The Hunger Games

by

Suzanne Collins

Go to Table of Contents

CONTENTS

Dedication

Part I

“The Tributes”

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part II

“The Games”

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

PART III

"THE VICTOR"

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

End of Table of Contents

For James Proimos

PART I

"THE TRIBUTES"

Chapter 1.

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My

fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding

only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must

have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of

course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in

the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up

on her side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks

pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger,

still worn but not so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh

as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she

was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or

so they tell me.

Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her, is the world’s

ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes

the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup,

insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright

flower. He hates me. Or at least distrusts me. Even

though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I

tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him

home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms,

crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was another

mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I

had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid

of the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the

occasional rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed

Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come

to love.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting

boots. Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull

on trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a

cap, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a

wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and cats

alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil

leaves. Prim’s gift to me on reaping day. I put the cheese

carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually

crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning

shift at this hour. Men and women with hunched

shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since

stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their broken

nails, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black

cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray

houses are closed. The reaping isn’t until two. May as

well sleep in. If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have

to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the

Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact

enclosing all of District 12, is a high chain-link fence

topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, it’s supposed

to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to

the predators that live in the woods — packs of wild

dogs, lone cougars, bears — that used to threaten our

streets. But since we’re lucky to get two or three hours of

electricity in the evenings, it’s usually safe to touch. Even

so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for the

hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it’s silent as

a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on

my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that’s been

loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the

fence, but this one is so close to home I almost always

enter the woods here.

As soon as I’m in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath

of arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence

has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of

District 12. Inside the woods they roam freely, and there

are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals,

and no real paths to follow. But there’s also food if you

know how to find it. My father knew and he taught me

some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion.

There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five

years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and

poaching carries the severest of penalties, more people

would risk it if they had weapons. But most are not bold

enough to venture out with just a knife. My bow is a

rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I

keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in

waterproof covers. My father could have made good

money selling them, but if the officials found out he

would have been publicly executed for inciting a

rebellion. Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to

the few of us who hunt because they’re as hungry for

fresh meat as anybody is. In fact, they’re among our best

customers. But the idea that someone might be arming

the Seam would never have been allowed.

In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to

harvest apples. But always in sight of the Meadow.

Always close enough to run back to the safety of District

12 if trouble arises. “District Twelve. Where you can

starve to death in safety,” I mutter. Then I glance quickly

over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of

nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the

things I would blurt out about District 12, about the

people who rule our country, Panem, from the far-off city

called the Capitol. Eventually I understood this would

only lead us to more trouble. So I learned to hold my

tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask

so that no one could ever read my thoughts. Do my work

quietly in school. Make only polite small talk in the public

market. Discuss little more than trades in the Hob, which

is the black market where I make most of my money.

Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid

discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food

shortages, or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to

repeat my words and then where would we be?

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be

myself. Gale. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing,

my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a

rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes

protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting

there brings on a smile. Gale says I never smile except in

the woods.

“Hey, Catnip,” says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but

when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he

thought I’d said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx

started following me around the woods looking for

handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finally

had to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost

regretted it because he wasn’t bad company. But I got a

decent price for his pelt.

“Look what I shot,” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an

arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. It’s real bakery bread, not

the flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I

take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold the

puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance

that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like

this is for special occasions.

“Mm, still warm,” I say. He must have been at the bakery

at the crack of dawn to trade for it. “What did it cost

you?”

“Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling

sentimental this morning,” says Gale. “Even wished me

luck.”

“Well, we all feel a little closer today, don’t we?” I say,

not even bothering to roll my eyes. “Prim left us a

cheese.” I pull it out.

His expression brightens at the treat. “Thank you, Prim.

We’ll have a real feast.” Suddenly he falls into a Capitol

accent as he mimics Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat

woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at

the leaping. “I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!” He

plucks a few blackberries from the bushes around us.

“And may the odds —” He tosses a berry in a high arc

toward me.

I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with

my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my

tongue. “— be ever in your favor!” I finish with equal

verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative

is to be scared out of your wits. Besides, the Capitol

accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.

I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread.

He could be my brother. Straight black hair, olive skin,

we even have the same gray eyes. But we’re not related,

at least not closely. Most of the families who work the

mines resemble one another this way.

That’s why my mother and Prim, with their light hair and

blue eyes, always look out of place. They are. My

mother’s parents were part of the small merchant class

that caters to officials, Peacekeepers, and the occasional

Seam customer. They ran an apothecary shop in the

nicer part of District 12. Since almost no one can afford

doctors, apothecaries are our healers. My father got to

know my mother because on his hunts he would

sometimes collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her

shop to be brewed into remedies. She must have really

loved him to leave her home for the Seam. I try to

remember that when all I can see is the woman who sat

by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to

skin and bones. I try to forgive her for my father’s sake.

But to be honest, I’m not the forgiving type.

Gale spreads the bread slices with the soft goat cheese,

carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the

bushes of their berries. We settle back in a nook in the

rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear

view of the valley, which is teeming with summer life,

greens to gather, roots to dig, fish iridescent in the

sunlight. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft

breeze. The food’s wonderful, with the cheese seeping

into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our

mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a

holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the

mountains with Gale, hunting for tonight’s supper. But

instead we have to be standing in the square at two

o’clock waiting for the names to be called out.

“We could do it, you know,” Gale says quietly.

“What?” I ask.

“Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I,

we could make it,” says Gale.

I don’t know how to respond. The idea is so

preposterous.

“If we didn’t have so many kids,” he adds quickly.

They’re not our kids, of course. But they might as well

be. Gale’s two little brothers and a sister. Prim. And you

may as well throw in our mothers, too, because how

would they live without us? Who would fill those mouths

that are always asking for more? With both of us hunting

daily, there are still nights when game has to be swapped

for lard or shoelaces or wool, still nights when we go to

bed with our stomachs growling.

“I never want to have kids,” I say.

“I might. If I didn’t live here,” says Gale.

“But you do,” I say, irritated.

“Forget it,” he snaps back.

The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I

leave Prim, who is the only person in the world I’m

certain I love? And Gale is devoted to his family. We can’t

leave, so why bother talking about it? And even if we did

. . . even if we did . . . where did this stuff about having

kids come from? There’s never been anything romantic

between Gale and me. When we met, I was a skinny

twelve-year-old, and although he was only two years

older, he already looked like a man. It took a long time

for us to even become friends, to stop haggling over

every trade and begin helping each other out.

Besides, if he wants kids, Gale won’t have any trouble

finding a wife. He’s good-looking, he’s strong enough to

handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can

tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he

walks by in school that they want him. It makes me

jealous but not for the reason people would think. Good

hunting partners are hard to find.

“What do you want to do?” I ask. We can hunt, fish, or

gather.

“Let’s fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather

in the woods. Get something nice for tonight,” he says.

Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to

celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their

children have been spared for another year. But at least

two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and

try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks

to come.

We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day

when easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we

have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a

gallon of strawberries. I found the patch a few years ago,

but Gale had the idea to string mesh nets around it to

keep out the animals.

On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black

market that operates in an abandoned warehouse that

once held coal. When they came up with a more efficient

system that transported the coal directly from the mines

to the trains, the Hob gradually took over the space.

Most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day,

but the black market’s still fairly busy. We easily trade

six of the fish for good bread, the other two for salt.

Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who sells bowls of hot

soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our

hands in exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We

might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort

to keep on good terms with Greasy Sae. She’s the only

one who can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog.

