The Arena has been wearing on Joan, more than usual. There's the lack of food, of course, and being without her usual allies, and the low murmur of guilt that she had somehow let Sherlock die at the Cornucopia. And now there's the sponsor gifts. Or lack thereof. All these weeks, and there hasn't been a single gift from Sherlock. And a cold certainty now lives permanently in her chest. They didn't bring him back.

Thank god for Punchy. Without him, she would have doubtless surrendered to the Arena. Been killed by monsters, or just starved to death. But she fights for Punchy. To keep him alive. To have something to live for.

She spots the footprints when he does, and after he calls out, she stops breathing, hand tightening on his, straining to listen. The fog does weird things with sound. Punchy's call is blunted, the opposite of an echo, and Joan fears that somebody would be almost on them by the time either Joan or Punchy heard a thing.