XVI : The Stairs Win this Round

Set all these fools on fire

Why should you not have all that you desire?

We hit the cobbles almost like two girls who aren't in the Hunger Games, with fresh legs and renewed determination. The revelation about the arena has given me confidence that I sorely needed, and armed with that knowledge—as well as a rather impressive array of weapons—I feel ready to take on whatever the rest of this day might throw at us.

Starting with what lies between us and the Tower.

We both know going to the Tower is a risk. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the tallest point in the arena is going to be a popular destination for Tributes trying to find their partners, and since we've been in the arena for hours now it's entirely possible that we're not the first ones headed that way.

"What if we do run into other Tributes?" Prim had asked as we descended from the Arch.

"They won't be as well armed as we are, so I'm hoping they won't bother us." I said, giving her a sidelong glance. "I'm really counting on you scaring them away with that bow, you know."

She hadn't seemed convinced. "How do you know they haven't found better weapons?"

"Well, I'm not positive , since there could be other weapons stashes around, but if anyone had gotten here before us they would have taken the food and water." Meagre as that supply was, it could prove to be life-saving, and even Farley isn't stupid enough to pass that up.

"So we'll just… hurry?"

"Yep. Once we figure out where the boys' cornucopia is, we'll skedaddle before the Careers have a chance to catch us."

Last we saw the Careers they were headed more or less east from the cornucopia; we're northwest of it now, and headed almost directly south. We shouldn't run into them, if we're quick about this.

Problematically, once we're back on the ground we can no longer see the Tower, and with twelve different directions to go, choosing the right one requires a bit of guesswork. We turn down one called Kleber that seems to go south enough, and take off at a run.

A couple of times we catch glimpses of the Tower between the tall buildings, helping us stay on track through the veritable maze of the city. I try to keep track of the streets for the first few minutes, but it quickly becomes clear that keeping a map in my head is impossible. There are just so many, ranging from the wide and sprawling to the narrow and sharply-twisting, and some of the intersections are so haphazard it's dizzying just trying to keep the directions straight.

Still I try my best to remember the names, since it would be helpful to have some idea of where I've been before. It's only a hypothesis, but since cities don't usually have predators freely roaming their streets, the Gamemakers probably have all kinds of other dirty tricks in store for us. And if Prim and I run into any traps, I want to know what streets to never set foot on again.

It takes us about ten minutes before we can see the Tower in more than flashes, and by that time we're close enough that it has grown from an anomaly on the skyline to an elegant monstrosity of iron latticework, reaching up to the sparse, pink-tinted clouds. Way up.

We cut across a little park for better coverage as we approach, and find another pleasant surprise waiting for us on the other side of the street, one that temporarily distracts me from how high we're about to climb.

A river.

"It just keeps coming up roses, doesn't it?"

Prim braces her hands on the concrete barrier, looking down over the water. "Yeah. There's a little walkway down here too." She looks over her shoulder, squinting against the sunlight as she looks down the street—a wide one with multiple lanes, framed by trees on either side. I think it's called Place de Varsovie , though the signs were a bit confusing. "We'd be invisible down there."

I join her at the barrier, looking over as well. The walkway she's pointing at is really another little street, running parallel to the one we're on and maybe two metres down, at the water level. "That could be handy," I say.

A semi-secret street—as if it isn't lucky enough that we've found a major water source this early in the Games.

"I keep thinking of Katniss, and her first day," Prim says. She offers me a tentative smile. "My first day has gone a lot better than hers, thanks to you."

I smile back. "Water, weapons, and a plan certainly feels like a good start, doesn't it?" The Gamemakers are the real ones to thank for that, though. Between the fountains at the cornucopia and now the river, water doesn't seem to be a scarce resource this year.

I look up at the structure, larger than life and now so close. I have to shield my eyes against the setting sun to see the top. "And soon we'll have our partners, too," I say, sounding more confident than I feel. I gesture at the Tower. "So… shall we?"

There's even a bridge across the river, leading right to the Tower's base. It's like the Gamemakers are trying to make this as easy as possible for us.

I don't like it one bit.

"I was worried we might have to climb the outside—look." Prim points at a flight of stairs inside one of the tower's legs.

"More good news," I mutter. Climbing the outside would have been basically impossible, not to mention that if I ever happened to look down I'd have a heart attack so serious I'd be dead well before I hit the ground.

Stairs. Yep, great.

Unlike the Arch, there are no real walls around us as we climb, and I'm sure any Tribute with a sharp eye could spot us from the ground without much difficulty. I just hope if anyone does see us they'll mind their own business and leave us alone. I mean, most Tributes don't go hunting like the Careers do, but even if one does decide to go agressively on offense there are more than enough Tributes on the ground to go after. Tributes who are alone, wandering around without weapons.

We climb in silence until we reach the first level. The stairs lead us onto a large platform shaped like a hollow square, the four legs of the tower forming each corner. It looks like once there was some sort of an apartment on one side, but it's empty now. It would probably make for a nice shelter, if it wasn't right inside the worst hiding place in the arena.

Prim and I walk to the edge of the floor, approaching the chain-link fence preventing us from falling to certain death. I don't want to look out over the edge, but this is what we came for, after all.

The view from up here is, of course, utterly nauseating. We're probably a little higher than we were on the roof of the Arch, but while this perspective of the city is a little different than the one we got there, it doesn't really give us any new information.

We're just not quite high enough.

I exhale sharply. "Well, onward and upward?"

Prim nods "I think so."

I know that the two of us allying will be big news back in the Capitol, even if this alliance is sure to be short-lived. I also know that stair-climbing is not known to be an entertaining spectator sport, so if I want to keep the cameras on us, it's time to get talking.

"It's pretty clever," I say casually, about five minutes into the climb. "The whole 'cornucopia's a bust' thing, huh?"

Prim is a couple steps behind me, so I hear more than see her stop climbing. "The… the what ?"

I look at her over my shoulder, my expression all disbelief. "You didn't see? I thought when Elinnor was after you… I thought you'd stayed close to the cornucopia?"

She shakes her head. "No—I got turned around, that's how she… found me. What do you mean the cornucopia was a bust ?"

"There was nothing there," I say. "I saw Farley breaking open the crates—they were all full of sand. No weapons, no food, no tools, nothing ."

Prim is silent for several seconds. "But we found weapons at the Arch."

I don't really want to tell Prim everything I've pieced together about the arena, but since this is also a chance to impress sponsors back in the Capitol, I know I should at least tell her my theory. "That's why it's so clever… do you remember the last Quell? How everything in the arena was poisonous except the supplies at the cornucopia?"

"Yes."

"Well this year I think it might be the opposite: the cornucopia has nothing, and all the things we need to survive are out here in the arena."

Congruence mod six , I remind myself. The Gamemakers are seldom arbitrary when it comes to these decisions, so there has to be a reason for the cornucopia being empty. Inverse symmetry with the last Quell seems like just the sort of clever detail that the Gamemakers would go nuts for.

"The last Quell relied a lot on sponsors," Prim points out.

