A/N: Well, uh, false alarm. This is not the last chapter. The next might be, or there may end up being two more. Depends. And I still need two more comments telling me to try the alternate-point-of-view idea in order for me to do it. And sorry for the overl-long update time. Major writer's block. x.X;; Apologies for the swear word that appears here. I could not figure out another way to word it... And now I will shut up and let you read, neh?

I wiggle my fingers a bit. My entire arm is still eerily numb, but I can at least move my hand a little. I'm still far from being able to lift the axe, but that's okay. I'm just glad whatever Kalis did to me isn't permanent.

But what I did to her definitely is.

I can't believe I actually killed her. I just can't seem to register that—and I don't think I want to. Whether trying to kill me or not, a twelve-year-old is a twelve-year-old. To think that I really stooped so low as to do exactly what I've hated so much about the Hunger Games! It's not surprising that I'd refuse to admit it.

I'm at the very edge of the mangrove now, but I'm too exhausted from dragging around the axe to jump over and attack Twig. He'd probably just snap me in half, not getting a scratch on him, when I'm in this state.

Or probably any state.

But if I'm to have any chance, I shouldn't go now. I'll just stay here and… Well, I dropped my water bottle, so I guess I'll just set up for the night. The sunlight is starting to dim, after all.

I set the axe down in a gap in the roots, just letting its blade touch the water's surface, and look around. The trees aren't as closely clustered here, so just sitting down to sleep for the night is not a good idea, especially if the Careers go hunting. Building a shelter would probably be too conspicuous—a lot of good that survival station ended up doing for me—so I'll have to find a decent place to hide instead.

I could climb up a tree; the branches are hard to see through. But I'm not sure I could scamper up there without the use of my right arm. And then there's the meat-seeker locust problem.

But where else could I hide? There aren't any particularly obscuring knots of roots or branches, so I couldn't just crawl behind one of those. So I have to find a place they wouldn't care to look…

But I'm sure they'd search everywhere; the Careers haven't been known to be careless on their nighttime hunts. If I were to rustle the leaves in the slightest, or roll over in my sleep and snap a thin branch, or even snore a bit like Dad keeps jokingly claiming I do, then they could find me. Of course they could; they've been trained for the Games, so they know how to deal with a bunch of trees in their way.

This environment is a bit different, though; there have been plenty of forests in the Hunger Games—5, to be exact—but never anything like this mangal. So what makes the mangroves different? There are roots sticking up everywhere, but that's hardly different from low-lying branches. But all the other forests were on solid ground…

Well, that difference isn't very useful. I can't just hide underwater; I couldn't breathe, and the bamboo-reeds are much too far away for me to consider going back for one.

I peer down at my feet. I couldn't even get to the water through all these layers of roots, anyway.

"Layers," I find myself muttering out loud. If I could find a considerable gap between those layers, I could just bunk there for the night. Sure, I'd get a little wet, but surely the Careers wouldn't expect to find a tribute sleeping beneath their feet?

So I scuffle around the immediate area as silently as I can, wedging my foot under any roots that seem suitable to sleep under until I finally find a gap large enough to fit in. I'll have to go into the fetal position, and it'll be a tight squeeze, but as long as I'm safe, I don't think I'll mind a little discomfort.

I go back to fetch my axe, deciding to hang out a bit before I crawl under the roots. I do want to see the death toll; I might as well know what I'm still up against. I set my too-heavy weapon down in a considerably thick but small tangle of low-lying branches. After a minute of tromping around on top of my "bed"—I want to be sure it won't break should the Careers walk over it—the Panem anthem blasts, and the seal must be appearing above me.

I have to walk back a few meters before I catch a glimpse of the seal disappearing. The first face to appear belongs to Kalis. I almost have to look away, but I manage to hang on long enough to see the next dead tribute.

It's Twig.

At first I'm sure there must have been a mistake. I mean, it's Twig! How could he have been killed? I've been near their camp all day, and I'm sure I would have heard if they had started to turn against each other. I can't imagine any other tribute managing to kill him—well, except me, in my little fantasies, but that obviously didn't happen—so there must be a mistake. They must have been ready to show Odyss's face, and accidentally pushed the wrong button.

But now Odyss is overhead, and soon the Capitol seal is showing again.

There were three cannons today. Three tribute faces shown at dusk. There were no mistakes.

But how in the world could Twig, of all people—

My thoughts are interrupted by a sudden sway in my knees, almost sending me to the ground.

I need to get under those roots. Now. I can worry about pointless things once I'm ready for bed.

