I work my way through District 4, trying to navigate the unfamiliar streets. It's still morning and I haven't gotten too far, when I hear fighting several blocks away: angry shouts, pained screams, glass breaking, gunfire. A cold knot forms in my stomach and despite my curiosity, I skirt away from the site of the mob, and have to go several blocks out of my way. Still, I see small groups of injured rebels stumbling from the direction of the fighting. I cringe at the sight of blood dripping from open wounds and people barely able to stay upright. One man who's been shot in the leg is practically being dragged by a lanky boy who can't be more than 12. The boy is shaking with effort and stops to lean against a building and catch his breath. I think of the endless stream of people coming to the Everdeens' house, how Prim and Mrs. Everdeen worked tirelessly to help people they didn't even know. I'm no healer, but this pair needs help, and nobody else is going to provide it. I slowly walk over and, looking the boy in the eye, pull the man's arm across my shoulder and heft his weight. The boy stares at me, then plants himself firmly under the man's other arm. Together, we drag him away from the sounds of the mob. We move slowly, the boy taking the lead & directing me. I barely notice the shift in the surrounding buildings, but eventually realize we're in a poorer neighborhood now, where everything looks run down and some houses are barely more than shacks. Finally, he gestures to the door of a small nondescript house.
The boy pushes his way inside with me trailing. It's almost as bright as outside, and I realize light is pouring in through some sort of strange skylight. A man is hunched over a figure laying on an old, worn couch in front of us. Behind him an older man has been pacing, and is muttering something when we burst in. The two look up immediately, and at first there's welcome in the voice greeting us, "Johnny - ", but the welcome turns cold when the men see me. "Who is that?" the older man asks abruptly. The boy answers in a burst of jumbled up words, "She's helping - She helped me. Carry ... it's, it's his leg, he can't walk. The peacekeepers, they're shooting. Guns everywhere." "You," the man points at me. "Sit. There." His finger sweeps to a chair on the other side of the room. I slide out from under our patient's arm, shifting his weight back to the boy, and obediently go to the chair. I notice a television flickering in the corner; I can't see the screen very well but know it must be showing the games. The older man eyes me distrustfully as the younger moves to our patient and helps the boy - Johnny - lower him onto one end of a cot near the door. He moves quickly, efficiently like Mrs. Everdeen might, sending the boy to boil water, to fetch tools to remove the bullet and clean the wound. He must be a healer.
I stay in my seat, watching them. All three - the two men and the boy - look relatively healthy, though a bit lean. The older man stands over the other patient with his arms crossed. One side of his jaw is bruised and scratched. I realize that the patient, whose head is bandaged heavily, is a woman.
"They hit the bone," I hear the healer mutter at one point, as he bandages the leg. "What does that mean?" I ask. The older man squares his jaw and answers stiffly, "It means his leg is broken. Terrible pain. It will take months to heal. If he's lucky." The way his voice drops on the last sentence tells me what happens if he is not so lucky. We lapse into silence again. Another patient is brought in, bloody and bruised but not shot. The healer directs me out of the chair so she can sit, and cares for her as well. I sit on the floor, watching him work. The adrenaline that kept me moving has faded and the exhaustion is taking over. I try to stay alert, but the next thing I know, I am being shaken awake by the healer.
He peers at me, as if trying to diagnose some condition, then jerks his head in a motion to follow him. Only the patients remain in the room, both asleep. Light still pours in through the skylight, and it's unclear to me what time it is. We go into the kitchen, where a kettle of hot water is whistling on the stove despite the heat of the day. The man hands me a mug of some sort of tea and tells me to drink it. "Who are you?" he asks. "Nobody." I reply quickly. His eyebrows quirk up, amused but not satisfied. "I'm Ma-" I cut myself off, knowing I can't use my real name anymore. "uh, Maddie. I'm nobody, I just ran into the boy ... into Johnny on the street." I finish and take a sip of tea, feeling trapped. If only I'd gone straight to find my aunt's house. Why did I put myself in this position? I give my head a shake, because what's the point of what ifs? "And helped a rebel you didn't know." he adds. Was that so odd, I wondered? He pulls out a plate with a slice of fish and some cooked grain from a small refrigerator and places it in front of me. Apparently my explanation is enough for now, because while I begin devouring the food on the plate, he changes topics. "Are you injured?" The question startles me, and I shake my head quickly and swallow the bite of fish in my mouth. "No. No, I'm not .. I wasn't .." I don't know how to finish. He nods, as if he expected this. "Will anyone be looking for you?" Again, I shake my head, averting my eyes from his gaze. He sighs, and silently turns to the television and flips it on.