"True—and that could be the case here too—but I bet there are more stockpiles to be found. I mean, there should be another weapons cache close to the boys' cornucopia, otherwise it would be a bit off-balance, right?"

"I suppose… unless the boys' cornucopia is the same distance away, just on the other side of the archway." She pauses. "Was it far enough from ours for that to work?"

I hadn't thought of that. "I don't know," I admit. That would mean there was one and a half klicks between the Arch and our cornucopia. I try to remember how far the cornucopia seemed to be when we were there. "I don't think it was far enough, but it might have been."

"Maybe it's this," Prim says, and I don't have to turn around to know she's referring to the tower around us. "It would be kind of neat if this was the halfway point."

Why, Primrose.

It certainly would .

"Well, how far do you reckon we are from our cornucopia now?" I ask, looking over my shoulder at her.

She bites her lip. "It feels like we must have gone at least a kilometer and a half… but could we have gone too far?"

I turn back around, shrugging. "I don't know. We've been moving about as directly as a drunken bumble bee, so it's hard to say how far we've come. Hopefully once we get to the top we'll have a better idea." We round the corner on yet another set of stairs. "Whenever that will be."

It turns out there are three levels to the Tower; it's very disappointing to arrive at the second floor, thinking we've made it, only to realise we have much further to climb. In fact, getting to the second floor brings us less than halfway to the top.

If I weren't so busy trying to keep my legs from turning to jelly underneath me I would sing when we finally see the end of the stairs. I should have been counting—between the Arch and now this, we must have climbed thousands of stairs since the bloodbath.

Jinno will be so disappointed; at this rate the arena is only going to make my legs bigger.

There are walls around us now, so we can't see what's waiting for us on the third floor. And worse yet, there's a heavy-looking door blocking our way. It has no handle.

I try to push it. I try to pull it. It does not budge. "No," I say, pulling again, as hard as I can. "No, no no no—"

"Caerwyn, I think there's a button."

I turn. Prim is eight or ten steps below me—in my excitement at seeing an end to the stairs I had missed the small panel in the wall where she stands.

She presses her hand to it, pushing the large button, and the door slides open almost soundlessly. As soon as she releases the button, it closes.

"Oh , " I say. " Oh. " This is going to be wonderfully convenient. "Prim, press that again! Hold it this time, please."

She does, and several paces through the door I see another panel.

I turn back to Prim, unable to hide my excitement. "Guess what?"

"It's a two-person door?"

"Yes! Hold it open, I'll get the next one."

After only a second of hesitation, she presses the button again and lets me through the door. Of course I would never leave her trapped in the stairwell—and not just because that would leave me trapped on the other side—but I'm not surprised or offended that she paused. This is still the Hunger Games, and I'm not her true ally.

Still, I swear my legs feel less sore once the door closes again behind her. Safe. No lone Tribute will be able to get us up here. The relief I feel is almost dizzying.

The city is laid out beneath us behind glass panes on the metal walls; the buildings seem to be no more than toys, they're so small, so far away. With a barrier between me and the outside, I barely even feel the fear instinct kicking in at how high we are. This view doesn't seem real .

We circle the floor, trying to see what we can from every direction. "Do you see the Arch?" The walled-in stairs come up in the middle of the circular platform, forming a ring I can't see across.

"Yes," she calls back, "and the cornucopia. And… and more stairs."

I stop. "Do not tease me, Primrose."

I think the sound she makes is a little snort. "I'm not, unfortunately."

"For the love of—" I practically stomp around to where she stands, pointing at another staircase. It's only about a dozen steps. "Oh. Well that doesn't look too bad."

We ascend to another platform, this one far more exposed. There are no walls protecting us up here and while the wind is harsh and cold, it feels heavenly on my sweat-soaked back and neck. I open my jacket, trying to let the air inside.

There are spy glasses all around the ring, in front a metal grate protecting us from the worst possible fall yet. My stomach lurches as I get close. The floor below was a nice break from the vertigo, but it's back in full force now that we're out in the open again, and very, very high in the air.

I bend to look through one of the spy glasses, pointing it down at the streets below. My breath catches at the sight—I can see everything as clearly as if it was right in front of me, like I'm a bird flying low over the rooftops.

I'm pointed in the direction of our cornucopia, though, so I abandon this lookout point to circle the ring. And what I find on the other side makes me forget all about spy glasses.

"Prim. Prim, come here right now."

She jogs over to join me, stopping dead in her tracks when she sees it. Her cornflower-blue eyes are wide as saucers. "Is… is that…?"

I nod, dumbstruck. On the wall is a plaque, about a metre in diameter, covered in a web of criss-crossing lines and speckled with rows of tiny shapes and symbols. Nearly in the centre of the plaque is one symbol, a little bigger than the rest, that looks like a stretched-out letter A.

"A map," I say, still staring, slack-jawed. "A map ."

Prim can't look away either. "This… this has never happened before, right?"

I shake my head. "I've never, ever heard of it." I'm not an expert in Games history, but in all the research I did in the past week not once did I ever hear of a map. "Even if it's been done before—which I really don't think it has—it's still pretty unprecedented," I say. Cato would probably know.

I scan the symbols, noticing the yellow triangle about ten centimetres to the Tower's northeast. There's another yellow triangle that looks to be about the same distance away in the west.

I tap the second one. "Think this is it?"

I step aside so Prim can look more closely. "A yellow triangle seems like a pretty good choice for a cornucopia," she says, fair brows furrowed in contemplation. "The X, that's the Arch?"

The X she's referring to is almost directly north of the Tower, in the middle of a twelve-way intersection. "Yeah, look you can kind of see the arch-shape behind the symbol."

She runs her finger over it. "And the other Xs are more weapons deposits?"

There are three more Xs spaced out across the arena, all in black. One of them, as I suspected, lies to the southeast of the boys' cornucopia, about the same distance from their starting point as the Arch is from ours. Their cornucopia is in the middle of a six-way intersection as well, and I'm surprised to note that one of those six streets leads directly to the Arch. How come we didn't see it from up there?

"Probably," I reply, scanning the rest of the map again, trying to memorise its every detail. What I would give for a pen.. . "Any guesses at the other symbols?" I point at one of the little red crosses. "This has got to mean medicine or something, right?"

Prim nods. "Probably," she echoes. "Unless it's supposed to be misleading?"

Which it very well could be. They could all be death traps, for all we know.

I exhale loudly. The map has twenty symbols in total: the two yellow triangles for the cornucopias, the four black Xs which we think mark weapons deposits, three red crosses, and one bright white replica of the Tower included. There are also small green squares, larger orange squares, a blue circle, and one silver diamond. None of these have any obvious meaning, but if I can keep this map in my head then I should be able to fill in the significance of each location as the information comes.

I continue scrutinizing the map for any more important details, knowing I have to make the most of this rare opportunity. Prim and I got here quickly today, but as soon as the Careers figure out what's up here the chances of being able to come back without having to get through them seems slim.

