Chapter 17
Everything is still except for the bubbling foam in Sprig's mouth. I feel nauseous again, but my stomach is empty. All I can do is murmur a soft, "Oh my God."
Heather is the first one to recover. She spits out a disgusted, "What the hell was that?"
"Poison?" I guess.
A startled looking Foster asks, "What did we eat last?"
"We haven't eaten yet today," I tell him. "Remember, we were about to collect some plants before."
"Right. Well, maybe something bit him?" Foster adds.
"When did something have time to?" Heather asks.
Rory cautiously kneels back beside Sprig. I want to pull him back into my side, but he has a determined look on his face that keeps me quiet. Instead I busy my hands by cupping my elbow to support my newly reset arm.
"Don't touch him, kid," Foster warns Rory. "You could get infected."
Rory slides his hand into his fleece pocket and uses it as a glove while he feels around to inspect the wound on Sprig's chest. After a minute, he spots something and he leans in to peer closer.
"What do you see?" I blurt out anxiously.
Using his forefinger and thumb through the pocket's lining, Rory pulls out a long, thin cylindrical object from Sprig's chest.
"What is that?" Heather asks, crawling back to Sprig to get a closer look.
"Is it a needle?" I ask next.
Rory shakes his head, looking at the object in befuddlement. Heather pulls the bottom of her overshirt over her hand and takes it from Rory's outstretched hand. Heather inspects it, wiping the blood off of it to reveal a dark, gray color.
"I think it's a file," Heather tells us. She points at its end point. "It looks like it's been shaved down to be sharper."
I recall Gusto slamming Sprig to the ground during the fight. He had pushed him right at his chest.
"Gusto must have stabbed him and Sp-he didn't notice in all the commotion," I tell the others, embarrassed at myself for stuttering over Sprig's name.
"But would that kill him? It wouldn't make him foam up at the mouth," Heather points out.
"It would if it was dipped in poison. If he stabbed him right by the heart, he'd get poison in the bloodstream and it spread out through the body quickly." Foster tells us.
I feel awful, standing above Sprig's body and talking about him as if he wasn't alive minutes ago. I don't want to be here anymore.
"We should get moving. They will want to collect the bodies soon," I say to the others.
We are all quiet again as we start packing up our campsite. Foster and I awkwardly rifle through Sprig's pack and divide his share of the supplies between us.
Heather finds her lost knife from the ground and stops beside Opaline's body. Heather grabs Opaline's knife and examines it. She gives it a satisfied nod and brings it over to the rest of our items.
"You wanna keep that?" Foster asks her, nodding at the blade.
Heather smiles. "Oh yeah. It's nice. It's a tanto blade and all of ours are straight backs. Gives us some variety."
We all each get at least one knife now, which I will admit does make me feel more secure. But I feel a little disappointed that we gained a fifth knife right as we lost Sprig.
Foster declares I need to keep my arm rested to help it heal. With little options, I create a makeshift sling for my arm with the non-bloody remnants of Sprig's jacket. I struggle to remove it with one hand, so Rory quietly helps me. Heather can't do anything for her sore ribs for now and decides she will bind them once we settle at our next camp.
Foster is kind enough to carry my pack for me. I appreciate it, because of course we come across a patch of rocks that are particularly difficult to climb. With an embarrassing amount of help from the others, I manage to hoist myself over the ridge. We set up camp once we decide we are a decent enough distance from any boulders that could roll down on us.
I can't believe it's only been a couple days since the avalanche. Only a couple days ago, Paisley was still with us. Sprig was alive just a few hours ago. Now they are both gone.
Before I can stop myself, I am thinking about that first day in training, when Sprig talked to me. He had been genuine and friendly, not sizing up an easy kill like the other tributes.
I feel tears welling up in my eyes and soon they are running down my face. I am the type of cryer whose eyes fill up and then the tears flow like a faucet. There's no stopping them once they start but they are quiet. So I sit and rest my head in my uninjured hand, hiding my face. Then I let myself miss Sprig and Paisley as I cry.
When my tears have calmed down, I wipe my face with the sleeve of my fleece. I start fiddling with my sling, hoping that the others will think I am just reacting my arm.
