How I manage to keep myself from falling to my death I'll never know. The arrow shaft quivers in front of my face, the point buried into the wood only inches away from my nose. I grip the pole with all my might, listening with bated breath for the whistling of a second arrow coming my way. It's a sound I'm very familiar with, but only ever from the other direction. Instead, a growl of frustration reaches my ears.

There's movement in a window of the sky scraper across from where I cling. The glass has been smashed out, jagged leftover pieces glittering in the sunlight along the edges of the pane. Standing right in the middle of it, blonde hair blowing in the wind, is Glimmer. In her hands, to my great disdain, is a bow nearly identical to the one I used during my training session with the Game Makers. Marvel, her district partner, moves into view. He paces back and forth behind her, his eyes locked on me, muttering something that I can't hear over the distance between us. Glimmer grumbles something back, her face growing red and contorting in embarrassment. She fumbles with the bow, looking awkward and rigid, and it's immediately clear that she's uncomfortable with the weapon.

That's because it wasn't meant for her, I think. That should have been my bow. I should be the one aiming an arrow at her throat.

I'm a few feet higher than their level, which gives me a birds-eye-view into the room they stand in. I can see the corner of a disheveled bed behind them. A desk has been overturned and rummaged through. Blood is streaked along the white door on the furthest wall, but I can't hear any signs of struggle or the manic screams of the undead. The two tributes glaring up at me look mostly clean, like they just walked right into the building with no trouble. The heat of embarrassment burns my cheeks. If I hadn't been so wary of the towers and what was hidden inside them, I could have avoided getting stuck in this precarious position altogether.

Glimmer pulls another arrow from the quiver on her back. She slides it into place and pulls the string taut, but I can tell from her positioning that it won't shoot straight. Her slender arms shake from the effort already, and I know my best chance of getting through this unscathed will be by distraction.

"Enjoying the arena so far?" I call out. I'm careful to keep my voice light and teasing. A face-off like this is bound to be broadcast-worthy and I can't afford to look as terrified as I feel. My question seems to confuse Glimmer. She knits her brows together and raises the bow higher. Marvel takes my bait, however, and shoves himself beside his partner in the window frame.

"I've seen worse," he shouts back. "How about you? This must be paradise compared to your district."

I swallow both my pride and a biting remark about what I think of District One, the known favourite and coddled child of the Capitol. It won't look good for me to be bad-mouthing them if I'm expecting to keep any potential sponsors. Instead, I force my lips into a small smile, acting as though this is a perfectly normal time and place to have casual conversation.

"It's different, I'll say that much. A little grey for my taste," I shrug. "Where's your friends? Did they leave you on your own already?"

I doubt that's the case. Traditionally, the Careers will stick together until the weaker tributes are taken care of. They normally break apart or turn on each other a few days into the event, when food is scarce and tensions run higher. We're only a few hours into the first day, so I know Cato and Clove must not be too far away.

"Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you?" Glimmer retorts. The dreamy, childish tone she used with me in the elevator after the interviews is long gone. "No, looks like it's just you who's been left."

She smirks at me like she's got me beat, but I know the audience will remember how Peeta endangered himself for me only hours ago. Still, if by chance these two haven't met up with their allies yet, I shouldn't let on that I'm trying to find my way back to mine. I let the corners of my mouth turn downward – obvious enough for Glimmer to see, but hopefully not so forced that she doesn't believe it. I must not be that awful of an actress, because she looks to her partner smugly, with a knowing smile I'd love to wipe off her pretty face.

"Come on, Glimmer, get it over with. Knock her down and feed her to the dogs," Marvel snarls. He nudges his partner and she raises the bow again. She squints up at me, aiming, and I wait until the last moment before she lets the string go to make my move.

I scramble up to the top of the pole, moving as quickly as I can, but there's no real need for urgency. The arrow veers away to my right in a slow arc. There's not nearly enough power behind it to do any damage. In fact, I'm able to snatch it out of the air as it falls, waving it in front of my face tauntingly from my sitting position. Reaching down, I twist the other arrow out of the wood and hold it up too, before shoving them both in the space between my bag and my back. I make the moves obviously, to be construed as simple teasing, but my real goal is to take that bow out Glimmer's hands, one way or another.

