Jay is not quite looking where he's going, because he's crying too hard and the mascara he applied that morning while his stylist wasn't looking is stinging his eyes. Everything is a confused blur, from R -- R of all people -- lunging at him and tearing his costume to Aunamee expiring right in front of him. He's not even sure why he's crying, but he feels awfully alone and awfully young. His legs hurt and he feels ill. He knew it was a fight to the death, he knew what to expect and yet the reality of it proved far worse than anything he'd dreamed up while battling insomnia in the Capitol.

But, somehow, miraculously, he'd snatched a bag from the Cornucopia and it's now slung over his shoulder, making his back ache as it bounces against it as he runs. He hasn't had a chance to explore its contents yet. He hopes there's some water or a stick of carrot or something not cloyingly sweet in there.

After a while, when the sounds from the Cornucopia have grown distant, Jay stops, wipes his face with his sleeve, and tries to orient himself. He's hopelessly lost, of course, and the bright landscape is hugely disorienting. He's shaking, not violently, but noticeably, almost as if shivering from some inner cold. He takes several deep breaths, trying to calm down and picks a random direction to walk in. It isn't long before he stops a figure in the distance, leaning against a tree. He slows down and squints into the distance, trying to figure out who the hell it is. He walks closer, knowing that he may well be exposing himself as a target.

"Hello?" he calls out ahead. "You ... there? Against the tree? Ah. If you let me live, dear, I'll share my supplies with you!"