He pulled up the bow, and the quiver beneath it, fingering away the clumps of damp earth that clung to the fletching on the arrows.

"Maybe there ain't many then, not enough for us all. Er maybe they ain't edible. Somethin' wrong with 'em..." The arrows rattled between his fingers, then stilled as he remembered an arena past. "There was an arena, before ya got here. A forest. There was lots of animals, but they were all strange, sick like. They made all the tributes sick too."

Thinking about it, he could remember. The cramping pain in his gut, the bitter bile crawling up the back of his throat. A hot coppery taste in his mouth as he vomited up his own blood.

Swallowing thickly - looking a bit green - he stood and held out the bow for Max to inspect.

"Wouldn't surprise me, if they tried again."