Hitch woke up to the sound of frustrated grunting and metal against metal.

He bolted upright – you never woke up calmly or slowly in the arena – and found Moffitt working over one of the wire overshoes they'd found in their backpacks. He was pounding the wire with one of Hitch's axes, obviously trying to break it apart. For what end, Hitch couldn't see, but since District 3 was immersed in technology, Moffitt probably had some idea for the wire that was more useful than a wire overshoe.

Moffitt swore under his breath.

"Having fun?" Hitch asked, grinning.

Moffitt glanced up at him, tried to glare, and failed.

"We slept through the last draining. This wire has to be ready by the next time, or else it wouldn't do much good to sit around here any longer. Supplies are running low. We should get on the move as soon as possible," he finished, returning to the wire. One end had been slightly untwisted, but the job looked nearly impossible.

Hitch was sure that some, if not most, of the reason that Moffitt wanted to be on the move soon was because of the Gamemakers. A bunch of top-scored tributes sitting around, working on some technical plan wasn't interesting. Those same tributes running from mutts or fireballs was.

"How much longer do we have?" Hitch asked.

Moffitt didn't look up from the metal twists. "An hour or so, I should say. The water's at half level already. I've been watching it." He nodded toward the water, but his eyes and attention remained focused on the wire in his hands. Hitch decided it was probably best not to distract him with how time was ticking. But Moffitt didn't seem to mind being watched, so that's what he did. There was nothing better to do, since food was getting low – he wasn't really hungry anyway – and Troy was still asleep.

"This whole thing would be a lot easier if I had some pliers," Moffitt said. He was thinking aloud, and it gave Hitch an idea. He didn't know how many Capitol people would be up at this time in the morning – did they even sleep through the Games? Perhaps they had some kind of medicine that kept them going through the days – but it was worth a shot anyway.

Hitch stood up, dusted himself off, ran a hand through his hair to get rid of as much sand as he could and then stared up at the still hazy, blue-black sky. "Hear that, sponsors?" he said, loud and clear. "We need pliers for Moffitt's brilliant plan to work. Think you could send us some?"

A pause, and then he heard the short, sharp whistling sounds.

Silver flickered in the sky, seeming to appear from nowhere – which, in fact, it probably did – and gently drifted down to Hitch, taking on the shape of a tiny parachute as it came closer. He grabbed it as soon as it was within reach and unscrewed the plastic container that was hanging off the end. Sure enough, a pair of good, strong pliers lay on the black plastic inside. He pulled it out and tossed it to Moffitt.

Moffitt looked up at him and smiled. "Thanks." He got to work, attacking the wires, and it was obvious that he'd have it all laid out on the sand in ten minutes or less. Probably was working with pliers before his third birthday.

"Piece of cake," Hitch said and dropped back onto the sand. He drew the parachute and container closer to him. "Think we should keep this?" he asked, pushing it closer to Moffitt. "I know it's guided by remote, so maybe you could do something with it."

Moffitt shook his head, concentrating on the pliers. "You should thank your sponsors," he said absently.

Oh, yeah. That.

"Thank you, sponsors," he said, again loud and clear, giving the sky his most winning smile.

Troy stirred in his sleep, then sat up. "What was that?" he said, squinting up at Hitch, voice heavy and grainy from sleep. Hitch explained about the pliers, and Moffitt's plan, since Moffitt didn't seem to be in an information-sharing mood at the moment. All his attentions were focused on the wire, and he was sweating with a combination of the exertion – even with the pliers, it was hard to jerk the wires apart – and the swiftly rising sun.

"The waterhole's about ready," Moffitt said, untwisting the last bit of overshoe. "We'll all need to dig now." He pointed to a spot in the sand a few feet away from the waterhole. "About there, I should think." The wire now lay on the sand, in a mostly straight line, and Moffitt carried it with him as they went to the spot he'd pointed out. He patted the sand, and they got digging.

It took several frustrating minutes of digging until they hit Moffitt's objective – a thick metal pipe. Frustrating because the sand kept slipping back in and all they had to dig were their hands. Hitch considered asking for shovels, but he knew they'd be exorbitantly expensive, and he didn't want to push his luck with stuff they didn't actually need. Anyway, if the sponsors had half a brain – and he wasn't so sure they did – they'd be able to see the need for shovels and send them if they wished.

Evidently, they didn't wish.

"They aren't usually so obvious, of course," Moffitt said, gesturing to the pipe and speaking of the Gamemakers. "But these disappearing waterholes are a new development. They didn't have time to work out all the issues. Lucky for us," he added.

"I'll need a few minutes to get this right," he said. "Nothing you can do now but wait. You see, when electricity goes through his pipe to let the waterhole know it can go back on, these wires will fry the signal, and make it so that the waterhole will stay on permanently. Mixed signals, if you will." He used the pliers to wrap the wire tightly around the pipe.