We don’t hunt them on purpose, but if you’re attacked

and you take out a dog or two, well, meat is meat. “Once

it’s in the soup, I’ll call it beef,” Greasy Sae says with a

wink. No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a

good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers who come to

the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

When we finish our business at the market, we go to the

back door of the mayor’s house to sell half the

strawberries, knowing he has a particular fondness for

them and can afford our price. The mayor’s daughter,

Madge, opens the door. She’s in my year at school. Being

the mayor’s daughter, you’d expect her to be a snob, but

she’s all right. She just keeps to herself. Like me. Since

neither of us really has a group of friends, we seem to

end up together a lot at school. Eating lunch, sitting next

to each other at assemblies, partnering for sports

activities. We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.

Today her drab school outfit has been replaced by an

expensive white dress, and her blonde hair is done up

with a pink ribbon. Reaping clothes.

“Pretty dress,” says Gale.

Madge shoots him a look, trying to see if it’s a genuine

compliment or if he’s just being ironic. It is a pretty

dress, but she would never be wearing it ordinarily. She

presses her lips together and then smiles. “Well, if I end

up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don’t I?”

Now it’s Gale’s turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or

is she messing with him? I’m guessing the second.

“You won’t be going to the Capitol,” says Gale coolly. His

eyes land on a small, circular pin that adorns her dress.

Real gold. Beautifully crafted. It could keep a family in

bread for months. “What can you have? Five entries? I

had six when I was just twelve years old.”

“That’s not her fault,” I say.

“No, it’s no one’s fault. Just the way it is,” says Gale.

Madge’s face has become closed off. She puts the money

for the berries in my hand. “Good luck, Katniss.” “You,

too,” I say, and the door closes.

We walk toward the Seam in silence. I don’t like that

Gale took a dig at Madge, but he’s right, of course. The

reaping system is unfair, with the poor getting the worst

of it. You become eligible for the reaping the day you

turn twelve. That year, your name is entered once. At

thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you reach the

age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your

name goes into the pool seven times. That’s true for

every citizen in all twelve districts in the entire country of

Panem.

But here’s the catch. Say you are poor and starving as

we were. You can opt to add your name more times in

exchange for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meager

year’s supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do

this for each of your family members as well. So, at the

age of twelve, I had my name entered four times. Once,

because I had to, and three times for tesserae for grain

and oil for myself, Prim, and my mother. In fact, every

year I have needed to do this. And the entries are

cumulative. So now, at the age of sixteen, my name will

be in the reaping twenty times. Gale, who is eighteen

and has been either helping or single-handedly feeding a

family of five for seven years, will have his name in

forty-two times.

You can see why someone like Madge, who has never

been at risk of needing a tessera, can set him off. The

chance of her name being drawn is very slim compared

to those of us who live in the Seam. Not impossible, but

slim. And even though the rules were set up by the

Capitol, not the districts, certainly not Madge’s family, it’s

hard not to resent those who don’t have to sign up for

tesserae.

Gale knows his anger at Madge is misdirected. On other

days, deep in the woods, I’ve listened to him rant about

how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in

our district. A way to plant hatred between the starving

workers of the Seam and those who can generally count

on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one

another. “It’s to the Capitol’s advantage to have us

divided among ourselves,” he might say if there were no

ears to hear but mine. If it wasn’t reaping day. If a girl

with a gold pin and no tesserae had not made what I’m

sure she thought was a harmless comment.

As we walk, I glance over at Gale’s face, still smoldering

underneath his stony expression. His rages seem

pointless to me, although I never say so. It’s not that I

don’t agree with him. I do. But what good is yelling about

the Capitol in the middle of the woods? It doesn’t change

anything. It doesn’t make things fair. It doesn’t fill our

stomachs. In fact, it scares off the nearby game. I let

him yell though. Better he does it in the woods than in

the district.

Gale and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of

loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries,

salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each.

“See you in the square,” I say.

“Wear something pretty,” he says flatly.

At home, I find my mother and sister are ready to go. My

mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days.

Prim is in my first reaping outfit, a skirt and ruffled

blouse. It’s a bit big on her, but my mother has made it

stay with pins. Even so, she’s having trouble keeping the

blouse tucked in at the back.

A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and

sweat from the woods and even wash my hair. To my

surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely

dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.

“Are you sure?” I ask. I’m trying to get past rejecting

offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I

wouldn’t allow her to do anything for me. And this is

something special. Her clothes from her past are very

precious to her.

“Of course. Let’s put your hair up, too,” she says. I let

her towel-dry it and braid it up on my head. I can hardly

recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against

the wall.

“You look beautiful,” says Prim in a hushed voice.

“And nothing like myself,” I say. I hug her, because I

know these next few hours will be terrible for her. Her

first reaping. She’s about as safe as you can get, since

she’s only entered once. I wouldn’t let her take out any

tesserae. But she’s worried about me. That the

unthinkable might happen.

I protect Prim in every way I can, but I’m powerless

against the reaping. The anguish I always feel when she’s

in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on

my (ace. I notice her blouse has pulled out of her skirt in

the back again and force myself to stay calm. “Tuck your

tail in, little duck,” I say, smoothing the blouse back in

place.

Prim giggles and gives me a small “Quack.”

“Quack yourself,” I say with a light laugh. The kind only

Prim can draw out of me. “Come on, let’s eat,” I say and

plant a quick kiss on the top of her head.

The fish and greens are already cooking in a stew, but

that will be for supper. We decide to save the

strawberries and bakery bread for this evening’s meal, to

make it special we say. Instead we drink milk from Prim’s

goat, Lady, and eat the rough bread made from the

tessera grain, although no one has much appetite

anyway.

At one o’clock, we head for the square. Attendance is

mandatory unless you are on death’s door. This evening,

officials will come around and check to see if this is the

case. If not, you’ll be imprisoned.

It’s too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the

square — one of the few places in District 12 that can be

pleasant. The square’s surrounded by shops, and on

public market days, especially if there’s good weather, it

has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright

banners hanging on the buildings, there’s an air of

grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on

rooftops, only add to the effect.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good

opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population

as well. Twelve-through eighteen-year-olds are herded

into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the

front, the young ones, like Prim, toward the back. Family

members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to

one another’s hands. But there are others, too, who have

no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who

slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose

names will be drawn. Odds are given on their ages,

whether they’re Seam or merchant, if they will break

down and weep. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers

but carefully, carefully. These same people tend to be

informers, and who hasn’t broken the law? I could be

shot on a daily basis for hunting, but the appetites of

those in charge protect me. Not everyone can claim the

same.

Anyway, Gale and I agree that if we have to choose

between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the

bullet would be much quicker.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people

arrive.

The square’s quite large, but not enough to hold District

12’s population of about eight thousand. Latecomers are

directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch

the event on screens as it’s televised live by the state.

I find myself standing in a clump of sixteens from the

Seam. We all exchange terse nods then focus our

attention on the temporary stage that is set up before

the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium, and

two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the

girls. I stare at the paper slips in the girls’ ball. Twenty of

them have Katniss Everdeen written on them in careful

handwriting.

Two of the three chairs fill with Madge’s father, Mayor

Undersee, who’s a tall, balding man, and Effie Trinket,

District 12’s escort, fresh from the Capitol with her scary

white grin, pinkish hair, and spring green suit. They

murmur to each other and then look with concern at the

empty seat.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to

the podium and begins to read. It’s the same story every

year. He tells of the history of Panem, the country that

rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called

North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the

storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up

so much of the land, the brutal war for what little

sustenance remained. The result was Panem, a shining

Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace

and prosperity to its citizens. Then came the Dark Days,

the uprising of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve

were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of

Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and,

as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be

repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In

punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts

must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to

participate. The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in

a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a

burning desert to a frozen wasteland.

Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must

fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one

another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of

reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little

chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion.

Whatever words they use, the real message is clear.

“Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and

there’s nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will

destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District

Thirteen.”

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol

requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a

sporting event pitting every district against the others.

The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home,

and their district will be showered with prizes, largely

consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will show the

winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies

like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,”

intones the mayor.

Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In

seventy-four years, we have had exactly two. Only one is

still alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged

man, who at this moment appears hollering something

unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the

third chair. He’s drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its

token applause, but he’s confused and tries to give Effie

Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being

televised, right now District 12 is the laughingstock of

Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the

attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Effie Trinket trots to the

podium and gives her signature, “Happy Hunger Games!

And may the odds be ever in your favor!” Her pink hair

must be a wig because her curls have shifted slightly

off-center since her encounter with Haymitch. She goes

on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although

everyone knows she’s just aching to get bumped up to a

better district where they have proper victors, not drunks

who molest you in front of the entire nation.

Through the crowd, I spot Gale looking back at me with a

ghost of a smile. As reapings go, this one at least has a

slight entertainment factor. But suddenly I am thinking of

Gale and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and

how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot

of the boys. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing

about me because his face darkens and he turns away.

“But there are still thousands of slips,” I wish I could

whisper to him.

It’s time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always

does, “Ladies first!” and crosses to the glass ball with the

girls’ names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the

ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a

collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and

I’m feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it’s

not me, that it’s not me, that it’s not me.

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the

slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice.

And it’s not me.

It’s Primrose Everdeen.

End of Chapter

Chapter 2.

One time, when I was in a blind in a tree, waiting

motionless for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell

ten feet to the ground, landing on my back. It was as if

the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs,

and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do

anything.

That’s how I feel now, trying to remember how to

breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name

bounces around the inside of my skull. Someone is

gripping my arm, a boy from the Seam, and I think

maybe I started to fall and he caught me.

There must have been some mistake. This can’t be

happening. Prim was one slip of paper in thousands! Her

chances of being chosen so remote that I’d not even

bothered to worry about her. Hadn’t I done everything?

Taken the tesserae, refused to let her do the same? One

slip. One slip in thousands. The odds had been entirely in

her favor. But it hadn’t mattered.

Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring

unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets

chosen because no one thinks this is fair. And then I see

her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in

fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up

toward the stage, passing me, and I see the back of her

blouse has become untucked and hangs out over her

skirt. It’s this detail, the untucked blouse forming a

ducktail, that brings me back to myself.

“Prim!” The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and

my muscles begin to move again. “Prim!” I don’t need to

shove through the crowd. The other kids make way

immediately allowing me a straight path to the stage. I

reach her just as she is about to mount the steps. With

one sweep of my arm, I push her behind me.

“I volunteer!” I gasp. “I volunteer as tribute!”

There’s some confusion on the stage. District 12 hasn’t

had a volunteer in decades and the protocol has become

rusty. The rule is that once a tribute’s name has been

pulled from the ball, another eligible boy, if a boy’s name

has been read, or girl, if a girl’s name has been read, can

step forward to take his or her place. In some districts, in

which winning the reaping is such a great honor, people

are eager to risk their lives, the volunteering is

complicated. But in District 12, where the word tribute is

pretty much synonymous with the word corpse,

volunteers are all but extinct.

“Lovely!” says Effie Trinket. “But I believe there’s a small

matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking

for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um .

. .” she trails off, unsure herself.

“What does it matter?” says the mayor. He’s looking at

me with a pained expression on his face. He doesn’t

know me really, but there’s a faint recognition there. I

am the girl who brings the strawberries. The girl his

daughter might have spoken of on occasion. The girl who

five years ago stood huddled with her mother and sister,

as he presented her, the oldest child, with a medal of

valor. A medal for her father, vaporized in the mines.

Does he remember that? “What does it matter?” he

repeats gruffly. “Let her come forward.”

Prim is screaming hysterically behind me. She’s wrapped

her skinny arms around me like a vice. “No, Katniss! No!

You can’t go!”

“Prim, let go,” I say harshly, because this is upsetting me

and I don’t want to cry. When they televise the replay of

the reapings tonight, everyone will make note of my

tears, and I’ll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I

will give no one that satisfaction. “Let go!”

I can feel someone pulling her from my back. I turn and

see Gale has lifted Prim off the ground and she’s

thrashing in his arms. “Up you go, Catnip,” he says, in a

voice he’s fighting to keep steady, and then he carries

Prim off toward my mother. I steel myself and climb the

steps.

“Well, bravo!” gushes Effie Trinket. “That’s the spirit of

the Games!” She’s pleased to finally have a district with a

little action going on in it. “What’s your name?”

I swallow hard. “Katniss Everdeen,” I say.

“I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don’t want her to

steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let’s

give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!” trills

Effie Trinket.

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not

one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting

slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly

because they know me from the Hob, or knew my father,

or have encountered Prim, who no one can help loving.

So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there

unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of

dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not

agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don’t

expect it because I don’t think of District 12 as a place

that cares about me. But a shift has occurred since I

stepped up to take Prim’s place, and now it seems I have

become someone precious. At first one, then another,

then almost every member of the crowd touches the

three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and

holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of

our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means

thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to

someone you love.

Now I am truly in danger of crying, but fortunately

Haymitch chooses this time to come staggering across

the stage to congratulate me. “Look at her. Look at this

one!” he hollers, throwing an arm around my shoulders.

He’s surprisingly strong for such a wreck. “I like her!” His

breath reeks of liquor and it’s been a long time since he’s

bathed. “Lots of . . . “ He can’t think of the word for a

while. “Spunk!” he says triumphantly. “More than you!”

he releases me and starts for the front of the stage.

“More than you!” he shouts, pointing directly into a

camera.

Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk he might

actually be taunting the Capitol? I’ll never know because

just as he’s opening his mouth to continue, Haymitch

plummets off the stage and knocks himself unconscious.

He’s disgusting, but I’m grateful. With every camera

gleefully trained on him, I have just enough time to

release the small, choked sound in my throat and

compose myself. I put my hands behind my back and

stare into the distance.

I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Gale. For a

moment, I yearn for something . . . the idea of us leaving

the district . . . making our way in the woods . . . but I

know I was right about not running off. Because who else

would have volunteered for Prim?

Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher, and Effie

Trinket is trying to get the ball rolling again. “What an

exciting day!” she warbles as she attempts to straighten

her wig, which has listed severely to the right. “But more

excitement to come! It’s time to choose our boy tribute!”

Clearly hoping to contain her tenuous hair situation, she

plants one hand on her head as she crosses to the ball

that contains the boys’ names and grabs the first slip she

encounters. She zips back to the podium, and I don’t

even have time to wish for Gale’s safety when she’s

reading the name. “Peeta Mellark.”

Peeta Mellark!

Oh, no, I think. Not him. Because I recognize this name,

although I have never spoken directly to its owner. Peeta

Mellark.

No, the odds are not in my favor today. I watch him as

he makes his way toward the stage. Medium height,

stocky build, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over

his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on

his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless,

but his blue eyes show the alarm I’ve seen so often in

prey. Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his

place.

Effie Trinket asks for volunteers, but no one steps

forward. He has two older brothers, I know, I’ve seen

them in the bakery, but one is probably too old now to

volunteer and the other won’t. This is standard. Family

devotion only goes so far for most people on reaping day.

What I did was the radical thing.

