Mr. Abernathy sleeps all night, moaning unintelligible words as he works off all the wine. There's absolutely nothing to do. I can barely keep my eyes open as Peeta treks silently through the woods and Katniss shifts fretfully in her sleep on the screens. All I have to listen to is the soft sound of the wind whistling through the arena mics and a few grunts here and there as a shrouded tribute stumbles in the darkness. Both of my players are being so boring that they've exhausted the love story and the Capitol has turned to a special on Thresh on live time.
They show him cutting long grasses with the stubby knife he managed to pilfer from the Cornucopia, coaxing real food out of the tangle of different colored stalks that sway in the breeze. Show him hunting large birds and scampering bunnies. He eats, he hunts, he eats. I don't know why they've chosen a special on this player until they cut to the real action. Thresh with his foot stuck in a pool of sinking sand, chased by a wild beast. Crushing waves threatening to wash him out into the murky, surprisingly deep pond in the heart of his field. A giant shark muttation chasing him out of the water as soon as he manages to claw himself to the surface of the water. He's really gotten the short end of the stick, I think as I watch him sew up gaping bite marks with a flimsy needle and course thread. The jagged, black lines closing up the wound on his legs remind me of the tribute dolls I used to play with when I was little. They came in complete sets for every Games, and I would run them through hell and back, narrating my own Games as I went. I wore my 59th Games set down to the threads, dragging them around utility tunnels and cutting them up in the tall pine trees in the hiking areas on the outskirts of the Capitol. My mother gave me needles and thread and I tried messily patching up their scrapes the same way the tributes did on screen.
Mr. Abernathy snorts loudly in his sleep and I wonder what he would think of my tribute sets. Would he like the mini 50th set version of himself, the one that sits in a glass case in my mother's house? The scent of stale sweat and liquor wash over me and I think, probably not.
Hours pass by, and I order food straight to Level 12. Noodles soaked in pork fat and mixed with exotic, mouthwatering spices. Turmeric and garam masala, just to name a few from my mother's pantry. Nothing that reminds me of the ocean. It's just nearing dawn again and my eyes are drooping so much I consider waking my Head Mentor. But then I remember his state and I think better on coming near him.
Peeta and the alliance are just returning to their base camp. Asher has set up all the tents and blankets around the fire for the other tributes, but he sleeps soundly under the rosy sky. All the tributes haphazardly stuff strips of dried meat and cheese crackers in their mouths before dropping off into a dead slumber. Except for Cato. He comes stomping up from the rear of the group, groaning and fuming over his empty list of kills for the night. He's so loud and so angry he draws a few players from their sleeping bags.
Glimmer places her hand on his shoulders and tries to calm his down. "We've got all the rest of our nights to look. And we know where at least one of them is," she says pointedly, thrusting her chin at the drop off to the left of the lake.
"It's not her! It's not that little miss oh-golly-I'm-in-love eleven!" Cato works himself into such a fury he kicks the lump curled up in Asher's sleeping bag. He seems a little more at ease when Asher lets out a yelp of surprise and pain, jerking out of his dream land to the hulking tribute standing over him.
"Cato, leave him alone. He hasn't done anything," Peeta says.
"I can do whatever the hell I want, no input from you, Lover Boy." He kicks Asher twice more in the stomach to emphasize his point. Peeta watches as the frail boy rolls over and moans, trying to inch away from Cato's heavy boot.
"He's still got the code to teach us. I'd treat someone with that much leverage over me with a little more respect if I was you."
Cato is instantly in front of Peeta, staring him down so forcefully their noses almost touch. "Watch it, Lover Boy. I can take you anytime I want." He shoves Peeta hard in the chest, knocking him over a few stray logs. Peeta is up in a flash, hand flying for his knife.
"Stop it! Just lay off, Cato. The both of you. Get some sleep," Anaya says, wedging herself in between the two tributes. Peeta still holds on to the handle of his knife, but Anaya and Cato don't even turn to look at him as they collapse into their tents.
"I'll take first watch," Peeta mutters as he eases his sore limbs down in front of the fire. But as the sky begins to transform from rosy-yellow to white-blue, his eyelids grow heavy. Every so often his eyes close and his head dips down, the time it takes him to snap awake growing longer and longer. Soon I begin to doze off as well. Everyone fun in the Capitol has gone to bed. There's not even any fun commentaries or tribute pieces playing anymore.
I find myself jolting awake to the soft murmur of a fill-in Games announcer. Peeta shoots up alert almost seconds after I do. The airtime screen pans over to a fiery-headed tribute sleuthing between boulders and bushes at the base-camp treeline. I immediately recognize her as Callide from District 5. She inches herself along towards the pile of food, taking silent, cautious steps. Peeta leans back against a log, his eyes slits as he waits for Callide to walk right into his domain.
As Callide saunters right over to the supply pyramid and starts picking for food, Peeta's plan for a surprise attack melts into yet another strange tactic I can't pick apart. He closes his eyes completely, letting the girl take whatever she wants! Like he's so weak, he can't even stop a tiny fourteen-year-old.
I guess the fill-in announcer has a different view of it, though. He carefully zooms the picture on Peeta's face, catching the slight smile playing across his lips. Says it's just one other hint marking Peeta closer to his distressed lover. Blah, blah, blah. No one will even pay attention to his words until Claudius reiterates them, after his nice, long nap at one of the plushest houses in the city.
I'm done with listening to this love story and I'm done watching tributes sleep while I have to stay awake. I flip my scanner screen closed with a bang and make lots of noise as I roll myself as far away as I can from Mr. Abernathy. He jumps up, his shoulders tensed tightly as he stares confusedly around the control room. I can see his thought process working slowly across his face, trying to break free from his post-drunken haze. His eyes settle on Katniss's screen for a moment, where she is rustily gathering up her things, her elbows and knees and neck grinding slowly like an old ungreased machine. Then he turns to me, a surprising amount of fury boiling in his eyes.
"Do you see this girl here? She's dying!" He's pacing again, throwing his hands toward the ceiling. "Do you know what you do when my girl is dying?" I shake my head slightly, recoiling in my chair. He's on me in a flash, filling the small space between us with the stink of dirt and grime. "You wake. Me. Up."
"Yes sir. I, of course—yes. I'll do that from now on."
Mr. Abernathy releases his grip on the arm rests of my chair and pushes himself up to his full height. "You make sure you do, boy. Make sure of it."