Hitch hardly understood any of it, but he was more than willing to trust a tribute from District 3 over his own limited knowledge of technology. In just a few moments, Moffitt had the wire wrapped all around the section of pipe they'd managed to unearth, and as soon as he made the final adjustment, he jumped back. "Don't plan on getting electrocuted," he commented as he sat down by Hitch and Troy.

"How do you know this will work?" Troy said. He was still wary.

"Nothing's definite," Moffitt said, "but based on what I learned from my father's charts, and some know-how of my own, I'd say there's a good chance of this plan succeeding." He looked at Troy, as did Hitch.

"So that's all we're going on? Odds and ends." Troy shook his head. "Great."

Neither of the other two said anything in return.

A few minutes later, the waterhole began to fill with water. Hitch knew it was too soon to celebrate the success of Moffitt's plan, since the water would still have come whether or not it had worked, but he felt a quiver to hope run through him. If they had a permanent supply of water, at least some of their problems were over.

Once the hole was completely filled, Moffitt went to work, pushing all the sand they'd dug out back into place. "Wouldn't want anyone else to get the same idea, would we?" he asked rhetorically. "Now we need to get out here," he said. "Do some hunting, or else we won't be sitting here safe for much longer." He turned around and looked at the others. "We can bury the backpacks near here and just take the weapons."

Troy conceded. "Fine. We'll go."

He knew as well as any of them what dangers staying in one place could bring.

:::::

The absence of cold woke Tully.

First, he was aware of the sun. Its warmth touched him with a gentleness he hadn't felt in what seemed like weeks, and it eased over his chilled, stiff, pained body. Next came the pain. His shoulder still hurt – he had accepted that it probably would hurt for his duration in the arena – but his stomach was worse. Much worse. Evidently, enough poison had seeped into his blood stream before he threw it up, and now it burned with the intensity of a fire.

And, lastly, was the wakefulness pushing his eyes open again.

Another day in the arena.

He turned over to one side, and the next instant he was falling through the air.

The ground crunched painfully against his bad shoulder, pushing all the wind out of him in one shot. He was dazed, confused, still sleepy, and he wasn't even sure what had happened. The only thought going through his head was that the last thing he'd seen before he went to sleep was another tribute. Was he still here? Where was he? Where were any of them?

Tully scrambled to his feet, as fast as an aching body, wounded shoulder, and bad stomach would allow him. He felt better lying on the ground, but that wasn't an option. Because he'd caught a glimpse of that other tribute running towards him. Now he turned and saw the boy full-on. The tribute from District 6. He had a spear raised, and Tully knew.

He knew everything was over.

Then the spear crashed down on his head and everything went black.

:::::

Dietrich moved quickly, but calmly.

Taking the tracker out of his own arm had prepared him for what the boy he'd come across – from District 12, if he remembered correctly – would need. He'd already torn several strips off his jacket, in preparation for situations like this, and now he pulled a couple out. Then, he pulled the dagger out of his belt, hesitated for only a moment, and then, with one quick move, made the cut and tore out the boy's tracker.

It was better that he was unconscious.

Since the boy didn't make any gasps of pain, Dietrich felt compelled – however subconsciously – to do it for him. He closed his eyes for just a moment. He hated this. The whole thing. Sure, he was doing good, in a way, but if the Hunger Games had never been invented, there wouldn't be any need for this kind of thing. Then he shook his head and opened his eyes. He was here to save a tribute's life, not philosophize.

He was just about to bind up the wound, now gushing blood, when a sound caught his attention.

His senses on full alert, his eyes darted around in every direction.

And then he saw them, coming out from behind a dune. Not the Careers, but the other tribute pack. There were two Careers, who'd chosen not to join the others for some reason, and the boy from District 3. Dietrich hadn't seen anything of them since the Cornucopia, but he knew they could be dangerous.

All the more reason to help-

An arrow zinging past his head stopped his thoughts.

"That's Tully!" he heard one of the three shout, and they ran even faster. Dietrich thought fast. The shout had been more happy, relieved, and angry – against him – than a battle cry, which meant those tributes knew something of the kid from District 12. Perhaps he was even on their team and had somehow gotten separated. They'd take care of him, he was sure.

So he ran. Perhaps it was the coward's way out, but he was more help to other tributes this way.

Alive, not dead.

Another arrow brushed past him, so close he was sure that his hair would have a stripe running through it. He tripped on the sand, despite his overshoes, and turned around for an instant. The boy who had shouted was at Tully's side, kneeling down. The District 3 tribute had another arrow nocked and ready to fly. The last of the three, Troy, from District 2, was standing a few yards away from Tully, glaring at Dietrich.

He stared back for a moment, and then the District 3 boy released another arrow and he was off.

Running, always running.