The maze-like streets are lined with small replicas of the buildings, most of which are black, but a few of which are light grey. I look up at the Arch—the only building we've encountered so far that was open. It's grey, not black.

Good to know, I think, scanning the map for more patches of grey. Some of them take up nearly entire blocks, while some are just pockets here and there with no apparent pattern. There aren't very many, but there's more than enough hiding spots for the seventeen Tributes remaining.

I look back at the symbols. I put one finger on our cornucopia, my other hand reaching for the boys'. Prim shifts uncomfortably—probably from the now-dried blood. I really should have tried to clean up at the river. If I had known about the two-person door I probably would have. "This is a small arena," I say. " This is three kilometres?"

"Between the cornucopias? That's what Caesar said," Prim confirms. "How big did you say the arenas usually are again?"

I frown. "The average radius was just shy of twenty-four." I move my fingers so one is in the centre of the map, then shift the other to the edge. "So this is what— eight kilometres? Maybe less?"

Prim is quiet. "Why is it so small?"

I step back, dropping my arms. "I don't know."

I had expected the arena to be smaller than normal, but I had not expected this . I suppose the reduced sightlines caused by all the buildings will make a difference… but we'll be practically on top of each other in here.

My gaze drops to the metal floor by my boots. We might literally be on top of each other in here. We might not even know it.

"It's a tall arena, I guess," I say finally. "So we've got vertical space?"

Prim considers this. "Like the walkway by the river."

"And the roofs," I add, shuddering. "This is going to be a weird Games."

I try to keep my tone as lighthearted as I can, but I don't think it helps. A certain degree of unprecedented change is expected for a Quell, and you'd think with all the twists and turns the Gamemakers have already thrown our way something like this wouldn't have us so shaken. But something about an arena so unusual and so small is just… terrifying.

I think of Farley, chasing Marissa around the cornucopia, laughing almost hysterically. A small arena, trapped with killers like that . Like Majestie, with her bow and arrows, if she's gotten them, or Logan with his axes.

Like Cato, with whatever he's been able to get his hands on.

If he's still alive.

I can't stop and think about it, I just need to keep going. It's the Hunger Games; there are killers in here with me, and people are going to die. It will be ugly, and horrifying, and brutal, and I can't get hung up on it. I just have to keep going.

I look down at the blood still on my hands. I have to keep going.

"We should make use of these spy glasses while there's still light," I say, noticing the almost unnaturally golden hue of the sky. Night will be fully upon us in less than two hours, and the light is already starting to wane.

I take one last long look at the map. I wish there was some way of recording it…

A strange impulse seizes me, and I look down at my pant leg. My hand is already reaching for one of the knives in my jacket.

My sleeves are already rolled up, so it's maybe too easy to slide the knife quickly, lightly across the back of my arm, creating a shallow cut. I roll the edge of the blade through the blood that gathers, pressing it gently to my pant leg to draw a rough, angular version of the river that twists through the map. Switching the knife to my other hand, I look at the map, at the tower, dipping my thumb in the trickle of blood, pressing it to the middle of my thigh right beside the river.

"What are you doing? " Prim asks, horrified.

"I need to keep it," I say, focusing on the task, not the stinging of my arm. "As much as I can, at least."

My thumbprint becomes the tower, nineteen smaller smudges and dots joining it, becoming the other symbols. I don't bother trying to draw the circles and squares—I'll just have to remember what mark is what—but even as rough as the map is I know it will help me stay oriented.

"Caerwyn…"

"It's alright," I say, dipping the edge of the knife again, trying to draw lines representing the streets with open buildings. "It doesn't really hurt, and now I have a map."

Drawing the open streets doesn't work very well, so I give up quickly. I look down at the faint smudge, then back at the map. It's close enough?

Prim doesn't look convinced. "Well, we don't have anything to stop the bleeding," she says. "And your shirt is dirty, so keep your sleeve rolled up."

I'd almost forgotten she was a healer. "I will, thank you."

We turn for the spy glasses. If we don't get looking now it's going to get very hard to see anything in the direction of the setting sun, not to mention we want to be gone before anyone else gets here. Thankfully it doesn't take us too long to spot the boys' cornucopia. I expected it to look the same as ours, given the similarities in the location, but the cornucopia is in some kind of garden, sunken down below the street level and surrounded by trees and bushes.

"Can you see anybody there?" I ask her, turning my glass to check the streets around the Tower for any Tributes headed this way.

"No—the bodies are all gone too."

I'm opening my mouth to reply when I'm cut off by the boom of a cannon. I hear Prim's sharp intake of breath even as I nearly poke my eye out with the spyglass.

We pull back, looking for the hovercraft we know will be appearing any second. It stops much closer to the Tower than I'm comfortable with.

"I think that's our sign to go," Prim says quietly.

"Took the words right out of my mouth," I say, already reaching into my jacket for my longest knife. The time for sheathed weapons is over.

But once again we're stopped as we pass by the map on our way to the stairs. As I take this last chance to look, trying to cement it in my memory, I notice something.

I look at my pant leg, back at the map. Mere minutes ago there had been a green square in the far north. Now it's gone.

I count the remaining symbols, making sure, but the other nineteen are all there. Nineteen, I think, the boom of the cannon still echoing in my ears. Eight cannons today. Sixteen tributes left. Nineteen. If I don't count the Tower and the two cornucopias...

"Holy shit."

"What is it?" Prim asks, poking her head up from the staircase. "Aren't we in a hurry?"

I blink, snapping myself out of the tiny stupor I'd fallen into. "Yeah, we are. Right." It's a split-second decision, but I decide not to tell her about this. This is still the Hunger Games, and I can't share every advantage. "Sorry I just… I was checking the map one more time."

I follow her down, then gesture for her to move toward the door to the second floor. "You go first. I trust you to let me through."

She smiles. "Thank you." She pauses, almost in the middle of the doorway. "And… thank you for earlier." Her eyes flit to my bloody hand on the panel. "I'm really glad you showed up."

I smile back. "Me too. I'm glad we got to be allies after all."

She disappears for only a few seconds before the door slides open again and I meet her in the stairwell. I signal to her to pause, and we listen for the sound of anyone else in the stairwell. "We should stay ready," I tell her, brandishing my own knife. "Who knows what's going on down there."

Prim draws one of her own knives. "What… what does happen down there?" she asks. Her voice is quiet, as usual, but steady. "I mean, do we just go our separate ways?"

We're both headed west, but where Prim is trying to find the edge of the arena just past the cornucopia, I think I'm going to stay close to the Tower. And I really don't fancy the idea of having to convince Cato not to kill Prim if she's still with me when I find him. "I think so," I say finally. "We should divide up the supplies now, to save time once we're down there."

There isn't much, but it's not hard to divvy up the remaining apples and crackers, and we agree that it's fair if I keep the extra water bottle if she keeps the extra quiver we've been keeping the food in. I dump my crackers into the empty water bottle and clip it to my belt, shoving the apples in my pockets. I'm already weighed down by so much stuff it feels like I'm carrying a small child, so I don't really notice this little bit extra.

The descent is barely easier than the climb, but seems to take longer because we're not talking this time. Whoever just killed that Tribute can't have gone too far, and by now anyone could be close enough to hear us. Or see us. The breeze is nice enough, but I hate how exposed we are up here.

We move across the second floor slowly, cautiously as we move toward the stairs, but we don't run into any Tributes here, nor on the rest of the way down.

Once again, we hit the cobbles and take off running. We keep our heads on a swivel as we cut from the foot of the Tower toward the trees nearby, back toward the bridge we crossed nearly two hours ago. We agreed to stick together until we were back in the maze of streets across the river, at which point we'll both get lost. Until then, an extra set of eyes on the lookout for Tributes is too valuable to pass up.

I can feel my heartbeat behind my eyes as we make the break into the open, sprinting as best as we can while staying alert. I don't know what I'll do if either of us actually do spot someone, but I'm loaded to the gills with sharp steel. I'll come up with something.

We reach the cover of the buildings without having to face that possibility, cutting left off the bridge and through a little park. I planned out the first steps of my getaway from the Tower, so I know that this patch of trees and greenery is actually just the outer corner of a massive garden, surrounding what looked like an actual palace. It's tempting to head toward it, but unless Cato has gotten spectacularly lost, he won't be coming from that direction. And besides, that's where the hovercraft stopped.

We round the corner onto another street, then slow to a stop. Prim doesn't say anything, just nods and takes a step backward, away from me. She looks like her sister, in this moment, more than the girl we saw weeping and sobbing at last year's Reaping.

That thought reminds me of another scene from last year. How did it go again?

I touch three fingers to my lips, then raise them in her direction. I'm not sure exactly what it means, but it looked like some kind of goodbye when District Twelve gave it to Katniss. Prim's expression now makes me think it might mean more than that. She gives me a smile, but looks like she might be about to cry.

My heart twists painfully as she turns away, heading due west while I continue a little to the north.

If I'm going to intercept Cato on his way toward the Tower I'll need a clear sightline in that direction. It doesn't take long to find a building of middling size to climb, and though I have to move very carefully with all this extra weight, I reach the gently-sloping roof without much difficulty. This height would have bothered me yesterday, but after the third floor of the Tower these three storeys barely seem to register.

I crawl forward until I have a relatively unobstructed view of the bridge. I'm hedging my bets a little with this plan, as this is far from the only bridge across the water, but I'm counting on Cato coming at least sort of from the direction of his cornucopia. And that he's actually headed for the Tower.

I shift so I'm laying on my belly, squinting against the last rays of daylight. Which he better be.

The sun sets not long after I've settled into my perch, and shortly after that the anthem begins. I crane my neck awkwardly to see the faces in the sky, feeling a confusing mixture of shock and relief that Glint's handsome smirk is the first face of the night. That's a good sign, that's a good sign...

I release a long breath when the next face is Lane from Three, followed by Elinnor. I force myself not to look away from her wide-eyed stare, though I feel immensely better when it changes to show Willis from Five, then his District partner, Marissa. Piper from Eight is next, then the pair from Nine—Aidell and Oliver—finish the day's toll. Eight dead on the first day. Sixteen of us left.

Night continues to fall, and before long it's so dark that I'm not sure I would see Cato if he passed right in front of my building. I'm shuffling backward, trying to find a more comfortable spot to spend the night before the arena goes pitch black , when the strangest thing happens.

It's not dark anymore.

All around me, the arena comes to life, lights on the buildings and along the streets flickering on in a rolling wave of warm starlight. Above me the Tower lights up, twinkling from top to bottom, a veritable beacon against the night sky, so bright my eyes struggle to adjust.

As far as I can see in every direction the city is alight, and while it's not quite the same as daylight, there's no longer any problem with visibility. I know this for certain, because less than a minute after the lights come on a movement to my right draws my attention. Despite the camouflage provided by his jacket and trousers I recognize my partner almost instantly.

This would be a good time to know how to do a bird call or something, which I don't. He's moving quickly and obviously doesn't see me, so I'm left with no solution more elegant than ripping one of the roof shingles off and throwing it in his general direction. The sound of it hitting the ground is a bit louder than I expected, and I wince. Hopefully no one else heard that…

Cato's head whips around, sword raised. He's not exactly covered in blood, but even from here I can see the splatters on his jacket front. It looks kind of fresh. That's got to be someone else's, right?

I move back a little, slowly raising to a crouch, and he spots me. I see his mouth move, but based on the murderous look on his face I think it's a good thing I can't read lips any better than I can make bird calls.

I climb back down as quickly as possible. He's tucked his body against the wall of a building nearby, so well-hidden this time that I almost miss him completely until he moves and grabs my arm.

I almost cry out at the strength of his grip, but my effort to wrench my arm from his grasp is unsuccessful. "What are you—"

"You were supposed to stay close to your cornucopia," he hisses.

I pull away harder and he lets me go. "Don't be a dick," I snap. "Your fellow Careers are allied, as I'm sure you've figured out. They were setting up camp at our cornucopia."

"It was our plan, " he says. "You fucked it up."

"I found you, asshole, no thanks to your—"

His hand clamps around my mouth and he shoves me against the wall. I almost gag at the taste of blood, sweat, and dust on his skin. At least some of the blood is definitely fresh.

My stomach lurches, and I try again to push him away.

Despite my efforts, Cato stays still as a statue, disregarding entirely my attempts to escape.

Then I hear the footsteps.

He lets go of me. "Run."

The sword. "Cato, wait!" But he's already around the corner. I take off after him, having to full-out sprint just to try to keep up.

I still lag behind, but after a few minutes of zig-zagging in a haphazard north-west direction he finally slows down, turning to me with a scowl. "How come you're so fucking slow ?"

Fuming, I pull back the sides of my jacket, revealing the rows of knives strapped to the inside. I almost laugh at the look on his face. "And I got you a present too." I remember we're supposed to be friendly, so I try to soften my tone with a smile that probably looks more like a snarl. I pull the sword from my belt—the sword I've been carrying around for him all afternoon—tossing it at him. He catches it by the grip. "You're welcome." Asshole.

He looks at the weapon for a moment, his expression once more inscrutable. "You could have at least wrapped it."

"Screw off," I say, but this time I really am smiling.

He doesn't smile back, of course. "We have to keep going. Logan and the guy from Eight have been chasing me all around this goddamn place."

It's as if he's summoned them.

I hear a shout to our right, and see Domas, calling and gesturing to someone behind him. Cato raises his new weapon just in time for Majestie, Logan, and Farley all to run to Domas's side.

"Fuck."

He doesn't even bother telling me to run this time.

He's not as much faster than me now, which is concerning, and for the first time I notice he's slightly favouring his left leg. While I'm not glad he's injured, of course, I am glad that something made him think better of taking on all four of the Careers at once. Because I know he thought about it.

We run without much sense of direction, just trying to lose the Careers. We end up moving downhill, where a light fog is settling over the streets. It's not enough to give us much more cover, but it's something, and heedless of the danger we barrel right into it.

