CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It's almost time for our tributes to line up for their interviews, and there's chaos and confusion as tributes, mentors, escorts, and stylists gather around each other, mingling and rushing and trying to put the finishing touches on everything.

"It's only three minutes," I remind Rosa. "You get up there, they ask you a few questions, and then you're done. And you'll never have to worry about it again, okay?"

She nods.

Leander has done a wonderful job on the girl. The dress is cute and dainty, but not so immature that it plays up her childishness. The makeup looks heavy now, but once she's under the burning lights and the cameras are recording, it will look simple and amazing. There's a bit of glitter on her cheeks. Her hair is in a half ponytail so that part of it hangs around her shoulders and the part that is pulled away from her face is braided and interwoven with a glittering thread.

"Any last minute questions?" I ask her as Leander puts the finishing touch on her dress: a sprig of pine that is pinned near her clavicle.

She shakes her head.

"Tributes line up!" calls out a voice, and the escorts begin to usher the tributes into their positions.

My heart thumps as though I am going to be the one up there on stage right now, and I can't help but be nervous for Rosa and Green. I remind myself that I am safe and that I am alive and that I am no longer a tribute. Pitch leads me away from here, and we leave the behind the scenes to find our seats out front.

It's strange how different it is from this side of the interviews. Pitch and I sit with several other victors. There's a few empty seats which must be for Leander, Tasha, and other stylists. Before us is a magnificent stage—larger than any I've seen in my life aside from, of course, when I stood on it last year—with a great red velvet curtain. The audience rumbles with excitement as they wait for the show to begin, and I feel revulsion at their attitude towards this whole thing.

After several minutes, bright music begins to play, and the audience cheers wildly. The curtains part, and there is Caligula Klora waving to the audience. His smile is so wide that it can only be false.

"Let's welcome our tributes!" he says. He gestures broadly, and the tributes come out in a line, starting with the District 1 female and ending with the District 12 male. There is a pretty significant height difference between the District 6, District 7, and District 8 as the two little tributes file in with the rest. Some of the tributes are soaking in the attention, while others look to be about two seconds away from fainting. Most, however, look just a bit stunned. I remember that feeling.

"I know you guys cannot wait to begin, so let's get started!" Caligula booms out. He turns and waves towards the District 1 female. "Joy, would you join me up here, please?"

The girl beams at Caligula, stands up from her seat, and walks proudly over to him. Her long, floor-length dress swishes after her, but each step is confident.

One after another, we see the interviews. Each one takes a different angle, or at least attempts to do so. Not everyone has the charisma and onstage presence like Joy from District 1, but no one is absolutely terrible, either.

And then Caligula is asking Rosa to join him.

"Ponderosa Funar," he says, the smile never leaving his face. When she is at his side in front of the mic—which Caligula pauses to adjust so that it's closer to her size—his smile only broadens. "Welcome to the Capitol, Ponderosa. Or do you go by a nickname?"

"Rosa, please," she says. Her voice is so pure. It's a complete contrast to most of the tributes we've seen so far. If she is experiencing stage fright, it doesn't show.

"Well then, Rosa, I was quite taken aback when I saw you at the reaping. You looked so much smaller there, but I can tell that you're not nearly as tiny as you seemed on television," Caligula says kindly.

She grins at him, and I know that the partially-erupted tooth is clearly visible both to the interviewer and also to the cameras picking her up at this moment.

"Everyone thinks I'm young and small, so they write me off," Rosa admits.

"And they shouldn't, should they?" asked Caligula.

"No, they shouldn't," Rosa says. "I'm a force to be reckoned with."

Pitch shoots me a look out of the corner of his eye, likely wondering exactly what we discussed in the interview preparation yesterday. I don't give any sort of response—verbal or otherwise—and instead focus on the little girl on the stage.

"You have some tricks up your sleeve then?" Caligula asks.

Rosa smiles. She doesn't answer. She just keeps looking out to the crowd with that smile on her face, both confident and sweet at the same time.

Caligula tries again: "What is your favorite part of being here in the Capitol, Rosa?"

Rosa thinks about it for a moment. "I really like the food. And I like the people! Lala always makes sure Green and I get to where we need to go, and my mentor is really good. She really knows her stuff."

I raise an eyebrow. Uh, yeah, okay. Where did this come from?

"Your mentor is treating you fine? I've heard a rumor—"

Rosa giggles. It's not the nervous fit of giggles one might fall into when placed under pressure, but an innocent, schoolyard thing when a silly joke has been passed between classmates.

"Oh, I think she's madly in love, but that's okay. One day I will be, too," Rosa replies sweetly. It's enough to make the audience awwww. I let a hiss escape between clenched teeth and tell myself that at least she isn't throwing me under the bus.

"Yes, you will be," Caligula reassures her. "And then you'll bring him—or her—back to the Capitol and show 'em off to us, okay?"

Rosa nods eagerly.

The rest of the interview goes smoothly. Rosa is just a charming little girl, but she makes herself out to be something a little . . . different. Not your typical twelve-year-old tribute, but not something deadly like the other older teenagers. The three minutes finally ends, and then it's Green's turn.

Caligula barely gets in a word edgewise while Green runs off all the things that he wants to say during his interview. The kid barely stops talking and almost has to be manually moved from the microphone.

With the two of them finished, my nerves settle a little and I'm able to watch Taylor of District 8. It's a simple interview with nothing particularly remarkable except for the training score she received. Later, when my mind isn't so cluttered, I'll have to sit down and watch Nicola's, Taylor's, and Rosa's interviews again.

"That went better than expected," Pitch says as the anthem ends and people begin to shift around in their seats. He stands up and I follow suit.

We head backstage again to reclaim our tributes. Lala is already there, congratulating them for a job well done. She looks annoyed to see us, but since her duty is primarily to make sure that she comes across as flawless, she plasters a smile on her face and pretends that everything is just peachy.

"Good job, Rosa," I say. She smiles at me. It might be a genuine smile, or it might be fake; I can't really tell anymore and I'm kind of over it.

Lala directs us to a private car where we all climb in for our ride back to the training center. The escort gushes over the tributes for several more minutes, then she begins to go over tomorrow's schedule. It's a sobering lecture, really, considering that all of the hype and excitement from tonight is ultimately leading up to their deaths tomorrow. The tributes sense it as well, and the more Lala talks, the weaker their smiles get until they're gone altogether. Only the escort is still pumped up from all the activity of the day, and she clearly doesn't care that no one else is as enthusiastic as she is.

"…You'll have a big breakfast tomorrow before you need to get ready. And make sure to take some snacks! Of course you can't take them in the arena, but it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a bite to eat before you leave."

I would like to strangle her now, and she must sense it because she turns at me and stares hard at my cheek. The prep team had covered it up well, but it still burns a little when I talk and Lala must know it. But it's enough that I keep quiet and don't say anything at all.

On she talks for the remainder of the mercifully short drive to the training center where we are unloaded and head up the elevator.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

After the tributes have showered and eaten dinner, we find ourselves at a loss for what to do. Lala has disappeared to take care of "some important things" and I'm afraid that Pitch will vanish soon, too.

"Don't worry," he reassures me. "Not tonight."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding.

I get Pitch to help me move the dining room table, then after he heads to his room to shower, I set up an area where I let the tributes throw anything they want at the wall. They look surprised at me when I tell them that they're welcome to pick up the most expensive shit in the entire apartment—aside from what's in our rooms—and heave it as hard as they can at that wall. I have a few sheets stretched out on the floor to catch most of the shards and debris to keep cleanup for the avoxes as minimal as possible.

"Are-are you serious?" Green hesitates.

"Totally," I say. Then to show them that I am, I grab up a vase, set the dripping flowers aside, and then heave the vase against the wall where it smashes with a great noise.

Rosa gasps. But then the next thing I know, the tributes are in a flurry of excitement grabbing up objects—any objects they can wrap their hands around—and heaving them in that general direction. They're laughing and howling and creating quite a stir. At last the chaos brings Pitch out of his room. His hair is still wet from the shower and he's pulling on his shoes as he comes down the hallway.

"Is everything okay?" he demands as he comes into view.

"Juniper is letting us break things!" Green yells.

"Anything we want!" Rosa shouts.

Pitch stares blankly at me. I just grin back at him. "Old fashion stress relief," I tell him.

He turns to the smashed pottery, broken picture frames, glasses and dishes, and the television remote that Green has tried to break four times but hasn't been able to damage yet.

Then the tributes are running around the apartment like little beasts, making noises of all sorts and just screaming at the top of their lungs. They bound around in circles, wailing and flailing, grabbing onto things in passing and bringing it back to the wall to smash.

Lala returns just as Green is picking up the couch cushions and howling like a banshee, and Rosa is heaving a statuette of an ancient goddess across the dining room.

"What in heaven's name is going on?!" she cries out, her voice lost in the chaos. Her eyes are wide and her hands begin to curl around the papers she's holding, crinkling them in the middle. But her confusion turns to anger, and she starts towards Green.

I'm laughing so hard that there are tears running down my cheeks.

"Give this back! This isn't yours to destroy!" she grabs onto the couch cushion. But Green lunges forward and digs his teeth into the soft fabric of the cushion like he's a wild dog fighting for a piece of meat. Lala is so startled that she yelps and jumps backwards, releasing her grip of the cushion. Green tumbles to the ground but quickly bounces up again, laughing and howling some more. He sends the cushion flying towards the dining room, but it's a long shot and only proceeds to slide across the top of the table before coming to a rest.

Rosa has a chair from the dining room set in her hands now, and the next thing I know, it's being heaved at the wall. The chair leaves a sizeable dent and falls to the floor, more or less unharmed. But she's grabbing for another chair now, screaming all sorts of profanities that, under normal circumstances, would be unsuitable for a twelve-year-old kid.

"Get them under control!" Lala hisses towards us as she runs over to wrestle the chair away from Rosa.

Rosa's holding her own pretty well, and it becomes clear why the older girls wanted her to be a part of their alliance. Lala eventually overpowers her, though, and pushes Rosa to the ground where the girl lands, stunned.

