1.5 : Johanna
Covered in shit, live in front of the entirety of Panem.
I am trying incredibly hard not to laugh.
Some of the other tributes don't bother trying to hide their amusement. In particular, the pair from One seem to be enjoying themselves. The girl - Love - has to duck behind her district chariot to contain her laughter, which rises up in high, squeaky hiccups whenever she catches sight of me again. Both from Four are looking at me like I'm shark food, and the girl from Two is giving me a lopsided smirk which I'm sure she intends to appear intimidating. Even some of the outer districts seem pleased at the shitshow. Literally. The boy tribute from Ten grins to his district partner, and I can sense what they're all thinking. It's what I would be thinking too, if I were anyone else. One less contender to deal with.
It's only the boy from Two who seems to be looking at me seriously. I try to avoid his direct gaze, and instead I mark my eyes on a cameraman standing just behind his left shoulder. I can't remember much about him, only that his name is Cassius, and that there was something about him that stood out to me at the reaping. It stands out to me now too. He's not joining his fellow Careers in their intimidation play, and there's something about the way he stands - alert, straight, poised to run - that sets him apart from the others. His gaze is unreadable. Eyes narrowed, jaw ticking back and forth. Suspicious? No, no. Something else.
"Are you okay?"
I actually jump at the sound of a voice so nearby. Turning around, I see Caraway is leaning over me, holding out his hand. I take it. I'm not really that deep in the stuff - only my shoes and the hem of the dress, really - but I actually get stuck as he hoists me out
"I'm fine," I breathe. Everyone's staring at the both of us now. I wonder if Caraway knows how helping me will come across. To the other tributes, it will cement us as a duo. He's associated with me now, and I sincerely doubt he'll have any luck finding allies when he's associated with the girl covered in horse manure. But to the cameras, it's an incredibly good play. He'll look like the stronger tribute, and I'm sure his initiative will come across well. The Capitol are all about their manners. He might even get a sponsor or two out of it.
For a moment, I consider that Caraway might actually be smarter than I'm giving him credit for. Who's to say that he can't play up to the cameras too? I try not to frown. I'm going to have to keep my eye on him from now on. While he's still alive, Seven's sponsors will be split, and I need to take whatever I can get.
Pompey comes running the second Caraway yanks me out of the pile. It's gross. I'm caked all the way up towards my ankles, and he wrinkles his nose in horror at the sight, and probably the smell. Pompey is my stylist. He's a little man in his mid-forties, maybe - though it's impossible to tell in the Capitol - with white-blonde curls and a little moustache that's dusted with golden powder. I've already decided that I don't like him, and so I find it incredibly amusing as he hops around me, surveying the damage I've done to his beautiful outfit. I'm sure he would have been able to sell this for a pretty penny after the Games, if it wasn't for my stunt.
"I'm sorry!" I burst out, because I have to say something. Tears spring to my eyes again, and I don't make an effort to brush them away. It's incredibly easy to cry - mostly because I do actually already feel horrible anyways - and I decide to milk it for all it's worth.
"It's okay," Pompey says, in a voice that tells me it is very much not okay. "We'll get you cleaned up!"
"Those horses should be trained not to do that here," says another voice, and I notice that Ambrosia has joined us. She's smiling, but I can tell it's forced. A cameraman comes closer to us, hopping over the pile of manure, and she gives him a look I can only describe as scathing. It's impressive how she can manage it while still bearing a grin. "Can you please leave my tribute alone? She's had a trying enough time as-is."
Now my escort is coming to my defence. I seem so pathetic that it's is certainly going to be all over Capitol television. The joke of the century. I'm sure comedians are already coming up with sketches mocking me. Predictions for the Games, where I end up falling headfirst into a pile of shit and suffocating in it. Surely, I'll have a nickname by the end of the week. I look down at myself, almost proud. I don't mind getting a bit dirty for the job. Hopefully, Ashley gets the message.
