Sixty.
Sixty seconds.
Any sooner, and he'll die. Any sooner, and the mines go off with the slightest touch. He might have a split-second as they leap out of the ground to get down, to maybe reduce it to just his arms and legs, but what would the point of that be? He'd die. He'd bleed out. No, he'd be finished off just so they could get credit for the kill. He doesn't know how the Capitol makes sure the tributes are dead, but he knows they're never wrong. And if they are, it doesn't matter, because they'll die anyway.
He's still got sixty seconds. The time seems to have stopped. Sixty seconds is all he'll get, sixty seconds is all he'll need. He's smart. He's got a sharp wit and intellect - he can come up with a plan. But so can that girl form District Nine, the one with the sadistic grin, the bony arms, and perky breasts. So can that big Career from District One. He's gonna be hard to get rid of.
He looks back to the Cornucopia. He thinks he sees a rifle. It's odd, he knows. They haven't given any tributes firearms since the year when the girl from District Seven shot a camera. But guns are his strong suit. He's a marksman. He can't operate a bow; he doesn't have the strength to pull back the drawstring; but he has a steady, cool hand, and the reflexes of a machine. You have to have reflexes in the factories. The pistons might crush your hands. You might get caught in an extruder. Any number of things. His older sister was killed when she missed a car muffler going by, but he supposed that didn't count since the equipment didn't kill her.
Still, sixty seconds. No more, no less. The countdown will start as soon as he touches that plate. Jump the gun, you die. Take too long, you'll still die.
He counts down. Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight...