Mutt bodies littered the ground, but all the live animals had vanished. The sand shifted a moment later and the bodies disappeared, but not before Moffitt grabbed one – much as he hated to – and gripped it hard as he could. He couldn't let the Gamemakers take away all the bodies. He wanted one to show Troy, to prove to him that he and Tully were-

Tully.

Even though Moffitt wanted to drop on the sand and sleep away the tautness of his nerves and the way his entire body trembled, he had to check on Tully first. It only took a moment's turn to see him. He was sitting on the sand, a dazed expression on his face. Probably in shock, Moffitt thought. It's a wonder he hadn't gone into shock before this.

But the next thing he knew, Tully was crumpling onto the sand, slumping over, blood all over his side. What Moffitt had originally thought was just some blood from a wounded mutt was Tully's blood and Moffitt could see the mutt bite without having to clean any of the blood away. If it had been a regular jackal bite, perhaps he could've fixed Tully up.

But the bite was already starting to fester and turn black with infection.

Mutt bites were fatal. Always.

He didn't even have any medical supplies. If Hitch had been there, he could've gotten something from the sponsors. He always knew how to play them just right, and perhaps there was some life-saving medicine in the Capitol that he could've given to Tully. But, no, they'd gone away to look for a battle when the real danger was right at their camp.

Anger boiled inside him, dangerously near the top, but he doused the flames.

It was nobody's fault. Nobody but the Capitol.

He set to work making Tully as comfortable as possible. Used both blankets, gave him some water, cleaned and bandaged the bite, even if it was hopeless. There was nothing to do but sit and stay and wait.

:::::

Tully had no idea where he was. Or, for that matter, who the tribute bending over him was. The last hours had been a blur of falling off trees, being attacked, and fighting off mutts. There was a hot, heavy pain in his right side that blocked out all sound and the pain from his shoulder and arm. Oh, the pain was still there, but it just didn't matter anymore.

Water splashed on his face, and he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the same tribute with black hair and a kind face and blood-stained hands was right above him. "Did-?" His voice came out painful and rough, and whenever he breathed, pain shot through his side. "Did they go?" he asked, biting the inside of his cheek against the pain.

He tasted blood.

The tribute half-smiled. "Yes. The mutts are gone. Thanks for watching my back."

If Tully had been standing, he would've shrugged. As it was, any shoulder movements would rip pain through him again and he didn't want to feel it again. Not for a long time. So raised one eyebrow, but even that bit of effort almost overcame him. He was weakening fast and he didn't know why. Probably something to do with the bite on his side. He vaguely remembered getting it from one of the mutts.

"I didn't...know what was going on," he managed. "Just found my knife. Fought my way out."

The tribute nodded and patted his shoulder. "I'll get some more water." Tully wanted to warn him that the water was poison, that it wasn't safe to drink. Maybe not even safe to touch. But his throat felt as though it had closed up. The tribute must have seen him struggling to speak, and he said, "Don't talk anymore now. You'll wear yourself out."

Tully was already as worn out as the old piece of rubbery leather he used for a slingshot back home, but he didn't feel like saying anything else. It wasn't all that important anyway. All he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep and forget the pain and the mutts that he was sure still lurked somewhere and the arena.

And that's what he did.

:::::

Moffitt was soaking a strip of torn cloth for his patient when the cannon went off. He jerked up and crawled over the sand to Tully. With hands that trembled – from what, he didn't know; sadness, fear at being left alone, pain? – he pressed his fingers on Tully's neck.

Nothing.

A deep, dark heaviness filled him, and he laid his right hand on the dead tribute's chest.

The hovercraft crew would want to remove the body as soon as possible, but he didn't want to let it go. He'd known the boy for only a few hours, but his courage and wounded condition had worked their way into his heart and mind, no matter how much he'd fought against it. Becoming attached to anyone in the arena was just an invitation for heartbreak.

And he'd fallen for it.

At least it made for a good show. That's all that mattered, wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

He knew his thoughts on the question, but if he lost control and started screaming out his thoughts in the arena, a mutt or fireball would be dispatched right away to get rid of him. Perhaps he shouldn't have cared, but he did. He did. Sorrow and rage filled him so full that he didn't know how he would continue on. Sorrow at losing an ally, if not a friend. And anger against the people that would perpetrate this kind of thing.

He stood up.

Immediately, a hovercraft materialized and a few seconds later, all evidence that there'd been a tribute by the name of Tully Pettigrew in the arena was gone.