The mayor begins to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason

as he does every year at this point — it’s required — but

I’m not listening to a word.

Why him? I think. Then I try to convince myself it doesn’t

matter. Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. Not even

neighbors.

We don’t speak. Our only real interaction happened years

ago. He’s probably forgotten it. But I haven’t and I know

I never will. . . .

It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in

the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest

January anyone could remember. The numbness of his

loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of

nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs.

Where are you? I would cry out in my mind. Where have

you gone? Of course, there was never any answer.

The district had given us a small amount of money as

compensation for his death, enough to cover one month

of grieving at which time my mother would be expected

to get a job.

Only she didn’t. She didn’t do anything but sit propped

up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets

on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance.

Once in a while, she’d stir, get up as if moved by some

urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness.

No amount of pleading from Prim seemed to affect her.

I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked

in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I

knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother

as well. At eleven years old, with Prim just seven, I took

over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought

our food at the market and cooked it as best I could and

tried to keep Prim and myself looking presentable.

Because if it had become known that my mother could no

longer care for us, the district would have taken us away

from her and placed us in the community home. I’d

grown up seeing those home kids at school. The sadness,

the marks of angry hands on their faces, the

hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward. I could

never let that happen to Prim. Sweet, tiny Prim who cried

when I cried before she even knew the reason, who

brushed and plaited my mother’s hair before we left for

school, who still polished my father’s shaving mirror each

night because he’d hated the layer of coal dust that

settled on everything in the Seam. The community home

would crush her like a bug. So I kept our predicament a

secret.

But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to

death. There’s no other way to put it. I kept telling

myself if I could only hold out until May, just May 8th, I

would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae

and get that precious grain and oil to feed us. Only there

were still several weeks to go. We could well be dead by

then.

Starvation’s not an uncommon fate in District 12. Who

hasn’t seen the victims? Older people who can’t work.

Children from a family with too many to feed. Those

injured in the mines. Straggling through the streets. And

one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against

a wall or lying in the Meadow, you hear the wails from a

house, and the Peacekeepers are called in to retrieve the

body. Starvation is never the cause of death officially. It’s

always the flu, or exposure, or pneumonia. But that fools

no one.

On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the

rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in

town, trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes

of Prim’s in the public market, but there were no takers.

Although I had been to the Hob on several occasions with

my father, I was too frightened to venture into that

rough, gritty place alone. The rain had soaked through

my father’s hunting jacket, leaving me chilled to the

bone. For three days, we’d had nothing but boiled water

with some old dried mint leaves I’d found in the back of a

cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking

so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud

puddle. I didn’t pick it up for fear I would keel over and

be unable to regain my feet. Besides, no one wanted

those clothes.

I couldn’t go home. Because at home was my mother

with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow

cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn’t walk into that room

with the smoky fire from the damp branches I had

scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had

run out, my bands empty of any hope.

I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the

shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The

merchants live above their businesses, so I was

essentially in their backyards. I remember the outlines of

garden beds not yet planted for the spring, a goat or two

in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a post, hunched

defeated in the muck.

All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12.

Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there

might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair

game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher’s or rotted

vegetables at the grocer’s, something no one but my

family was desperate enough to eat. Unfortunately, the

bins had just been emptied.

When I passed the baker’s, the smell of fresh bread was

so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back,

and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I

stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent

until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my

back, forcing me back to life. I lifted the lid to the baker’s

trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare.

Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up

to see the baker’s wife, telling me to move on and did I

want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was

of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her

trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense. As I

carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him,

a boy with blond hair peering out from behind his

mother’s back. I’d seen him at school. He was in my

year, but I didn’t know his name. He stuck with the town

kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the

bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me

as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and

leaned against the far side of an old apple tree. The

realization that I’d have nothing to take home had finally

sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk

to its roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak

and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers

and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better

yet, let me die right here in the rain.

There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman

screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely

wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me

through the mud and I thought, It’s her. She’s coming to

drive me away with a stick. But it wasn’t her. It was the

boy. In his arms, he carried two large loaves of bread

that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts

were scorched black.

His mother was yelling, “Feed it to the pig, you stupid

creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned

bread!”

He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and

toss them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung

and the mother disappeared to help a customer.

The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching

him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that

stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with?

My parents never hit us. I couldn’t even imagine it. The

boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that

the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig,

he threw a loaf of bread in my direction. The second

quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery,

closing the kitchen door tightly behind him.

I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect

really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me

to have them? He must have. Because there they were at

my feet. Before anyone could witness what had

happened I shoved the loaves up under my shirt,

wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me, and walked

swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned into my skin,

but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.

By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled

somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I

dropped them on the table, Prim’s hands reached to tear

off a chunk, but I made her sit, forced my mother to join

us at the table, and poured warm tea. I scraped off the

black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf,

slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins

and nuts.

I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and

fell into a dreamless sleep. It didn’t occur to me until the

next morning that the boy might have burned the bread

on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the

flames, knowing it meant being punished, and then

delivered them to me. But I dismissed this. It must have

been an accident. Why would he have done it? He didn’t

even know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an

enormous kindness that would have surely resulted in a

beating if discovered. I couldn’t explain his actions.

We ate slices of bread for breakfast and headed to

school. It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm

sweet air. Fluffy clouds. At school, I passed the boy in

the hall, his cheek had swelled up and his eye had

blackened. He was with his friends and didn’t

acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Prim and

started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at

me from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a

second, then he turned his head away. I dropped my

gaze, embarrassed, and that’s when I saw it. The first

dandelion of the year. A bell went off in my head. I

thought of the hours spent in the woods with my father

and I knew how we were going to survive.

To this day, I can never shake the connection between

this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me

hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not

doomed. And more than once, I have turned in the

school hallway and caught his eyes trained on me, only

to quickly flit away. I feel like I owe him something, and I

hate owing people. Maybe if I had thanked him at some

point, I’d be feeling less conflicted now. I thought about

it a couple of times, but the opportunity never seemed to

present itself. And now it never will. Because we’re going

to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Exactly

how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there?

Somehow it just won’t seem sincere if I’m trying to slit

his throat.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and

motions for Peeta and me to shake hands. His are as

solid and warm as those loaves of bread. Peeta looks me

right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant

to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it’s just a nervous

spasm.

We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem

plays.

Oh, well, I think. There will be twenty-four of us. Odds

are someone else will kill him before I do.

Of course, the odds have not been very dependable of

late.

End of Chapter

Chapter 3.

The moment the anthem ends, we are taken into

custody. I don’t mean we’re handcuffed or anything, but

a group of Peacekeepers marches us through the front

door of the Justice Building. Maybe tributes have tried to

escape in the past. I’ve never seen that happen though.

Once inside, I’m conducted to a room and left alone. It’s

the richest place I’ve ever been in, with thick, deep

carpets and a velvet couch and chairs. I know velvet

because my mother has a dress with a collar made of the

stuff. When I sit on the couch, I can’t help running my

fingers over the fabric repeatedly. It helps to calm me as

I try to prepare for the next hour. The time allotted for

the tributes to say goodbye to their loved ones. I cannot

afford to get upset, to leave this room with puffy eyes

and a red nose. Crying is not an option. There will be

more cameras at the train station.

My sister and my mother come first. I reach out to Prim

and she climbs on my lap, her arms around my neck,

head on my shoulder, just like she did when she was a

toddler. My mother sits beside me and wraps her arms

around us. For a few minutes, we say nothing. Then I

start telling them all the things they must remember to

do, now that I will not be there to do them for them.

