I'm not thinking straight, there's too much going on, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to die. We're all standing in a ring in front of a giant metal contraption that's supposed to represent a cornucopia, overflowing with gear and supplies, and in seconds they're going to set us free and watch us try to kill each other. The sponsor, the one who's supposed to be looking out for me, for Molly and me, said to run straight to the woods and try to survive, said that we don't have a chance, otherwise. Of course we don't have a chance, we're healers. Or, connected to the medical profession, at any rate. And our sponsor doesn't know it, but before the games, Molly and I swore to each other that we wouldn't kill anyone for winning, only for self-defense, if it came to that. Which, if we're going to die anyway, is a nice enough sentiment to die with.

And… and Molly's trying to get my attention, hello, what's that Molly?

Oh, him. She's pointing to Sherlock. His platform came up quite close to mine, with only one tribute between us. He's sitting there, with his eyes closed. I realize he's not going to try to survive, he's just going to sit quietly, waiting for someone to kill him, and it's really saddening; I look over at Molly, and she can see from my face I've noticed… but Molly, what do you want me to do?

Sherlock became a little popular before the games, and not in a good way. He's viewed this as a death sentence plain and simple from the start, and he's been ignoring every effort the Capitol's put out to get him to participate in anything that adds any semblance of public entertainment to it. He was completely silent for his whole interview, just glaring out at the audience with a look of absolute venom. When they came to take him away, the host told him, "May the odds ever be in your favor," and he spat out, "They're NOT."

Molly does something strange. She moves her hands, like she's… picking… something… up… she's nodding towards the woods, the direction where we've already decided, with looks and nods, we're going to run…. Molly, do you want us to pick up Sherlock and carry him into the woods? I point to her, then to me, then to Sherlock, with a pointed look.

She nods, then shakes her head and points to me.

Oh, alright, I'm supposed to pick up Sherlock and carry him into the woods. I'm closer.

I give her a blank look.

She looks at me like she's begging, and that's never been our relationship, and it makes me uncomfortable. I remember something she said, before they took us out here, after she scored abominably on her presentation of skills to the judges: "John, if they wanted to test my skills, they would have sent me into an arena where we can help each other. Not this."

And another thing she said, "John, when we die, no one will know who we were. We'll just be some kids."

I start to understand.

We really are going to die.

And Molly's still trying to do meaningful things with her life, to the last.

Maybe it doesn't matter whether we try to save the boy who's given up, in the long run, but maybe it's still worth doing.

Okay, Molly. I nod.

It's a bad idea, but then, so is this arena. If she wants this, I'm not going to be the one to take it away from her.

I'll get Sherlock.

The countdown ends, and everyone is running, towards the center, away from the center, towards the running tributes, away from the running tributes – everywhere. I'm running too. I can see Molly heading for the woods. Now I've reached Sherlock, now I've got him slung awkwardly over one shoulder, now I'm heading after Molly. He's taller than me – a lot of people are – but he's very light, and I realize he hasn't been stuffing himself with Capitol food like the rest of us. Of course. Has he eaten anything at all, voluntarily, since they called his name for the games, I wonder?

He barely reacted when he felt me grab him, and I realize now that he was expecting and accepting that I should kill him. But being picked up wasn't part of his plan, and he's resisting now, demanding to know what I'm doing, demanding to be put down, telling me indignantly that I have no reason whatsoever to carry him here or there, the point is to kill people, as if I'd made a mistake for not acting in accordance with his preconceived ideas of how things are going to go.

"Quiet, we'll talk when we get to the woods," I tell him. I'm sure a lot of people are watching me, though how many of those are tributes who want to kill me, and how many of those are Panem residents being entertained, I have no idea. What I do know is that his protests encourage more notice from both. But for all his silence before the games, I can't get him to shut up now.

"I'm not going to be quiet, you're supposed to kill me quickly and more or less humanely, of course I'm not going to cooperate if your sick mind comes up with torture instead, are you bloody stupid, the others want to kill you too, you should wait to get settled in, get a sense of the place, before you pick up victims to drag into the woods!"

"I said stop talking!" I snap. "I'm not going to torture you, we're going to keep you alive, Molly and me, because we don't think it's fair to just let you give up like that, now hold still, you're not going anywhere, not when you haven't been eating and I have."

He'd started to protest again, but apparently what I said about his going places or not must have struck him as a challenge, because he tells me yes, he is, and rolls sideways off my shoulder.

But suddenly Molly's there, already picking up his feet, yelling, "John, RUN," and now I've got his shoulders, and we somehow get him into the woods, over lots of thrashing and berating.

I am AMAZED that nobody got at us while we were fumbling. I wasn't paying attention to the others, but all this time I was expecting to be knifed or shot or strangled or…dead. Being alive right now is more luck than I ever would have dared hope for. I suppose the odds really must have been in our favor?

But when I glance back, briefly and only once, from the slightly relative safety of the trees, I'm not so sure it was luck. A lot of the tributes are dead, a disturbing number, more than any of our sponsors would have expected (how many must have said, "Your best chance is to run in for supplies"?). Standing by the cornucopia, alive, is a small group of kids, maybe four or five – Jim, Irene, and the frightening, too-tall kid from District 1 among them.

They're just standing there, watching Molly and me go, and I could almost swear Jim is smiling.

But with all the blood on his face, it's hard to tell.