The fog thickens quickly, but even before visibility becomes an issue I know something is wrong. This fog isn't right. It shouldn't have a smell.

I grab my shirt front, yanking it up to cover my mouth and nose. The cut-out in the middle of my chest complicates things, and I end up having to basically flash the cameras to get actual protection. I can hear Vo's voice in my head; It's stylish. I could scream. Stylish. It's the fucking Hunger Games.

I reach for Cato's arm, pulling on his sleeve and signalling for him to follow me. I don't have any breath to waste on words. We have to get out of this fog.

I break right around the next corner, barely checking over my shoulder to check that Cato's following me. He hasn't pulled his shirt up—does he not realise what's going on?

My lungs nearly burst, but I force myself to breathe only shallowly until we're out of the fog. I gasp and suck down as much air as I can, the faintest taste of the sour air lingering on my tongue. I feel lightheaded, and a little giddy, but I can't tell if that's from trying to hold my breath or from the fog.

I look around, eager to keep moving, unsure of what direction to go. I look down at the specks of blood forming a map on my leg, noticing the smear that was supposed to represent the open row of buildings. It should be nearby.

I turn to tell Cato to follow me, but he's not there.

Oh no.

I'm already reaching for my water bottle. I pour a precious sip of water on my shirt, hoping it will better protect me from the fog. Taking a few deep breaths, I pull it over my face again and run back into the fog.

He hasn't gotten far from where I left him, and I find him wandering aimlessly, not even running anymore. He raises his sword when he sees me, which stops my heart for two whole seconds, before he lowers it, a strange look in his eye.

"Where the fuck did you go?" he asks, loudly, apparently heedless of the danger.

I don't bother trying to answer, just grab his sleeve and pulling. I'm not thrilled about how easy it is to get him to follow me. Is the fog scrambling his brains?

He's even slower than he was, and I'm not sure if it's a good or a bad sign but he's not limping anymore. Distantly, I realise the stinging from the cut on my arm has gone away too.

I manage to drag him out of the fog, though he grumbles about it. He's still behaving strangely, and not knowing what to expect from him, I put my hand on his and gently pry the sword from his grasp. He's just as likely to hurt one of us with it anyway—

"Hey! That's mine!"

He lunges, but he's not quite steady on his feet, and I'm able to keep the sword away from him. Barely .

"Stop it!" I hiss. "I'm just… I'm going to hold onto it okay?"

"It's mine," he repeats.

I ignore him, looking over my shoulder. "Okay, we're going to get out of here." I can't see or hear the other Careers, but hopefully they're still lost in the fog. Hopefully they never come out. I turn back to him. He hasn't moved. "Come on, Cato."

"Fuck off, I'm coming," he says, too loudly. "We have to get them."

I roll my eyes. "We will. First we have to find some shelter." I don't know if the lights are going to stay on all night, but I really don't want to get stuck out here in the pitch darkness with what seems, effectively, to be a giant, drunk Career.

I lead us through the streets in hopes of finding the row of open buildings I saw on the map. I think we're in the right part of the arena, but I'm hoping there will be some sort of indication that the buildings are open and I'm not going to have to try to pry open every handle-less door in the arena.

After a few minutes I get my sign: I spot a glass door with a wrought-iron gate—the gate has a handle. Without bothering to look for a more appealing option I make a direct line for it. I don't even get a good look at the building—it could be falling apart, for all I care—but the door opens, which right now is my only concern.

Cato has gone quiet and is looking around, a familiar scowl on his face.

"Are you better?" I ask.

It turns to a glare. "Fuck off."

Well, that could be a yes or a no. "Okay, well don't go far," I say. "I might need you to come to my rescue." I wince. Too sarcastic.

The building's interior is disappointingly bare. For all the trouble it was finding an open door, I was hoping for at least some furniture, or something. The floor is covered in a threadbare carpet in some places, but mostly it's a slightly-warped hardwood that creaks under our feet as we move from the foyer into a spacious side room—both empty, of course. There's a large window on the front wall, letting in light from the street and giving anyone out there a perfect view of the room.

"Well, not here," I mutter. I'm just turning around to continue the search for a place to hole up for the night when something hits me from the side with all the force of a train.

Cato.

I don't have time to even think of what's going on before his hands are grabbing at my throat. I try to scramble away, gasping for breath, hitting and scratching at his hands. In the suddenness of his attack I dropped my knife and the little sword from the bloodbath, and I'm sure if I try to reach for another weapon he'll have choked the life out of me before I can get it out of my jacket.

"Cato," I wheeze, still trying to force air into my lungs, but he's squeezing so tight. " Stop! "

He doesn't, and in the light from out the window I can see his pupils are so wide his normally ice-chip-blue eyes are almost entirely black. His whole weight is on me now, crushing me, ruining any hopes of getting air back into my body even if his hands weren't closing around my throat.

Absurdly, I remember rolling my eyes at him in training, reminding him that I wouldn't be fighting him in the arena.

Thankfully, my theatrics hadn't stopped him, and all that training kicks in now. I wiggle and thrash like my life depends on it—which it almost certainly does—trying not to panic at the black creeping in from the corners of my eyes. I manage to lift him off of me a little, but I can't throw him. I can't use my hands, since I'm sure if I take them off his wrists he'll have my windpipe crushed in seconds.

I try one last time to throw him off, but once again only succeed at creating a little space between his body and mine. Desperate, and feeling like I'm going to pass out any second, I manage to wedge my leg up into that space, driving my knee into his groin with as much force as I can.

Cato grunts, and in the brief moment his grip loosens I'm finally able to lift and shove him to the side, rolling out from under him, crawling across the floor. My only thought is to get away, however I can. Breathe , and get away.

I still feel like I'm choking, and there are spots in my vision, but I catch sight of the staircase back in the foyer and run for it with everything I've got. I can hear Cato's heavy footsteps clambering across the floor, and I feel his hand swipe at my ankle as I bolt up the stairs. It's much darker up here, out of view of the windows and the street lights outside, and the darkness makes the chase so much scarier. I use the railing to keep my balance as I practically launch myself onto the landing.

I'm not proud of it, but without hardly thinking, an instinct born of years chasing and being chased by older siblings takes over me. I turn, my hand dropping from where it had begun to reach for my jacket, planting itself on the railing. Cato's moving quickly, right behind me by now, but that works in my favour. When I plant one booted foot on his shoulder and kick as hard as I can, the railing screeching in protest, he goes down.

He goes down, and down, and down, with a cacophonous racket that anyone on the street couldn't help but hear.

I run down the stairs after him, not willing to bet that he's down for the count. I catch the glimmer of steel, my stomach dropping as I remember he's still wearing the short blade from the bloodbath. It's a miracle it's not sticking out of him somewhere after that fall.

Without checking to make sure he's okay—he's still moving, albeit slowly—I grab the shoulders of his jacket, forcing him onto his stomach, yanking the sleeves halfway down his arms. Really, now I'm just pulling out all the dirty tricks I learned from over a decade of fights with my siblings. I kicked Lowri down the stairs when I was eleven, and if I close my eyes I can still feel my rear-end stinging from the thrashing I got for that.

