"Attention tributes." The voice of Claudius Templesmith purred over the forest. Cato stopped running, and held Clove back with a hand. "It has come to our attention that we did not welcome you to the arena very well."
"No shit," Clove muttered under her breath. Cato put a finger to his smirking lips.
"So we have prepared for you – a feast!"
Cato looked at Clove. Her eyes were cut. "We don't need to go, we're fine. We've got food, we've got sponsors."
"Now hold on," Claudius chuckled. "Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately."
They frowned at each other.
"Each of you will find something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance."
The aerial buzz that had accompanied Templesmith's announcement was once more resumed with the hum of heat. Cato sat down. Clove joined him on the ground.
"What do we need?" he asked.
"Nothing. Like I said, we're fine."
"No, we need something. Our last chance…"
"Okay, we don't need anything, and everyone knows it. Why are they calling us there?"
Cato snapped a stick in half and in half again. Clove was squinting into the distance, mind whirring. Cato reached into his pocket – might as well eat something, right?
"Wait, Cato, what if…"
She trailed off.
"What if what?"
"Okay, just go with this, yeah? We're fine. They know that. There's something in the backpack which is useful, but not necessary or anything. But that's not what we need desperately, see?"
"Nope, not following."
"There is only one thing we desperately need, Cato."
A look of dawning comprehension.
"Fire-girl dead. And she'll be there for whatever medicine Mellark needs. Shit, Clove, you're brilliant."
She smirked. "Note taken."