What...?

In the dark, Howard trembles and cowers and feels the knife slide slightly in his sweating palm. The muscles around his eyes tighten. He feels his breath struggle in and out of his throat. He tries to move, to scream for help, to cry, but he knows that for this moment, staying still is the only thing keeping him from giving away his location.

How could he be so stupid...?

He'd thought he'd found an ally. In a zombie. Because they listened to music and did karaoke together. But of course, and he should know this better than anyone, hunger is a more motivating force than any sort of bond. He honestly thought that the rats would sustain R, and now he just feels gobsmacked by his own stupidity.

He doesn't make a noise as he slips away, a good hundred yards before he starts to desperately pelt in the direction of Thunder Mountain, barely heeding the chance of running into other Tributes. He scrambles up the rail to his hideout, clutching the knife in his teeth and the fake gun down the back of his shirt. He pulls the gun out and tosses it aside, clinging to the folding knife as he hides in the scaffolding, shaking.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid to be so easily tricked. Stupid to trust.

He cries into the night.