This particular sleeve trick is one of Nye's favourites, the wiry bastard. Brody's always been significantly bigger than him, but he's learned over the years how hard it is to hit back while you're struggling to get your arms out of your sleeves.

It's even harder if you've just fallen down a flight of stairs. Before Cato can even try to wrestle his way out of the jacket, I practically rip my belt through its loops and wrap it around his arms, just above the elbow. I yank it through the buckle, fastening it on the second try. It's tight. Maybe too tight. His shoulders are pulled back at an awkward angle, but he won't be getting out of this one.

Of course—and I should have known this was coming—as I'm stepping around his body his legs spin in my direction, catching my ankles. I end up going ass-over-teakettle and smack my head on the bottom step as I come crashing down.

Somehow the mad fog, falling down the stairs, and having his arms tied behind his back are all not enough to keep this maniac down. He struggles to his feet, off balance for a moment, and then moves to kick me. I roll out of the way just in time, managing to find my own feet with just as much difficulty, despite having the free use of my arms. Not fair, I think, as he actually tries to headbutt me.

Enough is enough—I pull his sword from my belt. I want nothing more than to throw it across the room for what a terrible cushion it was both times this idiot sent me flying, but instead I grab it with both hands and brandish it as threateningly as I can. Hopefully he doesn't decide he likes his chances against a sharp blade, and end up skewered. That would be a real mess.

"Stop!" I shout, lifting the blade higher, almost to his throat. I keep it a safe enough distance away in case his insanity does extend as far as delusions of immortality. "Stop," I say again, "or else."

He still looks like he's considering it, sizing me up, figuring out his odds.

"I swear I'll run you through," I lie. "Don't even try it." I circle him slowly, gesturing at the stairs. "Go. Upstairs."

The glare he gives me could shatter glass, but I poke the tip of the sword into his back when he doesn't move. This does exactly nothing. He keeps circling to face me, and after a moment I realise he's not just trying to keep his eyes on me—he's keeping his left leg back. I lunge, sticking just the point of the blade into his thigh, and as he tries to twist out of the way, I end up cutting him deeper than I intended. He goes down though. Again.

"What is your problem?" I hiss, finally feeling bad as he groans, rolling onto his stomach and off of the arm he just landed on. He's lucky he didn't dislocate his shoulder or something. "I am on your side. "

He turns his head, spitting on the floor by my feet. Honestly . There's blood in it—the poor bastard must have bitten his tongue.

"Get up," I order. "Go upstairs. We're both going to get killed if you keep this up." I don't even know how lucid he is. He might not understand a word I'm saying.

I look down at his left leg and notice for the first time the blood staining the back of his trousers, above his knee. Well, that explains the limp. What happened?

"Come upstairs," I say again, trying to sound more gentle this time. "You're hurt, and it isn't safe here."

This doesn't seem to work any better, but does have the advantage of reminding the viewers that we're friendly.

I sit down on the stairs, sighing. What a joke that is. So far we've argued, run for our lives, and beat the shit out of each other. This is the exact opposite of the look I was hoping for.

"Okay," I tell him, dropping the point of the blade, but keeping it in hand. "We're just going to wait this out, I guess."

When he tries to get up again, I put my foot on his ribs and kick him back down. He does it again. The third time it happens I climb on top of him, grabbing his belt none too gently and forcing him onto his side. Shit he's heavy. I grab the little sword still tucked in and slide it across the floor, yanking the belt free of his trousers. Once I've got it tightly wrapped around his knees I sit back down on the stairs and watch him thrash around for a solid ten minutes, accomplishing nothing but making even me feel completely exhausted.

It's at this point that I remember Caesar's promise. A "material advantage" for Tributes who find their partners in the first twenty-four hours. I look at Cato, seeming to be coming down a little from whatever crazy high the fog put him through. "Material advantage." Well, where's ours?

I don't dare leave my Career alone and so vulnerable, even just to search around the building. Through the glass front door I can see right outside, but don't see any package on the street. No Tributes either, which is good, at least.

"Untie me."

His voice is hoarse and dry as sandpaper. I turn to him. "Pardon me?"

"Untie me," he says again, eyes strangely wide. "I'm good."

"You're clearly not good," I say. Or you would be way angrier. "That fog did something to you."

As if proving my point, he shakes his head. "I'm good." He frowns. "Fuck off."

Now I laugh. "What if I untie your feet—could you climb the stairs without trying to kill me? That way we can both get somewhere safer?"

He nods, as best as he can while still face-down on the floor.

"If you kick me, I'm going to stab you in the heart."

He nods again. "Good."

Starting to sound more like yourself, I think, but I still step on the back of his good leg while undoing the belt, keeping him pinned. I fasten the belt around my own waist, thinking I might need it later. I don't help him up.

I get him upstairs with only minimal prodding. He moves slow as molasses in January, and nowhere near as smooth; he might be exaggerating the leg injury, but I can't tell. Just how lucid he is is yet another mystery I don't have the time or energy to solve. I've lost all sense of the hour since we began running, but I'm exhausted and hungry and really don't want to be dealing with this right now.

We go up one flight of stairs and then another. There are more levels, but I want to get this Career back on the floor where he can't cause trouble. Or, as much trouble.

There are two doors in the tiny hallway; I choose the one to the right, opening to a room along the front of the house with a view of the front stoop.

Better than that, however, is the giant package sitting in the fireplace.

"Like Christmas," Cato observes, almost reverently.

"Whatever you say." I'm not familiar with any Christmas tradition that involves putting things in the ashes, but maybe they do things differently in District Two. Or maybe he's still high as a bird. "Why don't you sit down over there," I say, pointing to the wall opposite the windows.

He ignores me, standing in the middle of the room, looking around. "Fucking dirty."

"Yeah, it's a little dirty," I agree. "No need to be rude though."

"Fuck off."

I bite my lip, crouching down beside the package. It's a large backpack. Inside it is another backpack, folded up, a heavy blanket, an empty water bottle, a package of iodine tablets, a knife, a sleeping bag, and a four-litre pot with a detachable handle. Inside the pot are two pairs of socks, a roll of gauze, a bar of soap, and a lighter. At the very bottom of the bag is one Cato-sized sweater.

It may not be much, but it will make a big difference, considering we have nothing else.

My stomach grumbles, reminding me that's not entirely true. I reach into my pocket and pull out a badly-bruised apple. I turn to Cato, who has finally sat down against the wall. "Hey, are you hungry?"

"No."

"That seems unlikely."

" You seem unlikely." He sits forward. "What's all that?"

I scoot to the side, letting him see our new supplies. "Lots of stuff. No food though." I look out the window, where the street lights are still shining. How much longer will they stay on for? I still can't risk leaving Cato here while he's in this state, but if the lights go out there won't be any going out to get food or water until morning.

At least I know we don't have to be too careful about rationing the water—since it seems to be everywhere. We're close enough to the river that I could go out tomorrow and fill all three of our bottles, making it back before the iodine will have finished purifying.