"Well, that was close," I call out sarcastically, making a show of wiping my brow. The smile on my lips is real now. Unless Marvel is any better with the bow, which I'm willing to bet he isn't, I'm relatively safe up here for the time being. If I can make the jump to the rooftop, I'll be impossible to reach from the other tributes' position in the window. I pluck my knife out of the wood, meaning to rehome it in my belt loop, but something makes me hesitate.

Maybe it's just to force myself in that direction, but before I can second-guess myself, I flip the knife over and bend as far as I can safely go. I grab hold of the braided rope that got me here and begin to saw away, watching the tethers fray and loosen. The rope is thick, but there's a serrated cutting edge near the hilt of the knife and the wires fall away in no time. At least now I've eliminated one way for anyone to follow me. I don't even need to dodge the arrow that comes my way while I do it – it's so laughably far away from it's target that I barely see it flying off to my right.

Glimmer looks like she's on the verge of screaming. She screws her face up and reaches for another arrow, but Marvel grabs for the weapon before she can nock it.

"You're wasting arrows. I'll do it," he huffs. Glimmer argues back, holding onto the bow tightly. There's a quick scuffle as they man-handle each other over it, and I wonder if I'll be so lucky that they'll snap and turn on each other already. Unfortunately, Glimmer gives up before there's any blood shed, and Marvel jams the bow into his shoulder.

My scar gives a single pulse as he aims the point of the arrow at my chest. He certainly looks more confident than his partner, and the way he holds the string tight with a steady arm doesn't look good for me. My eyes dart towards the waiting rooftop while I try to maneuver myself into a crouching position on the pole's head without falling. It's slippery as hell, and the icy wind isn't making me any more confident. I manage to get both feet underneath me though, and while I'm balanced on the top of the pole, Marvel and I take a deep breath in at the same time. He's poised to shoot, and I to jump, when a static-laced voice interrupts our focus.

"What the hell is taking so long? Where are you two?"

My stomach does a full somersault at the unexpected noise. One of my feet, heavy in these boots, slips off the beam and plunges into thin air. My arms windmill and I wobble on one leg with all the grace of a baby bird. I can just imagine the Capitolites laughing themselves hoarse, but my stupid moves manage to keep me balanced. The wild dogs, who have apparently decided to stay for the show, are rabidly barking and jumping at the pole. I curse them under my breath as they pounce on it, making it vibrate, and am rewarded with a high-pitched yelp. One of the dogs has been struck with Marvel's fallen arrow, which flew wildly off-course at the interruption.

"Hey! You good? Answer me or I'll assume you're dead!" the grainy voice yells.

Through the static, I recognize the unhinged cadence of Cato. It sounds like it's coming from the room where Glimmer and Marvel are, but I know he can't be in there with them. Marvel roughly shoves the bow back into Glimmer's hands and grabs something from his back pocket. He holds it up to his mouth and with a jolt of recognition, I understand that it's the same type of radio as the two black boxes in my own backpack. He turns his back on me before he says something into the device so that I can't hear him, but the response from the other side is so loud that there's no way I could miss it.

"No! Keep her there! We're not far. Get the dogs out of the way, we'll bring her down from here."

So I was right. Cato and Clove are somewhere close-by, and on ground-level by the sounds of it. I have no intention of waiting around to meet them. I'm already well aware of how much more experienced Clove is with ranged weapons than her counterparts, and Cato's size gives him a much bigger advantage over the wild dogs than I had. I don't want to give Marvel the opportunity to pin me down with an arrow so, trying not to think of what waits for me on the other side, I tense my legs and fly.

At once, I know I've miscalculated the distance. The second my boots leave the wood, I realize the rooftop is much further away than I first judged it to be. I'll never make it over the rusty pipe that lines the edge of the building. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying the fall will be high enough that it will snap my neck before the dogs get a hold of me. My stomach hovers somewhere near my throat, anticipating that awful feeling of free-fall, but I collide into something very solid before it gets the chance to manifest.

I can't breathe. Pain blooms from my chest where it's connected with the metal pipe and my lungs seem to have flattened on impact. I cling to the wall with my forearms, scrambling at slippery cement for a better grip. Movement is agony, but I need to get out of harm's way as soon as possible. Bright spots appear before my eyes as I struggle to haul myself up and over the wall. I kick my boots at the frosty brick, biting down on my lip and grunting in exertion. Somehow, I manage to pull myself over the edge without falling or fainting, and I drop to the ground on hands and knees, trying not to cry out in pain.

