"I got you." It's not a shout, but it's spoken loudly, clearly, intensely. "I got you."

She does. One good hold, one bad. His hand that's grabbed her other one is cold, thin, desperate: it's a weak hold. But it's a hold. She'll work with it. She has no other choice.

Annie looks at him, the young man. The boy, maybe. She looks at him, and her sea-green eyes are dark, intense, boring into his face until he looks up and pays attention.

"I got you," Annie repeats. "Okay? You're not gonna drown. Not gonna let ya. But I need you to help, right? I'm gonna move my left hand to the fountain edge. And when you can feel the stone, I want you to slide your arm over so you can hook your arm over the edge. And then I want you to let me go."

He looks like he's from District Three. District Six, maybe. Five. Eight. Pasty.

She tries not to remember the names of the children who looked like him.

"Once you do that, we can get you out more easily. Okay?"