Food, on the other hand…

"You should eat something," I tell him. "It might make you feel better."

"I feel good."

"I'm sure you do," I say with a laugh. I breathed in much less of the fog than he did, but despite being thrown around like a rag doll downstairs, I only feel a little sore. I'm sure that will change when the effects wear off, but I don't feel good about how long that will take. If I'm still feeling the effects, then Cato could be... well, altered for a long time yet. "Are you sure you don't feel hungry?"

"Yes."

"Yes you're hungry or yes you're sure?"

He groans, leaning his head back on the wall. "I thought you were smart."

"Well I haven't learned mind-reading yet."

He frowns. He tries to move, then his eyes go wide. "Where are my arms?"

You know what, if he's like this for a few more hours, that wouldn't be all bad. "They're behind you, kiddo."

He scoffs, but turns his head to check. Once he's satisfied they're still attached, he turns back around, frowning. "Why is my shirt wet?"

I sit up from splitting the supplies between the backpacks. "What?"

"Why is my shirt wet ?"

I save any smart remarks about how I heard him the first time, standing to approach him cautiously. I'd forgotten about the blood, still wet on his hands, a dirty, tangy taste in my mouth. He just watches me, pupils still too-large, not moving as I come closer. "Are you going to attack me again?"

He thinks about this for a little too long. "No."

I kneel down. "Where is it wet?"

"Right here," he says, gesturing to nowhere, of course.

I sigh. "You're too funny for your own good, aren't you?"

Of all the reactions, a face-splitting grin is the one I probably least expected. He's smiling at me— really smiling, not the barely-there curve of his mouth from our interview — the corners of his eyes crinkling, exceptionally straight teeth on full display. There's a gap where one of his upper molars should be that I've never noticed before. I bet it was knocked out in training.

He looks like an entirely different person, looking eighteen years old for the first time ever, and it takes me completely off guard.

I'm staring for too long before I remember what I'm supposed to be doing. Blood. Blood, right.

I reach out, touching his shoulder, then his chest, where I feel his shirt is not only damp, but stiff and kind of crusty in places with dried blood.

I find the cut across the right side of his chest, just beneath his shoulder. The jagged edges of his shirt have stuck to the wound, and he tries to pull back when I start peeling them away.

"Stop," he says, with an authority that almost makes him sound like his normal self again.

"That hurts?"

"It feels weird ," he says.

I sit back on my haunches. This is not going to work from this position. "If I untie your arms, are you going to try to kill me?"

This time his answer comes much more quickly. "No."

"Okay," I say. "You better mean that, because I'm trying to help you. Remember that. Now move forward."

He obeys, shuffling away from the wall so I can undo the belt around his elbows. I try to release his arms slowly, so his shoulders don't pop out of their sockets, but even though I know it must hurt he doesn't make a sound as his shoulders return to their natural position.

I put the belt aside, then wiggle the jacket down his arms, freeing them completely. I move away quickly, in case he decides he does want to try killing me again, but he just stretches his arms forward, then back, moving them around a bit to restore feeling. "Can you take your shirt off yourself?" I ask him.

He looks at me as if I've asked him to jump over the moon. " How? "

"You just," I mimic pulling a shirt over my head. "You can do it."

"I can't."

"Yes you can."

"How?"

He glares at me when I start laughing. "With your muscles, Cato."

The glare turns suspicious. "What muscles?"

I bite my tongue. "Trust me kid, if you take your shirt off, you'll find them."

He still doesn't seem to believe me, but grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it up awkwardly and getting it over his head with only a bit of difficulty.

Any clever retort (or appreciative remark for the muscles that are very much still there) dissolves before it leaves my mouth. He's covered in blood, some of it still bright and liquid, much of it gone dark, dried in smeared rivulets across his abdomen. The wound itself is barely visible through all the mess, but I can pick out the long crimson slash when I look for it. It doesn't look like it's fully stopped bleeding.

"Oh," I say, taking a deep breath, quelling the panic trying to bloom in my chest. "Okay, well we're going to have to get this cleaned up—don't touch it!"

He ignores me, poking at the wound, his already-bloody fingers coming away with a fresh coat of red.

"Stop!" I command.

This time he listens.

I think of the meagre bit of water we have left, and of the river less than two kilometres away. It's the closest water source that I know of, but still too far to travel by myself with Cato in this state.

I look up at his face, inscrutable once again. I don't know what to do. There might be another water source nearby where I could go to fill the water bottles—there were the fountains at our cornucopia, maybe there are other fountains in the city.

I need a plan.

I smack Cato's hand away from poking at his chest again, but it gives me an idea. I look at his shirt in a bloody pile on the floor—still wet. I look at the beige wallpaper above us, peeling a little at the corners, an old, faded floral pattern.

I grab the shirt, walking to a spot on the wall about the right size. Following the guide on my pant leg and working from memory as best as I can, I smear the bloody shirt across the wall, trying to remember the map, and the precise way the river curved. I redraw the arena as carefully as I can, using another tablespoon of our water to keep the shirt wet, allowing me to draw the symbols with a bit more accuracy.

I step back a couple minutes later, admiring my work. It's not bad. Some of the points aren't quite in the right location, but overall it looks how I remember it.

"What's that?" Cato asks.

"A map," I say, tossing the shirt back on the floor. "Of the arena."

"How do you know?"

"There's a map at the top of the Tower. I went there today."

He frowns deeply. "You weren't supposed to."

I raise my eyebrows. "You remember that?"

"You were supposed to stay."

I look back at the map on the wall. "Well, we're together now, aren't we?"

He makes a sound of displeasure, and I turn away to hide my grin. The fact that he remembers that is a good sign.

"Where are we?"

"I don't know," I admit. I gesture at the general area north of the Tower, between the two cornucopias. In this part of the arena the only marked points are the boys' cornucopia and the Arch. "In here, somewhere." Unless I'm very wrong about our general location. I need a plan. "I think I might go try to figure that out."

Fifteen minutes. I could go looking for fifteen minutes, and he couldn't get into too much trouble, right? He's lucid enough to remember that he's supposed to be mad at me for not staying put, so he shouldn't go wandering or anything. Probably.

"You're going?"

"Yep," I say, making up my mind in that instant. "Come on—we're going to go to the top floor to really set up camp. And you are going to stay up there while I'm gone, got it?"

He thinks about this, but says nothing, so I just start grabbing all our stuff, carrying both backpacks and all the weapons as we climb the remaining stairs. They end at the sixth floor—nice and high. As before, there are two doors, and we take the one on the right, into an apartment similar to the one downstairs, but slightly bigger. There's actually another staircase in here, coiled in the corner and going up to another floor, or perhaps an attic.

I shepherd Cato to the front room by the huge window. The glass panes open with a screech, and I step out onto a tiny balcony wrapped in a railing of iron scrollwork. I can't see too far from here, as the buildings across the street are about the same height as this one. The views down the street in either direction offer no interesting sights either.

