I'm startled awake by the jarring roar of a cannon. Ugh. I rub my eyes. We're killing each other in the middle of the night? There's no reason we can't, but, ugh. At least the fact that I didn't hear any of that but the cannon means it didn't happen near me, right? …Right?

I manage to coax myself back to sleep.

…And awake maybe an hour and a half later to salt water lapping at my cheek.

I jump to my feet, sticky and wet. My bamboo is still standing, but I'd estimate that roughly a third of it has been submerged in water. It's dark, with only the slightest hint of the coming dawn. This is a very high tide! I had hardly expected it to make it up this far. I scramble up over the dune and wipe away the salty froth drying on my face with my left sleeve, which is mostly dry. I'm relieved I didn't take my boots off or they might be bobbing in the waves by now. I abandon my bamboo pole to serve as a marker- there are plenty of replacements around.

As a matter of fact, the tide doesn't seem to be on its way out even now. It came pretty far. I wish I had bothered to note its position when I was awoken by the cannon shot. How long did it take to reach this far? I retreat to the forest's edge to break off another long piece of bamboo and shove it down deep into the spot I'd been sleeping. I wonder if small fish will come in with the tide or if I'll have to wade out a ways once I'm ready to try fishing here.

I arbitrarily decide to follow the shoreline to my right after leaning against and sawing off my newest piece of bamboo. If there are any streams in the arena, it would be only natural for them to run to the sea somewhere. I cross my fingers for running water and not just lakes. I'm loath to leave the shore. I won't make that move unless I have to.

Does it appear picturesque as I slosh alongside the gently lapping salt water at dawn? "Hey ho I like the ocean early in the morning," I whisper to the empty beach.

The tide seems to have come as high as it plans on climbing, but as the morning drags on, I can see it's unusually uninterested in receding. Other things about the beach that I suppose I was too happy about there being a beach to notice yesterday stand out to me. No shells. No crabs. Hardly any small rocks or seaweed. If this body of water is completely unnatural, there might not be any fish either.

Is the lack of rocks and shells because no one saw fit to throw them in, or is it because hidden rocks and rough tides grind everything to bits? …And when I'm looking at the beach like this, do Mr. Bronze and Mr. Zimmer know why? …Is anyone playing any attention to me at all?

By midday, I wish I had a hat to keep off the sun. I've given up on enough of my reservations regarding a possible attack by other tributes that I take off my boots and socks and let the surf run between my toes. I'm getting a headache. I figure I make enough noise that most animals would keep their distance from me, but I haven't even heard any bird song. If the only food and water in the whole arena were contained in those packages back at the Cornucopia, I am going to be in trouble. Sure, I could make it back, but it's possible all the other tributes may have moved on with their supplies. …And I don't want to kill for that, even if I have the strength to. But if I run into Beanpole or Sparrow…

I carry on thinking about these things. Based on the position of the first two bamboo poles I left as markers, there seems to be a curve to this coast. I'm circling around an island, or I'm going to come around to something… And what are the odds that no one else has come down to the beach?

I sit down on the sand to work on my hook, honing the tip down to a sharp point. The sky has that kind of tropical-ish look. I can feel moisture in the air too. Maybe it will rain. The paper and string that were used to wrap the knife are still in my jacket pocket, albeit a bit damper than when I got them. It's easy to niche in the bamboo that I'll be able to slide the string through, but to make a hole in the top of my hook without breaking it will be more difficult. I wonder if, based on the lack of animal life I've encountered, if I try to dig or turn over rocks, I'll even come up with anything to use as bait.

I'm tempted to go swimming to cool off, but at the same time, the odd activity of this ocean has me on edge. This is the arena. I'm not home in District 4. The water is not necessarily my friend. Of course, between the waves and the other threats I've imagined, I'd pick the waves.

A cannon shot rings out and I prick my finger- the same one I cut in the Training Center. Knowing that death has struck again somehow in the arena with no hint of how it's happened might be scarier than if I knew how. Or maybe it's naive to think that. But if I don't know where the other tributes are, they could be anywhere.

I put the cut to my lips for a moment, then reach out to dip it in the water. Salt water's good for healing.

