Stebbins was a poetry boy. He was an art boy, a literature boy, a music boy. He was photography, and sketching, and old movies.

The Major, though, was rough and military-driven. Justice-driven. Bloodthirsty. Now that he was in charge of the Walk, not only was it Stebbins’s duty to fill a role in representing his country, but it was also his father’s job to facilitate his glorious win — or his brutal death.

Stebbins brought the few things in the world that meant anything to him — his Polaroid camera, his sketchbook, his favorite book of poems. His father had warned him he’d only have time to keep pace and dare, but Stebbins’s head was always in the clouds. He could spare a few days of riskily walking and dreaming.

By the second hour, he is already bored out of his mind. He’s nearly completely disassociated, until he hears someone close to him humming a song he’s familiar with. He turns his head to watch the person for a moment.

“Is that…?” He asks, mentioning the name of the song. He doesn’t know why he asks it quietly — it’s not forbidden material. His heart stutters in his chest.