Our cell door groans open and light floods in from the hallway. I raise my hands to my eyes, shielding them, and see the silhouette of a slaverunner. I expect him to march over and take me away, but instead he leans down, drops something hard and plastic on the floor, and kicks it. It scrapes across the floor and stops abruptly as it slams against my foot.
“Your last meal,” he announces in a dark voice.
Then he marches out and slams the door, locking it.
I can already smell the food from here, and my stomach reacts with a sharp hunger pang. I lean over and pick up the plastic container carefully, barely able to make it out in the dim light: it is long and flat, sealed with a foil top. I pull back the foil and immediately the smell of food—real, cooked food, which I haven’t had in years—comes rushing up at me, even more powerful. It smells like steak. And chicken. And potatoes. I lean over and examine it: there is a large, juicy steak, two chicken legs, mashed potatoes, and vegetables. It is the best smell of my life. I feel guilty that Bree is not here to share it.
I wonder why they’ve given me such an extravagant meal, and then I realize it’s not an act of kindness, but a self-serving act: they want me strong for the arena. Perhaps they are also tempting me one last time, offering me a preview of what life would be like if I accept their offer. Real meals. Hot food. A life of luxury.
As the smell infiltrates every pore of my body, their offer becomes more tempting. I haven’t smelled real food in years. I suddenly realized how hungry I am, how malnourished, and I seriously wonder if, without this meal, I would even have strength to fight.
Ben sits up and leans forward, looking over. Of course. I suddenly feel selfish for not thinking of him. He must be as starving as I am, and I am sure the smell, which fills the room, is driving him crazy.
“Share it with me,” I say in the darkness. It takes all my willpower to make this offer—but it is the right thing to do.
He shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “They said it was for you. Have it. When they come for me, they’ll give me a meal, too. You need this now. You’re the one that’s about to fight.”
He’s right. I do need it now. Especially because I don’t just plan on fighting—I plan on winning.
It doesn’t take much convincing. The smell of the food overwhelms me, and I reach out and grab the chicken leg and devour it in seconds. I take bite after bite, barely slowing to swallow. It is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. But I force myself to set one of the chicken legs aside, saving it for Ben. Ben might get his own meal—or he might not. Either way, after all we’ve been through, I feel it’s only right to share.
I turn to the mashed potatoes, using my fingers to shovel them into my mouth. My stomach growls in pain, and I realize I need this meal, more than any meal I’ve ever had. My body screams out for me to take another bite, and another. I eat way too fast, and within moments, I’ve devoured more than half of them. I force myself to save the rest for Ben.
I lift the steak with my fingers and take big bites, chewing slowly, trying to savor each morsel. It is the best thing I’ve had in my life. If this turns out to be my last meal, I’d be content with it. I save half the steak and move on to the vegetables, eating only half of these. Within moments, I’m done—and I still don’t feel satisfied. I look down at what I set aside for Ben and want to devour every last bite. But I summon my willpower, slowly rise to my feet, cross the room, and hold the tray out before him.
He sits there, head resting on his knees, not looking up. He’s the most defeated-looking person I’ve ever seen. If it were me sitting there, I would have watched him eat every bite, would have imagined what it tasted like. But it seems that he just has no will left to live.
He must smell the food, so close, because he finally raises his head. He looks up at me, eyes open in surprise. I smile.
“You didn’t really think I’d eat it all, did you?” I ask.
He smiles, but shakes his head and lowers it. “I can’t,” he says. “It’s yours.”
“It’s yours now,” I say, and shove it into his hands. He has no choice but to take it.
“But it’s not fair—” he begins.
“I’ve had enough,” I lie. “Plus, I need to stay light for the fight. I can’t maneuver on a full stomach, can I?”
My lie isn’t very convincing, and I can tell he doesn’t really buy it. But I can also see the effect the smell of the food has on him, can see his primal urge taking over. It is the same impulse I felt just a few minutes ago.
He reaches down and devours it. He closes his eyes and leans back and breathes deeply as he chews, savoring each bite. I watch him finish, and can see how much he needed it.