Maybe it will rain soon. A warm rain, I'd imagine. The humidity feels higher today than the day before. It's muggy and there are some clouds in the sky. Cold rain might taste better to drink, but warm rain would be less miserable to trudge around in.

I work on. It might be easier to sharp up a stick and try some spear fishing, but I'm really much better with hooks and lines. That's the way that Papa taught me. Will it do me any good here thought?

If somehow I win (because everyone is off killing each other in some part of the arena), I imagine the blooper reel of my minor pratfalls is going to have the ubiquity of the much-loved montage of Pal Fields sewing. With a quill off some weird prickly animal (I've forgotten the name) and threads he pulled out of his own clothing, Pal stitched up a few items of clothing he took from someone else's kills and camouflaged the resulting "trick quilt," as he called it, to make it look like a cliff stretched out further than it did. The trick worked twice. He also made himself a hat, which he gifted to Jeff Zimmer after his Games, and sewed up a wound to his leg.

"Sewing is a very manly hobby," Pal avers in a clip affixed to the beginning of the montage version. They run the thing to a funny soundtrack of guitar strumming. It's edited mostly safe of terror. It's just a testament to how much a creative young guy managed to sew in the Tenth Games.

Maybe the most amazing part is that none of that destroyed sewing for him. He still does it, and it's not like he needs to earn a living, so it's for fun, no less. Pal Fields, the "fiend with a needle."

Something about thinking of him is cheering. Maybe it's just some imaginary feeling of solidarity since he was cut like this once- worse, even- and he survived. It's so weird. I don't even know Pal! There have been two yet to be identified cannon shots fired, but for all I know Heath and Mercy are still out there and they're just as handy with a needle as Pal. At the reaping, it even looked like Pal knew Heath- and acted fairly happy to see him. You don't smile at and slap the back of a guy you know is doomed.

I start to stand up, but see someone in the distance to my right- the direction I was headed. The waves do a good job of not only masking any noise I might make, but of deafening me to anyone else's approach. I sit back down, ducking my head lower than it was to start out. Who is that? What are they doing? What should I do?

I need to get closer- see who this is and what they're doing. I move carefully, rising slowly to my feet, but trying to keep my head relatively low. I circle around to maintain a safe distance between me and this not-too-big person. It's a girl. It's Juna Bright, from 12.

Part of me is thinking, "Good for you, Twelve," because of how meek and scrawny she appeared during training. But just because it's Juna, not Haakon or Korona, doesn't mean I can completely let my guard down. A cornered rat will strike the cat? Isn't that some sort of saying?

There's blood on her. Her shoulder and arm, mainly, but spattered and running across her chest too. She wobbles slightly as she kneels down on the slick rock. She's hurt. Badly or not? She wants to put her arm in the water.

I'm afraid to be seen as sneaking up on her. I cup my hands around my mouth: "Juna!"

She whirls around and almost falls over into the surf. It's a very uneasy standoff. I hold up my empty hands in what's hopefully a universally conciliatory gesture. Will she realize that if I'd wanted to kill her I would've snuck up from behind? I certainly wouldn't have called her name. …Or are there people like that? In these Games? Are there tributes who would like to see the terror on your face before they took your life?

After a long, tense moment that, thankfully, isn't interrupted by the arrival of any other tributes, Juna's posture relaxes a bit. "Mags," she says. I don't hear it, but I see her lips move.

I grab my boots and my pole and try to approach Juna in a casual manner. Of course, when you have to actively try to be casual, it comes out awkward. She stays in place and lets me join her though. Her upper left arm is all torn up. She's knotted the left sleeve of her jacket around it as some sort of makeshift tourniquet, but as white as her face looks now that I'm seeing it close up, going into shock from blood loss could still be a definite possibility. With eighteen other tributes still in these Games, it's hard to imagine she could stick it out to the end even if she holed up in a really good hiding place. She'd need someone helping her.

"What cut you up that way?"

"Haakon's got some kind of big blade, but… The thing's not smooth. It's all serrated and toothy. …Like a saw."

"This is going to sting," I warn her as I scoop up a handful of salt water to run over her cuts.

"It can't be much worse than it already is," she grits her teeth and bears it as I manage this pathetically small act of first aid.

I'm not sure what would be okay to ask her. How far are we trusting one another here? "What part of the arena did you come from?" We leave the left sleeve of her jacket where it's tied, but she accepts my offer to slice up her right sleeve and try to turn it into bandages.