I roll over onto my back, watching little puffs of white swirl up from my mouth as I try to catch my breath. Every rise and fall of my chest is accompanied with a searing burn, and my left side protests vehemently at any movement. Gingerly, I press a hand to my ribcage, feeling for any bumps or protrusions like my mother does with her patients. The right side has nothing to show, but like I feared, the lightest prodding at my lowest left rib is excruciating. I whisper a curse and pray that it's only cracked and not fully broken. Miners and defense teams come in with these kinds of injuries all the time back home – a cracked rib is a week away from the mines or duty and a hungry family. A broken rib, if it pierces anything, is almost always lethal without proper medical care. Either way, being compromised like this so early in the Games has just brought my chances of surviving down from slim to microscopic.

As I lie here assessing my situation, the voice of Cato floats up to my position. It's much closer now, without the static of the radio, so he must be down below with the dogs. I can hear him screaming up to the others, and even without eyes on him I can hear the raw edge of the virus in his voice.

"Where the fuck is she? You said she was right here!"

The only answer I can hear is the snarling of the mutts, probably foaming at the mouth about their new meal prospect. They might buy me some time, but I know that Marvel and Glimmer will have alerted Cato to my whereabouts, and if he can get past the animals and up the pole, that's the end for me. I've got to move.

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I roll back onto hands and knees. I crawl over to the edge of the roof and peek down, trying not to give Marvel too much of a target with the bow. He's distracted anyway, I can see from a glance down to the window. There's a look of panicked concentration plastered on his face as he aims for the dogs heading for Cato. They've entirely forgotten about me, luckily - all of them have their hackles raised at the blond, bloody boy facing them.

Cato is alone, at least as far as I can see. He holds his giant machete in front of him, eyes glared at the Mutts that keep him from getting to me. If he's scared, he masks it well. I can only see cold, hard determination there, and it sends a shiver down my spine. My scar pulses in time with my heartbeat, sensing imminent danger. I know I need to move, need to barricade myself somewhere safer, but I'm fixated on the scene below me. Cato raises his machete as the Mutts advance, and I can smell the blood from up here when his first slice makes contact.

It's a gruesome mess – fur flies and teeth gnash together and I can hear the metallic swoosh of Cato's weapon, but there's no human screams of pain yet. A few arrows fly from above, but most miss their targets and I'm hoping they'll be out of ammo soon. Before I'm ready for it, only three Mutts, the biggest of the pack, remain in the street below. They're menacing and bloodthirsty, but Cato barely has a scratch on him and I know he's not even close to backing down or fleeing. Something finally clicks, and I start preparing for the inevitable battle.

I pull my bag off my back as quickly as I can in my current state. I toss it in front of me and unzip it, pulling out my only means of defense - the barbed wire. It's not much, especially for someone like Cato who's pain receptors are basically non-existent while in the midst of an episode, but it's all I've got. Ignoring the razor-sharp edges that snag my gloves and paint bleeding, red lines across my palms, I wrap the wire around the copper pipe again and again, until the spool is empty and there's a six foot long stretch of pipe across from the pole that resembles a gaping maw of twisted metal teeth. Cato's weight will give him more trouble than advantage if he gets as far as the pole. If he comes down hard on the wire, it'll give me a chance to take him out while he's hurt. It's a shitty plan, but it's my last hope.

With that done, I use my remaining time to survey my other options. Looking around, I see now that the rooftop I had taken for a sanctuary turns out to be more of a cold disappointment. It's barren, just a white blanket of snow. I've chosen poorly – there's nothing close by to escape to, just bare-walled apartments on either side and a hard fall to a concrete lot in front of me. I can't even see a way into the building itself, and any height advantage I've gained is blocked by the glare of the setting sun or the encroaching sky-scrapers. Holding my arm protectively against my ribs, I shuffle to the back corner where the shed I had hoped would hold supplies and respite from the weather is. There's no lock on the door, and when I swing it open, I can see why. It's mockingly empty. The shelves hold only dust and rat droppings and a few old cleaning supplies. Worse still, a ragged hole is smashed through the wooden back wall and has let snow drift all through the little shack – it's no warmer in here than it is outside.

I spin around, ready to let my panic out in a scream. All of this – being spotted, my injury, having Cato on my tail – has been for nothing. I am going to be killed over a mop bucket. I kick at the bucket in question, hating it for giving me so much false hope. It skids across the ground and topples over, where it lands with a metallic clink. That's not right – the bucket is plastic and the floor is made of brittle wood. I pick the bucket up and toss it through the hole in the wall, sweeping the snow away where it fell with my foot. My boot catches on something that makes that same metallic noise, and I drop to my knees to uncover the cause.