I'm at Rosa's side in a heartbeat.

"If you hurt her—" I say to Lala.

"I didn't hurt her. She hurt this wall! Who is going to pay for this wall?"

"I don't know and I don't care," I say. "Maybe it can come out of the Capitol's child murdering fund."

Lala has me pinned to the wall by my throat before I can blink. Her hold on me is firm, but it's not very strong. Had I been prepared for it, I could easily have deflected it. But the suddenness of it has taken me off guard. I'm about to knee her in the stomach when Pitch steps in, grabs Lala by the shoulder, and separates us.

"This is just ridiculous," Lala huffs as she steps out of Pitch's reach. She looks ruffled and takes a brief moment to compose herself. Then she surveys all the chaos around: myself, against the wall, but now with Pitch partially blocking me; Pitch, looking downright furious at the escort; Rosa, still on the floor with a stunned expression; and Green, who is in the living room singing at the top of his lungs what I can only describe as a sea shanty.

The escort straights up. "I'll be back here tomorrow morning at 5:30 AM. I expect the tributes to be ready to go."

No one says anything as she heads to the elevators and leaves.

I lean over and help Rosa up to her feet. She appears unharmed but still a bit startled.

"You okay?" I ask her.

She nods. "Why did she do that?"

"Do what?"

"Push me and then grab you?"

"Oh. Lala really likes things to be in order. And I pissed her off pretty good earlier, so I think she wasn't in the best of moods." I shrug.

Rosa looks at the debris littering the room.

"Don't worry about it," I say.

"Is that why your cheek was red?"

"Yeah," I admit. "Turns out that I'm not the only one with a temper."

Just the only one who can be held accountable for it.

But I grin at her. "Did you have fun breaking shit?"

She laughs. "Yes! I'd like to do it again sometime. Just not right now. I'm tired!"

She heads off to get ready for bed, and Pitch finally manages to get Green under control a few minutes later. The kid is alternating between laughing and crying and wailing and swearing. But at last he is sent to go cool down in his room.

Pitch finds me in the dining area where an avox and I are cleaning up the mess. I can't be certain, but I think the avox smiles when she first walks in and sees the damage. However, if it was true, it vanishes in the blink of an eye.

"I probably shouldn't even ask what started all this," he says as he leans over and grabs a corner of one of the sheets, now laden with broken debris.

"Sometimes it just feels good to break shit and scream into the void," I say casually. "And if you're going to go die, it's not like there are really any consequences. Besides, what else were they going to do tonight? Sit inside their rooms and cry until it was time to leave in the morning?"

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Pitch, the avox, and I finish cleaning up the apartment within a couple minutes. Most of the loose items were broken so there wasn't much to put back. Pitch makes me take a few minutes to drink some water (which I was desperately hoping to avoid now that I know that my bladder doesn't always wait til I wake up) and eat a snack before I'm allowed to go back to my room.

"Tomorrow's going to be rough, Juniper," Pitch says as I nibble on a wedge of cheese. I just look up at him dully. "The tributes will leave early, and then it's time for us to start our duties. We'll go to the mentor room, pick up our gear, and then make our presence known."

"What does that mean?" I ask him.

"There's normally a bloodbath party. And a post-bloodbath party. And . . . well, there are a lot of parties that we will be expected to attend tomorrow."

I feel like if I eat any more cheese, I'm going to vomit, and yet I'm still eating because I know that I have to.

"How do we mentor if we're not near our computer stations?" I feel my spirits sinking. I had imagined that I'd be primarily sitting in front of a computer til my tribute died, interacting with nobody except for the mentors in my tribute's alliance.

"They give us these devices that attach to your wrist—like watches, in a way—and then we can keep track of everything that we would be able to from our computers," he explains. "It's a mobile station. And they're very useful because, unfortunately, the job requires a bit of chatting up Capitol citizens to get money for our tributes. You're going to hate it, but you're just going to deal with it, okay? You need to do it for Rosa."

I nod. My stomach is tight and queasy.

"We . . . also need to figure out how to handle the rumor," he says.

I look up at him. "What do you mean?"

"The rumor about us—we can't just continue ignoring it," he says. "We're either going to have to deny it or go with it."

I rub my cheek absently as I think for a moment. "Is there nothing in between?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"Can we just kind of . . . skirt around it? Neither confirm nor deny?" I ask.

"It'll get pretty sticky. Might end up saying contradictory things. And, no offense, Juniper, you're not really the best of liars."

I'm not offended. I'm too busy trying to think to be offended. "I just . . . don't want to do something that contradicts whatever Rosa is doing. I don't want her to get killed because we do something stupid."

Pitch sits back in his chair and exhales.

"Remember what I said about letting the tribute take care of herself in the arena? That at some point we have to accept that there's nothing more that we can do besides sending in sponsorship gifts?" He watches me carefully. "And as soon as we get to one of these parties, people will be all over us trying to find out the truth."

"So what's your idea?" I ask.

He hesitates. "There are so many factors to take into consideration. There's the rumor itself, and then there's what Rosa said at the interview, and then there's also Lala's take on it. And I know that neither of us like Lala, but she's also well respected in the Capitol, so if she says something, it's bound to override whatever we're saying."

"She seems to think that we spend a ridiculous amount of time having sex," I say dryly. "If we deny the rumors, it'll look like we're guilty but trying to hide it, which she can use against us. If we say that they're true, then she'll just tell everyone how much time we spend together ignoring our tributes."

"Damned if we do, damned if we don't."

I tap my fingers against the table. "If we say that the rumors are true, but exaggerated, we don't have to, like, start publicly groping each other and making out, do we? I mean—no offense. It's just that—"

Pitch laughs. "No, we don't need to. We'll just tell everyone 'work first, inappropriate touching later.'"

"Ugh, thanks," I say.

He's still laughing.

"What?" I demand.

"I've made you uncomfortable, I'm sorry," he says. But there's still amusement in his eyes.

I stare at the table. "It's just that this'll be my first relationship since I was thirteen and Hunter Soun tried to grab my boob. I broke his arm and kicked him in the crotch so hard that he needed to go to the ER and get stitched up."

Pitch sounds surprised when he talks (I don't know why—he should be used to this by now), "I'll make sure to keep my hands under control, then."

And now I'm dating my former mentor. It seems so weird to think that. I can't say that he's like a brother to me because I'm an only child and the concept of sibling relationships is a bit lost, but I've never viewed him as someone I was romantically attracted to. I enjoy his company and I don't mind when he hugs me, but I'm not sure I'm ready for everyone to think we're more than what we are. Yet this is well out of my control, and I can only do whatever to make sure things don't get worse. "Damage control" as Lala called it. Except I'm not trying to advance my status for petty purposes; I'm just trying to live my life and keep my tribute alive as long as I can. Esther said that Pitch wasn't that bad, and I agree with her. He's easy to get along with and he always watches out for my best interest. I know it could be worse, but I can't help but being irritated regardless.

Pitch reaches out and puts his hand on mine. I pull my hand away.

"Yeah, see, that's not going to work," he says. "People will see that and wonder what is going on."

"We're not out there yet," I reply.

"But if your first reaction is to pull away. . . ."

"It won't be," I assure him. And I hope I'm right.

"Okay then. We will meet out here tomorrow morning at 5:00 AM," Pitch says. He stands up.

I remain where I am. "Have to eat," I say weakly. My cheese and crackers have barely been touched.

"Juniper, do you need something to help you sleep?" he asks.

That's an option? "Like alcohol?"

"I was thinking melatonin," he says with furrowed brows.

"Oh. No, I'll be okay. I just need a minute."

"Alright," he says. He gives me a last look, then heads down the hallway to his room.

True to my word, I stand up shortly afterwards and push away the plate. I'm not going to eat anyhow, and I really should get sleep if I need to be here at 5:00 AM to start attending parties or whatever. I head slowly down the hallway, my head tumbling full of information. There's too much to sort out, and to have to pretend to be dating Pitch makes it even more confusing. I've almost reached my room when I see that there is a figure waiting by my door. I blink my bleary eyes. It's Rosa.

She wraps her arms around me and gives me a big hug. I hug her back and don't release her until she lets me go. Tears roll down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice heavy. "I just . . . I just wanted a chance to win. And I was angry. I'm really sorry."

She places a slip of paper in my hand, then turns and heads down the hallway. Carefully I unfold the paper and wonder what could have been so serious that she'd have to write it down but couldn't say. However, I only find my own handwriting staring back to me. It's the slip of paper with blotted ink and the strengths of Rosa and Green. A paper I had left behind with many others as I had sulked off to my room on the train. I had thought that Pitch had picked it up, but maybe I was mistaken. My heart sinks as I realize that Rosa had seen this paper—all the papers, the ones listing their strengths and weaknesses—and maybe even overheard our conversation many nights ago when I was so overwhelmed with the prospect of mentoring a tribute that was as good as dead.

Before she disappears out of sight, I call out in a loud whisper, "Rosa!"

She turns and looks at me.

"I am still mentoring you. And I will still continue to mentor you."

She nods and vanishes into her room.

I enter my own room, close the door, and cry myself to sleep.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The faces of the District 9 pair appear in the sky the next night since they had died after the last anthem. For the first time in days, I feel well-rested and well-fed, and yet I'm just as empty as I was before I got ahold of the roasted peacock. There are six of us left in the Hunger Games, and it seems like it has already gone on far too long. Most of the Careers are dead, except for the District 1 female and the District 4 male. Then there is the District 6 male, District 8 male, and District 10 female. I never bothered to learn any of their names because ultimately it doesn't matter. The couple names I did learn—the two who were going to be part of my alliance—made no difference since the tributes were killed in the bloodbath.

I have killed two people here, and yet I don't feel like it really got me anywhere. Instead, I am just tired in my chest and it seems like this Hunger Games will never end. The ninth day of the Hunger Games is coming to a close, and I want the entire thing to be over. Yet I also don't want to be the one to initiate it.

