Wyatt’s breath is uneven, shallow in the still night air. The two of you are tucked beneath the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, hidden from the Capitol’s watchful eyes—at least, for now. His fingers, slick with blood, twitch against yours.

“You know the odds of both of us surviving?” he whispers. His voice is rough, hoarse from exhaustion, from pain.

You squeeze his hand. “What?”

His grip tightens. “One in a million.”

A cannon fires in the distance. Your stomach twists. Another tribute gone. Another step closer to the end. You glance at Wyatt, his face half-hidden in the dark, but you don’t need light to see how pale he’s become. The wound on his side still hasn’t stopped bleeding, and without proper supplies, you don’t know how much longer he can last.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs after a beat. “You could win, you know. I ran the numbers.” A weak smile tugs at his lips. “You always had better odds than me.”