"There's this funny outcropping of rock a ways, um," she points, "That way and through the trees from here. I thought it might make a good hideout. Turns out the pair from Seven thought so too. I probably only made it away because I managed to get the two from One between me and Haakon."

"That was a good move," I try to comfort her binding up her wound the best that I can.

"It was dumb luck," Juna sighs, "I just ran like crazy and happened across them and was lucky enough that they were more interested in trying to take down Haakon together than in chasing me."

"Well, it may not be a strategy, but luck's an important part of the Games." I make a mental note not to approach a large rock outcropping in that area if I can help it. Even if the cannon fires for Haakon and Meridew today, it must be a tactically advantageous position. Someone else would be bound to occupy it after them.

Juna is worn out. She leans back and puts her head on my knees, just off the ground since I'm sitting cross-legged. I brush her bangs back out of her eyes. "Have you found any fresh water around here?"

"Oh, I've," she touches a lump in her jacket pocket, "There's a creek, but I've… Already got some." She pulls out a canteen about the size of her dainty fist, "Go on," she offers, "Have a sip."

I'm grateful and I do, with copious thanks. It's difficult to keep it to one sip (even if it is a big one), but this is a gift and I hardly want to take advantage of an injured person. Juna drinks some after me.

"Is the creek near to that dangerous spot?" I ask. Juna's not sure, but, with her uninjured arm around my shoulder, I get her a little ways into the bamboo forest's shade. It takes a second to scuff out the trail we've made and confuse its source and direction. "I'll be back as fast as I can," I promise her, "Try and take it easy."

"Mags, what's your token?" Juna asks me as I get up, canteen in hand, to brave the task of refilling it.

"It's a ring," I kneel back down to show her.

"How pretty." She reaches up to her neck and tugs on a leather cord around her neck to pull her token out of her shirt. It's a painted wooden bird- bright yellow. "It's a canary. My dad made this. He's a miner. The Miners Association, when they can afford it, buys canaries to go underground with them."

I don't know basically anything about mines of any kind, but I do know a little about birds. "Why would you take a bird underground? They can't like that."

"No, canaries are usually okay in their little cages. They'll even sing down there, apparently. I've only been in the mine a couple of times. Miners use them as an early warning system. If there's gas, the singing stops. Between the canaries and the men, the birds die first."

"Hang in there, Juna," I repeat my feelings from before. I don't want to kill her and I don't want her to die. Some player in the Games I am.

I don't want to cut directly into the forest the way that I think Juna came because, for all I know, Haakon and Clark are still duking it out or someone's looking for her. Of course, I never saw anyone come down to the beach. I put my socks and boots back on and trudge along the sand in the fastest manner I can still consider careful. I'm trying to estimate where a creek I've never even seen will come out to meet the sea. This might not be a particularly wise idea. The afternoon is half gone already. At least this should make Juna more comfortable as the heat tapers off.

The relative silence unnerves me yet again. Nothing in the trees, nothing in the water. Beanpole, are you still alive? Maybe I was brave before (when I knew nothing) and you're brave now. I wonder if Beanpole has killed anyone. The only ways to learn that are to meet up with him and hear it from his lips or to win and earn the opportunity to see it.

A cannon shot. I manage not to injure or fall all over myself at this one. "…People can get used to anything," I mutter to myself. "The good news and the bad news." I mean it in reference to the big rattling cannon shots, but I might as well be commenting on the Games themselves.

It takes about an hour more, but Juna's creek is real and it does come trickling out to the sea. I follow it into the clumps of bamboo and wispy trees a ways to where the water should be fresh and not mixed with salt and dip the canteen in. Juna had seemed fine in regard to drinking the water, so it's not poisoned, but I can only hope it doesn't have some kind of invisible parasites in it that will make me sick later. I don't really have the supplies to try and do anything to it.

I rub some of the water on my hot face. I've sunburned some parts of my cheeks and nose and the tips of my ears. In order to get as much water back to Juna as possible, I figure I should drink as much as I feel up to drinking right here. I can't rush it though and make myself feel sick. I drink slowly after the initial rush to moisten my dry mouth and throat. The slow burble of the creek mixes with the gentle swish-swish-swish of the waves across the sand. I squint through the foliage up along the creek and try to imagine if I went there what I would find. If this is the only source of fresh water in the arena, it's going to attract every tribute who can find it. I hate to consider the possibility of any who can't. Dying of dehydration can't be pretty.