Prim is not to take any tesserae. They can get by, if

they’re careful, on selling Prim’s goat milk and cheese

and the small apothecary business my mother now runs

for the people in the Seam. Gale will get her the herbs

she doesn’t grow herself, but she must be very careful to

describe them because he’s not as familiar with them as I

am. He’ll also bring them game — he and I made a pact

about this a year or so ago — and will probably not ask

for compensation, but they should thank him with some

kind of trade, like milk or medicine.

I don’t bother suggesting Prim learn to hunt. I tried to

teach her a couple of times and it was disastrous. The

woods terrified her, and whenever I shot something,

she’d get teary and talk about how we might be able to

heal it if we got it home soon enough. But she makes out

well with her goat, so I concentrate on that.

When I am done with instructions about fuel, and

trading, and staying in school, I turn to my mother and

grip her arm, hard. “Listen to me. Are you listening to

me?” She nods, alarmed by my intensity. She must know

what’s coming. “You can’t leave again,” I say.

My mother’s eyes find the floor. “I know. I won’t. I

couldn’t help what—”

“Well, you have to help it this time. You can’t clock out

and leave Prim on her own. There’s no me now to keep

you both alive. It doesn’t matter what happens.

Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise

me you’ll fight through it!” My voice has risen to a shout.

In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt at her

abandonment.

She pulls her arm from my grasp, moved to anger herself

now. “I was ill. I could have treated myself if I’d had the

medicine I have now.”

That part about her being ill might be true. I’ve seen her

bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness

since. Perhaps it is a sickness, but it’s one we can’t

afford.

“Then take it. And take care of her!” I say.

“I’ll be all right, Katniss,” says Prim, clasping my face in

her hands. “But you have to take care, too. You’re so fast

and brave. Maybe you can win.”

I can’t win. Prim must know that in her heart. The

competition will be far beyond my abilities. Kids from

wealthier districts, where winning is a huge honor,

who’ve been trained their whole lives for this. Boys who

are two to three times my size. Girls who know twenty

different ways to kill you with a knife. Oh, there’ll be

people like me, too. People to weed out before the real

fun begins.

“Maybe,” I say, because I can hardly tell my mother to

carry on if I’ve already given up myself. Besides, it isn’t

in my nature to go down without a fight, even when

things seem insurmountable. “Then we’d be rich as

Haymitch.”

“I don’t care if we’re rich. I just want you to come home.

You will try, won’t you? Really, really try?” asks Prim.

“Really, really try. I swear it,” I say. And I know, because

of Prim, I’ll have to.

And then the Peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our

time is up, and we’re all hugging one another so hard it

hurts and all I’m saying is “I love you. I love you both.”

And they’re saying it back and then the Peacekeeper

orders them out and the door closes. I bury my head in

one of the velvet pillows as if this can block the whole

thing out.

Someone else enters the room, and when I look up, I’m

surprised to see it’s the baker, Peeta Mellark’s father. I

can’t believe he’s come to visit me. After all, I’ll be trying

to kill his son soon. But we do know each other a bit, and

he knows Prim even better. When she sells her goat

cheeses at the Hob, she puts two of them aside for him

and he gives her a generous amount of bread in return.

We always wait to trade with him when his witch of a

wife isn’t around because he’s so much nicer. I feel

certain he would never have hit his son the way she did

over the burned bread. But why has he come to see me?

The baker sits awkwardly on the edge of one of the plush

chairs. He’s a big, broad-shouldered man with burn scars

from years at the ovens. He must have just said goodbye

to his son.

He pulls a white paper package from his jacket pocket

and holds it out to me. I open it and find cookies. These

are a luxury we can never afford.

“Thank you,” I say. The baker’s not a very talkative man

in the best of times, and today he has no words at all. “I

had some of your bread this morning. My friend Gale

gave you a squirrel for it.” He nods, as if remembering

the squirrel. “Not your best trade,” I say. He shrugs as if

it couldn’t possibly matter.

Then I can’t think of anything else, so we sit in silence

until a Peacemaker summons him. He rises and coughs

to clear his throat. “I’ll keep an eye on the little girl.

Make sure she’s eating.”

I feel some of the pressure in my chest lighten at his

words. People deal with me, but they are genuinely fond

of Prim. Maybe there will be enough fondness to keep her

alive.

My next guest is also unexpected. Madge walks straight

to me. She is not weepy or evasive, instead there’s an

urgency about her tone that surprises me. “They let you

wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing

to remind you of home. Will you wear this?” She holds

out the circular gold pin that was on her dress earlier. I

hadn’t paid much attention to it before, but now I see it’s

a small bird in flight.

“Your pin?” I say. Wearing a token from my district is

about the last thing on my mind.

“Here, I’ll put it on your dress, all right?” Madge doesn’t

wait for an answer, she just leans in and fixes the bird to

my dress. “Promise you’ll wear it into the arena,

Katniss?” she asks. “Promise?”

“Yes,” I say. Cookies. A pin. I’m getting all kinds of gifts

today.

Madge gives me one more. A kiss on the cheek. Then

she’s gone and I’m left thinking that maybe Madge really

has been my friend all along.

Finally, Gale is here and maybe there is nothing romantic

between us, but when he opens his arms I don’t hesitate

to go into them. His body is familiar to me — the way it

moves, the smell of wood smoke, even the sound of his

heart beating I know from quiet moments on a hunt —

but this is the first time I really feel it, lean and

hard-muscled against my own.

“Listen,” he says. “Getting a knife should be pretty easy,

but you’ve got to get your hands on a bow. That’s your

best chance.”

“They don’t always have bows,” I say, thinking of the

year there were only horrible spiked maces that the

tributes had to bludgeon one another to death with.

“Then make one,” says Gale. “Even a weak bow is better

than no bow at all.”

I have tried copying my father’s bows with poor results.

It’s not that easy. Even he had to scrap his own work

sometimes.

“I don’t even know if there’ll be wood,” I say. Another

year, they tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing

but boulders and sand and scruffy bushes. I particularly

hated that year. Many contestants were bitten by

venomous snakes or went insane from thirst.

“There’s almost always some wood,” Gale says. “Since

that year half of them died of cold. Not much

entertainment in that.”

It’s true. We spent one Hunger Games watching the

players freeze to death at night. You could hardly see

them because they were just huddled in balls and had no

wood for fires or torches or anything. It was considered

very anti-climactic in the Capitol, all those quiet,

bloodless deaths. Since then, there’s usually been wood

to make fires.

“Yes, there’s usually some,” I say.

“Katniss, it’s just hunting. You’re the best hunter I

know,” says Gale.

“It’s not just hunting. They’re armed. They think,” I say.

“So do you. And you’ve had more practice. Real

practice,” he says. “You know how to kill.”

“Not people,” I say.

“How different can it be, really?” says Gale grimly.

The awful thing is that if I can forget they’re people, it

will be no different at all.

The Peacekeepers are back too soon and Gale asks for

more time, but they’re taking him away and I start to

panic. “Don’t let them starve!” I cry out, clinging to his

hand.

“I won’t! You know I won’t! Katniss, remember I —” he

says, and they yank us apart and slam the door and I’ll

never know what it was he wanted me to remember.

It’s a short ride from the Justice Building to the train

station. I’ve never been in a car before. Rarely even

ridden in wagons. In the Seam, we travel on foot.

I’ve been right not to cry. The station is swarming with

reporters with their insectlike cameras trained directly on

my face. But I’ve had a lot of practice at wiping my face

clean of emotions and I do this now. I catch a glimpse of

myself on the television screen on the wall that’s airing

my arrival live and feel gratified that I appear almost

bored.

