The rope had still been there when Finnick returned from his mid-day meal. Just as much of it as before he'd left. After a long few moments of internal debate, Finnick had finally taken a few of the thinner coils and, after inspecting them for anything out of the ordinary, had looped them over his shoulder and wandered back out in the sand.

He's spent the past few hours fashioning himself a net, one that's better and stronger than the vine one he's been using. His fingers are aching pleasantly as he finishes, spreading it out along the sand and testing its give.

Once satisfied, he gathers it in and squints out across the water, noticing the boat drifting along the waves and the man swimming near it.

He looks so carefree, so at ease. And something in Finnick's gut pulls tight.