"Are your ankles OK?" Caraway asks me, as we're being shuffled away from the stables and into a clean, white hallway. I'm tracking brown over all the tiling. "I jumped down from a too-high platform while logging, once. Hurt like a bitch."
"I'm fine," I say. The cameras aren't on us now, so why is Caraway talking to me? I can't just ignore him, though, that would be rude, which is something my public persona is decidedly not. "My ego hurts, more than anything."
"They'll forget about it by the time of the interviews," he says. "And if they ask you, just act all self-aware and you'll be fine."
I'm certain he's wrong, but I say nothing. We're the last ones to get into the elevator, and end up crammed in with the team from Five. It's a tight fit between us all, and I can tell the escort for Five - a man with light-studded hair and a pinstripe suit - is looking a bit queasy at the smell. The elevator drops them off, and then we're speeding up two more floors until we reach our own.
Ambrosia makes me take off my shoes and leave them in the elevator. Inside, the space is huge. It's easily bigger than the main hall of the Justice Building, and then some. The far side of the wall is made entirely of glass, showing a spectacular view of the Capitol bathed in sunset colours. There's a sofa in the centre of the room, forming an L-shape and facing another screen like the one on the train, only this one is even bigger. To the left, on a slightly raised bit of flooring, is a massive dining table, and behind that - hidden behind all the fluff and decor - is a door, which I assume leads to some sort of system linking us to the kitchens. Splitting off to the right is a corridor, which Ambrosia tells us leads to our rooms.
There's three on this floor - for Ambrosia, Caraway, and myself - and another two hidden up a spiral staircase, presumably for Blight and Ashley. I assume that the stylists and their prep teams must sleep somewhere else. Apparently there's also a separate seating area upstairs which Ambrosia calls the 'study', which we're welcome to use, but is apparently mostly a space for the mentors to use while conducting business. It's almost dizzying, and I'm left mentally drained by the time the tour is done.
"Where are Blight and Ashley?" Caraway asks, once Ambrosia has shown us exactly how to order from the tablets in our rooms. Apparently, I don't even need to show up to dinner in order to eat. "I haven't seen them since they arrived in the Capitol."
"They've been called to a meeting with the Gamemakers," says Ambrosia. "They'll be running around getting you sponsors all this week, so don't worry if you don't see them too much during the day. They'll join us for dinner."
I find myself feeling almost nervous as I'm left alone in my room, and all but instructed to clean myself off. It occurs to me that maybe I've overdone it, and Ashley won't be too happy. The conversation with Ambrosia has reminded me that he's the only one that has full power over my sponsors. It doesn't matter how much money the Capitol gives me. They have zero real effect on what happens in the arena. If Ashley doesn't want me to receive a sponsor gift, I won't. I can't think of a reason why he'd do that - and honestly, if anything, my problem is going to be finding sponsors - but I can't just dismiss the idea, and once again, I'm reminded that I don't know Ashley at all.
He wouldn't ever do that, though. I think. He wants you alive.
It doesn't matter now, I decide. If he's mad, I still have a few days to make amends.
My room is huge, and I spend a few minutes pattering about before I hop in the shower. There's a chute to send down dirty laundry, and so I discard my parade outfit. It really isn't that dirty. Just a ring of brown around the hem of the dress. I really don't know why the Capitol makes such a big deal out of cleanliness and perfection. What does it matter, anyways? It's not like they're all that special, when it comes down to it. They all take shits like the rest of us. If you were to cut them open, they'd bleed like the rest of us too. I shake my head and step into the bathroom.
It takes a long time to detangle my hair from its intricate braids, and by the time I've showered and washed the green paint from my face, I'm almost definitely late to dinner. I make an effort to scrub myself down with some rose-scented lotion, if only to appease Ambrosia, and dress myself in a soft green smock that hangs to my knees. Pompey must have been informed - or perhaps he just inferred - that I prefer loose, flowing outfits, because my wardrobe is full of them. I take one last, deep breath, check my face in the mirror to make sure that I don't look too harsh, and step out to join the others for dinner.