I'm hoping for another weapon, maybe a sharp tool that's been hidden by the snowfall, but instead my eyes fall on a rusted padlock. I brush away more snow, revealing some kind of trap door that must lead into the building below me. This is it! If I can break the lock and get myself down there, I can slip away and disappear. I'll be long gone before Cato can ever reach me.

I brace my legs on either side of the door and grasp the lock with shaking hands. The left side of my body, from my shoulder to the tips of my fingers, is on fire. I can't help the whimper that I let out when I tense my arms and tug. The door moves an inch, if that, but the lock doesn't budge. It's weathered and old, but it holds fast. I pull my knife out of my belt loop and smash it down on the metal, feeling woozy from the vibrations it sends up my spine and through my ribs. Nothing happens.

"Come on, come on!" I mutter frantically, hammering down on this tiny object holding me back from safety. It's no use – I'm out of time and strength to break through it. I might be able to saw through it with my blade, but Cato will be on top of me long before I'll make a dent in the metal. It's a dead end.

My scar burns as the virus snakes it's way up my arm where it settles into my chest, pumping venom and heat throughout my core. I can feel the beginning sparks of an episode lighting up, churning my stomach and burning my nerve endings. I do my best to fight it off, but my resolve is melting with each passing moment. This is dangerous – letting the virus have control while I'm hurt like this could end in disaster. The virus doesn't care about pain or pierced lungs or whether or not my body can handle it. It will celebrate a kill, no matter how it gets it.

A keening wail sounds from below, followed by a triumphant cry from Cato. At least one of the mutts has gone down, which leaves me with hardly any time and no other options. I twist around and scrape myself up from the floor. I flee the shed, barreling back out into the snow. The smell of blood is thick in the air now, sending my fight and flight responses into war with each other. The skyline is a hazy red, far darker than any sunset should be. The virus has had enough, and it won't be long before it decides to take over.

"Run the perimeter. I can't see her, make sure she doesn't get away!"

Cato screams the command from down below. Marvel and Glimmer haven't moved from their perch in the window, so it must be Clove he's ordering. She's caught up with her partner then, and that makes it four against one. Cold sweat beads on the back of my neck at the thought of facing all of them alone, unwillingly conjuring up images of all the awful, slow ways they'll take my life away. Fear aside, I push myself to the back of the roof, staying low to the ground and gripping the handle of my knife with white knuckles. I'll see and hear anyone trying to jump past the obstacle I've created out of wire, but getting ambushed from both sides is not something I'm prepared to deal with.

I brace my good shoulder against the lip of the rooftop, peering over the edge and scanning the alley below for a head of dark hair or the glint of a blade. It's quiet on this side, all the excitement still concentrated behind me. I crawl along the edge, peeking up every few seconds, but I see neither enemy nor escape. Visibility is scarce from this angle and its difficult to hear anything over the wind and fighting, but when my squinting eyes finally pick up on the moving shadows headed right this way, I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

I've never once imagined a scenario where a horde of the infected garnered any other emotion but terror, but the only thing I feel now is sweet, joyous relief. The hosts are following the sounds and smells of carnage that rebound against the brick walls, lurching forward in that distinctive unnatural gait, and I'm so happy to see them I might as well be cheering them on. There's too many of them to fight off, even for Cato and his immunity. I'm safe from their attack up here, but if the others don't notice them soon, they'll be overtaken or forced to run. All I have to do now is keep them occupied.

Pounding footsteps round the corner of the street below the building. Instead of ducking down, I push myself up from my knees and lean over the copper pipe. I want them to see me. I need to keep them distracted until the hosts get their claws in them. I crane my neck and follow the noise, locking in on the crown of the blond-haired boy sprinting down the street. Despite my body protesting, I fill my lungs deeply, ready to be as loud as possible for as long as possible, when there's another shout from the front of the building.

"Anyone have eyes on the bitch?"

Am I hallucinating? The voice is undeniably Cato's, but it's not coming from the person sprinting towards me. He's still on the other side, fighting off the Mutts. Who am I staring at then? I squint against the setting sun's glare, and as the running boy gets closer, that feeling of relief turns to ice-cold panic. The blond hair flying off his forehead is not the artificial platinum that the districts closest to the Capitol favour, but the sun-bleached gold of the working-class. The body posture indicates not insatiable rage, but primal terror. And when he tilts his head up to see me gaping down at him, the colour of his eyes is unmistakable.

