Chapter Twenty-Five

Mockingjays. That's the first thing I hear when I wake up, though it takes me a moment to identify the sound. All the times I've heard them before, they've been repeating the rhythmic beat of pickaxes from District Two's stone mines. These mockingjays chirp, mimicking birds and animals both strange and familiar. The cacophony twists through the air like real music. The capillaries in my eyelids glow orange as sunlight slants across my face. Morning, I think, and for the first time in months, I feel rested, even energized. But the sun seems too high, and even through my eyelids, the light makes my eyes sting. I overslept.

I linger in my half-awake state a moment more before opening my eyes. The sun hovers directly above me, a gold saucer in a sea of blue, undisturbed by clouds.

"Morning, Cato."

I sit up, looking up at Glimmer. "Morning."

She smiles and hands me a canteen. I unscrew the cap, then pause. Discreetly, I sniff the contents. It smells like regular water, but what if Glimmer poisoned it? She had her tribute token confiscated because it contained a poison barb. And while water is valuable in the arena, taking out a grave threat at the expense of one canteen would be a decent trade-off. "Here, keep it. We should conserve our water in case we have trouble finding another source."

Her smile falters, but she takes the canteen back, slinging it over her shoulder. "Marvel started a campfire, if you're willing to use up some of our water and dry rations for breakfast."

I shrug. I'm not particularly worried about the campfire. Who, except for us, would be hunting today? People run from us—only an idiot would prey on a group our size. It'll be different once our numbers go down. When the other survivors start growing confident in their ability to win, whoever remains of our alliance will have trouble keeping them away. But for the moment, we're safe from all but the stealthiest tributes.

"Have Remora tally up our supplies. We have to make sure we have enough for another day of hunting."

"Sure." Glimmer walks away to relay the message, hips swinging despite the bumpy ground. There's nothing predatory about her gait—sneaking isn't her thing, apparently—but her hips sway gracefully, like those of a model.

"Cato."

I jump at Clove's voice, then glare at her. "What?"

"I went scouting this morning," she said, her voice neutral, as if she's giving me some kind of status report. "If we keep heading this way, we've got at least two miles of forest to hike through. And this far from the Cornucopia, the others are going to be desperate for water."

"You think there's a river or a pond nearby," I deduce, nodding.

"Yes. You . . . already guessed that."

I shrug. "It crossed my mind, yeah." While I'm not pleased that Clove went scouting alone, her information will help. If heading straight ahead isn't going to bring us to any landmarks, then we'll need to head in some other direction. I cross my legs, resting my elbow on my knee and my chin on my fist. The mockingjays keep chirping over my head. Their voices sound almost human now. They aren't speaking, in the technical sense, but the syllables they string together are recognizably human. They're probably picking up on our conversations and trying to mimic us. "We should head perpendicular to the path we traveled yesterday. We'll probably hit a river at some point."

"I think so, too." Clove frowns, cocking her head to the side. "You're . . . smarter than I thought."

I throw her a withering look. "Yeah. I noticed."

She crosses her arms in front of her chest, working her lower lip between her teeth as she shifts her weight between her feet. Her eyes, as green as the leaves above, flicker around the clearing. "Hey, Cato . . . I wanted to apologize."

My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. "For what?" I ask.

Her face pinches together in frustration, as if I'm at fault for not understanding. She nudges a pile of dirt with her toe, staring at the ground. "I made you look weak after you stabbed the District Eight girl. I argued when I should've stood by you."

"Oh." My eyebrows knit together. I haven't really thought about that night much. Of course, with everyone accusing me of not being able to finish the job, I should probably be worrying about sponsors. The fact that I didn't kill the other girl quick and clean makes me look incompetent, something that the rest of my alliance eagerly pointed out to me when her cannon didn't go off.