I'm sitting on a stone wall about eight feet high. It's left me pretty exposed on all sides, especially if there is a projectile aimed right at me, but I find that I really don't care at this point. But from here, I can see the stars above my head and find the constellations I loved back home. It's nice to know that at least they have given us one piece of normalcy in this nightmare. In the distance, I hear the trumpeting of elephants and the stamping of their great feet. I've gotten used to the noise of the topiary mutts making a ruckus every time someone comes close to them. They scared me at first, but now they . . . just exist. They're just a piece of the arena, no more, no less. Just like the greenhouse and rose garden and hedge maze and bubbling brook. There's nothing really to be scared about anymore. They just exist.

~.~

I wake up with a great heaviness within me. I shower, but it doesn't wash away. I dress, but I can't pull out the stone that's lodged in my thorax. I lace my boots and head out to the sitting room where I find Pitch looking just as weary as I feel.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Don't we get to say goodbye to the tributes?" I ask.

"No, we don't. But they will be in the good care of their stylists," Pitch reassures me.

We walk to the elevator, and Pitch pulls out the book that's jutting out of my front pants pocket. "What's this?"

I look at him, silently begging him to let me have the book. He reads my face for a moment and then hands it back to me. "Just don't get too absorbed," he says halfheartedly.

We go to the mentor room where most of the other mentors have already assembled. A few are still straggling in. The mood is somber, and it doesn't appear that everyone is really awake just yet. The large screen has the seal of Panem on it now, and the clock in the bottom is closing in on zero. In just a few hours, the Hunger Games will begin. In the lounge, a great spread of delicious breakfast foods are spread out on the table, but no one is eating. I know I cannot eat. I have no appetite.

Once everyone has assembled, a man in a clean white uniform tells us to get to our stations. I trod after the others and plop down in my designated chair between Pitch and Esther. Esther looks as tired as I am, and she offers me a weak smile. I manage to return it, but just barely.

Now a couple of white-clad people are going through and giving each mentor a wristband with a small watch face on it. They check off each one on a list on their tablet, speak briefly with the mentor, and then hand the mentor the device. Some mentors grab it up easily and fasten it to their wrists. They flick their arms around and plop their fingers against the watch faces, playing eagerly with their new devices. Others just accept it and slip it on silently. Then there are others like Elijah who says that he wants one with a blue band because it's his favorite color, or Rikuto of District 6 who asks for a hypoallergenic, sustainably harvested strap to not offend his delicate skin or ethical code. The officials don't humor either of them and manually clap the bands on the mentors' wrists.

"Pitch Yassen, District 7. Mentoring Evergreen McConnell," one official reads while marking off the list. A second pulls a device out of the box and hands it to Pitch.

"Juniper Sadik, District 7. Mentoring Ponderosa Funar." They hand me a watch and I turn it over in my hands. Despite its light weight, it's bulky and the strap is made of pretty solid stuff. I fasten it to my left wrist and then turn my arm over to admire its shiny face. As I had watched the others do, I tap the black screen with my finger and it comes to life. Immediately I see a small picture of my tribute with her various stats. When I choose the menu button, I can access the arena map (currently blank with no data), other tributes' stats, Ponderosa's bank (currently empty, but Pitch tells me that's standard), and a help screen.

As soon as the monitoring devices are handed out, the mentors begin to meander around the room. Some head to the lounge, others leave entirely. I wish I could leave, but I'm not certain where we would go. Yesterday was our last day of "fun" before the Hunger Games begin, so I doubt we're allowed to distract ourselves by any means. And I certainly don't want to leave if it means going to one of those horrible parties.

"The map and bank don't appear until after the bloodbath ends," Esther explains to me. "That way we don't get distracted and can watch the opening of the Hunger Games with everyone else."

Oh joy.

Isolde then appears in front of me.

"I know this probably sounds absolutely crazy to you, but good luck to your tribute. I mean it, really," she says with seriousness. "Careers don't get a good reputation for a reason, so I can't say I blame you if you think I'm just being some smarmy asshole."

I look up at her tired green eyes. Makeup is caked on underneath in an attempt to hide the dark circles.

"We all look like a bunch of zombies," is all I can think to say.

Isolde laughs, the heaviness suddenly vanishing from her tone. "C'mon, let's go remedy that." She looks at Esther. "You, too."

I heave myself to my feet as Isolde says to Pitch, "Don't worry, I'm just taking her into the lounge."

Whatever. Esther and I trail after Isolde as she hurries off to the other room.

In the lounge, Isolde finds us great big steaming cups of coffee, which she eagerly hands out to us. I don't drink coffee anymore since I no longer need to be awake into the small hours of the night to study for school, but I'm very willing to start up again right this moment. Without adding any sort of cream or sugar, I gulp it down straight away. It burns my tongue, but I don't care. I'd inject myself with this stuff right now if I could.

Isolde leads us to a free set of couches and we flop down to enjoy our drinks. The television screens are on and displaying some sort of pre-Games coverage, but someone has thankfully muted it.

"We can't turn it off," Isolde says when she sees me staring at the screen. "So we mute it, and when it gets really bad, we'll just cover it with a towel or something."

Nice. We can't get away from the Hunger Games even when we need to take a break.

"When things get really, really bad, you can always go into the bathroom and scream. That's what I do," she assures me with a smile.

"Uh, thanks."

Esther is watching the screen pretty intently. They're showing some footage from previous Hunger Games alternating with pictures and videos of the current tributes. It seems like pretty much the same garbage that they've been showing all week. But they don't need to add anything new with the Hunger Games so close—then they'll have all the excitement that they can handle, and then some.

The caffeine starts to work, and all of us begin to perk up.

"Pitch mentioned parties . . . when do those start?" I ask as I sip on my second cup of coffee.

"The first one begins at 9:30 AM," Esther says. "We can be fashionably late, but we need to be there before the Hunger Games start at 10:00 AM."

"I was really hoping it would be at Hezekiah Bumbat's this year," Isolde says, more to Esther than to me. "That place was so large you could get lost in it for days if you weren't careful."

"Where is it this year?" asks Esther.

"The Royal Palace," sighs Isolde.

"There's a palace?" I ask. How strange!

"It's not really," Isolde explains. "It's a mansion of some pretentious rich guy. It started as a nickname, I've heard, but then eventually stuck. It's over on 15th Street."

Oh. Well, it'll be interesting to see a mansion regardless.

Pitch and Demeter come over eventually, see our coffee, and then head over to get their own. When they rejoin us, Pitch tosses a muffin on my lap. "Eat."

"Wow, way to not get some for the rest of us," Isolde says. She stares at Pitch until he rolls his eyes, returns to the food table and comes back with two more muffins for Isolde and Esther. Esther thanks him politely and Isolde gives him a wink.

It's easier to eat when the other two are eating, too. That probably doesn't make sense, but seeing them manage to eat their breakfasts without a problem encourages me to do the same. It's slow-going (none of us are really hungry, it seems), but it gives me something to do while we talk and wait for our time to get moving.

"How's your relationship? Or should I say 'faux-ationship'?" Isolde asks us. She laughs at her own pun. I'm not really sure if her word makes sense.

"Well, it's a thing now," says Pitch.

"Oh?" Demeter raises her eyebrows at him.

He shrugs. "Lala got it into her head that we keep disappearing on our tributes because we can't stay out of each other's pants, so it's not like denying it will get us anywhere," he says honestly. I sink down into my seat a little. I know that I shouldn't be embarrassed by this, but I still feel awkward talking about it so openly. "We're going with the 'it exists but not as bad as Lala says it does' sort of thing."

Demeter harrumphs. "Lala is—"

"A very sore subject and not something to be brought up right now," Pitch interrupts her, watching my expression the entire time.

He directs the conversation to other things. Eventually Hammer comes and joins us, and then Terra of District 12. At long last, Pitch stands up.

"Time to get ready," he says. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Pitch, Esther, Demeter, and I all go in the same cab to the party. Isolde and Hammer are going with some of the others from their district, but not before Isolde had applied some makeup to Esther and I and lent us some of her outfits to wear. When she said that sometimes she goes to the bathroom to scream, I'd believe it; she had set up an elaborate wardrobe and makeup station that she allows anyone to use as long as they asked her permission or, in our case, are invited to share.

As the car pulls up to the "Royal Palace," I find myself gawking at the sheer ridiculousness of the size. It's big enough to fit an entire neighborhood in, it seems; large, sprawling lawns are filled with benches, gazebos, and lawn games, but it's the towering building itself that leaves me in awe. Under what conditions did someone think it would be a great idea to build something like this? It must have dozens and dozens of rooms. How could there be enough people to possibly occupy them all? It makes the mansions in Victor Village look like cozy little cottages. And this is a smaller place than last year's party according to Isolde.

"You ready?" Demeter asks us.

I don't answer for a moment. Isolde lent me an emerald green dress that's soft to the touch and quite comfortable. But despite that, I feel naked. Even knowing that the book I brought with me is tucked into my borrowed purse, I just don't feel prepared enough to take on whatever is heading my way. At very least, if I need to run, I can because I declined the offer for heels and kept my sneakers instead. But I sure as hell don't feel ready to plunge into the fray.

"I guess," I reply to the older victor. We pile out of the car and stand on the sidewalk. There are others here—so many others. People clumped together out on the lawn, talking and drinking and eating. Ridiculous outfits of all sorts in bright shades and dark shades with glitter and streamers and vibrant glowing lights. Children and adults and even the elderly. Everybody is made up in their finest outfits, sporting the newest hairstyles, and waiting to show their support for their favorite tributes. There are large televisions in the gazebo, and another tucked into a copse of trees. But I know that I will not be allowed to escape into the yard to watch the bloodbath. I will be monitored closely by every eye in this party.

A hand clasps mine, and I'm surprised to find that it's Esther's. She squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. In her purple cotton dress, she looks quite sophisticated. But despite her outfit and Isolde's expert hand with the makeup brushes, I can sense that she's terrified down to the core. I don't let go of her as we walk up the path and towards the front door, ignoring the stares and comments from partygoers hanging out on the lawn and under the shade of trees.