Brutus and Enobaria are at the edge of the jungle tending to wounds – they must have fought with something or someone recently – using medicine from a sponsor. Suddenly the screen changes; there's the sound of a young woman screaming. Across from me the healer's face contorts. I don't want to look, but how can I not? Finnick Odair is crashing through a jungle, with Katniss following more slowly behind. Is she hunting him down to kill him? Who's screaming? The screen changes again to show a black bird roosting high up in the jungle trees, and when it opens its mouth, it's the scream again. It sounds just like a woman's scream. Oh - It's a jabberjay! I've never seen them, but it looks a bit like the mockingjays we see at home. Finnick is crying out, "Annie! Annie!" and that must be whose voice we hear. When he reaches the area below the jabberjay, he stands forlornly in the jungle. Katniss catches up, takes out her bow… (but why does she come so close to him? And how can I sit here in a district 4 home while my friend kills Finnick?) But before I know it, Katniss is climbing a tree. S climbs until she gets a good sight on the jabberjay and shoots it with her usual pinpoint accuracy. Then Katniss and Finnick must have teamed up. But where's Peeta? Katniss is trying to comfort Finnick, but he's convinced the screams are still real. I go ashen, wondering if he could be right. I glance sideways at the healer. And then we hear it – Gale's tortured screams.
I'm suddenly back in the district 12 square, Gale lashed to the whipping post and Thread standing over him. It hits me square in the chest, and I can't breathe. I blink dumbly, trying to block it all out. Finnick is holding Katniss back, telling her– telling ME– that it's not really Gale. He drags her back toward the beach, where we finally see Peeta – who's with two other tributes – Johanna from 7 and Beetee from 3. Are they all working together? I wonder. But Katniss and Finnick can't escape the jungle, and soon they are surrounded by more jabberjays. I can even hear my own voice through the television, screaming in agony. It's surreal, but it reassures me. If they are playing my voice that way, it means they haven't really hurt anyone to get these sounds. Somehow they must be manipulating the voices. The healer turns off the sound on the television, and pats my hand. "Finnick will be alright. I'm sure Annie is safe," he says comfortingly, completely misreading my reaction. Of course, he thinks I'm from district 4, and Finnick and Annie are supposed to be my tributes. I am sadly grateful for Finnick's pain, which has provided a cover for me. "No," I answer quietly, "it wasn't real. The voices, they're twisting them somehow." Annie's voice, my voice, Gale's voice. The healer nods.
I realize I don't even know this man's name. "Ehm, thank you, for … the food, and everything..." He nods acknowledgement as he refills our mugs of tea. "But .. what should I call you?" I ask. "Oh, Adrian. I'm Adrian. Cresta." He replies flatly. "Cresta? Are you …?" I ask. "She's my cousin," he whispers, before I can finish my question. "But I haven't seen her in some time. Still, when Mags - " his voice cuts off. I remember that Mags volunteered for Annie, and realize that Mags is not in the tribute group on the screen. Surely Finnick would have teamed up with his district partner. Adrian's pained face confirms that Mags must already be dead.
I help Adrian check the bandages on his patients, change the bloody ones, fix soup for them to drink. I keep an eye to the games, and unfortunately see the district 5 tribute being torn apart by a massive creature with the body of a lion and the wings and head of a bird… like an eagle or something. The hovercraft's claw has to pick up her body in several pieces. But Katniss and Peeta seem to be alright, and I learn the clock-like nature of the arena's dangers. Here in the healer's home, a few other patients turn up, but they are all mobile, no more gunshot wounds. I think this is a good thing, until Johnny returns and I overhear them talking about bodies left dead in the square. I wonder what's really going on with the uprisings here. Suddenly I realize the sky is getting dark, and I'm running out of daylight. I hurriedly thank the healer again, pick up my pack, and rush out the door. I haven't gotten halfway down the block when I hear the footsteps behind me.