Chapter Four

When I come to I can tell I was out for a long time. I'm on my back, looking up the trunk of a very tall tree, and I feel something cool and wet on my forehead. A relieved breath is released beside me and I jump into a sitting position.

"Whoa, calm down," says Ross, lowering me back to the ground. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to startle you."

I blink a few times and look around. I'm on unlevel ground, slightly tilted sideways, surrounded by thick emerald trees. I can barely see the sky through the canopy of green, but I can at least tell that it's still just as grey and gloomy as before. The ground is still solid rock with little spots of dull grass, but it doesn't feel like cool, rough stone beneath me. I lift my leg a bit and see that Ross had placed me on a blanket of leaves, dirt and grass that must have taken a long time to construct. He is kneeling at my side as he takes a damp rag of cloth from my lap and lays it back across my forehead. It must have fallen when I sat up so suddenly.

Then I realize something. How is the cloth wet? Did Ross use what was left in my bottle? Or did he find a source of water? And how did these trees get here? There wasn't a tree in sight before. My head is so confused that I don't even know how to start asking questions.

"What happened?" I say, more groggily than I feel. That seems to be the most basic question. Hopefully it will answer some of my others as well.

Ross clears his throat and begins to tell me. Apparently, my wound was deeper than I thought and started bleeding again during my encounter with him. I lost a lot of blood and hadn't had anything to eat or drink, so I unknowingly passed out. While I was unconscious, Ross carried me all the way to the mountain I was originally heading towards, and found there was a section of forest along one side. He thought trees were our best bet in terms of cover, so he trekked up the mountainside to this spot. He also discovered a small run-off pond at the bottom of the mountain, and refilled both of our water bottles. He cleaned my wound, used his undershirt and some soothing grass to wrap it, and put a damp tear of the cloth on my forehead for good measure. I'm starving as before, but my body isn't yearning for water. I see a half-empty bottle of water at my feet and assume Ross managed to coax some of it into me while I was out. And I don't mind any of this.

I realize I have sub-consciously decided to trust Ross. Why would he waste so much time and go to so much trouble to save me if he planned on killing me anyway? If he really wanted me dead he would have left me to drown in my own blood back in that bush. And it seems like he's not giving up on this, so what else can I do?

"Here," he says, handing me the half-full bottle. "You should drink something." I take the water from him and gladly take a few big gulps. The cool liquid feels good as it slides down my throat, and I have to force myself to put it down to stop from drinking too fast.

"Thank you," I say. They may be simple words, but they run much deeper than that. Though I'm thanking him for the water, I'm also trying to thank him for everything else. Coming to find me, not giving up on my attitude, saving my life. I know he understands by the way he stops to hold my gaze and smiles. And that's it. No dramatic expression of gratitude, crying thanks at his feet, asking how I could ever repay him. Just a simple 'thank you'. It's as if there's an unspoken understanding between us; nothing more need be said. That doesn't mean we're even, I'd have to save his life twice over before I could even consider that option, but I don't owe him anything.

I pick up the water bottle and sip on it until it's dry. Then Ross takes it to bring down to the pond to refill. Once he has disappeared I take a deep breath and begin to think. But then my thoughts go straight to Ross, his face, so I disregard the idea of thinking. Instead I look down and examine my bandage. He said he removed it, rinsed out the stains in the pond and replaced it, but I can see the blood fighting to reach the surface again. The good thing is that it doesn't hurt that much. I'm guessing it's because of the grass he put in on it. He said he remembers them from training, and that the instructor said they are supposed to prevent infection and reduce the pain of open wounds. I gently probe the area to see how sensitive to the touch it is, and wince. Not terrible, but enough. I wouldn't want to get into a fight with this.

Ross returns with full water bottles and instantly sees the look on my face. He comes and crouches by my side, putting his hands before my wound but not quite touching it. "What happened? Does it hurt?" he asks.

I smile and reply. "No, it's fine. I just wanted to see how bad it was, how much pressure it could take."

"Oh," says Ross. He places the bottles next to a tree, with my spear and knives, a little red backpack, a few strips of his shirt and a small pile of that healing grass.