Peeta Mellark, on the other hand, has obviously been

crying and interestingly enough does not seem to be

trying to cover it up. I immediately wonder if this will be

his strategy in the Games. To appear weak and

frightened, to reassure the other tributes that he is no

competition at all, and then come out fighting. This

worked very well for a girl, Johanna Mason, from District

7 a few years back. She seemed like such a sniveling,

cowardly fool that no one bothered about her until there

were only a handful of contestants left. It turned out she

could kill viciously. Pretty clever, the way she played it.

But this seems an odd strategy for Peeta Mellark because

he’s a baker’s son. All those years of having enough to

eat and hauling bread trays around have made him

broad-shouldered and strong. It will take an awful lot of

weeping to convince anyone to overlook him.

We have to stand for a few minutes in the doorway of the

train while the cameras gobble up our images, then we’re

allowed inside and the doors close mercifully behind us.

The train begins to move at once.

The speed initially takes my breath away. Of course, I’ve

never been on a train, as travel between the districts is

forbidden except for officially sanctioned duties. For us,

that’s mainly transporting coal. But this is no ordinary

coal train. It’s one of the high-speed Capitol models that

average 250 miles per hour. Our journey to the Capitol

will take less than a day.

In school, they tell us the Capitol was built in a place

once called the Rockies. District 12 was in a region

known is Appalachia. Even hundreds of years ago, they

mined coal here. Which is why our miners have to dig so

deep.

Somehow it all comes back to coal at school. Besides

basic reading and math most of our instruction is

coal-related. Except for the weekly lecture on the history

of Panem. It’s mostly a lot of blather about what we owe

the Capitol. I know there must be more than they’re

telling us, an actual account of what happened during the

rebellion. But I don’t spend much time thinking about it.

Whatever the truth is, I don’t see how it will help me get

food on the table.

The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the

Justice Building. We are each given our own chambers

that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private

bathroom with hot and cold running water. We don’t

have hot water at home, unless we boil it.

There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Effie

Trinket tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I

want, everything is at my disposal. Just be ready for

supper in an hour. I peel off my mother’s blue dress and

take a hot shower. I’ve never had a shower before. It’s

like being in a summer rain, only warmer. I dress in a

dark green shirt and pants.

At the last minute, I remember Madge’s little gold pin.

For the first time, I get a good look at it. It’s as if

someone fashioned a small golden bird and then attached

a ring around it. The bird is connected to the ring only by

its wing tips. I suddenly recognize it. A mockingjay.

They’re funny birds and something of a slap in the face to

the Capitol. During the rebellion, the Capitol bred a series

of genetically altered animals as weapons. The common

term for them was muttations, or sometimes mutts for

short. One was a special bird called a jabberjay that had

the ability to memorize and repeat whole human

conversations. They were homing birds, exclusively male,

that were released into regions where the Capitol’s

enemies were known to be hiding. After the birds

gathered words, they’d fly back to centers to be

recorded. It took people awhile to realize what was going

on in the districts, how private conversations were being

transmitted. Then, of course, the rebels fed the Capitol

endless lies, and the joke was on it. So the centers were

shut down and the birds were abandoned to die off in the

wild.

Only they didn’t die off. Instead, the jabberjays mated

with female mockingbirds creating a whole new species

that could replicate both bird whistles and human

melodies. They had lost the ability to enunciate words

but could still mimic a range of human vocal sounds,

from a child’s high-pitched warble to a man’s deep tones.

And they could re-create songs. Not just a few notes, but

whole songs with multiple verses, if you had the patience

to sing them and if they liked your voice.

My father was particularly fond of mockingjays. When we

went hunting, he would whistle or sing complicated songs

to them and, after a polite pause, they’d always sing

back. Not everyone is treated with such respect. But

whenever my father sang, all the birds in the area would

fall silent and listen. His voice was that beautiful, high

and clear and so filled with life it made you want to laugh

and cry at the same time. I could never bring myself to

continue the practice after he was gone. Still, there’s

something comforting about the little bird. It’s like having

a piece of my father with me, protecting me. I fasten the

pin onto my shirt, and with the dark green fabric as a

background, I can almost imagine the mockingjay flying

through the trees.

Effie Trinket comes to collect me for supper. I follow her

through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room

with polished paneled walls. There’s a table where all the

dishes are highly breakable. Peeta Mellark sits waiting for

us, the chair next to him empty.

“Where’s Haymitch?” asks Effie Trinket brightly.

“Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a

nap,” says Peeta.

“Well, it’s been an exhausting day,” says Effie Trinket. I

think she’s relieved by Haymitch’s absence, and who can

blame her?

The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green

salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and

fruit, a chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Effie

Trinket keeps reminding us to save space because there’s

more to come. But I’m stuffing myself because I’ve never

had food like this, so good and so much, and because

probably the best thing I can do between now and the

Games is put on a few pounds.

“At least, you two have decent manners,” says Effie as

we’re finishing the main course. “The pair last year ate

everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It

completely upset my digestion.”

The pair last year were two kids from the Seam who’d

never, not one day of their lives, had enough to eat. And

when they did have food, table manners were surely the

last thing on their minds. Peeta’s a baker’s son. My

mother taught Prim and I to eat properly, so yes, I can

handle a fork and knife. But I hate Effie Trinket’s

comment so much I make a point of eating the rest of

my meal with my fingers. Then I wipe my hands on the

tablecloth. This makes her purse her lips tightly together.

Now that the meal’s over, I’m fighting to keep the food

down. I can see Peeta’s looking a little green, too.

Neither of our stomachs is used to such rich fare. But if I

can hold down Greasy Sae’s concoction of mice meat, pig

entrails, and tree bark — a winter specialty — I’m

determined to hang on to this.

We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the

reapings across Panem. They try to stagger them

throughout the day so a person could conceivably watch

the whole thing live, but only people in the Capitol could

really do that, since none of them have to attend

reapings themselves.

One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called,

(the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not. We

examine the faces of the kids who will be our

competition. A few stand out in my mind. A monstrous

boy who lunges forward to volunteer from District 2. A

fox-faced girl with sleek red hair from District 5. A boy

with a crippled foot from District 10. And most

hauntingly, a twelve-year-old girl from District 11. She

has dark brown skin and eyes, but other than that, she’s

very like Prim in size and demeanor. Only when she

mounts the stage and they ask for volunteers, all you can

hear is the wind whistling through the decrepit buildings

around her. There’s no one willing to take her place. Last

of all, they show District 12. Prim being called, me

running forward to volunteer. You can’t miss the

desperation in my voice as I shove Prim behind me, as if

I’m afraid no one will hear and they’ll take Prim away.

But, of course, they do hear. I see Gale pulling her off

me and watch myself mount the stage. The

commentators are not sure what to say about the

crowd’s refusal to applaud. The silent salute. One says

that District 12 has always been a bit backward but that

local customs can be charming. As if on cue, Haymitch

falls off the stage, and they groan comically. Peeta’s

name is drawn, and he quietly takes his place. We shake

hands. They cut to the anthem again, and the pro-gram

ends.

Effie Trinket is disgruntled about the state her wig was

in. “Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A

lot about televised behavior.”

Peeta unexpectedly laughs. “He was drunk,” says Peeta.

“He’s drunk every year.”

“Every day,” I add. I can’t help smirking a little. Effie

Trinket makes it sound like Haymitch just has somewhat

rough manners that could be corrected with a few tips

from her.

“Yes,” hisses Effie Trinket. “How odd you two find it

amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the

world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up

your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts.

Haymitch can well be the difference between your life

and your death!”

