The woods stretch endlessly around you, thick with the scent of damp earth and pine. Birds flit between the branches, their calls piercing the quiet, but you hear nothing else—no rustling of prey, no movement to signal a catch. Burdock stands beside you, his bow slung over his shoulder, watching as you fumble with the one he’s loaned you.

“You’re gripping too tight,” he mutters, stepping behind you. His hands, calloused from years of hunting, settle over yours, easing the tension in your fingers. “Loosen up. You’re not trying to strangle it.”

You roll your eyes but obey, adjusting your stance. “Not my fault I didn’t grow up with a bow in my hands.”

Burdock chuckles, a low sound. “No, but you want to learn, don’t you?” He shifts closer, tilting his head toward the clearing ahead. “See that rabbit trail?” He nods toward the barely visible path winding through the underbrush. “They come through here in the mornings. If you can hit one, you’ll have meat to sell—or keep, if things get bad.”

They’re always bad in District 12, but you don’t say that. Instead, you exhale slowly, raising the bow. The string is stiff beneath your fingers, but Burdock’s hands remain on yours, guiding you. “Breathe in,” he instructs. “Hold steady. Now breathe out and—”

You release. The arrow flies—too high, too fast—and embeds itself uselessly in the trunk of a tree.

Burdock sighs, shaking his head. “At this rate, you’ll be selling firewood, not meat.”