The final eight. So they are coming to visit my family now, trying to get an interview – only there is no family left, at least no one I would know about. Maybe they will talk to someone at the orphanage. My friends will keep their mouths shut, at least this is what I told them to do when they came to bid farewell. Not a word in front of any camera. They want to kill me for their amusement; so why should I let them dig through my past for the same reason? My life belongs to me and to no one else; especially not to the Capitol.

It's a pity the supplies are gone. However, if I give it second thoughts – maybe not so bad at all. With the careers deprived of their source of food, there is no more need to worry about what kind of fancy weapons some wealthy sponsor might send them... all they need is something to fill their stomach with. I don't have sponsors, but I have other sources. Fire girl for example. As long as there is game in the woods, there will be food to snatch in her proximity. And there is her ally, that 12-year-old squirrel digging up whatever edible root she can find.

The giant from 11 could be another source, but he keeps no stocks to steal from. Whatever he plucks, he eats right away, and he seems to be quite picky about the ears he takes – maybe because they are not all the same? Gamemakers have a long history of spiking a variety of tasty-looking things with deadly poison. Maybe he knows the right ones from home; they grow all kinds of stuff there.

I am almost sure I could figure it out if I watched him long enough, only watching him requires being close and being close is dangerous. He is no career, no one who would kill for the fun of it – however, he wants to see his home again and with only eight of us left any dead tribute means a great step forward.

Loverboy should be dead by now, was the last cannon his? I heard Cato boast about having cut him up more than once, and still he managed to stay alive somehow until recently. Maybe he scarred a tree, and mistook it for a tribute? Tracker jacker venom does strange things to the mind and its perception of reality. I have no clue how, but the whole career pack got stung badly some days ago. Two of them died in close succession... couldn't bear the stings?

Was it some clever trap? Must have been built by a true daredevil; getting anywhere close to such a nest makes those little beasts go berserk. I witnessed the removal of such a thing back home; years ago – the only thing that seems to help is fire. Soak the nest in fuel, then let it burn. Stay as far away as possible. And take care nothing else catches fire. The pest controllers of district 5 were not so lucky, the next time I saw the building it had lost half its roof. Fire is catching, indeed.

Are the stories true? That the capitol made them, to discourage rebel forces from hiding in the woods? The legends tell there were other mutts as well. Birds that could spy on secret meetings for example, delivering any single word to their masters in the Capitol. Well, at least these birds died out apparently – or maybe not? It is said they were all-male, and bred with female mockingbirds unintentionally creating the whole species of mockingjays. Quite a slap in the face of those in power, showing them that nature can't be tamed that easily.

Dusk is falling. I can already feel the chill creeping deep into my bones; it is time to get ready for the night. The gamemakers must be messing around with temperature, as the days are getting hotter and the nights colder. How do they do that, by the way? Controll the weather in such a large area? Luckily I managed to snatch a blanket from the career's stockpile on one of the visits I paid that pyramid before it came down – will that be enough?

The anthem blares up, and the face of the district 3 male shows up in the sky, followed by the boy from 10. I remember the latter for his bad leg, he made it far for someone unable to run away. Loverboy is still alive, and I have no clue where he might be hiding; He was with the pack when I last saw him, but he has somehow disappeared from there... I haven't caught a glimpse of him for days. Is he really wounded, as Cato insisted? Then he should certainly be dead by now. Or did he manage to sneak away? Careers can't be outrun that easily. Except if he created a good diversion, something like... a nest full of tracker jackers.

As I cuddle up under a bush inside my blanket, I take mental notes of what to do tomorrow: Check out the former career's camp; I am quite sure there will be something left for me. The air is cold as ice; I need to get my hands on a sleeping bag or something similar as well... unfortunately, there will be nothing like this at the clearing. Even a career can see how others would use it for their advantage, so whatever survived the blast will have been cut into pieces, or burnt, or maybe even booby-trapped when I arrive at the scene.

Steal it from someone? The careers will be on guard like never before, having experienced what happens to their things if they don't pay enough attention. That bear in the wheat field? He's got a tent, and maybe more – but he's not stupid. What looked to be somehow deformed on first sight was certainly done on purpose; he modified his shelter a little to prevent it from sticking out of the tall grass due to its height. Did he bend the poles with brute force? And if he is that clever, did he set up some traps as well? Or an early warning system?

The girls? I know they share a single sleeping bag; the only way to get it would be to eliminate them both. Have a look at their food. Take a tiny little bit for myself. And poison the rest. All their possessions would be mine. And the guilt of having killed a twelve-year-old girl.

No. I am not just a piece in their game. If I have to die in this arena, I want to die as myself and not as the killer of some child that has never done me anything wrong. There must be other solutions; different opportunities, and I will seize them when they arise.