I'm the last one to arrive again, and by the time I slip in next to Caraway, the first course has already been laid out. If I thought the food on the train was lavish, it's nothing compared to this. Dishes upon dishes are piled onto the table: spiced flatbread, honey-glazed chicken, golden squash soup, fish in a deep red sauce. I've never tried fish before, and I find I have quite the taste for it. Pompey, who sits across from me, sticks his nose up at most of the food. Apparently he's something called a vegetarian, which means he refuses to eat meat. I almost roll my eyes at this. If someone from Seven refused to eat meat - which is the only real reliable food source in the district - they'd be laughed at, and probably end up dead from starvation in a couple of weeks.
Blight and Ashley sit towards the head of the table. They must be discussing sponsors or something, because they spend the first two courses of dinner murmuring to one another in lowered voices. Every so often, one of them will join in the conversation that Ambrosia is desperately trying to keep up down this end of the table, but most of the time, they seem lost in their own world. Ashley deliberately doesn't look at me, and Ambrosia deliberately doesn't bring up what happened after the chariot rides.
"I've already heard from a few people that they greatly enjoyed your costumes," Ambrosia says. "Tulia, Pompey, you should be proud of yourselves."
Tulia - which must be the name of Caraway's stylist - takes this graciously, but Pompey still seems a bit put-off by the manure incident.
"Doesn't matter," Caraway says, a bit glumly. "All that's on the news is the boy from Two. They're obsessed with him."
"You were watching the news?" I don't bother hiding my surprise. There are televisions in our rooms, yes, but I'd rather do anything except rot my mind with Capitol programming. Especially not when my own face is being featured.
Caraway shrugs. "It kills the time. We don't have a television back home."
"Don't bother yourself with the Careers," Blight says. "It's better to ignore them completely. If they think you care, they'll try to get a rise out of you."
I think about the girl from One, whose laughter, in hindsight, seemed incredibly forced. The pair from Four, with their fake, lopsided grins. He's right, I realise. They weren't really amused with me. They were trying to get me to believe I was beneath them.
"It's not fair, though," Caraway says. "Just because he's related to someone famous, it doesn't mean he's any more important than the rest of us."
It's just the way it works, I want to tell him. But it's obvious that Caraway doesn't understand that simple fact. Aside from everything else - his addiction, his lackluster critical thinking skills, the fact that I'd kill him if I had to - this might be the sole reason why he won't make it out of the arena.
"You're right. It isn't fair," Ashley chimes in, mirroring my thoughts. "But it's the way it is. Don't let it get to you. And especially don't let it get to you enough that you try to do something about it. You leave those guys alone in the arena."
"Why?" Caraway frowns. I wonder if he's forgotten about his drug dependance, or if he's willfully ignoring the topic while so many people are around. "If I'm going to make it out, I'm going to have to kill some of them."
"Sure. Some. Ideally as few as possible. It might seem unfair, the odds aren't stacked in your favour. Until you absolutely need to, you leave them alone."
"Didn't you attack them ?" Caraway asks. I see Ashley tense up. "That's how you won, right? It's what they all said - that's how you turned the tide of your Games."
"Every year is different," Ashley sounds very far away when he speaks.
"Ashley didn't attack them directly. That's what he's warning you against. And he's right. It's not relevant. Finish your dinner," Blight says, and with that, the conversation moves on.
Nobody else seems to be very hungry by the time the cake comes, but I gorge myself on it. I never considered myself much of a foodie, but I'm starting to work up a bit of an appetite. Lynn was right. The food here is brilliant.
Lynn. It must nearly be time for mandatory viewing. I wonder what she must be thinking, seeing me on television. Surely she'll know that all of this is an act, and surely she'll be smart enough not to bring it up if she's interviewed, but what about my father? I picture him - huddled in front of our tiny, blurry television screen at home. Does he have his head on straight again, or is he confused? Has he eaten, or slept? Has Lynn gone to visit him? Has anyone?
I put my fork down. Suddenly, my newfound appetite is gone.
