We talked about survival. [Because she won't mention the conversation about singing. That Katniss used to sing before Clove stabbed her. Over and over and over. Clove can still see the blood. There'd been more to it than survival. She'd known it even then. It hadn't been hate, no. It hadn't been revenge. It had been fear. Some clinging weakness that had made her keep attacking even once the girl lay still.] He asked if Cato and I'd fought. Because we split up for the fight.

[To Clove, now, it was a question of whether anyone would care if she turned up dead. She still isn't sure why he didn't kill her. No one would have known then. It wasn't like leaving the body in the woods, hoping no one would find it, and claiming it was dogs.

Whatever Sharpe might have done to her, he could have blamed on the Third Party. There were enemy combatants all around, things he could have claimed killed her, rather than him. Why he spared her, she isn't sure.

...Maybe because he wanted her to live with this fear.]

He kept approaching. I ran, he followed. [Fear. Purely fear.] I told him if he got any closer, I'd kill him. [Survival. A cornered beast.] I ran again.

Didn't like my odds against someone that much bigger. Especially when he had a gun.