Laughter and loud music greet us as we approach the front porch. Great marble pillars frame either side of the doorway. An avox greets us with a polite nod when we step inside. People crowd into the main foyer and even more people must be filling the adjacent rooms. There are televisions blaring everywhere, and avoxes scampering around with plates of food and beverages.

And then there are people greeting us. Lots of people. Dozens, maybe, it seems. Or maybe it's only the same five people over and over. I can't keep track of them all, but I'm shaken when they touch me—a light pat on the shoulder, a grasp around the waist, a kiss on the cheek, a friendly hug. I don't want to be anywhere near them, and this is too much for me to handle.

I want to run away. I want to turn and flee. But Esther hold my hand tightly, and I'm holding hers just as tightly, and if one of us leaves, then the other has to go as well. And that's not an option for either of us.

Pitch and Demeter lead us around, navigating the sea of strangers with ease. And I'm so overwhelmed with everything that's going on that I do what I do best: I zone out. I just let the world go by me as I mindlessly pick up different things: a laugh that's too sharp, potted plants that really just need to be smashed open by an expert (me), the smell of alcohol and honey, bits of conversation that don't make sense.

I am almost relieved when a cry goes out that the Games are about to begin, but the moment of relief is replaced by absolute dread. I don't want this. I don't want to see this. I don't want to be here. I don't want to watch all those kids die. I don't want to relive this.

Esther and I get separated as she is whisked away by the other District 8 mentor, and I find myself staying as close to Pitch as I possibly can. I catch my reflection in a mirror and realize how overwhelmed I look. My eyes are large and flitting about, my skin is sallow, and I don't look like I'm a confident, comfortable mentor. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself once again that I am alive and safe. Then I force myself to pay attention to my surroundings and the people who hover near me—even if only to know with whom I stand—and then I focus on the closest television. Caligula Klora and the Hunger Games announcer, Janice Lovely, are in their places giving last minute predictions and insight.

"C'mon, let's go find a place to watch," Pitch says to me.

I nod eagerly. Anywhere but here. There's too many people, too much excitement. Too much everything.

He leads me through the crowd towards a grand corridor with doors on either side. I glance into each room as we pass. There is a sitting room and a library (sadly, packed full of people and not nearly as welcoming as I'd expect) and a music room. A bathroom. No, three bathrooms. A study. A . . . ballet studio? I don't even know what's going on with these rooms anymore. At last, Pitch and I duck into a sitting room that is significantly less crowded than others. There's still quite a few people in here, and a couple of them wave us over to sit on the couch next to them. I don't want to—I'd rather just stand in the corner behind the statue of some long-dead person—but Pitch leads me over to the couch. We sit down wedged between a man who's in his early twenties and a woman whose age I'll never be able to guess. She might be fifteen, she might be fifty-two. Nothing about her wardrobe and makeup and hairstyle really fit together to define her in a specific category, and the heavy, bright colors she has painted on her face mask the details.

"Pitch, you've brought your special friend with you today!" gasps the woman. She reaches out and touches my shoulder, and I successfully stifle my natural reaction to recoil.

"Ah, yes. Juniper," he says to the lady. And to me he says, "Juniper, this is Romela Dernsnuff. She used to be an escort many years ago."

"Oh, of course I know who you are, Juniper," she says. Then she adds, "I run my own fashion line now. Being an escort can be quite taxing. I figured to let the younger generation take a shot at it."

"So is it true then," the man next to Pitch leans over. "You two are together?"

"Yes, that is true," Pitch answers. My heart thumps loudly in my chest. Will anyone buy it? What if we're terrible liars? Why didn't I think of this before?

"Oh, wonderful!" he says. Then to me he adds, "I'm Bornsburry Sunlap. I was a big supporter of you last year."

I give him a forced smile that says, Thanks for letting me live and making a mockery of my suffering.

"It's true," Pitch says. "Remember the antihistamine you needed? That was him."

"Thank you," I manage to say.

Bornsburry smiles back at me. "I'm sure this is all so much to take in. But don't worry—Pitch takes good care of you, I'm sure."

There's thirty seconds until launch. I press against Pitch to avoid being touched by Romela's pointy shoulder pads, and Pitch puts his arm around me.

The room is suddenly quiet. Tense. All our eyes lock on the massive set of televisions on the wall. The screens go black and then comes Janice's voice: "Let the 141st Hunger Games begin!" The arena is revealed to us: a great golden horn—the Cornucopia—raised up on a massive wooden platform surrounded by a thick forest of trees. After a moment in which the camera pans across the Cornucopia to show the wealth of riches amassed in its open mouth and the various supplies scattered around it, twenty-four holes open up in the wooden platform about a hundred yards away from the Cornucopia, all equidistant apart. The tops of the tributes heads appear as they are raised up through the circles. Slowly we see them in entirety, dressed in shades of green and brown.

Now the television screens start showing us different angles at once so we can view multiple tributes. For a few seconds, I see Rosa, looking around at her surroundings. Please, Rosa, I think. Please. Just make it out of here alive. I clasp my hands together and wait for the dreadful sound that will release them from their places. I can feel it. I can feel the immense fear that radiates through you when you stand there and wait to meet your inevitable death. You don't know when you'll die, or how. All you can pray is that it will be painless and not humiliating. Because you know that even though you could come home, those odds are greatly stacked against you. You have a 1 in 24 chance without the Careers, and your odds are so much lower when you factor in their skills. There's this sharp, echoing fear that grows inside you as you wait and wait and wait and

BONG!

The tributes launch off their pedestals. I crane my neck and look at the different screens, searching for the one that shows even a hint of Rosa. There she is! She's running into the fray, into the chaos. The camera leaves her as it shows almost all of the kids running towards the Cornucopia. Some stop partway to gather up as many supplies as the reach, while others go all the way to the mouth of the horn.

And then suddenly there is the first bloodcurdling scream as one of the Careers reaches the weapons and turns against the nearest non-Career tribute. The sword goes into the chest of the District 3 boy, but he doesn't die right away. The District 4 girl withdraws her sword and stabs again. By the third strike, the District 3 boy is dead in a heap on the ground. There is little time to focus on it because the District 2 boy is going after the District 9 girl. And the District 4 girl is off after another one.

Some of the tributes have chosen to flee rather than to brave the chaos of the bloodbath, and briefly we are allowed to glimpse which ones have run. Green is one of them. He's gone. So is the District 12 boy, Coal. They manage to escape along one of the many wooden walkways leading away from the Cornucopia.

And Rosa?

We see her run in and grab at a bag. She swings it on her back—the momentum nearly knocking her over. And then the District 1 boy charges after her. He has a sword in his hand held high above his head. But before he can bring down the blow, the District 5 girl is stabbing the District 1 boy in the neck. His blood sprays out across Rosa.

Rosa doesn't wait for him to die. She grabs the sword out of his hand and then takes off with the District 5 girl, Nicola, and the two of them meet up with the District 8 girl, Taylor. And the three vanish into the walkways, leaving the bloodbath far behind.

With a gasp of relief, I bury my face in my hands. Both of our tributes have made it out of there.

"Wow, did you see that?" Janice Lovely asks off camera.

Caligula Klora gives a long, low whistle. "One of the Careers out in the bloodbath. Haven't seen that in a couple years."

But there is no more of Rosa or her alliance since the fight is still going on in the bloodbath. I lower my hands from my face and turn back to the television. The District 4 boy has killed both the District 5 male and the District 6 female. It takes several minutes for the District 10 girl to bleed out and die after the District 4 female gets distracted, but finally the girl's death is added to the tally. The District 1 girl kills the District 11 male as he's trying to grab some items behind the Cornucopia, and she laughs when he falls to the ground dead.

"This is so refreshing!" the District 1 girl—Joy, her name is—whoops.

She trots back to the others who are finishing off the District 12 female and District 3 female.

Now the Cornucopia area is cleared. All that is left are the Careers, their supplies, and the bodies of nine dead teenagers. The camera takes a few minutes to pan around the clearing and focus on each of the twisted and ruined corpses of the fallen tributes. Blood soaks into the wooden boards around them. Their lifeless eyes stare out into the unknown. As the camera focuses on each one, you can hear the BOOM! of the cannon marking their death. Out in the rest of the arena, the tributes would be counting each cannon, not knowing who had fallen but understanding that each cannon meant they were one step closer to coming home.

"That was A-MAZING!" Janice gushes. One of the televisions now shows the Hunger Games announcer and the interviewer sitting together in the studio where they have been relatively quiet during the first few minutes of the Hunger Games. Now, however, they are alive with excitement.

"I can't believe it! Glitz Boyl of District 1 is out of the Hunger Games in the bloodbath! Wow!" says Caligula. And I don't think he's acting—he looks pretty astonished. Most people will be. The woman next to me, Romela, grabs onto my arm as she watches. I try to pry her off, but I find that I can't escape her hold.

I'm more astonished that somebody took one look at their newborn son and decided that "Glitz" was the best name they could possibly imagine.

"Yikes! Thinking about this all is giving me chills, Caligula," says Janice. "That District 5 girl, Nicola, she's one to watch out for."

"You're telling me, Janice," says Caligula. "And what about the girl from District 4? Oceana? She got THREE kills today. Three!"

"Her district partner, Fjord, is right behind her," Janice points out.

But now the announcers cut out as the cameras all return to the Cornucopia where the remaining five Careers are still panting with excitement and laughing about what they'd just experienced. As they begin to plan their next move, the room I'm currently in suddenly comes alive as everybody explodes. "I can't believe what just happened!" and "Wow, that District 5 girl is certainly something!" and "District 4 is on fire! It's definitely going to be their year!"

The conversations and chatter overlap each other, and the tension in the room finally breaks. The tension inside me, however, only mounts.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

In normal circumstances, if I'm feeling like this, I would go outside and take a walk, or maybe even a run. Hell, I might even be able to barricade myself in my room and shout at everyone else to go away. But this is not normal circumstance, and I'm realizing just how poorly I can cope when I have no outlet to release my anxiety.

