Chapter 17 : Survival Days
Three days of rhythm.
Katniss hunted at dawn, returning with rabbits and birds that her arrows found before they knew death was coming. I scouted perimeters and gathered plants, my Blind Spot mapping observation patterns while my borrowed memories identified edible species.
We ate better than any tribute should. Cooked meat over hidden fires, supplemented by berries and roots and the Capitol provisions I rationed from storage. Katniss stopped asking where the extra supplies came from. Some questions were better left unanswered.
Night watches became our bonding time. Katniss talked about Prim during her shifts—stories from District 12, memories of their father, the goat she'd bought that kept giving milk despite everything. I listened, offered occasional responses, and filed the information away.
During my shifts, I stayed silent. Thinking. Planning. Watching the stars through gaps in the forest canopy.
On the third night, Katniss woke me with a shake.
"You were talking."
My heart rate spiked. "What did I say?"
"Names. People I don't know." Her eyes searched my face in the darkness. "Margaret. John. Something about a hospital."
My parents. From my first life. Names I hadn't spoken in months, bleeding through while my guard was down.
"Bad dreams," I managed. "Old stuff. Doesn't matter."
"You said 'don't let me die here.'"
The words hung between us. I remembered the hospital room—white walls, beeping machines, the slow certainty of endings. The desperation that had faded into acceptance as my first body failed.
"I said it doesn't matter."
"It matters to me." Katniss sat back, her expression unreadable. "We're partners. If something's haunting you—if it'll affect how you fight—I need to know."
"It won't affect anything." Probably true. The past was dead, literally. Only the present mattered now. "I have nightmares sometimes. About dying. About not mattering." I let out a breath. "That's why I volunteered. Because dying quietly felt worse than dying loud."
She was silent for a long moment. Then: "My nightmares are about Prim. Watching her walk to the stage. Hearing her name called and being too slow to stop it."
"You weren't too slow."
"I know. But the dream doesn't care." She settled against her tree, bow across her lap. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."
I closed my eyes, but sleep was a long time coming.
Day eleven brought the Careers.
My Blind Spot screamed warning—multiple observers, focused attention, approaching fast. I grabbed Katniss's arm, pointed upward. No words needed. We'd practiced this.
Trees became our refuge. Katniss climbed like she'd been born for it, bow strapped across her back. I followed more slowly, my technique rougher but adequate. Twenty feet up, hidden among branches thick enough to obscure our shapes, we froze.
The Career pack passed beneath us.
Cato led, sword drawn, scanning the forest with predatory focus. Clove followed close behind, knives visible at her belt. Marvel walked third, spear ready for throwing. Glimmer brought up the rear, carrying a bow she probably couldn't use well.
And between Clove and Marvel—a smaller figure. Dark-haired, nervous, carrying no weapons.
The boy from District 3.
"They're protecting something," Katniss breathed once they'd passed. "District 3 knows explosives. Technology."
"The Cornucopia." My mind raced through possibilities. "They're guarding their supplies. Using him to set traps."
"Mines, maybe. Reset from the launch platforms." Her jaw tightened. "Smart. Dangerous."
We waited another hour before descending, my Blind Spot confirming the Careers had moved on. The close call left us both shaken—and newly aware of how fragile our safety really was.
"We need information," I said. "About their defenses. Their patterns."
"We need to stay alive."
"Same thing, eventually."
The cannon fired at dusk.
Another face in the sky: the girl from District 8. Small, scared-looking in her official portrait. I remembered seeing her at training, fumbling with a knife, crying during the night watches.
Fire gave her away, probably. Smoke visible above the treeline, drawing Careers like wolves to blood. They'd found her, killed her, added another number to their count.
Thirteen dead. Eleven alive. The net was closing.
Katniss stared at the sky long after the anthem ended.
"I could have been her."
"You're not."
"One mistake. One bad fire, one wrong turn. That's all it takes." She turned to face me. "How do you stay calm? You never seem afraid."
"I'm always afraid." The admission came easier than expected. "Every minute, every day. But fear doesn't help. It just makes you slow."
"So what does help?"
I thought about it. About the hospital bed, the certainty of endings, the acceptance that had felt like peace until I'd woken up in someone else's body.
"Deciding that you're going to survive anyway. Fear and all. The decision makes it real."
She considered this. Then: "I decided the moment they called Prim's name. That I'd survive long enough to get back to her."
"Then hold onto that. Whatever happens, that's your anchor."
"What's yours?"
The question caught me off guard. What was my anchor? What kept me moving forward, surviving, fighting?
"Making this life matter," I said finally. "My first one didn't. This one will."
Katniss frowned at the phrasing—first life, strange words from a seventeen-year-old—but she didn't ask for clarification. Some mysteries were allowed to stand.
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