Just then, Haymitch staggers into the compartment. “I

miss supper?” he says in a slurred voice. Then he vomits

all over the expensive carpet and falls in the mess.

“So laugh away!” says Effie Trinket. She hops in her

pointy shoes around the pool of vomit and flees the

room.

End of Chapter

Chapter 4.

For a few moments, Peeta and I take in the scene of our

mentor trying to rise out of the slippery vile stuff from his

stomach. The reek of vomit and raw spirits almost brings

my dinner up. We exchange a glance. Obviously

Haymitch isn’t much, but Effie Trinket is right about one

thing, once we’re in the arena he’s all we’ve got. As if by

some unspoken agreement, Peeta and I each take one of

Haymitch’s arms and help him to his feet.

“I tripped?” Haymitch asks. “Smells bad.” He wipes his

hand on his nose, smearing his face with vomit.

“Let’s get you back to your room,” says Peeta. “Clean

you up a bit.”

We half-lead half-carry Haymitch back to his

compartment. Since we can’t exactly set him down on

the embroidered bedspread, we haul him into the

bathtub and turn the shower on him. He hardly notices.

“It’s okay,” Peeta says to me. “I’ll take it from here.”

I can’t help feeling a little grateful since the last thing I

want to do is strip down Haymitch, wash the vomit out of

his chest hair, and tuck him into bed. Possibly Peeta is

trying to make a good impression on him, to be his

favorite once the Games begin. But judging by the state

he’s in, Haymitch will have no memory of this tomorrow.

“All right,” I say. “I can send one of the Capitol people to

help you.” There’s any number on the train. Cooking lor

us. Waiting on us. Guarding us. Taking care of us is their

job.

“No. I don’t want them,” says Peeta.

I nod and head to my own room. I understand how Peeta

feels. I can’t stand the sight of the Capitol people myself.

But making them deal with Haymitch might be a small

form of revenge. So I’m pondering the reason why he

insists on taking care of Haymitch and all of a sudden I

think, It’s because he’s being kind. Just as he was kind to

give me the bread.

The idea pulls me up short. A kind Peeta Mellark is far

more dangerous to me than an unkind one. Kind people

have a way of working their way inside me and rooting

there. And I can’t let Peeta do this. Not where we’re

going. So I decide, from this moment on, to have as little

as possible to do with the baker’s son.

When I get back to my room, the train is pausing at a

platform to refuel. I quickly open the window, toss the

cookies Peeta’s father gave me out of the train, and slam

the glass shut. No more. No more of either of them.

Unfortunately, the packet of cookies hits the ground and

bursts open in a patch of dandelions by the track. I only

see the image for a moment, because the train is off

again, but it’s enough. Enough to remind me of that

other dandelion in the school yard years ago . . .

I had just turned away from Peeta Mellark’s bruised face

when I saw the dandelion and I knew hope wasn’t lost. I

plucked it carefully and hurried home. I grabbed a bucket

and Prim’s hand and headed to the Meadow and yes, it

was dotted with the golden-headed weeds. After we’d

harvested those, we scrounged along inside the fence for

probably a mile until we’d filled the bucket with the

dandelion greens, stems, and flowers. That night, we

gorged ourselves on dandelion salad and the rest of the

bakery bread.

“What else?” Prim asked me. “What other food can we

find?”

“All kinds of things,” I promised her. “I just have to

remember them.”

My mother had a book she’d brought with her from the

apothecary shop. The pages were made of old parchment

and covered in ink drawings of plants. Neat handwritten

blocks told their names, where to gather them, when

they came in bloom, their medical uses. But my father

added other entries to the book. Plants for eating, not

healing. Dandelions, pokeweed, wild onions, pines. Prim

and I spent the rest of the night poring over those pages.

The next day, we were off school. For a while I hung

around the edges of the Meadow, but finally I worked up

the courage to go under the fence. It was the first time

I’d been there alone, without my father’s weapons to

protect me. But I retrieved the small bow and arrows

he’d made me from a hollow tree. I probably didn’t go

more than twenty yards into the woods that day. Most of

the time, I perched up in the branches of an old oak,

hoping for game to come by. After several hours, I had

the good luck to kill a rabbit.

I’d shot a few rabbits before, with my father’s guidance.

But this I’d done on my own.

We hadn’t had meat in months. The sight of the rabbit

seemed to stir something in my mother. She roused

herself, skinned the carcass, and made a stew with the

meat and some more greens Prim had gathered. Then

she acted confused and went back to bed, but when the

stew was done, we made her eat a bowl.

The woods became our savior, and each day I went a bit

farther into its arms. It was slow-going at first, but I was

determined to feed us. I stole eggs from nests, caught

fish in nets, sometimes managed to shoot a squirrel or

rabbit for stew, and gathered the various plants that

sprung up beneath my feet. Plants are tricky. Many are

edible, but one false mouthful and you’re dead. I checked

and double-checked the plants I harvested with my

father’s pictures. I kept us alive.

Any sign of danger, a distant howl, the inexplicable break

of a branch, sent me flying back to the fence at first.

Then I began to risk climbing trees to escape the wild

dogs that quickly got bored and moved on. Bears and

cats lived deeper in, perhaps disliking the sooty reek of

our district.

On May 8th, I went to the Justice Building, signed up for

my tesserae, and pulled home my first batch of grain and

oil in Prim’s toy wagon. On the eighth of every month, I

was entitled to do the same. I couldn’t stop hunting and

gathering, of course. The grain was not enough to live

on, and there were other things to buy, soap and milk

and thread. What we didn’t absolutely have to eat, I

began to trade at the Hob. It was frightening to enter

that place without my father at my side, but people had

respected him, and they accepted me. Game was game

after all, no matter who’d shot it. I also sold at the back

doors of the wealthier clients in town, trying to

remember what my father had told me and learning a

few new tricks as well. The butcher would buy my rabbits

but not squirrels. The baker enjoyed squirrel but would

only trade for one if his wife wasn’t around. The Head

Peacekeeper loved wild turkey. The mayor had a passion

for strawberries.

In late summer, I was washing up in a pond when I

noticed the plants growing around me. Tall with leaves

like arrowheads. Blossoms with three white petals. I

knelt down in the water, my fingers digging into the soft

mud, and I pulled up handfuls of the roots. Small, bluish

tubers that don’t look like much but boiled or baked are

as good as any potato. “Katniss,” I said aloud. It’s the

plant I was named for. And I heard my father’s voice

joking, “As long as you can find yourself, you’ll never

starve.” I spent hours stirring up the pond bed with my

toes and a stick, gathering the tubers that floated to the

top. That night, we feasted on fish and katniss roots until

we were all, for the first time in months, full.

Slowly, my mother returned to us. She began to clean

and cook and preserve some of the food I brought in for

winter. People traded us or paid money for her medical

remedies. One day, I heard her singing.

Prim was thrilled to have her back, but I kept watching,

waiting for her to disappear on us again. I didn’t trust

her. And some small gnarled place inside me hated her

for her weakness, for her neglect, for the months she had

put us through. Prim forgave her, but I had taken a step

back from my mother, put up a wall to protect myself

from needing her, and nothing was ever the same

between us again.

Now I was going to die without that ever being set right.

I thought of how I had yelled at her today in the Justice

Building. I had told her I loved her, too, though. So

maybe it would all balance out.