Romela is still next to me, but she's engaged in a conversation with the person next to her. Their voices keep rising to shout over each other as they banter back and forth with excitement. On the other side, Bornsburry is chatting up Pitch. There's a man and a woman behind me who are keeping track of the various kills like scores in a soccer match. It's not just the names and districts they're writing on their paper but the weaponry, time stamp, technique, and everything else. I think they're filling in the blanks on pre-created notecards, which makes it even more horrendous. Somewhere else in the room, people are taking photographs of each other smiling and posing with their alcoholic drinks. They giggle, "it's not too early for a drink, right?" and "let's do one with us being sad" and that sort of shit.

I'm on my feet before I even realize it and I leave the room. I don't know where I'm going, but it sure as hell isn't back to the main party near the foyer. There must be hundreds of people in this mansion, and I'm not about to walk into the major throng of them. So I head down the direction opposite from where we had come. The hallway makes a turn, and slowly the sound of cheering and laughter dies down. I can still hear televisions playing and people talking as they watch, but it's nothing like it was back there.

Pitch catches up to me.

"Hey," he says. When I don't answer, he grabs my arm and turns me around.

"What?!" I snap. I rip my arm away from him. My heart is beating so hard that I'm certain that everyone in this part of the house can hear it. How can Pitch even think over its quick tempo?

Pitch looks around, then he nods towards a room. I follow him inside. It's empty, but there is no door that we can close behind us.

"Tell me," he says.

"I don't have anything to say."

He watches my face, and then I find myself whimpering, "I can't believe all this! We're just expected to sit here and listen to them talk like that? They're actually excited, Pitch! They are enjoying this! It's disgusting and infuriating and it's so damned animalistic that I can't stomach it anymore!"

"I know," he says. He looks exhausted. Of course he knows. He's done this year after year after year. He makes a good show at it and he plays the part well, but ultimately he's beat down. He's grown used to the behavior of the Capitol citizens. Desensitized. And in a few years, I'll be like that, too. I'll be the one comforting a new tribute, telling him or her to just get over it because nothing ever changes and nobody will ever hold the Capitol accountable for their crimes.

I wipe away a tear, careful not to smudge my makeup that Isolde so carefully applied.

"How do you do it, Pitch? How do you all do?"

He clears his throat. "Just get through your first year."

"Are you going to tell me it gets better after that?" I demand.

"Nope. But you get better at controlling yourself."

That doesn't help at all. I start to shake.

Pitch pulls me into a hug and I bury my face into his shoulder. Why is it that whenever he reaches out to comfort me, it actually works? Why is it that only his embrace relieves my pain?

Then a voice interrupts us, "Is everything okay?" and Pitch releases his hold on me. In an instant, the comfort I felt vanishes, and I'm on edge again. I glare at the woman who stands in the doorway.

"I'm just happy for my tribute," I say to her.

And she smiles back at me. "Little Rosa is a fighter," she agrees.

"C'mon," Pitch says. And I know that we can't stay in that room forever, but it would be pretty damned nice if we could just wait here until the party ends. That, however, would not reflect well on us. We step into the hallway and trail behind the woman, hanging back so that we aren't following her too closely. Pitch whispers to me, "Good job."

Doesn't feel like a good job. I grumble in response.

We find Esther and the other District 8 mentor, Calico Smithers, in a room with a few other victors and many other people. But I push my way through until I can stand next to the younger mentor.

"Sorry I vanished. Calico wanted me to stay with her," Esther apologizes. "But now there's no reason for them to separate us since our tributes are together."

Sure enough, the television is showing our tributes' alliance. The tributes are sore and a little bruised, but overall they escaped the bloodbath unscathed. It's a miracle.

And now I finally have a chance to see the arena. One of the televisions is showing it off in all its glory—though, of course, we are not shown everything. It's only the places the tributes have found and some of the nearby locations to which they are en route that we are given. I remember that Esther told me that my monitoring device will give me a map once the bloodbath ends, but I don't dare look right now. I can only imagine that the Capitolites will swarm me to get a good look, just in case there is something revealed on my little watch face that they haven't seen yet on television.

Wooden walkways wind through large trees of all sorts. They must be a hundred feet in the air, but it's difficult to tell because a thick fog swirls beneath the wooden floorboards. It's hard to locate all of the walkways because the tree cover hides all of the twists and turns which, of course, is both a blessing and a curse. The tributes may be able to escape more easily, but they will never be certain that there isn't someone right around the corner. Some walkways are narrow and others wide; some have rails and some don't. Ladders and staircases lead up to various levels, though once again it's hard to determine the number of levels since they are spread out and not stacked on top of each other like a building. This means that if someone were to jump down from a level, there's no guarantee that there is a walkway underneath them—in fact, it appears that there most likely won't be.

The trees themselves are familiar. Firs, red cedars, pines in various subspecies. Other trees, too; ones that aren't coniferous. They all interlock together and it's sometimes hard to distinguish between them. Although it's beautiful, something about it isn't quite natural. Perhaps it's the proximity of the trees to each other—close enough at a high elevation to hide these walkways—and then I wonder if the walkways are actually much lower in elevation than they appear. Perhaps they are only a few feet off the ground. It's a curious thought.

The boards on the walkways creek beneath the boots of the tributes, and right now, Rosa, Nicola, and Taylor are testing their weight on the platform, deciding where would be the best place to step. Rosa, as the lightest by far, is the quietest. But the other two eventually discover that if they keep to the edges, they're almost as quiet as the twelve year old. Now Nicola leans against a railing and tries to look over the edge. For several seconds, she peers into the fog below. At last she pulls herself back and looks at the others.

"Can't see the bottom," she concludes. "Don't know how far down it is. We could drop something and see."

They look around themselves for something to drop, but there is nothing besides their bags—they each have one—and their weapons. At that point, Taylor seems to realize that the sword Rosa holds is comically big, because she swaps it out for her shorter sword. Rosa looks relieved.

The girls continue moving. The camera switches away to show more tributes. I keep an eye out for Green, but he's not highlighted right now. I know that he's alive because the "Cannon Count" at the bottom of the screen right underneath the time stamp is still the same as it was after the bloodbath. But it would still be nice to know where he is.

"Ladies, ladies, ladies," comes the voice of a man. He appears right in our vision, blocking our view of the television. For once I think I'd rather watch the Hunger Games than stare at this guy. He's beautiful and the makeup accentuates his beauty, but I don't like the hunger with which he looks at myself and Esther.

"You're blocking the television," I say bluntly.

His eyebrows shoot up. Perfectly plucked and shaped eyebrows. Ugh.

"Why don't we go to another room? Bigger television, fewer people." He smiles at us.

How about no?

I look around for Pitch, not bothering to be discrete about it. He is currently talking with a couple dressed in matching turquoise suits. The man in front of me clears his throat, and I turn back to him.

"I don't think we've been introduced," he says to us. "My name is Quintus Laurentinus, and I'm a very big fan."

I force a smile like I did for the last big fan I had. "Thanks," I say. "But I think—"

"Come, come, don't keep my friends waiting," he says as he pushes Esther and me towards the door. I turn to look back for Pitch, but the man keeps pushing us forward until we are out the room and in the hallway. How do I get Pitch's attention without making a scene? I want to make a scene—every fiber of my being screams for it—but I know that I can't.

My parents warned me of stranger danger, but I don't think anyone ever expected me to be in a situation like this. What do you do when you cannot escape your captor because the government will only punish you?

Quintus enlightens us about who he is and why he was one of the ones who received not just an invitation to the party—there are so many people here, I didn't realize that it was by invite only—but to one of the private VIP sections. And wow, aren't we just lucky to join him, he tells us. He has an arm around each of us, keeping us deliberately separated.

"That reminds me, Esther," I say, interrupting the man mid-sentence. "We have to find Elijah right away." I say innocently to the man, "He's the third mentor in our tributes' alliance."

Quintus frowns a bit, but then says, "I'm sure you'll find him skulking about soon enough. But in the meantime, let's get ourselves acquainted."

We end up in a bedroom upstairs. It's not a sleeping area as much as it is an elaborate suite with its own sitting room that holds half a dozen people plus the three of us, and a separate bedroom and bathroom. There are couches built into the wall under the window forming a bit of an arc so that everyone can see the television against the wall. An avox dedicated to this room alone waits on the partygoers.

As soon as we walk in, the Capitolites get excited. Quintus introduces us all, but I can't remember any of their names. I shoot a look at Esther who echoes it back, and then there is no time for further contemplation because Quintus is having us sit down on the couch. He sits me right next to him and fortunately Esther is allowed to sit on my other side. But his arm is around my shoulder and I don't know what to do because my initial reaction is to scream at him or bite him and my secondary reaction is to run away and I'm not allowed to do either. So instead I take Esther's hand in both of mine so that Quintus can't figure out a way to hold my hand, and we watch the Hunger Games in an even more uncomfortable manner than I had thought possible. The Capitolites keep trying to get the avox to give us beverages—alcoholic, no doubt—but we keep declining. My mouth is parched, but I don't want to ask for anything in case they manage to figure out a way to make water-flavored alcohol.

Right now, the camera focuses on the Careers. They are gathering up their supplies, divvying out the bags and weaponry, and making general plans. None of them are sad that their District 1 male was killed; they think that everyone is better off without him. I share their sentiment, but for different reasons.

Quintus' hand—the one that's not already around me—begins to stroke my exposed arm.

I start, and he looks at me.

"I'm sorry," I stammer. "But the doctors haven't yet resolved the weird rash. Makeup covers it up, but the medicines aren't working."

Quintus gives me a disgusted look and drops his hand away, but he still leaves his other arm wrapped around me.

It goes without saying that I much prefer it when it's Pitch's arm around me.

The televisions are now showing where all of the tributes are on the map. We also get to see live coverage of them. The Careers, no surprise, are still at the Cornucopia. Rosa and her alliance are about half an hour away, covering ground as quickly as they can to put distance between them. The District 6 male staggers through the arena by himself. There's a large gash on his right arm that will, no doubt, get infected. Green and Coal are shown climbing into the trees. They don't have any bags or weapons to slow them down, and they're pretty fast. The District 8 male and District 9 male are both panicking and running around. It looks like the latter is heading right back towards the Cornucopia. The District 10 male and District 11 female appear to be in an alliance as they run as fast as they can away from the Cornucopia together.