"Where'd you get the backpack?" I ask. I didn't notice it before.

"Oh, while you were unconscious the other night another tribute came along. I got him with the spear and took his pack. He didn't have anything else on him, though."

I'm impressed. He says this in a very offhand way, and I get the feeling he's not just being cocky. I think he's a lot stronger than he looks, and a lot smarter, too. "Really?" I ask. "Who was it? What district, I mean?"

"Oh, I'm not sure. I don't know their faces very well," he says.

"Oh," I say. But he said the other night, not necessarily last night. How long was I out? "How long ago did you say this was?"

"Night before last, just after dark," he replies. "Why?"

Night before last? "How long was I unconscious?" I ask.

"Well… dawn was just breaking when I found you about two days ago. You were out cold for two whole days and nights," he says, just realizing how long that really is.

"What did I miss? Besides you killing that boy. How many people are still alive?"

"As of last night there were eleven left. Ten were killed in the bloodbath, two more the day after, and the boy I took out the night before last. We can be sure when night comes again; see if anyone else died today," he says grimly.

Being a tribute in the Hunger Games is not easy. Sometimes I feel like it's harder to live than die in the arena. You have to kill others to save yourself, turn on allies, watch people – kids – die. You have to be selfish to win. You have to operate on your own because you wouldn't dare trust anyone with your life at stake, focus on only your life, on keeping yourself alive at all costs, like you are the only threatened child that matters. You have to hurt a lot of people to do that. I don't think any tribute has ever made it out of the Hunger Games alive without causing multiple deaths. It's inevitable. You're either the smartest, the strongest, the sliest, or just lucky. But at some point, all of those traits require the death of all your fellow tributes. No one wins by being a sniveling coward who's afraid of blood and pointy objects. You win by being strong-minded, confident, brave and clever. Why don't we just tack that onto the end of the growing list of reasons why I probably won't win?

"Well, the less the better…I suppose," I say. It's hard to be happy about someone's death, though. Even if it means my survival. "Do you remember who's died so far?" I ask to change the subject. And I do want to know what I'm up against.

"I know that all but one of the Careers are still out there somewhere. The girl from District Two was killed in the bloodbath," says Ross. That's odd, usually the Careers are the ones you can count on surviving through at least the first few days. Alright, let's see…I remember the tributes from District 1. The girl was little and blonde and reminded me of a fairy the way she flitted about, but all the same she looked like someone to watch out for; her step was too light and quick to be unpracticed. The boy had loose brown hair and bulging muscles, and I know from his interview an ego of about the same size and a brain as big as a pea. I vaguely remember the tributes from 2. They both had dark hair and looked very serious, determined, but that's as much as I can gather. The pair from District 4 I partially remember. I can't quite bring up their faces in my mind or their personalities from their interviews. I can recall that they had very interesting outfits for their chariot ride. They wore translucent cloaks of blue and green that blew behind them in the wind, but they were stark naked underneath besides one shell to cover the boy's groin and two for the girl's breasts. The costumes have been sillier, though; one year the tributes from 4 had to balance full fish bowls on their heads.

"Anyone else?" I ask. Normally, the Careers are the biggest threat, but that doesn't mean I should count my other opponents out.

"Hmm…" Ross pauses, thinking. "Oh. The boy from 3…both from 5 and 6, the girl from 7…both from 9…the girl from 10, both from 11…and…the boy from 12. I think. I'm trying to picture the faces shown in the sky the past few nights to remember, and that's the best I can do."

Wow. I blow out. That's a lot to figure out. As he was naming the fallen tributes, though, I started carving who was left into a tree to keep track. I'll just scrape that layer of bark off when we leave here so no one else can use it as a guide. First on my list of survivors are the District 1 tributes and I think I remember the fairy-like girl's name being Marzipan, but the boy's I can't quite grasp. Then the boy from 2 with his solemn expression. The girl from 3. Both from 4, and somehow their names just came to mind; Rowan and Coral. The boy from 7, I remember his name because it made me laugh; Spruce. District 7 specializes in lumber and paper, or trees. Me and Ross. The boy from 10, who I remember was very little and very scared-looking. The girl from 12, who had dark hair and olive skin, but whose name I didn't quite catch. And that's all of them. All eleven. I have to kill each and every one of them if I want to win.