I close the windows, then begin redistributing the supplies so one backpack has all the water bottles and the other has our gear. I don't trust Cato not to eat all the food if I leave him with it, so I guess that's coming with me too. I add it to the first backpack.

"Are you leaving?" he asks, looking confused once again.

I hike the backpack onto my shoulders. "Not for long. I'll be back in twenty minutes or less, don't worry."

He recoils. "I won't."

I roll my eyes. "Good, I'm glad. Just—whatever you do— stay right here. "

I hurry down the stairs, determined to keep my word about being back in twenty minutes and not wanting to waste any of that time. I'd almost forgotten about the discarded weapons back on the first floor, but I grab them now, tucking the broken sword through my belt and keeping the long knife in my hand. I look through the door, making sure there's no one in the street before exiting the building. The street is still well-lit, and still deserted. Circle the block, I tell myself. No further.

First things first, I get a better look at the building, committing it to memory. I wasn't paying much attention when we got here earlier, and now I take note of the storefront on the main floor to the left of the door, the floor-to-ceiling windows showing mannequins wearing what must be some of the latest fashions—though by the standards of the ancient citizens of Paris or the Capitol, I don't know. There's a door leading to the shop to the left as well, but it has no handles, and it doesn't push open when I try it.

There are five windows on each of the higher levels, each with a wrought-iron balcony only big enough for one or maybe two people to be on at one time. The seventh floor looks to be an attic, but it's high enough that even though I crane my neck I can't quite see how tall the ceilings might be. I'll take a look inside when I get back, I think. I look down at the door, noting the small plaque reading 133 beside it, then turn down the street.

Time to go exploring.

I start with the direction we came down earlier, though with no sun to guide me I have no idea what direction that is . The street with open buildings might be around here somewhere, so as I jog across the pavement I keep my eyes peeled for doors with handles. I don't find any.

I turn right when I reach an intersection, noting that the street our hideout is on is called Rue de la Pompe. I take another right at the next intersection, after only a couple minutes on Rue de Longchamp .

This block must be small ; I've only been walking for maybe three minutes, and the second turn is so sharp I think it must be a triangle too, Twenty minutes I told him, well it looks like—

I stop, taking a few steps backward. What did that sign just say?

I go back to the second turn, looking at the blue sign on the building opposite. Avenue Victor Hugo.

Realization dawns, and I move to the middle of the street, looking left. Avenue Victor Hugo was the name of the street beside Avenue Kleber; the road Prim and I took when we left the Arch.

I look right, and there, lit up like a candle in the distance, there it is.

I check the map on my leg. We took a left off Kleber, because it wasn't taking us south enough. If I can trust the proportions of my map at least a little, Kleber must head more or less south-west from the Arch. Which means Victor Hugo goes west-southwest.

Right in the direction of the boys' cornucopia.

I don't take the time to decide whether this is good or bad news, I just turn to the right and keep going, once more on the lookout for doors with handles. I still haven't seen any by the time I reach the next intersection, a large one branching off in seven directions.

Despite my success in orienting myself in the arena, I'm feeling a little defeated as I turn right again, cutting through some tables and chairs set up in front of a building with a red awning.

With all the street lamps lit, I almost don't notice that this little red building has lights coming from the inside.

And the door, tucked under a red canopy, has a handle.

There's lots of time left in the twenty I allotted myself, and even if there wasn't I wouldn't care. I run to the door, swinging it wide open with barely a squeak of its hinges.

Oh, the smell. Fresh-baked bread, spices, meat sizzling. I look around, but don't see the source—just a bar to my left, and elegant white-and-gold tables with red chairs to my right. It's a small space, long and narrow; I follow my nose, winding through all the little tables toward the back, where an open door leads me into a kitchen space and the strongest smell yet.

It's at once disappointing and euphoric, the sight of the silver mirror-box in the middle of the floor. There's no fresh-baked bread, but there is a small bundle of carrots, a bag of dried jerky, a package of what looks like rectangular cookies with nuts in them, and a little basket of blueberries.

My stomach rumbles furiously, but I don't take a single bite. I pack it all up in my backpack as carefully as I can, trying not to squish the berries or the cookies, my mouth watering at the smell emanating from the box itself. Just in case, I do a careful turn around the kitchen to make sure there's nothing here that I'm missing. Like a pork roast that I just somehow didn't see, or fresh rolls.

All I find is a salt shaker—most of the cupboards and drawers don't even open—but there is something else that catches my eye. A large sink sits against one wall, beneath a small window. It seems foolish to hope, but then…

Water gushes out the second I turn the faucet, and my mouth falls open. I grab the first water bottle, holding it under the stream, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face. Now this is better than I dared hope.

I fill all three bottles after taking a little sip of the first one, making sure it tastes normal. Not that that's any indication it's clean, but it seems to taste fine, and one sip shouldn't poison me. I put one iodine tablet in the first bottle, but hold off on the other two. There's no shortage of water, and we'll need at least one of these to get the Career cleaned up. No sense purifying that unnecessarily.

Once my bag is packed once more, I wash my hands as best as I can, and even decide to strip down a little, taking my shirt off and washing it. I wish I'd brought the bar of soap—I could get actually clean. An entire afternoon of running and climbing in a jacket lined with knives, weighed down by all the weapons has me soaked with sweat and smelling terrible. It feels hard to believe it was earlier today that I was soaking in that bathtub with Vo's sweet-smelling blue goo.

It's a bit chilly without a shirt, but I pull my jacket back on anyway, wringing out the shirt and stuffing it in one of the pockets alongside the salt.

I leave back the way I came, turning right and continuing back down Rue de la Pompe until I'm once again at 133. By now I've missed my twenty-minute window, but that doesn't bother me in the slightest. In fact, I feel bothered by very little as I cross the threshold, closing the door behind me. For good measure, I pull my broken sword from my belt and jam it through both door handles.

It's absolutely absurd, and due entirely to how exhausted and hungry I am, I'm sure, but I find myself smiling as I climb the stairs. There's food and water just around the corner, and a few solid doors between us and any intruders. My partner, high though he may be, is just a few floors up. 133 Rue de la Pompe, I repeat to myself. Maybe you'll be home for a little while.

6101719: For any of you who, by some miracle, remember four score and seven years ago when I said there were FIVE kilometres between the cornucopias, you're right, I did change it. I am bad at geography, okay?

Now I have a few thank yous:
First, thank you to Caeleb Dressel, for being very good at swimming and also at being a Cato-inspirational thirst trap to motivate me to write. Your service is appreciated.
A HUGE FUCKING LIFE-CHANGING THANK YOU TO KAY who was less a beta reader and more of a necromancer for this chapter. Interpret that how you will, but she saved the day. Actually, more like she saved the seven entire months that it has been since I last updated (very sorry about that).
And thank YOU too, for taking a chance on this fic and making it all the way to this point. Look at how many fucking words there are. You read all those. You deserve an award, really, and if I could give each and every one of you readers a kiss on the mouth, you bet I would do it.

Lyrics from the beginning are from the song "Laughing Gas" by The Fratellis.