I essentially build a narrow pyramid out of mud and fallen stones, and finally drag myself out of that pit. I know it took a long time because the Anthem played twice while I worked and napped by turns. I could not see the video display from the bottom of the pit, but I had not heard any more cannon shots, and I doubt that anyone else had died since the cave-in. I'm dirty, sweaty, tired, scratched, bruised to my very bones and hungrier than I have ever been in my life, but at least my ribs don't hurt. And for what it's worth, I'm out of that rotten hole.

I refill my bottle several times with water that seems to be running everywhere, and greedily suck in as much as I can hold. Even though it's scummy cave water, it tastes so good that I suddenly feel guilty for not marking the occasion. I force myself to stop drinking and pour a little bit over my hand, watching it glide over my cracked fingers in rivulets and glisten briefly in flight before rejoining the muddy stream. I've never given full appreciation to the beauty of water before, and I'm sad that it has to come to me in a situation like this.

As I watch the last beads of water drip from my hand, I notice something strange about the cave wall. Very close to the floor, there is a chipped mark that seems out of place. It is almost perfectly horizontal and parallel to the ground, some four or five inches long, and slightly thicker at one end. It could have been gouged into the wall by falling rock, but it doesn't look quite like the other damaged places. On a hunch, I follow the wall in the direction of the narrower end. About fifty feet later, I find another, identical mark. It seems that someone else has been through here, and was clever enough to blaze a trail. It's such a good idea that I wish I had thought of it, and wonder whether the tribute who etched these lines is still alive. I shoulder my pack and begin to follow the trail. I'm not sure what I'll do if or when I find the other tribute. Since I realized that winning the Games probably won't save my family after all, I'm not as interested in victory as I was. I don't really want to die, but I especially don't want to die in some stupid, meaningless way, either. Is there a way to live through the Hunger Games without actually being a Victor?

Whoever made this trail was pretty straightforward in his travelling. He did not venture into completely dark tunnels at all. Occasionally, he would go down a passage that narrowed into a dead end, then turn back, always leaving his marks on the right-hand side. I hike easily for several miles, following the highway of lines scratched into the rocks without having to crawl, or even needing to do more than bend at the waist. Suddenly a change in the markings makes me stop short. A little dot has been pecked into the stone just under the arrow-shaped line. I kneel for a closer look, which confirms my first thought, that it's not simply a natural variation in the stone. That dot was chipped on purpose, but I don't have any idea of what that purpose is. Could it be where the trail blazer changed direction? Or where he came from a different direction and crossed a path he'd already marked?

While I'm pondering the puzzle, I hear tentative footsteps moving in my direction from in front of me. I more quickly but with silence, as I have been trained, and conceal myself as best I can in the shadow of an overhanging rock shelf. A dark-skinned boy, very tall and thin, comes into view, looking about him fearfully as he advances. It's the boy from District 9. The name "Teff" comes to me, though I don't remember much about him. My first instinct is to slide the concealed knife from my boot and take my opportunity to cut his throat, but I see that he is purposefully moving toward something I hadn't noticed. I can't see what he's going for from my hiding place, but I can see in his eyes that he wants it badly. Like a frightened deer, he inches forward slowly, reaching for the object of his desire.

The floor collapses under him, and he disappears, screaming. There is a squelching sound, and the screams of startled fright turn to agonized wails. A single bloodied hand flails above the rim of the hole he has fallen into, and I hear the muted sounds of his feet slapping against the stone. Although I have been trained to kill, I am too shocked to move. What just happened?

I have no way to mark the time, but it seems like forever before Teff's cries turn to bubbling moans and then to silence. I should go and finish him off, but I am frozen in place. I tell myself that it's because I don't know what else is down there, but my twisting stomach argues otherwise. I have killed before. I've even killed at least two people in this very arena, but both were quick, without cruelty, and without time to consider anything other than technique. I've even seen tributes die slowly from infection or dehydration during broadcasts of previous Hunger Games. But I've never experienced anything like this lingering suffering unedited and in person.

I'm transfixed with horror until the cannon shot startles me so badly that I jump. After a little longer, I scrub my forearm over my moist eyes, and creep forward.

Teff looks as if he is crouched at the bottom of the hole, his head hanging limply to one side. A crudely sharpened stick, perhaps the wooden handle separated from another weapon, protrudes from just under his collarbone, and he is awash in blood. Now that I'm closer, I see how this was done. There was a natural hole here, something like a wide stone crack that had been worked on the sides to make them slope more steeply toward the bottom. The rock edges had been broken by someone using some sort of tool, or perhaps even another rock. A sheet of thin plastic, something that someone else might have used for a rain shelter, had been stretched across and anchored with stones. Smaller chips of stones and carefully applied mud had been used to camouflage the hole. The pointed stick had been braced at the bottom, waiting for a victim. My eyes drift to whatever Teff had been so interested in that it cost him his life. A little plastic bag containing a handful or two of dried fruit and nuts had been laid out on a shoulder-high stone directly across from the trap, looking for all the world as if it had been carelessly abandoned rather than cunningly placed.

I'm too jarred to think logically at first, but over time, the instincts I have acquired over a lifetime of training take over. Who could have set that trap? Who is still alive? I missed a few evening broadcasts while I was trapped after the cave-in. I count the cannon shots that I remember hearing, matching when I heard them to what I was doing at the time, and figure that besides myself, there are three tributes still alive. It would be safest to assume that two of them are Gaius and Callida. So there is one other unknown tribute alive. I wonder if that one is the trap-maker. If I am lucky, the trap-maker is already dead, but I seriously doubt it.

As I cautiously reach across the pit and retrieve the little bag of food, I recall the blazed mark that had made me stop in the first place. The additional little dot must mean that a trap is nearby. If I pay attention, I might be able to avoid a similar fate myself. With this bit of knowledge, I decide to keep following the trail of lines.