We are all exhausted from the day and no one feels like doing anything. Heather binds her ribs by using her overshirt, instead just wearing her tank and fleece. We don't feel like preparing dinner either so we munch on the leftover plants. No one mentions that we have enough food to share with one less mouth to feed.
The pain in my arm has worsened today. I try to hide my discomfort as much as possible, carrying supplies around and keeping pace with the others. The last thing I need is for Heather to think I am too damaged and decide to crush my skull.
God, these Games are making my sense of humor so morbid.
I keep my makeshift sling on while we walk together but I remove it once we stop and start to make camp. I pull on my ponytail to tighten it. It loosened up last night but I can't lift my arm above my shoulders to properly fix it. I let it down and redo it at the base of my neck, using the rest of my pain tolerance to wrap my ribbon tightly around the hairband.
We are all starving since we barely ate yesterday. Rory collects plants for dinner again. As we eat, Heather makes an offhand mention of trying to hunt again soon. As she continues, she is interrupted by the cannon. We all look up instinctively but nothing happens.
"It was probably the District Four girl. She didn't look too good," Heather points out. I recall Hali stumbling away from our fight, her hands grasping her bleeding abdomen.
Foster looks uncomfortable as he silently returns to his food.
That night, the anthem confirms Heather's guess as Hali lights up the sky.
I am paired with Heather for the first watch that night. She keeps glancing up at the stars, as if she is expecting the anthem to play again.
Before I realize it, I am asking Heather, "Are you thinking about your cousin?"
She looks surprised but nods. I tell her comfortingly, "He must be really good to have made it this far."
"He's a fighter. I'm not surprised." She sounds more confident than she looks. She darts a glance at me and adds, "Nana would be angry if we didn't fight our hardest to come home."
"She's both of your guys' grandmother?"
She smirks, looking nostalgic. "The only thing more terrifying than the Games is our Nana. She'd make President Snow piss himself."
I bite my lip, holding back a surprised laugh. There is no way the Capitol aired that bit on TV.
"Nana told us that you can only lose if you fight to win. If you don't fight you're not a loser-you're a quitter." Heather stares up at the sky again. "Losing the Games is one thing, disappointing Nana is another."
"My Papa always told me something similar," I tell her, smiling at the thought. "Once you've made the decision, don't hesitate. Do it."
"That's a good one."
"It's kind of been this mantra that's been going through my head throughout the Games."
Heather is giving me a contemplative look. "That makes a bit of sense, looking back on everything."
"I don't know how much it's helped me but…" I shrug and gesture to myself as if to say, 'Here I am'.
"You know, I thought you'd be too soft to rough it out here," Heather says, still regarding me. "But you're not as soft as you look."
I think she means that as a complement, so I take it as one. We are quiet the rest of the night and I try not to think that in order for Rory to win, neither of Nana's grandchildren can come home.
We don't journey very far the next day in order to have more time to hunt for food. We trek uphill for only an hour and a half before making camp. Shortly after setting up, Foster and Heather head off together to try to hunt, leaving me alone with Rory.
I kick the ground dejectedly. It is more uncomfortable and rocky than our previous campsite as the forest is thinning out the higher we go.
A few feet away, Rory clears his throat loudly. Then he coughs. Then he wheezes.
"Rory? Are you okay?" I ask him, walking over to him.
With another harsh cough, Rory's mouth opens and blood starts dribbling onto his lips.
Panic hits me as I recall Sprig's foaming mouth. I drop to my knees beside him, grabbing his shoulder worriedly.
"What's happening? Do you feel sick?"
"No it's not that." Rory says, feeling his mouth with his hand. "I don't feel any different. I just…"
Rory trails off and sticks his finger in his mouth. He feels around and finds what he was looking for.
"I think it's…" He trails off again. He reaches his thumb in and feels around again. With tug, out comes a tooth.
Rory sighs. "I felt it come loose when we were all fighting yesterday."
I am so deeply relieved. I realize I have been holding my breath and force myself to exhale and keep breathing.
Rory's mouth is bright red and his teeth are covered with remnants of blood. He chugs some water and his mouth is clear enough for me to inspect his teeth.
"Hmm. It looks like you chipped a couple more," I tell him, noticing jagged edges by the empty spot. Rory nods as I lean back to sit on the ground. The patch is especially rocky but I hide my discomfort.
Rory peers at his tooth and grimaces. "Aww man! It's an adult tooth!"