But now that I'm thinking about it, I realize I have yet to receive any sponsor gifts. Not that I need them now—I'm sure Brutus and Enobaria are waiting for a dire situation. But still, the fact that I've received nothing is a little disconcerting. It's probably that District Twelve girl. My lips slide into a frown. With that star-crossed lovers crap, plus her training score, her sponsors will be raining gifts down on her.

"You aren't saying anything," Clove says after a minute.

"Oh. I, uh, forgive you." I look up, wondering if she'll go away now. Her expression doesn't change, but there's something brewing beneath that calm facade. Something that makes my lungs shrivel up inside. "Was there any other reason you wanted to talk to me?"

"No," she says, turning her face away.

"You have a sunburn," I say, noting the mottled red flesh of her neck. The color seems to brighten even as I look at it, until her skin almost seems to be glowing. I glance around. "I think Loverboy had some aloe in his backpack. That should alleviate the worst of the burn."

She shakes her head, stepping back. "I'm all right." She glances over her shoulder. "I'm going to go help Marvel make breakfast."

Before I can even respond, she's on the other side of the clearing, hovering over Marvel's shoulder. As if she couldn't wait to get away from me.

I stand and walk over to the tents the others set up last night. Though the weather outside had been relatively comfortable, most of the others retreated into the tents to sleep. My trainers often took me out to the middle of nowhere and told me to survive for a couple days until they came to pick me up, so sleeping on the ground's not a new thing for me. It could've been worse—my trainers could've sent me out without supplies, without food. But they never did. I'm a Career. No matter who my competition is, sponsors will support me. I don't need to worry about food like the other tributes do.

I spend the next ten minutes helping Loverboy tear down the tents. Peeta says nothing, only looks up gratefully when I start dismantling one tent from the opposite side. Regardless of how much the others look to me for guidance, I have to give the impression that I'm contributing to the team. Besides, taking down tents is easy work.

Destruction is always easier than construction.

"Hey, Cato," Peeta says after a moment.

I glance up at my name. And since I've had a relatively pleasant morning, I don't even sound impatient when I respond. "Yes?"

"I've been thinking about Katniss a lot."

Really? He's going to pester me about his nonexistent love life? "Yeah? And?"

"I think she'd make a good team member."

"We have too many people in our alliance already. Unless you plan on thinning out the flock." I raise one eyebrow, daring him to agree.

Something flashes through his eyes, reminiscent of anger, but without the edge. It takes me a moment to identify the look in his eyes as loathing. "She . . . She'd be a good ally. I think you should consider it."

Of course she'd be a good ally, I think. She scored an eleven. "Look, Loverboy, you're not in charge here. You don't have any power over me. Your opinion—" I sneer the word. "—doesn't matter to me. So unless you want me to shove my sword through your heart, forget it."

He says nothing more as he slides the dismantled tent back into the cloth sleeves it came from. I shove a bundle of synthetic cloth into his hands. "Take care of this."

Peeta simply bows his head and takes the cloth. I walk over to the campfire Marvel set up a while ago, noting with approval that he and Clove have successfully started a pot of soup using one of the packets of dried food we found in the Cornucopia. "Hey, Loverboy," I shout over my shoulder, not really caring if he's busy. "Bring some bowls over here. It's time to eat."

To his credit, Peeta doesn't grumble. Within ten minutes, the soup is done and we're filling our stomachs. Despite being dried and processed, it's not bad. A little grainy, though. Not fully integrated with the water the others used to cook it. Conserving liquid, I suspect. Which is wise, considering that if we don't find another water source soon, we could die of dehydration.

When we finish eating and tearing down camp, I give the order to head out. Everyone gathers up their bags, already used to the rigors of hunting. That's the nice thing about aligning with other Careers: we're tough. Even Clove, fifteen-years-old and scrawny, can carry over half her body weight with ease. We're the elite. The best. The Careers.

Nodding once to Clove, I take a path perpendicular to our original route, hoping to find water that way.

And within half an hour, one of the other tributes finds us.