Howard doesn't know exactly when they got into this pissing contest, but he feels his pulse and he feels himself getting angry, like it's some foreign creature inside his chest. He escaped the FAYZ with nothing to show but nightmares and scars and panic attacks and an eating disorder and this one consolation, that he's a shoe-in in the Misery Olympics. And now Tim wants to take that from him.

"I'll play my tiny violin for you." Howard's voice is cold now, detached, as if he's reading from a textbook only he can see. Purposely affected, to keep from letting how upset he is leak through. He doesn't look at Tim, instead wandering back to the broken coin-stamper. "Where I'm from the mortality rate for kids under fifteen is thirty-five percent in a year."

Whatever. Maybe he shouldn't have made assumptions about Tim. He doesn't much care right now, as he limps back to the souvenir machine and traces the sample ovals with Mickey, with the castle, with Donald Duck on them. He feels as if there's pressure, right behind his eyes. Maybe he just wants to cry. Who knows?

Maybe once upon a time he'd have sympathy for Tim, because Howard's not a heartless person. He's capable of empathy for the people he knows, people he identifies with. But he tells himself he doesn't have time for this. This is the Games, and empathy is a trap here.

"So we don't really do funerals anymore." He picks up his thermos and pack. "I'll get back to my camp on my own."