Peeta is here – alive, unhurt, and as far as I can tell, unaware of how close to danger he is. My heart pumps erratically, both at the shock of seeing my partner not only alive but so close, and at the more pressing fact that I'm about to watch him get torn apart.

I open my mouth to warn him, to give him time to run before the threats on either side of him have him trapped, but before any air leaves my lungs he throws his hands up, halting me. He must have heard the Careers screaming threats and commands, but the real danger is slowly marching right towards him and he has no idea from his viewpoint down on street-level. I can see his eyes scan the flat brick wall in front of him, searching for a way up to me or for a way for me to get to him.

"No, behind you-" I try, but he shakes his head wildly, putting a finger against his lips to keep me quiet. I follow his orders, if only to keep the creeping monsters behind him from knowing where to charge first, but my panic repeatedly insists that we don't have time for quiet. I point wildly ahead of him, mouthing the word 'infected' over and over. He turns to look back over his shoulder, and when he faces me again his spine is rigid and I can see his pupils dilate from here. He looks up at me with steely determination and instead of running, motions for me to hide. I shake my head at him in horror, wanting to scream at him to move. What is he doing? He can't get up to the roof in time, he'll be stopped by Cato. He's weaponless, and I can't help him from up here. He's running out of time to keep himself alive.

To drive the point home, another body races around the corner, blocking his safest path. The glossy black hair and small frame of Clove sprints right for him, but Peeta doesn't even raise his fists. He flicks his eyes from me to her and back again before turning to face her directly. Behind his back, he makes another one-handed motion for me to duck back behind the cover of the rooftop, but I am frozen in fear at the notion of having to watch my only ally die in front of me while I'm crouched fifty feet above, totally helpless.

"Well, Lover Boy? You find your girlfriend?"

Clove calls out in a voice edged with malice, but it doesn't quite match the cruel, taunting tone I've associated with her. Her pointed nose lifts up to the roof and before I can move, she huffs out a surprised cackle when she sees me leaning over the rail.

"Well holy shit, Twelve! Didn't think you had it in you, to be honest."

My jaw drops open and once again, I'm finding it difficult to breathe at all. Maybe I am hallucinating from the pain. There's no way I heard that right. Clove makes it sound as though Peeta's a part of the Career pack, but that's obviously impossible. Only hours ago, they were calling for his blood and chasing him like prey. And yet, he's still standing. He's made no move to defend himself, and his posture actually relaxes some as Clove gets closer.

"I told you I'd find her before you could."

His response is a hard punch in my gut, but what hits me harder is the total immediate switch in his demeanor. His voice is hard, almost detached. He stands taller, more confident. And when he tilts his head back up to look at me again, the sneer he gives me makes him unrecognizable as the boy who told me he could never kill me only last night. He is a stranger.

"Cato! Here! We've got her!" Clove puts her hands to her mouth and calls, grinning evilly up at me as she does. Peeta flinches, his eyes flicking to his left, where we both know the infected are inching ever closer. He doesn't mention them, however, and I'm not about to speak up for him.

A screech echoes from around the corner, the last Mutt whining into non-existence, and moments later Cato rounds the bend, looking almost euphoric. The look he gives me is nothing short of deviant. The pulsing throbbing of my scar turns into one continuous thrum.

"Well, I'll be damned! Looks like you're good for something after all, Lover Boy!" Cato slows to a saunter and joins the other two directly below me. He slaps Peeta's shoulder so hard it drives him forwards, but my district partner only shakes him off and mumbles something unintelligible. Cato winks at him as he mimics Peeta's search for a way up, telling him over his shoulder that they might even give him first crack at me, if he's lucky.

My brain forms an impenetrable wall against all logic in that moment. I forget that Peeta has just tried to keep me hidden from view. I forget that instead of alerting the others to my position, he desperately tried to keep me silent. I forget that the last time I saw him, he was protecting little Rue and screaming at me to save myself. I forget that the reason he was chosen to seek out strangers on the scouting team was because he's so talented at getting them to trust him. I forget everything I know about Peeta Mellark, until I see the way his lip curls and his eyes narrow into blue slits at Cato's back.

