He finds himself at knifepoint, tackled to the ground with someone straddling him.
"Don't touch my patient."
The tip digs into his throat and he feels a trickle of warm blood begin to snake down towards his collar.
He wishes he'd had the foresight to grab a backpack before fleeing the cornucopia; maybe there would've been a flashlight and he could see who's about to kill him.
"What are you doing here?"
"Nothing," he says. "Let me go."
The knife moves, its blade tracing lazy circles on the skin of his throat. Even straining his eyes to the limit he can't see anything.
Of course his Games would be held during a new moon. Of course they would.
"You were going to kill her."
This is the Hunger Games, what do you expect I was going to -
His eyes widen, uselessly in the black. The knife the voice the "don't touch my patient" -
"You're the crazy one," he blurts. "The - oh god, please don't kill me," he says as the knife digs into a new spot on his neck.
"I'm a doctor, not a murderer," says the boy who scored the highest ever for his district, the scrawny little thing with the pretty blue eyes, the boy who is probably going to kill him. There's a sigh out of the darkness. "Or I was going to be. But now I don't think that's going to happen."