Instead of crossing back to my side of the room, I take a seat on the wall beside him. I don’t know how much longer I have until they come for me, and for some reason I feel like being closer to him in the last minutes we have together.
We sit there, silently beside each other, for I don’t know how long. I am on edge, listening for any sound, constantly wondering if they are coming. As I think about what lies ahead, my heart begins to beat faster, and I try to put it out of my mind.
I had assumed they would take us both to the arena together and am surprised they are separating us. It makes me wonder what other surprises they have in store. I try not to think about them.
I can’t help wondering if this is the last time I will see Ben. I haven’t known him long, and I really shouldn’t care either way. I know I should keep my head clear, my emotions calm, and focus just on the fight before me.
But for some reason I can’t stop thinking about him. I’m not sure why, but somehow I am beginning to feel attached to him. I will miss him. It doesn’t make any sense, and I am mad at myself for even thinking this way. I barely know him. It annoys me that I will be upset—more upset than I should be—about saying goodbye.
We sit there in a relaxed silence, a silence between friends. It is no longer awkward. We don’t speak, but I feel that in the silence he is hearing me, hearing me say goodbye. And that he’s saying goodbye, too.
I wait for him to say something—anything—to me. After a few minutes, a part of me starts to wonder if maybe he’s not speaking for a reason, if maybe he doesn’t feel the same way about me. Maybe he doesn’t even care for me at all; maybe he even resents me for getting him into this mess. Suddenly, I doubt myself. I need to know.
“Ben?” I whisper, in the silence.
I wait, but all that I hear is the labored sound of his breathing, through his broken nose. I look over, and see that he is fast asleep. That explains the silence.
I study his face, and even as bruised up as it is, it is beautiful. I hate the idea of our being separated. And of his dying. He’s too young to die. I guess I am, too.
The meal makes me sleepy, and in the darkness, despite myself, I find my eyes closing. Before I know it, I am slumped against the wall, sliding my head over until it rests on Ben’s shoulder. I know I should wake, stay on edge, prepare myself for the arena.
But in moments, despite my efforts, I am fast asleep.
*
I am awakened by the echo of boots marching down the corridor. At first I think it’s just a nightmare—but then I realize it’s not. I don’t know how many hours have passed. My body feels rested, though, and that tells me I must have been asleep for a long time.
The boots grow louder and soon stop at the door. There is a dangling of keys, and I sit up straighter, my heart pounding out of my chest. They have come for me.
I don’t know how to say goodbye to Ben, and I don’t know if he even wants me to. So instead, I just stand, every muscle in my body aching, and prepare to leave.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my wrist. It is surprisingly strong, and the intensity of his grip ripples through me.
I’m afraid to look down at him, to look into those eyes—but I have no choice. He’s staring right at me. His eyes radiate concern, and in that moment, I can see how much cares for me. The intensity of it scares me.
“You did good,” he says, “getting us this far. We never should have lived this long.”
I stare back, not knowing how to respond. I want to tell him that I’m sorry for all this. I also want to tell him that I care for him. That I hope he survives. That I survive. That I see him again. That we find our siblings. That we make it home.
But I feel that he knows this already. And so I end up not saying a word.
The door swings open, and in march the slaverunners. I turn to go, but Ben yanks on my wrist, forcing me to turn back to him.
“Survive,” he says, with the intensity of a dying man.
I stare back.
“Survive. For me. For your sister. For my brother. Survive.”
The words ring in the air, like a mandate, and I can’t help but feel as if they come from Dad, channeled through Ben. It sends a shiver up my spine. Before, I was determined to survive. Now, I feel as if I have no choice.
The slaverunners march over and stand behind me.
Ben lets go and I turn and stand proudly, facing them. I feel a surge of strength from the meal and the sleep, and I stare back at them defiantly.
One of them holds out a key. At first, I don’t understand why—but then I remember: my handcuffs. They have been on so long, I’ve forgotten they were there.
I reach out, and he unlocks them. There is a huge relief of tension, as the metal unclasps and is taken away. I rub my wrists where the circular marks are.
I march out the room before they can shove me, wanting the advantage. I know that Ben is watching me, but I can’t bear to turn around and look at him. I have to be strong.
I have to survive.