That night we have dinner without Rig. The table is awkward and silent, a perfect second night in the Capitol. I watch the sun go down over the white marble of City Circle, the light reflecting off thousands of windows and glass siding. There's no nature, though. No river or trees. Only marble and stone and silver metal. In an odd way, it reminds me of home. This makes me think of Rig, and I wander to his room where it sits down the hall from mine.

There's no answer to my knock; yet the door isn't locked when I gently turn the knob. The room is identical to mine. A bathroom and a bedroom, with a small sitting area. Where mine has soft greens and rose colors, his is decorated with blue and grey. I find him sprawled on the bed, in the same place I was last night. The side table holds a tray of food, picked from our table by Pallas, probably.

Rig's dusty brown hair sticks jaggedly up on his head, his eyes wide and unseeing. For a split second, I think he's managed to kill himself, but then he blinks. With another flick of his eyes, he startles, as if he just noticed me. He's not catatonic. He must sleep with his eyes open, I realize.

"What?" he asks.

What, indeed? There is really nothing I can say to comfort him; nothing to ease the pain of being marked for death. I know he won't be able to find glory in winning, either, because I can't imagine it myself. I have nothing to say to him. So I ask him something.

"What did you do, back home?" It's not going to be better or worse now, knowing about each other.

He looks at me like I'm crazy, then at the wall again. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…I guess, what did you do for fun? Who are your friends? Do you live with your parents? Where do you work, after school?" My curiosity gets the better of me, now that I've let my reluctance drain away. When he doesn't respond, I answer as if he had asked me.

"I live with my mother—she kicked my father out when I when about seven. He works in another part of Panem, I know. He sends me letters, once in a awhile. Short ones. He mostly likes me to write to him. I tell him about school, and whatever my friends and I do. You might know Streak or Titania? They're a year ahead of you, I guess."

No answer. I go on, relieved to be talking about anything with anyone, even if they don't acknowledge me.

"My favorite thing to do is to take the molten glass, the stuff left over from making windows and doors, and drizzle it over an anvil. It cools down right away, and you get these great shapes. I had a great time making these swirls in the shapes of flowers for decorations in one of the train cars we were building. I didn't know what they should look like, so I had to look in all these books that were locked in the Justice Building's basement." I laugh, remembering.

The basement had been filled with cardboard boxes and metal tubs of old books, some of horticulture. For the most part though, I had to rely on ancient catalogues, where people used to order seeds or bulbs from. The images were a little damaged, but I could still see the red roses and yellow snap dragons. Things that might have been able to grow in our district decades ago.

The feel of the pages stays with me, and bobs up sometimes when I think of flowers or plants, the thin, waxy paper between my fingers.

"I have some of the magazines that I found there, 'cause I shoved them up under my shirt when I left. I knew I wouldn't get to go back there."

Rig shifts on the comforter. He lays with his hands folded on his stomach, his chin tucked into his chest. His gaze goes out the window to the Capitol, rapidly drowning in the blues of twilight created by the sky against so much shining stone. "What did you do with them?" he asks.

"The magazines?" I speak to his jawline, abandoning any focus on his face. "They're under my mattress. I was always paranoid that Peacekeepers would come in for some inspection or something, and find them."

His mouth turns up at the corners, much like I've seen cats' do when they're mad, or want something.

"We've never really been free from them, have we?"

"Who? The Peacekeepers?" I think of how they stand at attention at the Reaping, and loiter around the warehouses where our products are stored. The way they wander in and out of the factory, the Canteen. Watching, making sure no one gets too rowdy, or too independent.

"The Capitol," he clarifies. He sits up, crossing his legs as if he's about to hear a story. "They don't even leave us when we're in our apartments—that's what you made me think of. How we're afraid even when they aren't around. The Peacekeepers, yes. But the Capitol, by extension."

He might have been arrested, had we still been in District Six, for saying this. Killed, probably. The conditioned, nervous part of me looks at the door, anxious that a Peacekeeper, or Pallas, or some other Capitol agent will charge in. Belatedly, in the back of my mind, I wonder if we're being watched in our rooms. He sees me hesitate.

"What? They going to file in right now and take us away? When we're just about to be part of the most extravagant show of their power? No, Chrome, I think we're fine."

He used my name. I've garnered this show of intimacy? "I guess not," I conclude. "Why finish now what they can draw out so painfully?" I feel really wicked for saying this, but it also feels good. Very good, to say out loud.