We spend the day not doing much of anything. Ross fixes my bandage, refills and purifies the water bottles when they're empty, attempts to make good conversation with me. He even tries killing a few rabbits and squirrels to eat. The squirrels are too fast and scurry away before he can get them, but the rabbits are slower and dimmer so he manages to spear one and catch and kill the other from behind. We have a good laugh over the second rabbit; it starts kicking Ross in the face and leaves a long scratch on his cheek as he tries to slit its throat. I try standing but only make it a few feet before I have to sit down again. Ross says the grass should be done with its work by tomorrow, and I can try walking and running some more. Just before night falls, Ross takes a box of matches from the little backpack and lights a fire. He impales the skinned rabbits with a stick and roasts them over the flames until they're thoroughly cooked, letting the juices drip into a curled leaf.

"Why don't you wait until it's dark to light a fire?" I ask. It would help us see in the night, ward off any unwelcome bugs, and keep us warm as the temperature sinks with the sun.

"I learned watching past Hunger Games that it's best to make a fire just before nightfall. Otherwise your opponents will know where you are, either by the light or the smoke," says Ross. He must have really studied this stuff. It makes sense, what he's saying, but I never would have known. Did he make sure to pay close attention to the Games, since they're a mandatory viewing anyway, just in case he ended up in the arena some day? I suppose it's a smart thing to do, because the odds are never really in anyone's favor. But it does seem a bit strange; most people can't stand to watch the Games, and the Capitol is usually the only exception.

But I don't question him. He rations the rabbit carefully, giving each of us half of one of them to eat. Then he wraps the rest in some leaves and puts it in his backpack. At first I'm a little hesitant to eat rabbit, but once I take a bite I realize that my body is so deprived of food it will take anything. I try to chew slowly, waiting a few second between each bite, but the juicy meat is gone in minutes. I noisily suck the juice off my fingers and lick my lips, savoring the flavor, completely forgetting all the manners my parents taught me. I can see Ross laughing out of the corner of my eye. "What?" I say defensively.

"So you liked it?" he asks, and begins chuckling again. I just roll my eyes and look away. But I'm embarrassed by my behavior, so I stop licking my fingers and try to be less improper.

When the sky has finished darkening the anthem plays and the Capitol's seal flashes above us. I mentally prepare myself to see the faces of the tributes who are no longer living. I can't avoid it now, that information is too important. But, to my surprise, no one shows in the sky tonight. The anthem plays and everything becomes dark again. I release a breath I didn't know I was holding and lay back down. The air is chilly and I'm shivering with cold, but we have no blankets or sleeping bags to keep us warm. Yet another thing I didn't think about when running from the Cornucopia. Ross patched up my suit with a sharpened twig as a needle and some thin leaf fibers as thread, and now it has a little more give to it, so I tuck my legs up to my chest inside of the fabric and let the legs of it deflate. Ross curls up beside the tree with our supplies but keeps his eyes wide open. "I'll take first watch," he says.

"What?" I ask.

"I'll stay awake the first half of the night while you get some sleep, then I'll wake you and you'll stay up so I can sleep until morning."

"Why? Can't we both just rest tonight?" I ask, still confused.

"It's too dangerous. Someone could come by and steal our supplies or slit out throats in our sleep. At least one of us has to be up at all times," says Ross, his face serious as as if it were set in stone.

And I take him seriously. But I wonder if that's something else he picked up from his Hunger Games observations. And for a split second I wonder if he could be my biggest opponent. Now or later. But I eternally banish the thought and simply say, "Okay."


Hey, how'd you like it? Good? Bad? Boring? Stupid? I sincerely hope it was the first. But, I won't know unless you tell me, so remember to review! It always makes my day when I get a good review, or even a critical one that helps improve my writing. So please do!

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