Dinner is cleared away, and Ambrosia offers to watch the recap with us, but neither Caraway or I are keen. Instead, we choose to shuffle off to our individual rooms, with instructions to be up and ready for training by ten tomorrow. I'm just bidding Ambrosia goodnight when I catch Ashley down the hall. He gives me a look, and I fiddle with my doorknob just long enough to make sure that everyone else is gone.
I open my door and step through. Ashley follows me.
He pauses as he closes the door behind him. He's facing away from me, and for a second I'm confused about what he's doing. His head is resting against the wood, and I'm suddenly worried that he's so angry with me that he needs a second to contain himself.
And then I realise he's laughing.
It strikes me, because, at the sound of it, I realise exactly how young he is. Barely a handful of years older than I am. We were in the same reaping pool. If he hadn't won when he did, we would have seen one another at school. For a moment, if I ignore his Capitol clothes, he looks just like any other boy from Seven. Short, with slightly unkempt stubble, bags under his eyes, laughing at a joke. He looks like a person, not a victor.
"What -" he says, once he's turned around. He's got a smile on his face, but it's almost bewildered. " - possessed you to do that? "
I can't help it, I'm laughing too. It's all caught up with me now, how stupid this all is. "I don't know," I say, honestly. "You asked me to impress you!"
" Impress? " Ashley shakes his head. It's such a far cry from our conversation on the train yesterday that I'm taken aback. "You didn't need to do that! You had me on board since the train, Johanna."
"It wasn't too far, was it?" I ask. I try to say it like I don't care either way, but I don't think it comes out convincing enough. It's almost annoying. I can burst into tears at a moment's notice, and apparently convince half the Capitol that I'm a pathetic, snivelling child, but the second I'm alone with Ashley Firth, I become a frankly terrible actor.
"Maybe a bit," he says. "But that's a good thing. Nobody would ever imagine you'd go this far. You might even get some sponsors out of it."
"Really?" My eyes widen. " How? "
"Some people like to bid on joke tributes," he says. "Horrible, in concept, but money's money."
"I guess," I say. I think about Caraway complaining about the boy from Two, and suddenly a thought crosses my mind. "Nobody can hear us talking, can they?"
Ashley shakes his head. "Not any of the others on this floor. They make the walls soundproof. Far too many victors having nightmares."
On this floor . I pause. So, someone else might be listening. For a moment, the idea nags at me, but I decide there's no point worrying about it now.
Instead, my mind flickers to his second comment. Nightmares. I think about Ashley, or Blight, waking up in a cold sweat. Somehow, it seems unlikely. The pair seem to have a tight grip on their public emotions. But then I think about Ashley's face at Caraway's comment. "I'm sorry about what Caraway said, earlier."
"It's fine," Ashley says, but somehow, I'm not sure I believe him. "Everyone's seen my Games. Doesn't matter if he listens to me, anyways. You're my tribute, not him. You're the priority."
"So you'll agree, then?" I ask. "I've impressed you? You'll direct me?"
"Yes," he says. "God, Johanna, where have you been? I could have used you in my shows."
I can't help but roll my eyes at this, but my heart isn't really in it. Somehow, without my knowledge, any animosity I felt towards Ashley has faded away in the course of a single day. Even now, the mention of his shows feels different. Instead of a frivolity, I see them now for what they are. A thing to pass the time. I realise, with a start, that I might even actually like Ashley.
It feels almost as impossible as being reaped did.
"Not interested, sorry," I say. "So what do you suggest I do?"
Ashley comes and sits at the edge of my bed. He thinks a moment before speaking. "The problem isn't going to be surprising them. If you keep this up, they're guaranteed a surprise. The problem is making sure they want the surprise."
I frown. "What do you mean?"
"Let's say that they like you," Ashley explains. " - and they want you to survive. If you turn around and show them that you do have what it takes, you'll be giving them exactly what they want. But on the other side of it, if they don't care about you at all, if they're looking forward to your death, and you turn around and tell them that you're not dying anytime soon, you stand the risk of annoying them. This audience likes a twist, but only when it suits them."