Rig nods his assent. "I'm thinking…what if—what if we did something during the Games. You know, to not go…completely along with their plan."

"Thinking of inciting a rebellion?" I ask, sarcastic, but a little afraid that he might be serious. "They'd kill our families," I remind him. When I first say it, I'm not certain I'm right. But once the words linger in the air between us, I know I am. "They'd kill somebody. Just to show they could. To show how little we matter to them."

Two things connect in my head. "They'll do the same if we kill ourselves when we're in the arena."

Silence. "I don't have anyone they can hurt, if I go through with it. And it'll clear you to win." I think he's joking, however, he holds my gaze.

The thought's ludicrous, though. "We both know I can't win. We agreed on the train."

"I didn't…I…but there's a chance."

"No there's not!" I didn't expect to get this angry, not over someone telling me I could win. "There are Careers. People that know how to survive. People that have grown up in their trades. A coal miner could have an advantage over me!"

"But they won't!" We're both off the bed, glaring at each other. I can tell my face is flushed by the horrible heat beneath my eyes. "The tributes from Twelve are too scrawny; they won't last very long. Not in whatever they've cooked up for us this year."

"Why have you thought of this at all, Rig? Why would you even care about me winning? Neither of us are coming out." What an absurd argument: one person trying to prove she can't win, the other insisting she can.

"Well, fine. If you're going to be that way. If you insist on dying, go right ahead."

"Do you even hear yourself? Mr. I'm-gonna-do-it-myself, telling me I have a chance, when the odds are definitely not in my favor, if they aren't in yours." I try to reason with him, give him my most convincing stare. "Just because there's a chance, doesn't mean there's a probability."

"I didn't say it was probable."

I have no more to say, and leave the room.

The second day of training, I ignore Rig completely, and concentrate on finding a weapon I can wield half-correctly. There's a knife station, which the Careers have taken over for the most part. Nearby is the archery area that I gave up on last night. I walk slowly around the entire floor, picking up spears, looking at dummies with targets drawn on them indicating kill spots. One grey canvas torso catches my eye, and I get closer, inspecting it up close.

My heart sinks into my chest like it's made of quicksand; I work one of my fingers into a stab wound—one of many that pierce the thick cloth. Had this been a person, it would have been eviscerated, drained of blood and mangled beyond repair. How can I do this?

How will I be able to cut down one person after another, before they get me? I'll hesitate, not only because I've never had to kill someone and don't want to, but because I don't know how.

My mind spins with vague ideas of how to kill and maim without coming into contact with the other tributes. Poison, I think. Fire. Will there be anything to work with in the arena? Some years, tributes have been placed into tundra, or a desert like in my nightmare. Those are generally uninteresting Games, marked by slow deaths by starvation, or hypothermia. When Annie Cresta won a few years ago, the Gamemakers flooded the arena, and, coming from District Four, she survived by out-swimming her competition.

Maybe if I hide long enough, keep myself fed and watered, I can simply wait them out. The Gamemakers will try to flush me from my hiding places, to keep the action going; but at least I wouldn't have to personally slay anyone.

I'm settled on my aversion plan when I sense someone behind me. I turn to find Shatter, the red-headed boy from Five, staring. He's significantly taller than me, but since I'm short that means he's about average. His features are very finely defined, I notice, staring back. They match the slimness of his almost feminine body. Light catches on his eyelashes, bringing a strange highlight to his brown eyes.

"Are you done here?"

I blink, the room expanding once again into an arena full of tributes. Blushing, I nod, leaving thinking that I must seem extremely dim. I'm reminded of the morphling addicts at home, and waiting for me in the suite, fascinated by texture and colors more than reality.

The knot-tying station is deserted, so I busy myself there for a while. I resist the urge to make myself a noose, and instead am taught how to tie a foot snare.

After lunch, I visit the survival station, where I learn with the District Four girl and the boy from Eight how to do various things like kindle a fire, find water, and disguise a campsite. The instructor, Dresden, offers to teach me how to pitch a tent, but I decide that lying inside one would probably be extremely vulnerable, and lower my chances even further. I ask if there is a way to make a warm enough bed with whatever I can find. He seems to like my enthusiasm, and tells me about making tightly-packed structures with snow, and camouflaging with pine needles.

Before heading back up to our suites at the end of the day, I catch Shatter looking dejectedly at the set of practice dummies. He weighs a knife in his palm and throws it carelessly at the floor near the foot of my dummy. Sighing, he leaves the knife where it sticks and walks away.