He pouts and I am reminded again of how young he is. I realize how quiet he has been the last couple days, not his usual chipper self.
"Rory, are you feeling okay?"
He rolls his eyes. "It's just a tooth, Madge."
"No, I mean, how are you feeling? You've just seemed a little different."
"What? I mean, I'm fine." Rory says quickly. His eyes dart at me and then away and I know he knows what I'm talking about.
"Rory," I prod, "You can tell me."
He looks ready to deny me again but I just look at him, keeping my expression neutral. He sighs, his shoulders dropping. When he glances back at me, his eyes are so sad.
"Sprig and Paisley are gone," he murmurs, "And you…you were so close."
"Come here, Rory," I say.
I expect Rory to shrug me off and pretend he's too tough for my affection. But, to my surprise, he comes to me, resting his head on my good shoulder. I pet his hair soothingly and try to think of something else for us to talk about.
"Only six of us left, you know. That means they're probably interviewing everyone back home again."
That makes Rory smile. No doubt he is remembering the havoc that was the Capitol descending on District 12 last year. I want to keep Rory smiling so I add, "I doubt you remember my interview."
As I hoped, Rory laughs.
As a friend of both Katniss and Peeta, I became a target for the interviewers, especially when most of Peeta's family were less than cooperative. My interview was not noteworthy aside from my awful frozen deer look, the one our mentors and Effie had tried so hard to rid me of.
Rory and I start thinking of who they will be interviewing this time. There are obvious choices like our families, but silly guesses too like Greasy Sae or a man from the Seam named Mr. Mason who is constantly complaining to Hazelle that her kids are too loud.
Then I point out that everyone we mention might get interviewed for sure now, so he starts thinking up ridiculous choices like Rooba the butcher. Honestly, I would love to see someone from the Capitol try to approach Rooba.
I keep Rory distracted until Foster and Heather return. They managed to capture one squirrel but they set up traps for the next day.
"Are we going to stay here tomorrow?" I ask them. We have been moving continuously since we returned to the mountain.
Foster nods. "We've put some distance between us. Plus, if we go much higher we'll lose most of our coverage."
Sounds good to me, though I wish it was on a less rocky patch.
After dinner and just past sunset, Foster and I head to the stream to refill our canteens. I leave my sling behind to help carry the supplies along with my knife. As we walk back, I notice that Foster has been as quiet as Rory the past couple days, it was just less noticeable.
"I wanted to say thank you," I speak, looking up to him.
He looks confused. "For what?"
I can't resist smiling. "For my arm, of course."
"Oh, right. It was nothing." His face visible enough that I can see him look flushed.
"No, you made it quite clear that that could have gone very, very badly," I remind him. I'm not going to let him downplay this.
"You said my arm could have snapped if you messed up. Which you didn't."
"Yeah, but that was nothing. I should have kept a better eye on Sprig," he says, looking morose.
I'm surprised by this. Foster has done so much for us throughout this entire alliance. He has taken charge of our group and protected us. I wonder if he feels responsible for what has happened to Sprig and Paisley.
I wonder if this protectiveness is why he told me he would help Rory win.
We are besides our camp now but I need to speak with Foster before we are back with Rory and Heather again. So I rest a hand on Foster's arm to stop him. I ask him what I have been wondering since that first night we were on watch together.
"Why did you say you would help me with Rory?"
Foster sighs, looking reluctant. But before he can speak, we hear Rory's voice.
"Heather I think it's just them. I don't think Gusto is around."
Foster and I exchange a glance and we push through the bushes back into the camp. Heather is standing on alert, her knife at the ready. Rory looks up at us and gestures in our direction.
"See?"
But Heather shakes her head forcefully. "No. No it's not them."
"Heather, we-"
"Shh! Listen!" Heather cuts me off and points off to the side.
We quiet as we listen. Then, Foster perks up at a sound. A moment later I hear it too.
The is a sharp, metallic sounding clang, followed by rustling branches in what sounds like someone cutting trees to clear their way.
We all exchange looks before grouping together to prepare to defend ourselves. I clench my knife's handle tightly.
The noise gets louder. Now we can make out laboring grunts from a male-sounding voice.
We all raise our weapons and brace ourselves as Truss from District 10 stumbles out of the woodland.