him, breathless and wordless and touched (and kind of scared?-like I said, we'd never talked before).

He shook his head again, like he'd realized that was stupid, and said, "I just wanted to tell you that. You feel taken for granted sometimes, but don't let them get to you you. You are stronger than that."

And I remember staring into his eyes, wondering what he meant, wondering why he was telling me this, wondering how he knew that, wondering if he was crazy, and wondering what on earth color his eyes were. Were they purple, blue, grey, green, hazel?

And that was when I told him, "The night sky. Your eyes look like a galaxy."

And he smiled. And I smiled. And suddenly we were both smiling, two strangers who had never spoken before, and had gotten lost in the other one's eyes and in the process got lost in the other one's soul.

Well, that wasn't the last time we saw each other. We met every day, at the edge of the ocean, in a secluded place in District 4 where we could catch fish to feed our families. John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John. We were never apart.

I taught him how to fish, and he taught me how to deduce people; how to figure out their life stories just by the way they dressed or talked or moved.

I helped him. And he helped me. And we helped each other.

And then we got chosen.

Because it was a quarter quell. And there were two boys this year. And because he got reaped. And his brother got reaped. And because I volunteered for Sherlock. And because he volunteered for Mycroft; because he wouldn't let his brother die, and because he wouldn't let me go alone.

And then we were about to get split up, about to be sent into tubes and up into the arena. And I looked into his eyes, and he looked into mine, and I thought of the universe and he thought of water and it gave us enough strength to carry on.

Enough strength to survive for the first five days of the Hunger Games.

Enough strength to carry on without each other.

Enough strength to live.

And now, it will give us enough strength to survive this fire and the rest of the Games.

I open my eyes and gasp for breath. It feels like I'm opening my eyes for the very first time and the world is bright, glaring, jagged, terrifying, beautiful.

I can feel his weight on top of me, and feel him take a sharp breath too. His eyes flutter open and the ocean meets the solar system as our eyes lock.

I think of the universe.

And he thinks of water.

And it gives us strength.

We get up, despite whatever amount of life we have left in us, and we run. We run and jump and dance through these flames. The ground is bare of grass now, the trees are skeletons of ash, the very sky is burned grey with smoke. Everything is dead. But not us. We are alive, and we dance with Death itself in this strange music of Life.

We leap and we sprint and we survive.

His hand reaches for mine, and I grab it.

It gives me strength.

I squeeze my fingers around his. And it gives him strength.

And that is when I realize that this is what life is about. It is about reaching for whatever gives you the strength to move on, grab onto it, and give it that same strength in return.

I will keep surviving. No matter what it takes, we will survive.

I look at him. Our eyes meet.

I think of the universe.

He thinks of water.

And it gives us strength.