"Right," I'm not sure I fully get it, but I trust Ashley to know the audience. He's very popular in the Capitol. Ever since Finnick Odair won the year before him, there's been a rise in hero worship towards the victors. He's been on the other end of cameras for the better part of five years. "So I'm supposed to get them to like me, even if they think I'm going to die?"
"Yes. So no more big feats like today," Ashley says. "From here on out, you're playing someone who's scared, but trying to be brave. That's very important. They want to see you try. You're going to work your butt off to seem personable. I'm going to try to get the cameras to catch some covert footage of you before your training score, to endear them to you before the number comes out. Every year, there's leaked footage from training. You need to work hard, and make friends."
"I don't want allies," I say.
"I'm not saying you need to make any. But the Capitol likes seeing tributes interact. Make some friends - stick with Caraway, if you want - but don't hide away. Learn new skills. You know how to survive in a forest, so focus on other terrain. Find something you're good at in survival and show it off. Don't avoid the weapons, but if you think you'll be good at something, stop before they notice."
"What about axe throwing?" I say. "Should I avoid that?"
"No," Ashley says, firmly. "Everyone knows District Seven is good with axes. Our cover for you is that you work in town, but you'll look suspicious if you stay away. Try it, and seem bad at it. But, more importantly, you need to look like you're trying hard ."
I nod. "And my training score? What about that?"
Ashley pauses again. "That's difficult. We need to make sure that you fly under the radar of all the other tributes, while still making an impression on the Capitol. So don't even think about scoring under a three. You do that, they will hunt you down at the Cornucopia. They'd almost certainly prefer to hunt you down early than to leave you to the elements. Careers hate when tributes die by any hand that's not their own."
"A four, then?" I ask. "I can do that."
"Around a four, yeah," he says. "If they think you're weak, but not an immediate death risk, they'll probably keep their sights on other, stronger contenders first. You get out of there as soon as you can. Don't go looking for a fight, but don't back down from one either."
I nod. "If I don't run into anyone, what do I do?"
"Count yourself lucky," Ashley says. "There will be mutts. You can prove your strength with them. The Gamemakers have their tricks, and if they think you can prove yourself, they'll test you."
"Okay," I say. I've been so focused on the other tributes that I hadn't considered that the Gamemakers would be trying to kill me too. Ashley doesn't say anything else, so I figure that he's used up all of his advice so far. "Is that all you've got to give?"
"All for now," he says. "We've still got time. Don't want to overwhelm you."
Time. Three days for training, one for interview prep, and another for the interviews themselves. Five days, in all. Despite myself, I feel a shudder in my chest. The Games are approaching far quicker than I'd like them to.
"Do you give all your tributes this advice?"
Ashley shakes his head. "No. Certainly not in my first year. I've picked up bits while I go."
"Enough to keep me alive?"
"Hopefully enough," he says.
"Were any of your other tributes like me?"
Ashley laughs again. "Absolutely not. Well. None of them stepped in shit, at least."
"Gotta get your hands dirty," I shrug. "Or feet, I guess."
"Yeah. You do," he says, and stands up. "I'll let you get some rest."
"Thank you, Ashley," I say. I don't know why I say it. He's my mentor. It's his job to keep me alive.
I suppose I could do a lot worse.
"No. Thank you ," he says. "And well done, Johanna."
I sleep surprisingly well. The bed is too soft to be comfortable, and every few hours I'm stirred by the unfamiliar environment, but by the time I'm awoken by Ambrosia's pre-set alarm, I find myself well-rested. Since I showered last night, I only wash my face before getting dressed in an outfit that has been laid out for me and making my way to breakfast.
Surprisingly I'm the first one there, so I load up my plate and sit by the window. We're on the seventh floor - shocker - so I get a good view of the Capitol skyline from here. Looking at it now, I decide that I hate it. The buildings are too uniform, the sky too hazy, the streets too wide. I close my eyes and try to picture the view from the top of the forest two days ago, but I can't. Even with my eyes closed, the light is too bright, and the hum of air conditioning is too loud. District Seven is a million miles away.