I decide that my thirst is slaked for now, fill the canteen to the top, and set out back toward where I left Juna as the sun sets. Once again, the colors are lovely as light reflects on the water. The main hue is too orange to really remind me of death.

There's another cannon shot. The arena is mysteriously full of distant silent death. I hope that Juna isn't too worried. I hope it doesn't seem like I'm taking too long. I'm getting close, so I pick up my pace. I'm not brave enough to call out to her into the coming night, but her name lingers near the tip of my tongue. "Juna," I say softly to warn her of my approach, but a different pair of eyes- hazel ones- meet mine.

Sparrow's mouth is stretched into a neutral line as she regards me. "That last one was her, Mags," she informs me. Sparrow holds up a bloody strip of cloth, one of the pieces I cut from Juna's jacket. "I think she bled out."

I feel…strange. Sad. Tired. Disappointed. "Oh," I sink down to my knees.

"I'm glad to see you though," Sparrow gives me a modest smile.

"Same here," I agree.

She holds out her arms and I wilt into them, resting my forehead on her shoulder, eyes turned to her knees and the ground. I don't know what kinds of weapons Sparrow might have on her person, but this would be a perfect opportunity for her to just stab me or something. Or vice versa. I still trust her though and she still trusts me.

I don't lift my head until the anthem begins to play and in the sky we see the girl from 11, the boy from 6, Clark from 1 (did Haakon take him out?), and Juna Bright, from 12. District 12 becomes the first to be completely eliminated from the Games.

"This is going to be a girls' Games, I think," Sparrow remarks. Five boys down and three girls. "I'm glad that I'm not going to be stuck fighting it out with all big guys at the very end. These are much better odds for either of us."

"That's true," I sit back, "But not being sure who did them in bothers me."

She nods thoughtfully. "Do you have any supplies?"

"A knife. …And I suppose Juna's bequeathed me her canteen."

"She'd want you to have it," Sparrow agrees, "You did your best to help her."

Whatever supplies Sparrow has are hidden in her backpack. It's not totally limp, so there must be something in it. "Do you need a drink?" I offer.

"That'd be great. Here," she rustles around in her pack, "Have a cracker."

I try to eat it as slowly as I can, taking tiny, measured bites. "This is the best cracker I have ever eaten," I declare.

"I think it's a brand from the Capitol," she holds up the tin so I can see the design printed on the lid. "Tell everyone back home what brand it is and they'll love you forever for all the sales you'll get them."

It's a silly thought and I'm not sure anyone but us can see the name in the dark, but I play along. "Crispco! I could eat the whole tin!"

"See, now if you win, you have a future selling crackers," Sparrow honors me with a subdued laugh.

"If you win, you'll sell hair products," I counter.

"At least the cracker really might have saved your life," she snickers and suddenly I am overcome with emotion that I am not alone and friendless here in the arena. I still like Sparrow and she likes me. "Do you have a special place you're hiding out to sleep or is it just anywhere?"

"I sept on the beach last night, but apparently the tide gets really high, so we're probably better off up here somewhere."

"Oh, okay then." Sparrow puts the tin away. Either she has way more willpower than me or she already ate some earlier. "Somewhere right around here is probably just as good as anywhere else."

"You're only the second person I've run into since leaving the Cornucopia."

"Hmm, well, how about you get some sleep then first, because you look way more ragged than I hope I look, and when I get tired, I'll wake you up to trade off."

I can hardly turn down such a generous offer. "You are a good, good friend," I smile gratefully. "…Just one thing- do I get another cracker for breakfast?"

"Go to sleep, Mags," Sparrow rolls her eyes.

I turn around so we're shoulder to shoulder against the thickest of the nearby stalks of bamboo. I never even knew bamboo could grow this wide before. If my stomach would just stop its complaining, going to sleep here wouldn't be all that bad. I think being so exhausted helps hold back the nightmares- or at least it has so far. Now that I've acknowledged that, I probably can't count on anything.