Something deep down, an emotion I can't even name, tells me that I need to hold onto the trust I have for him. It tells me that we are still teammates, that Peeta is still on my side. Somehow, he's managed to convince the others that he's on theirs, and maddeningly, I know he's that he's done it to keep me safe. I don't know how he's done it or what he must have had to do or say before they lowered their weapons and invited him into their circle, but whatever it was, he's created an uneasy truce. I don't know what his plan is from here, but all I can do is keep my mouth shut and let it play out. My own window for joining teams has long been slammed shut, and the best thing I can do as an ally is pretend that I am not one.

I'm still frozen, leaning forward against the copper pipe like a rag-doll, when the three tributes below me suddenly become statues as well. The reason why is obvious, and I'm torn between grinning and crying. Though it must still be hidden from their view, a lone host is dragging itself down the alley towards us. The body has no qualms about keeping quiet, and I can hear the shuffling feet and limbs scraping against walls from up here. Cato is the first to reanimate, and he twists his neck around to find the source of the noise.

"Twelve, go find that thing and put it down," he orders. "I'm not taking my eyes off your girlfriend until she's in pieces."

"Sure, but you'll need to give me a weapon first," Peeta counters. He says it almost conversationally, but the look between the District Two tributes definitively says that that won't be happening. Clove rolls her eyes and makes an annoyed sound, unleashing a knife from her belt.

"I'll do it. It's one measly body, what the fuck do you need a weapon for?" Her gaze lingers on Peeta for a moment, judging, before they travel over to Cato. "Wait for me if you find a way up."

She turns on her heel and marches into the alley, shooting a glare my way over her shoulder. I watch her disappear into the shadows and pray that I'll never see her come back out of them. Out of all of us, I'm the only one who truly understands just how wrong she is.

Cato paces like an animal below me, growing more agitated the longer Clove is gone. It's become clear to all of us that there's only one way up to my position, and I'm slowly realizing that I've somehow gained the advantage here. My confidence builds, and when a scream rings out from the alley that is satisfyingly pain-filled, I lean further over the railing, a knowing smirk on my lips.

My confidence is depressingly short-lived. It deflates instantly when Clove jogs out of the alley towards us, looking shaken but no more injured than before.

"Cato, we need to move," she warns as she rejoins them at the wall. "There's a lot more than one heading our way."

Cato looks mutinous. He shakes his head, still refusing to look away from me.

"Fuck that! This is what we've trained for. Deal with the bodies, I'm not leaving until we have her."

Clove looks as though she wants to argue but she doesn't persist. Peeta purses his lips, looking over his shoulder before stepping forward to get eye-level with Cato.

"Oh, just leave her up there," he groans, exasperated. "If we can't get up, she can't get down. If we've got company, let's wait for them to move on and deal with her in the morning. We can take turns keeping watch from the window."

He makes a convincing argument, and I try not to bristle at the way he talks about me like I'm not here, like he wants to be rid of me as much as the others do. Cato stares at him down his nose for a moment, clearly struggling with the idea, before shoving past him and stalking down the street.

"Fine, whatever. Fighting in the dark is a stupid idea, anyway. I don't trust you not to run off. Just know that if she isn't there at sunrise," he jabs a finger at me, "you're dead meat. Got it, Lover Boy?"

"Got it," Peeta nods.

"Good," he grunts, "Let's move."

Cato shoulders past Clove and continues on down the street, presumably towards where Marvel and Glimmer have been hiding out this whole time. Clove follows him, shouting up a last threat to me before turning the corner and out of my sight.

"You hear that, you little rat? We've got you surrounded and we're watching you. Enjoy your last night!"

Peeta starts to leave too, and my heart sinks with the realization that he's put himself in an impossible position. If I haven't found a way to escape by first light, he'll no doubt be forced into having a hand in my death. If morning comes and I am gone, he'll be my replacement as the Careers' victim. There's no right answer here, and when he lifts his chin to meet my eyes for what could be the final time, I know he grasps how dire our situation is, too.

I'm only left alone on this side of the building for a few moments before the undead catch up. They filter into the dying light from behind walls and through alleys, groaning and shambling and searching for the meal they've just lost out on. I can sense their displeasure, and limp my way back to the little storage shed before I join them in their rage. Some will have followed the scent of the other tributes, but I can hear a growing number of them bumping around and scraping against the wall, as futile in their attempt to reach me as my living enemies were. Still, the knowledge that the infected are roaming around in such close proximity only makes my aching head pound harder.

