There were little skittering crabs racing across the sand, waving their mismatched claws menacingly as Wyatt passed.

He was just giving consideration as the best way to catch one when he spotted the figure - cast long and dark in the slant of the sun - in the distance.

Touching his belt, fingertips resting on the hard handle of his knife, he slowed, stopped, and waited, his eyes narrowed against the glare and watching the stranger's approach carefully.

He'd gotten lucky before, managing to come across a fellow tribute with no immediate interest in murder, but what were the odds he'd do so again?