"A-aye, aye -- !" Jack doesn't have the energy or time to be offended, even if Roland had meant it to be patronizing. Carefully, and with movements stiff and halting, the pirate angles himself away enough to reach over and tear a handful of grass from the ground, and, with hands shaking horribly, gather a few nearby twigs and slivers of wood.

Every ounce of his concentration is on the task, now, as Jack lays the bundle of tinder around the curl of smoke in the wood with painstaking care. He's so entirely focused on this that the malaise that had settled in like a fog over him the past few days -- from the bitter cold, the starvation, the headaches that claw at the back of his skull due to being forcibly sober -- miraculously becomes an entirely secondary concern.

Instead, adrenaline has his heart beating in his chest, hopeful.

He leans forward, giving the Capitol more footage that he's sure they'll love as well, and cups his hands around the smoke. It's only a tiny coal with barely any life in it at all, and the breath Jack blows onto it is stuttering and faint. It doesn't do much, and he inhales a slow breath to try again. He exhales another slow breath out, trying to coax the spark into an actual flame.