Ambrosia and Caraway join me a bit before ten. Blight and Ashley aren't around anywhere, so I assume they've gone to meet with sponsors. We don't talk much, and Ambrosia doesn't bother. I imagine she's sick to death of quiet tributes, but I'm not sure what else she expects from Seven. I bet she's praying a spot will open up for a mentor in one of the inner districts. I don't desperately mind. I don't like her that much, anyways.
At five to ten, she instructs us to the elevator, and keys in a number for us. Apparently, it will take us directly to the training room located under the building. The door slides shut, and Caraway and I are left alone.
"Do you want to train together, then?" I say, remembering Ashley's instructions.
Caraway looks at me. I can tell he's seizing up whether this will benefit him or not. He looks a lot more tired and subdued than yesterday, and I wonder whether the reality of our situation has finally hit him yet.
"Sure," he says, eventually. "Blight says I should focus on survival skills."
I wonder if Blight pulled him aside for a conversation last night too. It wouldn't surprise me.
"So did Ashley," I say. "He said -" I'm about to say that I know how to survive in the woods, so we should look at other terrain, but then I remember that my cover story is that I work in town. "- he said there's no use learning how to throw a spear if I'll die from exposure first."
"Okay," Caraway says. "Survival it is."
The elevator dings open, and we step out. Most of the tributes are already here, and I can't help but feel a slight chill run down my spine as I sense eyes on us. There's a low snicker from District One, and I'm sure that Love is probably having the time of her life remembering the chariots. I keep my eyes down, but my jaw set. Afraid, but trying. Afraid, but trying.
I don't have to try to be afraid, once training starts.
We're given a quick speech by the head trainer - a woman whose name I forget as soon as she says it - and then given free roam around the space. The tributes from One immediately dash for the swords, and the boy manages to spar down the trainer in a matter of seconds.
He could kill me, I realise. It doesn't matter how well I fool him, or anyone, for that matter. One swing of that sword, and -
"Johanna," Caraway says. "Come on. Why don't we start with snares?"
I'm so embarrassed that I'm not acting that I barely look at Caraway as we make our way over to the station. The trainer is a nice woman, and she seems quite fond of me from the get-go, which surprises me, but isn't unwelcome. I'm hopeless at the job, but Caraway gets the hang of it quite quickly, and by the time an hour is up, he already knows how to set a trap to catch a wild rabbit.
As we move around the space, I begin to notice a pattern. Compared to Caraway - and honestly, most of the other tributes - the trainers are all very nice to me. At first I think it might just be pity, but I realise, the harder I work, the more receptive they seem to be. Ashley was right, I think.
From that point onwards, I am sickly sweet with the trainers. I spend an hour making friends with the man at the fire starting station, and Caraway and I excel at the rope climbing course. By mid-afternoon, I've moved around about a quarter of the station, and I can pick out most of the trainers by name.
We're at the last station of the day - camouflage, which seems stupid to me, but whatever, Caraway wanted to come - when we're approached by the girl from Eight. She's a skinny thing, with brown hair tied into curly buns, and big, round eyes. At first, she stays silent, watching as Caraway tries to mimic the pattern of swirling desert sand with mud - something that feels oddly contradictory - but eventually, she slides in next to me.
"Hi," she says. Her voice is high, and breathless. "I'm Twine."
"Hi," I repeat. How old is she? Fourteen? Thirteen?
"You're from Seven, right?" I nod. "My mentor said Seven's nice."
"Who's your mentor?"
"Cecelia?" Twine says, staring in awe at Caraway's brushwork. I think it looks stupid. "She won the Sixty-Second?"
"Oh," I say. I think I remember those Games. "Were those the ones in the desert?"
Twine nods. "Seven and Eight allied a few years ago. Cecelia said we made a good team."
"Is that an invitation to ally?"