There's a lull in the excitement from the Hunger Games, but people are still chattering in the room. I hope the party is over. I really hope that it is over. Quintus' hand goes to my thigh.

I stand up suddenly, pulling Esther to her feet.

"Since there's a bit of a break, I need to use the restroom," I announce to no one in particular.

"Please, use the one in here," a woman says, motioning towards the bathroom in the suite. Damn, I had forgotten about that and had hoped I'd make a break out to the hallway. But I just thank the woman and Esther and I head into the restroom.

"Do you think this window opens?" I ask Esther as soon as the door closes.

I climb into the bathtub and start pressing on the window overlooking the spacious backyard. There are people out there, but I'm sure they're all so absorbed in themselves that they would never notice.

"Before you do that, I want to let you know that Quintus Laurentinus is a very powerful man who has some influence over aspects of the Hunger Games," Esther says as she joins me in the bathtub.

Of course. That's why he gets his own VIP suite. Damnit.

"So I'm supposed to go back there and let him feel me up?" I snap.

Esther shrugs. "Will probably be me in a couple years," she says.

I lean my head against the cool tiles. "How long before the party ends?" I ask. I glance at my monitoring device, but it will only tell me the time, not how long before a certain engagement comes to conclusion.

"An hour, maybe," she says. "That's officially. Normally what happens is that people get bored if the action isn't super exciting and start leaving early to go to the next party. Or if things pick up, it could last another couple hours. But if that's the case, you'll be able to excuse yourself. It's what I do."

Alright. I can last another hour. I think. No, I know. Because it's Rosa's life on the line, not mine, and I can't make a decision that will benefit me and end in her death. So I pause to make sure that my makeup still looks decent before I beckon Esther to follow me back to the suite's sitting room where I take my place next to Quintus once more. He offers me a drink that I take but don't even pretend to sip, and I suppress a cringe as his hand is once more on my leg.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Excitement in the arena has dwindled severely, and I'm afraid that the tributes will be punished for not being entertaining enough, but at least the party begins to break up. The Gamemakers know about the parties around the city, I'm sure, since some of their biggest patrons host and attend them. It would be in bad taste to send a Gamemaker event when people are transitioning from one party to another. So although I don't know if Rosa will be safe from other tributes before I can get to another television, at least I know that they won't torture her for being boring, at least for another few hours.

By the time we can leave, I'm pretty damned pissed. I'm pissed at the Hunger Games. I'm pissed at the Capitol for holding the Hunger Games. I'm pissed at whoever orchestrates and condones these parties. And I'm pissed that Quintus has had his hand on my thigh for so long that my leg's sweating underneath my dress from the unwanted body heat. I'm even pissed at Pitch for turning his back for a minute and letting me get carted away by this psychopath. But in the end, I can't do anything about it, and I know I should just be grateful that things didn't get more physical than they did.

Quintus walks Esther and me to the door of the suite.

"Hate to see you ladies leave," he says with a carnivorous smile.

"It was nice to meet you," Esther says politely, and I manage a nod before pulling her down the hallway towards the staircase.

We've almost reached the top of the stairs before I turn and look back. With a jolt, I realize that I know Quintus by the way he stands there watching us: several days ago, he had stood poised just like that outside of the bookstore watching Pitch and I leave. I feel sick.

At the bottom of the staircase, we run into Pitch. He's turning in a circle and craning his neck to find me.

"Pitch," I say, and he turns around.

"Ah, there you are!" he says, relief washing over his face. He puts an arm around me, and I almost push away as I swear I can feel Quintus' beastly touch against my skin, but I remember that I had told Pitch that I wouldn't draw back from him. That would bust our cover.

"You guys have fun?" he asks.

"We got invited to a VIP suite," I say.

"Oh? Whose?"

"A fine gentleman by the name of Quintus Laurentinus," I say with mock politeness.

Pitch's smile falters. He has trouble getting it back into place. "That's . . . very nice. But it's time to go to the next party," he says. He wastes no time getting Esther and I out the door and into the sunlight. It's bright out here, and I wish I had some sunglasses.

"Where to next?" I ask as we wait on the sidewalk for a cab. It'll only take a minute, if that, for a cab to pick us up since there are so many people out here waiting to go on to the next party and the cabbies are swirling around like sharks picking people off and whisking them away.

"Let's take a break. Esther, you want to come with us and get something to eat?" Pitch asks.

She grins. "I won't be third wheeling, will I?"

I snort. "I think you were already third wheeling back there."

Pitch's body tenses. Guess he didn't find that comment funny.

"Sure, I'll come with you guys," she says.

When the cab pulls up, the three of us pile into the back. Pitch gives the driver instructions and the drive begins.

Once more, I am treated to a view of the Capitol I never thought existed. We leave this neighborhood full of magnificent mansions and enter into a more industrialized area.

"This is the trendy part of town," Pitch explains to me as I lean over him to look out the window. "People like the aesthetics."

It looks like every image of District 8 I had ever seen, except cleaner and more inhabitable. Not that District 8 is entirely like this, I'm sure, but all of the footage they showed us in school focused on the factories and warehouses with the cramped living quarters nearby and the little shops squished in between. And when I went on my Victory Tour, there was very little of the district I was allowed to view, so of course they kept me near the stereotypical District 8 factories. Here people had turned the industrialization into a trend. There are townhouses and apartments inside of buildings that looked like they should be part of manufacturing. Clubs, bars, and dining have prominent, flashy signs to draw attention of passers-by and make them stand out from the blah bricks and metal infrastructure.

To my relief, we keep driving and leave the area altogether.

When we stop, we are in a parking lot surrounded by trees. It surprises me how much of the Capitol incorporates natural features. Perhaps it happened when they expanded, as Pitch was telling me. But he leads us out of the car, thanks the driver, and then we head towards the far side of the parking lot.

"Nature trail," he tells us. "Not likely to be inhabited much right now."

And it is indeed a nature trail. The trees give way and we're in a sprawling meadow. Around the edges are more trees blocking, no doubt, whatever buildings are behind it to give an impression that one is really out in the wilderness. It's fake to someone like myself or Pitch who knows what the real outdoors is like, but to a Capitolite who can't tell the difference between a bush and a tree, this would be as good as it gets.

We buy lunch at a kiosk near the parking lot and find a picnic table to sit down after a short walk into the meadow. It's a good thing it's uninhabited because we're out here in the open where anybody can see us.

"The next party starts in about two hours," Pitch informs us as we settle onto the benches. He sits across from Esther and me. "There's one after that, but it'll be pretty easy to get out of that one as long as our tributes are still alive."

"Is this what you do?" I ask Pitch. "Go from a horrible party to some random nature area and then to another party and then to another nature area, etc. etc. for all eternity?"

Pitch laughs. "Pretty much, yes. I like being outdoors. Gives things balance."

"What about you, Esther?" I turn to her. "Do you do the same?"

She nibbles quietly on her sandwich. "I normally don't go to parties. I tell people that my stomach hurts so I'm not required to go to them, unless they're really important. Like today."

Lucky. I wish I had an excuse like that. Towards the end of her Hunger Games, Esther was impaled through the stomach. Although the Capitol can fix any broken bone or laceration, there are some things that often come with side effects. Once they start replacing body parts or repairing serious organ damage, there can be lasting consequences. Which, in some cases, can be hyped up to get out of unwanted parties.

It is nice out here, I decide as we eat our lunch in silence. Sure, it's not 100% natural, but it's better than nothing. If it weren't for the monitoring devices that we're constantly checking to make sure our tributes are still alive, I'd say that the lunch is enjoyable.

But as with all good things, they must come to an end.

Pitch's monitoring device vibrates, and we all look at it intently.

"Oh, shit, it's Green," he says after a moment. He stands up. "He's taken a major fall."

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"Is he alive?" I demand.

"How badly is he hurt?" Esther asks.

Pitch doesn't answer for a minute. "He's still alive. His stats are at 63%."

I don't know what that means, exactly, but neither of the other mentors is looking optimistic right now.

Pitch continues, "Unfortunately, he's not conscious."

"What do we do?" I ask. I stand up to get a better view of Pitch's device. But he's holding it at an angle as he reads the screen, so I end up getting no more information until Pitch gives it.

"I need to make a phone call," he says absently before wandering away.

Esther and I watch as Pitch paces back and forth about twenty yards from us. He's on the phone with someone—Terra from District 12, I think, based on bits of conversation that drift over to us—trying to figure out more information. He's hunched over a little, alternating his attention between the monitoring device and the phone call. His pacing becomes more rapid as time passes. I feel so helpless.

"What does 63% mean?" I ask Esther.

Her eyes are still on Pitch. "It means that he has approximately 63% of his health left. That could mean that he has one bigger injury, or it could be a whole bunch of little ones. It's not bad per se, but it's really early in the Hunger Games to be that low."

Tributes' health is monitored like the batteries in a cell phone. Except that batteries can be recharged, I think bitterly.

Esther keeps eating, so I keep eating. And we're nearly finished by the time Pitch returns.

"Okay, good news and bad news," he says as he sits down. "Green fell out of a tree and fortunately landed on a platform below. He's injured—broken wrist, maybe a sprained ankle—but he's alive."

"Is that the good news or the bad news?" I ask.

"It's . . . both."

We finish our meals as quickly as we can, but then we're left with an awkward amount of time before the next party. If we went back to the training center, we'd only have to leave right away to get to our next destination. And none of us are in a hurry to leave right now to go straight to the party. Walking is better than sitting, though, so we take a brisk stroll down the path.