I sit down hard just inside the door to the shed, watching the broken window in the skyscraper for a time. It's too dark now to see more than moving shadows, but there have been no cannon blasts, so I'm sure they're all up there, watching me too.

Now that I'm alone and the chase has been called off for the time-being, the burn in my chest and my injured rib is almost unbearable. No matter which way I shift, the pain is there, and I give up entirely on the possibility of sleep. Not that I have the luxury of slumber anyway, I suppose. We may be heading into the heart of Winter, when the darkness of night reigns supreme, but that only leaves me a few short hours to get myself out of this mess.

I pull the obnoxiously bright toque out of my bag and pull it on, my only other means of warmth. I wrap my arms around my knees and watch my breath sail up to join the clouds in the sky, trying to force an idea out into the atmosphere, but my brain is too numb to come up with anything substantial. My chattering teeth drown out most of my thoughts, except for one repeating cohesive string: that I may die from the cold before anything else gets to me. I bitterly wish I had found something, anything in this shed that would help to start a fire, but there's not so much as a single match stick. I think of the Capitol audience – they'll all be sitting in their homes, bundled in blankets and stoking their fireplaces, watching the skinny girl from Twelve battle the elements and losing. I suddenly remember who else is sitting warm and cozy in the Capitol, and my scar pulses angrily at his complete lack of help.

"Aren't you watching me?" I mumble through lips that have surely turned blue by now. "Don't you see that I need help? A blanket? A sleeping bag? I'll take a piece of kindling…"

But if Haymitch can hear my pleas through the camera, he ignores them. My mentor has already counted me out, called me a lost cause and cut the feed. And why shouldn't he? I've survived the first day of the Games, but I'm injured and freezing to death and I've done everything the wrong way. Better to spend the sponsor's money on Peeta and bet on him.

As if he's tuned into my thoughts, a light suddenly sparks and glows from the window where I know Peeta's hiding. The tiny lick of flame weaves and bobs from the candle it stands on, so small I might've missed it if I hadn't been so intent on keeping my eyes ready for signs of life. The sight of the fire, and the warmth I know it's creating, makes me so envious my head swims. But the angle is wrong, and in my hazy state of hypothermic misery, it takes me a few moments to realize that it's not the Careers who have lit up their room. No, the candle sits on the windowsill of a window two floors up from my enemies, and the person taking refuge behind it, made distinguishable by her wild, dark curls, is about as safe from the people below her as I am.

I'm suddenly wide-awake, the chains of exhaustion and pain and hunger snapping against the weight of my renewed panic. Little Rue is only feet away from a crew of murderers, and I don't think Peeta can help her this time. The light of her candle makes for an easy target, but screaming at her to snuff it out is an even bigger one. I don't know how to get her attention quietly, and my eyes flick back and forth between her and the window two floors below.

With a grunt of pain, I throw myself forward onto hands and knees, making for the untouched snow, where I'll try to send a silent message in glittering white words, the only message of warning I know how to give. The knees of my pants are soaked through in seconds, but protecting this child who reminds so much of my sister gives me a fresh burst of grit. With numb hands, I drag a long line through the snow, the first one of Rue's district. I glance up at her window to make sure she's still there, and have to take a pause when I see her face, thrown into light by the flame and making a terrible expression.

Rue's mouth is wide open, making her look like she's halfway through a scream, but the only noise I can hear are the growls and grunts of the undead down below. She breathes in deep and makes that same face, moving slowly over the pane of glass in front of her. I watch her repeat the motion once, twice, three more times, becoming more and more perplexed, before I realize that her face is hidden in a fog. She steps back, disappearing from my view, and then, like a ghost has appeared, letters slowly appear on the glass in a wide childish font.

I wait with bated breath for the letters to form a word, then another, before the window is covered by one messy, backwards message. I read it four times before I can really make sense of what it says, but when I do, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen:

"Stay. I know how to get you out."

Notes:

Hello friends. Thanks for reading. I know this update took FOREVER, but I appreciate your patience if you're still here. Not to get too personal, but my Dad passed away unexpectedly the day I posted the previous chapter, and it's been hitting me pretty hard. I'm also trying to my wedding around a pandemic, which has been the most stressful thing I've ever done, so unfortunately writing has taken a bit of a backseat. It's therapeutic for me, though, so I'm hoping to get more accomplished sooner rather than later. Please leave a note if you're able - I could use some motivation, if I can be selfish for a moment. Thanks, love you, be safe!