Caraway's noticed our conversation, and has stopped to pay attention. Twine drops her gaze. I realise that - unless she's playing the same game as I am - Twine is exactly what I'm trying to emulate.
"We'd make it longer as a team," she says. "And you're both good at climbing."
"Both?" Caraway frowns. "You want to ally with the two of us?"
"You can say no," Twine says. "I know I don't have a lot to give, but -"
"Johanna and I aren't even allies," he says, quite firmly. "We're just training together."
"Oh," Twine looks down at her shoes. "Could I train with you, then? It's only, just - my district partner doesn't like me. He's from the factories." Whatever she's trying to imply with this flies over my head. "And I can't bear being alone. Just for the next few days."
I look at Caraway. I want to work with this girl far less than I do with him - which says something - but I don't want to be the one to turn her away. That could work against me, if someone were to see.
"Fine," he says. "But if your presence draws the attention of the Careers to us, you're out."
Twine nods. "Okay. Thank you. Okay."
And so, for the next day and a half, I train with Twine and Caraway. We go to the axe station, and I pretend they're too heavy for me to lift. Caraway has a knack for spears. Twine doesn't seem to be much good for anything, but I find that her company isn't that bad, after a while. She reminds me of Lynn, a bit. Her reverence of Cecelia reminds me a bit of how Lynn talks about Ashley, and as it turns out, Twine's family also works for the school in District Eight.
In the evenings, Ashley and I find a routine of meeting in the study on the second floor, by the mentor's quarters. He updates me on everything he's managed to pick up from the other mentors - the Career alliance seems to be going ahead as usual, and they don't seem interested in inviting any other tributes this year. The pair from Five appear to also be allying, and the boy from Eight - the one who hates Twine, apparently - has taken a liking to the girl from Twelve. The word on the street is that Cassius from Two and Love from One are favourites to win, though he guarantees me that they won't have much new to show in the arena.
He also brings me news from Seven. Apparently my father has been taken in by one of our homebound victors, a woman called Sylvia Yaw. I don't know much about her, but Ashley speaks of her highly, and assures me that he'll be well taken care of for the duration of the Games. I don't know who told her to do this, but the idea that I have to get out of the arena to thank her keeps me going stronger than anything else has.
I also thank Ashley, when he tells me he's submitted the piece of amber from my dress as my district token. I'd almost forgotten about it.
"I had nothing," he says. "I wish I'd had one, though. Just don't do anything stupid like drop it before the Games start."
I think of the girl from Nine six years ago, and feel a bit sick.
As time goes on, I notice Caraway seems to be doing less and less well. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead as we descend the elevator on the second day, and halfway through a session at the weightlifting station, he rushes to the bathrooms, and when he comes back, I'm sure he's been ill. He's quiet at the dinner table, and looks like he might keel over at any point.
Nobody says it's withdrawal, but I know.
I observe the other tributes. Ashley's intel seems to be wholly correct. The pair from Five focus entirely on survival skills, and the boy from Eight - Hatch, according to Twine - has accompanied the girl from Twelve - a skinny, dark haired thing - to every station for the past day. The Career alliance seems to be as strong as ever, though I notice, at the end of the second day, that Cassius from Two seems to slightly hang back from the rowdy laughter and loud conversation. Not enough to be excluded, but just enough to stand out. I notice him looking at me, once, during lunch. He looks away when he sees I've caught him.
I ask Ashley what this might mean, but he doesn't know.
On the eve of the second day of training, I decide to turn on the television in my room. I can't sleep - I'm worried about my individual session - and I reckon that I might as well occupy my mind until I'm tired enough. They're showing predictive odds. I am dead last. Twine is after me.
They do say, however, that I have caught the attention of the public. There's an image on the screen from training today. I am laughing at a joke Caraway made. I was actually trying desperately not to think of how long he'd last without another hit, but I look happy. Young. Sweet. Innocent. The presenter - some late night clown wearing way too many feathers - says I've accrued a fair amount of fans. They're incredibly sad to see me die soon.
I smile, and I find sleep isn't so hard to come by after all.