The meadow stretches on either side of us. Summer flowers are growing, but there isn't a great variety. At first I think I see a deer, but as we get closer and it doesn't flee, I notice the stiffness of its limbs. It's a mechanical deer, some sort of animatronic. But it raises its head at us and sniffs the wind like it's real. I guess no living deer would want to come into this place. I get it. I don't want to be in the Capitol, either. It wouldn't surprise me if all of the living deer were corralled up and placed in a zoo, in a mock natural environment, in order for people to stare at them.

I hate the Capitol. I hate what they do to everything, and how they insist on controlling and micromanaging every aspect of our lives. My heart rate is rising, my breathing quickening. I clench my fists and try to let it go, as Pitch told me. There's nothing I can do about it. The Capitol is going to kill Rosa and Green—or, rather, they will have someone else do it for them—and they're forcing me to pursue a relationship with someone I'm not romantically attracted to. While at the same time giving rich people the "okay" to feel me up without permission. I struggle to control myself.

It's not working.

The next thing I know, I'm bounding across the meadow and tackling the mechanical deer. It falls down underneath my weight, and I pin it to the ground where I proceed to beat it over and over again with my fists. I feel the fur tear away from the metal and the metal resist against my knuckles and my skin give way to the jagged shards that stick out of the mechanical corpse. But I'm still punching it until I reach over, grab the deer by the head, and twist it straight off the body with a great "pop!" It's only the outer portion of the head with the fur and the antlers, but I fling it as far away as I can manage. Then I start to kick the deer's mechanical head, all of the little wires and devices that make it "think," and I don't stop until I fall to the floor with exhaustion and begin to cry. And then for good measure, I give the body another kick which only manages to roll it over 45 degrees.

Pitch and Esther must've let me lay there for a good few minutes before they come over to me because I am completely out of tears and am only managing to produce a few gasping dry sobs. I try to hide my face with my bloodied arms and peer at the other mentors through the gap.

"You done?" Pitch asks.

"No!" I yell, but I don't have the energy to do any more.

"C'mon," he says as he hoists me to my feet.

I'm a mess. The blood from my torn hands is dripping down my arms and has smeared on the borrowed green dress. Leaves and bits of grass stick to my bare skin. I wipe snot from my nose and try to pretend that I didn't.

"Stupid deer," I say, because I can't direct my anger towards what's actually bothering me.

Esther pulls a wad of tissues out of her purse and begins to blot off my hands. Pitch adds in ice left over from his drink. Together they manage to clean off my hands well enough, though it doesn't stop the bleeding.

"Hold these like this," Esther says as she layers tissue on my knuckles. "Apply pressure. I'll walk in front of you so you don't draw attention."

"We need to get you to the hospital," Pitch says.

"I'm fine," I mumble.

"No, you're not. You probably need stitches."

"Aren't we supposed to be at a party?" I ask sharply.

"Not like that."

"Tell everyone I came in theme."

Pitch and Esther lead me back to the parking lot where we find a waiting cab. No one speaks as we get inside, and Pitch asks the driver to take us to the training center. I lean my face against the warm window of the glass and close my eyes.

Soon enough, we are back at the training center, and I climb out of the car after Esther and Pitch. I don't want anyone to see me like this, but I know that it's inevitable. At least the cameras are long gone. Instead of slouching along, I hold my head up and walk with as much confidence as I can muster inside and to the elevator. But once I'm back in the District 7 apartment, I deflate. Esther continues up to the 8th floor to freshen up, and she promises that she'll be back as soon as possible.

Pitch doesn't ask me what's wrong. It's clear enough as it is. But I find myself still wanting to talk about it and rant about it and just get it all off my chest. Instead I follow Pitch into his bedroom and then to the bathroom where he sits me down on a seat and starts to work on my hands in silence. I wince as he removes the tissues because the dried blood has affixed them to my skin. But I bite back the pain and make no complaints as he rinses my hands and begins to clean them with an antiseptic. The wounds are still bleeding, but there's nothing that's going to stop it but pressure. He applies ointment and bandages, winding wrap around my knuckles so that the dressing will stay in place.

At last, Pitch is finished. He sighs and touches my cheek gently for a brief second. "Go get yourself cleaned up."

I do as I'm told and head to my room where I slip out of my green dress and into a navy blue one. I make sure that it covers as much skin as possible before I take time to briefly fix my makeup in the bathroom mirror.

We are going to be very late to the party. I hope this doesn't reflect poorly on Pitch or Esther. Or our tributes. I'd never forgive myself if it did. But that thought doesn't help the tension pulling inside of me. There's one thing I do know: Unlike Pitch, I cannot oscillate between parties and nature, between Hunger Games and relaxation, between death and happiness. I don't know how I'm going to manage to cope, but I will need to find my own way.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

We arrive at the party an hour late. Everything is in full swing. Instead of a mansion, it's in the penthouse of one of the fanciest apartments in the Capitol's downtown sector.

"Don't you dare leave me, even to go to the bathroom," I hiss at Pitch as we approach the apartment. People stand out in the streets and I can see a few more mingling in the lobby. It's probably way overcrowded upstairs.

I want to hold Esther's hand again so she won't be torn away, but I can't. She fortunately found me dainty little gloves that match my dress, but they only hide the bandages, not miraculously heal me. It's my own fault for the injuries, though I'm loathe to admit it.

"I won't," Pitch says.

We're crowded into an elevator with several Capitol citizens. I don't look at them; I just look straight ahead. The music gets louder as we ascend to the top floor of the apartment, and as soon as the doors open, we're blasted with music, laughter, booming play-by-play of the Hunger Games, and non-stop talk. I glance at my monitoring device to make sure that Rosa is still listed at 99.4% as she was when she left the bloodbath.

Pitch leads us through the apartment, greeting people and introducing myself and Esther. Esther presses against me to make less room for people to walk between us.

This party is different. There is still the same type of people who think that their mere presence is enough to light up the world, but overall, people leave us alone. The beauty of the monitoring devices is that if we start looking at them and ignore the first few prying questions, the Capitol citizens seem to take the hint that we are keeping an eye on our tributes. I still don't want to be here, but it's less humiliating and intrusive than the last party.

Pitch, Esther, and I find Isolde and Jericho, also a District 1 victor but not mentoring this year, sitting in a quieter room.

"Hammer is pretty angry about what happened to Glitz," Isolde says as I sit down on the couch near her. "Stay away from him for a day or two if you can. He's pretty damned pissed at Elijah, so if you come across him first, give him a warning."

Right. Glitz was the District 1 male tribute who Elijah's tribute killed.

The televisions show the Career pack. It's getting later in the day, and they have decided not to hunt any more tributes until tomorrow. "One misstep," says the District 2 male, "and we fall into oblivion."

The other Careers agree with him, so they make themselves comfortable and settle in for the evening. There's plenty to eat and drink, so they don't worry about having to find dinner for the night.

Rosa and her alliance, on the other hand, recognize that they have limited resources. As the afternoon begins to wane and the light turns golden, the three of them find a spot tucked in between the trees. It's an out-of-the-way platform that can be accessed by a short ladder on one side and a rope swing on the other. Where the rope swing leads to, we aren't told.

The three of them begin to unload their bags. All of them are generously loaded, which means that there will be few resources in the arena.

Taylor ends up with night vision goggles, rope, heat-reflective blankets, a half-gallon jug of water, and two MREs. Nicola has a tarp, iodine tablets, bird seed, three energy bars, two half-gallon jugs of water, gloves, sunscreen, and chapstick. Rosa opens up her bag to reveal dried meat, a half-gallon of water, a bottle of oil, healing ointment, strong pain medication, bandages, and a flashlight. It's clear that Rosa has the best spoils, but then the three of them end up sharing some of their stuff to even things out. Nicola gives them each some iodine tablets, and Rosa gives her some of the bandages in return. Nicola takes one of Taylor's heat-reflective blankets. Taylor swaps an MRE for some of Rosa's dried meat.

There's no way to make a fire out here without risking burning the planks or catching the trees on fire, but it looks like it's getting a bit chilly. Nicola says she will take the first watch and hands Rosa her blanket. Rosa snuggles up next to Taylor. But it's still some time before they go to sleep.

They show some of the other non-Careers next, and it takes a few moments until we get to see Green again. While I was freshening up in the training center bathroom, Green had regained consciousness. Now it appears that he's back to normal, as talkative as ever. However, he doesn't know what to do with his broken wrist and ends up just letting it hang there. It's painful, and he winces every now and again. Coal is still bounding around the trees, and Green limps along on adjacent walkways to keep from being left behind. Neither kid is being particularly watchful, but fortunately for them, the Careers haven't started hunting yet.

My monitoring device dings, and my heartrate accelerates. Is Rosa injured? Dead? But to my surprise, it's a notification that money has been transferred into Rosa's sponsorship bank. From one Quintus Laurentinus. It's a fair sum, too. On the first day in the Hunger Games, it's enough to buy several high-quality supplies. Give it a few days, however, and we'll be lucky if it can get a bit of bread.

"Oh, you're lucky," Esther starts until I show her the display and she reads who the gift came from. That shuts her up pretty quickly.

I don't show Pitch. He doesn't need to know right now. It's bad enough that his tribute has hurt himself unnecessarily on the first day.

It looks like nothing else is going to be happening tonight. Normally the Careers will venture out into the darkness and try to kill as many people as they can, but given their more conservative approach, there will not be anyone instigating murder until dawn comes. And since it's the first day, it's still unlikely that a Gamemaker event will happen. People will be placing bets and giving donations—I've heard more than a couple of pings as various mentors receive money in their tributes' banks—so a big event would greatly upset the process.

It's a relief when Pitch tells us it's time to go back to the training center. On the way, he calls a doctor to come look at my hands. I glance down to where blood is seeping out from underneath the gloves, and I wipe the bright red away on the dark blue of my dress.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER THIRTY

The District 10 girl cries long into the night. She had been bitten by something in the hedge maze and managed to make it out before collapsing onto the ground. But it's been hours now, and she hasn't stopped. Sometimes the cries ebb only to pick up again when the wind is just right and blows her tormented screams in my direction. How this hasn't alerted every Career in the arena is beyond me. There's only two possibilities I can see: 1) the Careers are too far away or distracted with their own issues, or 2) they are hiding in wait for someone to come see what all the commotion is about.