After carefully slipping one leg under the roots I've chosen, I sit for a minute. Sleeping underneath this seems like such a weird choice, but I guess there isn't another real option at this point. I take a deep breath and shuffle beneath, settling on a patch of smelly, damp roots. It's about as cramped as I thought it would be, and now that I'm under here, I'm starting to regret it, but oh, well. I'll just have to deal with it.

So… How exactly could Twig have been killed? I can't imagine anyone around here qualified to take him out…

But before I can manage to put much thought into the matter, my eyelids are already slipping over my eyes, and I fall asleep.

I wake up to a cannon boom. I have no clue who died, but I'm fine, and that's sadly all that matters here. I wiggle out of my bed of roots, a feat made easier by the slightly higher level of water slicking the wood up for me.

So… what shall I do first? I am pretty hungry, but I can't catch anything with just this axe. I am close to the Career camp, though…

Oh, what am I thinking? Surely they'll be prepared enough for a weakling like me to try and raid them.

But a cannon did just go off. Maybe they were out on a night—or as the case may be, early morning—hunt? If they were, they shouldn't be close to their camp, right?

But if the cannon went off for someone dying without the Careers' intervention… Well, then, I'd be dead the second I set foot in the camp.

But what the hey. Let's do this thing.

I decide to leave my axe here—lugging it around wouldn't be any help if I'm on a stealth mission—and I sneak over some roots until I've reached the broken-branched Career path. Taking a deep breath, I tiptoe out of the thick mangal's cover.

The camp is pretty much the same as it was before, though I'm sure the size of the islands has shrunk a little. At first glance, no one is around, but I still move along the side of the trees silently until most of the camp is in view. Before long, I can make out the food pile.

I'm guessing they've kept a couple of Twig's donations, because their hoard is freaking huge. It takes up five of the islands bridged together by broken branches, and it's about twice my height.

Well, I certainly won't have any problems with selection. There's everything from apples to sandwiches to some sort of saran-wrapped, foot-long shish kebob. And right at the top of the pile is a small, crinkled, brown bag with a small bow of twine tying it shut—the signature short-distance shipping container of my family's jerky.

Yes, it'd be extremely stupid to try to climb up there and snag the jerky. But I want it. I want it so badly. I want my mom to see me enjoying her gift. I want to have that hopelessly wonderful taste of home, even if it's only for a second.

There's nothing around long enough to just reach up there and knock the bag over, and any branches that could get to that height are too thick for me to break off. So I'm going to do something else really stupid.

I'm going to climb up that pile.

It doesn't look stable, but I'm guessing there's actually so much food, everything is packed tightly enough not to give way. I barely manage to get a couple of hand holes—I can still only use one hand—on a loaf of rye bread, a piece of cheese, and something wispy that I'm not sure how I'm gripping.

But I reach the top, and I grab the bag, springing down joyfully. I rip it open and immediately chomp down on the jerky inside.

It's definitely ours. I was always so sick of the taste at home; Mom and I—sometimes Dad and I—were constantly breaking off tiny pieces to nibble in order to ensure the flavoring had settled correctly. Anything you have to eat that frequently will make your stomach turn at the thought of eating it again.

But now, it's different. I haven't had jerky to nibble on in… Well, a long while. It's not a textured, colorful little curse anymore. It's just home.

And then something loudly snaps.

And I'm standing right in the middle of the Career camp.

Oh, crap.

I dive behind the pile of food and look around wildly for someone to run up and kill me, but after a few seconds of listening to my thumping heartbeat, it's obvious no one has found me.

I shuffle around the side of the mass of food, but no matter where I look, I can't find anyone.

Maybe it was just my imagination. Yes, it must have been; surely anyone sounding that close would be here by now!

But I certainly don't feel safe and cheerful here anymore. It doesn't take another fabricated snapping noise for me to dart back toward my little camp and grip my axe. I still can't really lift it, but I do feel a bit more comfortable with a bit of defense at my disposal. I take another look around before settling down to eat.

Not only does the jerky remind me of home, it's completely delicious on a horridly empty stomach like mine. It's not long before I've finished the little bag.

Well, there you go, Mom. I got your donation after all.

Now a loud crunch snatches me away from my reverie, and I commit both hands to the axe.

So, who's coming after me now? It's either a Career or Shaw. Shaw didn't seem like he was going that much further—the cannon was probably for him—so I'm suspecting a Career.

And then, through the trees, I can pick out a human figure coming toward me.

It's Twig.

At first I think I'm imagining it—the heat is particularly sweltering today, so maybe it's an odd sort of mirage—but as he draws closer, I know he's there.

Of course! Of course, of course, of course! I knew he wouldn't be killed off that easily, knew someone else's face should have lit up the sky last night.

And now, here he is, only his body for a weapon, ripe for the killing.

All right, Twig. Looks like I get to send you to hell after all.