I give in. The girl can't keep on like this.

Heaving myself off the wall—my favorite place the past three nights—I head over in the direction of the cries. As I approach, I see the District 10 girl curled up in pain. Moonlight illuminates her thin frame, and she is missing an arm entirely. There is a sloppy makeshift tourniquet keeping her from bleeding out. A great amount of gore is exposed on her side where something had bitten her—something big enough to take off a limb and remove a chunk from her. When I reach her and stand over her, I see she is completely delirious with fever and pain. It would be a mercy to kill her. I'm contemplating it when I hear footsteps.

In a split second, I'm forced with a decision: kill this girl to put her (and my ears) out of misery at risk of facing a new threat, or run away and hide so that I won't be exposed?

In the end, I run and hide, allowing the wails to cover my hasty retreat. I don't go all the way back to my wall. I drop into bushes about fifty feet from the tribute.

Sure enough, the District 1 female and District 4 male appear and stare down at the District 10 female like I had done moments ago. I let out a breath. I made the right decision.

"What do you think did this?" asks the District 1 female.

"Hell if I know. But I'll show you how I'll handle it," replies the District 4 male. A sword falls, and then the District 10 girl is silent. Up in the sky, the cannon booms.

After a long moment, the District 1 female says, "Four left."

Yes, she's right. The District 8 male died yesterday, leaving only the District 6 male, myself, and the two standing before me. Three more people dead, and I will be on my way home.

The two Careers spend the rest of the night right there in the open, forcing me to keep in my hiding place. I'd love to go up and kill them in the middle of their sleep—neither of them bothers keeping watching—but I know that one false move and I'll be dead. If I hesitate for even a second, it'll give them the chance to pounce on me. So I curl up with my knees to my chest and fall into a restless sleep.

In the morning, I'm woken by a strong wind that whips through my hair. There's a strong scent of flowers in the wind, but it's sickly and demented. I cough as the smell grows stronger. This is it. The Gamemakers are trying to tell us something. This is the final showdown.

~.~

When I wake up, I'm too tired to think about anything at all. But slowly I remember a myriad of ever-present dangers looming in my immediate future. Rosa. The Hunger Games. A generous gift from an unwanted admirer. My obligations to try to keep somebody alive.

I check my monitoring device to make sure that Rosa has made it through the night. She has. Another couple minutes and I've checked on all of the other tributes, too. Everyone who left the bloodbath is alive right this moment. There were no additional injuries since I went to sleep. Groaning, I sit up in bed and look around my room. It's become so familiar to me in the past week that I can't imagine being anywhere else, and I know that as soon as I step into the corridor, I'll expect to see Green and Rosa flitting about as they prepare for their day. It won't happen. I may never see them again.

The tributes' bedrooms are open and bare. All decoration has been stripped away, the mattresses removed, the wardrobes open and empty. I linger outside of Rosa's room for a few minutes. I can't do this to myself. I push away from the doorway and head toward the dining room.

At very least, I'm happy that Lala is gone. I'm sure I'll run into her again at some point, but she has no need to be in the apartment anymore.

The avoxes serve me breakfast. I eat slowly, and when I'm finished, I knock on Pitch's door. There's no answer, so I head to the mentor room myself.

The chaos of the last week is gone, and the training center is remarkably empty. And yet despite the loneliness aching inside me, I don't really feel alone. I'm haunted by the tributes, the escorts, the prep team members, and the stylists who were taking up so much energy and have now vanished. This graveyard is now occupied by a few mentors and a host of avoxes, the latter of whom do their best to stay out of the way.

When I reach the mentor room, I find that it's mostly occupied. There are some computer stations that are vacant—neither District 3 mentor is there, for example. Hammer still sits next to Isolde despite the fact that his tribute is completely out. I flop down in my chair next to Pitch.

"Morning," he says.

I grunt in reply.

"Tributes are starting to wake up for the day," he informs me.

The computer screen comes to life when I touch it with my finger. It shows me Rosa's school picture and her current stats. Now there is also information such as her alliance members, what items she has on her, and what injuries she's sustained (mostly a few sore muscles, but she is still at the same health percent as last night). Likelihood to be victor: 4%. Pitch was right. It went up. Used to be 0% before the training scores were released.

I minimize her stats and instead tune into cameras that are watching her. Unlike when we watched the Hunger Games on televisions yesterday, we can now choose what cameras to view. We can also see the map itself. Most of it is still blacked out. Little flags with numbers such as "D7F" mark where each tribute is located. When I click on the flag, it reveals a panel that has the tribute's stats. I can also view the other tributes through cameras, too. In a way, this makes me feel more comfortable and in control than anything else has since I woke up last week for the reaping. I'm not just going off of whatever information the news station is broadcasting for the public; I can really understand my tribute on my own terms, or as much as this system allows.

For the next hour, I watch Rosa, Nicola, and Taylor prepare for the day. They eat breakfast and discuss what direction they'd like to go in. None of them seem to be in bad shape despite their circumstance, which is more than I can say for my own first morning in the arena. Even Nicola, who already has a kill under her belt, doesn't seem too bothered by it. I don't know how she does it.

Esther arrives and sits in the chair next to me. She has a cup of coffee in each hand. One of them she places in my drink holder.

"Thanks," I say. And really. I forgot what the wonders of coffee could do. Today, however, I make sure to sip and savor it.

"How's our tributes?" she asks.

"They are going northeast. All of them are healthy and in good spirits," I report.

"Good, because the Careers are starting to move." Esther points towards three flags on the map. They show the District 1 female, District 2 male, and District 4 female all moving away from the Cornucopia. Fortunately, they are travelling slightly northwest, leaving hope that they will miss our alliance entirely. The other two Careers remain behind at the Cornucopia.

I keep the map in the corner of my screen but turn the main panels back to Rosa's alliance.

"How're your hands?" Esther asks.

I look down at the bandages wrapped around my knuckles. "Doctor said to keep them clean and not punch things. The suture strips will dissolve on their own when the skin is healed enough."

The good thing about being here in this mentor room is that I don't have to pretend quite so much. I don't have to pretend that I am not injured, and I don't have to pretend to be attracted to Pitch. It makes this place more comfortable than I thought it would be, like a haven away from the rest of the world.

There are fifteen tributes remaining. I click on the flag for Green, and then chose a nearby camera. He and his ally are both trying to climb trees again, even though it's very clear that Green is not in climbing condition. I remember what Green said when we were talking about strengths and weaknesses; he told us he knew how to climb except for when it got wet. And I'm sure the fog has made those trees pretty wet. Pitch is slumped back in his chair, watching the same scene from a different angle.

"I don't know what to say," he mutters without tearing his eyes away. "This is ridiculous."

"Is there something in the trees that they see as beneficial?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Absolutely no idea. I think they're just climbing trees simply to climb trees."

Coal manages to climb much higher than Green. He turns around and shouts, "What's the matter? District 7 doesn't have any trees?"

"Shut up, Coal!" Green grimaces. He's panting with the effort.

"Hey, man, if this alliance is going to work out, you gotta be able to climb," Coal shouts down at him.

"I know that, Coal!"

Oh, they're all doomed, I think. Green is going to slip and fall if he doesn't get his feet back on the platform. But if he gives up, Coal is just going to leave him behind. Though at this point, I wonder if there's really a problem with the alliance falling apart if Coal doesn't care that Green is injured. Sweat beads on Green's forehead as he tries to climb a little higher, a little faster.

Coal scuttles up higher into the tree. "Man, you can see everything from here!"

Green cranes his neck to peer up at Coal. "Really? Wait for me!"

"I'm just going to—"

A branch snaps underneath Coal's hand, and the tribute scrambles for purchase against the tree. His fingernails try to dig into the bark, but it's no use. He's falling. Screaming and falling. He tries to grab onto Green in passing, but Green presses himself against the bark of the tree just in time. Coal falls, hits the railing of the walkway with a sickening SNAP and then tumbles out of sight and into the fog below.

Moments later, a cannon booms.

"Well, I'm out," Terra announces loudly as she stands up, peels off her monitoring device, and throws it on the chair. "Damned kids."

My mouth just hangs open as I turn back to the screen. Did no one else see that kid break his back on the walkway? Or realize that he just fell into great nothingness? I turn to Pitch. He's staring hard at the screen, chewing absently in his lower lip as he watches Green carefully.

Green holds onto the tree for dear life. For the first time since I've met him, the kid is speechless. Minutes past. At long last, he slowly climbs back down and steps onto the walkway. Once his feet are on the solid planks, he walks to the railing, leans over it, and stares as though he might see Coal's corpse somewhere in the haze. But there's nothing.

"Shoot," he says.

After a few minutes, he begins walking. It's clear that he doesn't really have a destination. But along the way he stops and picks up a few little acorns, a couple sticks, a long bit of bark that has fallen on the walkway. I'm not certain what he's doing. It's like he's just a squirrel collecting little bits of the trees to hide later.

The hours go by without anything of great importance happen. There are conversations between tributes, a few get turned around and end up travelling the same path over and over, a couple are crying because they're homesick, another one keeps vomiting over the railing. While I'm glad that there isn't anything more tense and demanding, I find watching this stuff very mundane. I know that the viewers at home would be kept entertained with exciting interviews and television personalities as the events of yesterday's bloodbath and today's loss of the District 12 male would be played over and over.

"Let's take a break," Pitch says as he stretches.

Sure. I've been doing nothing but sit in this chair for hours on end. Esther declines and opts to stay in her chair to watch the alliance for us. I look around for the third party of our alliance—Elijah—and find him sitting in his District 5 chair with headphones on. At first I think he's listening to music, and then I realize that he probably has someone narrating the action for him, probably in far more detail than the recaps done on TV.

We head into the lounge, but I don't feel like sitting. I've been sitting all day. As we make our way to the buffet table, Pitch stops and points to the punching bag in the corner.

"Next time you feel like punching something, use that. Hurts a lot less."

I scowl. "Thanks."