For a while I stand staring out the train window, wishing

I could open it again, but unsure of what would happen

at such high speed. In the distance, I see the lights of

another district. 7? 10? I don’t know. I think about the

people in their houses, settling in for bed. I imagine my

home, with its shutters drawn tight. What are they doing

now, my mother and Prim? Were they able to eat

supper? The fish stew and the strawberries? Or did it lay

untouched on their plates? Did they watch the recap of

the day’s events on the battered old TV that sits on the

table against the wall? Surely, there were more tears. Is

my mother holding up, being strong for Prim? Or has she

already started to slip away, leaving the weight of the

world on my sister’s fragile shoulders?

Prim will undoubtedly sleep with my mother tonight. The

thought of that scruffy old Buttercup posting himself on

the bed to watch over Prim comforts me. If she cries, he

will nose his way into her arms and curl up there until

she calms down and falls asleep. I’m so glad I didn’t

drown him.

Imagining my home makes me ache with loneliness. This

day has been endless. Could Gale and I have been eating

blackberries only this morning? It seems like a lifetime

ago. Like a long dream that deteriorated into a

nightmare. Maybe, if I go to sleep, I will wake up back in

District 12, where I belong.

Probably the drawers hold any number of nightgowns,

but I just strip off my shirt and pants and climb into bed

in my underwear. The sheets are made of soft, silky

fabric. A thick fluffy comforter gives immediate warmth.

If I’m going to cry, now is the time to do it. By morning,

I’ll be able to wash the damage done by the tears from

my face. But no tears come. I’m too tired or too numb to

cry. The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere

else. So I let the train rock me into oblivion.

Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the

rapping rouses me. I hear Effie Trinket’s voice, calling me

to rise. “Up, up, up! It’s going to be a big, big, big day!” I

try and imagine, for a moment, what it must be like

inside that woman’s head. What thoughts fill her waking

hours? What dreams come to her at night? I have no

idea.

I put the green outfit back on since it’s not really dirty,

just slightly crumpled from spending the night on the

floor. My fingers trace the circle around the little gold

mockingjay and I think of the woods, and of my father,

and of my mother and Prim waking up, having to get on

with things.

I slept in the elaborate braided hair my mother did for

the reaping and it doesn’t look too bad, so I just leave it

up. It doesn’t matter. We can’t be far from the Capitol

now. And once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate

my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I

just hope I get one who doesn’t think nudity is the last

word in fashion.

As I enter the dining car, Effie Trinket brushes by me

with a cup of black coffee. She’s muttering obscenities

under her breath. Haymitch, his face puffy and red from

the previous day’s indulgences, is chuckling. Peeta holds

a roll and looks somewhat embarrassed.

“Sit down! Sit down!” says Haymitch, waving me over.

The moment I slide into my chair I’m served an

enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried

potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled.

The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my

family going for a week. There’s an elegant glass of

orange juice. At least, I think it’s orange juice. I’ve only

even tasted an orange once, at New Year’s when my

father bought one as a special treat. A cup of coffee. My

mother adores coffee, which we could almost never

afford, but it only tastes bitter and thin to me. A rich

brown cup of something I’ve never seen.

“They call it hot chocolate,” says Peeta. “It’s good.”

I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a

shudder runs through me. Even though the rest of the

meal beckons, I ignore it until I’ve drained my cup. Then

I stuff down every mouthful I can hold, which is a

substantial amount, being careful to not overdo it on the

richest stuff. One time, my mother told me that I always

eat like I’ll never see food again. And I said, “I won’t

unless I bring it home.” That shut her up.

When my stomach feels like it’s about to split open, I

lean back and take in my breakfast companions. Peeta is

still eating, breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in

hot chocolate. Haymitch hasn’t paid much attention to his

platter, but he’s knocking back a glass of red juice that

he keeps thinning with a clear liquid from a bottle.

Judging by the fumes, it’s some kind of spirit. I don’t

know Haymitch, but I’ve seen him often enough in the

Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter of the

woman who sells white liquor. He’ll be incoherent by the

time we reach the Capitol.

I realize I detest Haymitch. No wonder the District 12

tributes never stand a chance. It isn’t just that we’ve

been underfed and lack training. Some of our tributes

have still been strong enough to make a go of it. But we

rarely get sponsors and he’s a big part of the reason

why. The rich people who back tributes — either because

they’re betting on them or simply for the bragging rights

of picking a winner — expect someone classier than

Haymitch to deal with.

“So, you’re supposed to give us advice,” I say to

Haymitch.

“Here’s some advice. Stay alive,” says Haymitch, and

then bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Peeta

before I remember I’m having nothing more to do with

him. I’m surprised to see the hardness in his eyes. He

generally seems so mild.

“That’s very funny,” says Peeta. Suddenly he lashes out

at the glass in Haymitch’s hand. It shatters on the floor,

sending the bloodred liquid running toward the back of

the train. “Only not to us.”

Haymitch considers this a moment, then punches Peeta

in the jaw, knocking him from his chair. When he turns

back to reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the

table between his hand and the bottle, barely missing his

fingers. I brace myself to deflect his hit, but it doesn’t

come. Instead he sits back and squints at us.

“Well, what’s this?” says Haymitch. “Did I actually get a

pair of fighters this year?”

Peeta rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice

from under the fruit tureen. He starts to raise it to the

red mark on his jaw.

“No,” says Haymitch, stopping him. “Let the bruise show.

The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another

tribute before you’ve even made it to the arena.”

“That’s against the rules,” says Peeta.

“Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought,

you weren’t caught, even better,” says Haymitch. He

turns to me. “Can you hit anything with that knife

besides a table?”

The bow and arrow is my weapon. But I’ve spent a fair

amount of time throwing knives as well. Sometimes, if

I’ve wounded an animal with an arrow, it’s better to get a

knife into it, too, before I approach it. I realize that if I

want Haymitch’s attention, this is my moment to make

an impression. I yank the knife out of the table, get a

grip on the blade, and then throw it into the wall across

the room. I was actually just hoping to get a good solid

stick, but it lodges in the seam between two panels,

making me look a lot better than I am.

“Stand over here. Both of you,” says Haymitch, nodding

to the middle of the room. We obey and he circles us,

prodding us like animals at times, checking our muscles,

examining our faces. “Well, you’re not entirely hopeless.

Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you’ll be

attractive enough.”

Peeta and I don’t question this. The Hunger Games aren’t

a beauty contest, but the best-looking tributes always

seem to pull more sponsors.

“All right, I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t interfere

with my drinking, and I’ll stay sober enough to help you,”

says Haymitch. “But you have to do exactly what I say.”

It’s not much of a deal but still a giant step forward from

ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all.

“Fine,” says Peeta.

“So help us,” I say. “When we get to the arena, what’s

the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone —”

“One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we’ll be pulling

into the station. You’ll be put in the hands of your

stylists. You’re not going to like what they do to you. But

no matter what it is, don’t resist,” says Haymitch.

“But —” I begin.

“No buts. Don’t resist,” says Haymitch. He takes the

bottle of spirits from the table and leaves the car. As the

door swings shut behind him, the car goes dark. There

are still a few lights inside, but outside it’s as if night has

fallen again. I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs

up through the mountains into the Capitol. The

mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and

the eastern districts. It is almost impossible to enter from

the east except through the tunnels. This geographical

advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the

war that led to my being a tribute today. Since the rebels

had to scale the mountains, they were easy targets for

the Capitol’s air forces.

Peeta Mellark and I stand in silence as the train speeds

along. The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons

of rock separating me from the sky, and my chest

tightens. I hate being encased in stone this way. It

reminds me of the mines and my father, trapped, unable

to reach sunlight, buried forever in the darkness.

The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light

floods the compartment. We can’t help it. Both Peeta and

I run to the window to see what we’ve only seen on

television, the Capitol, the ruling city of Panem. The

cameras haven’t lied about its grandeur. If anything,

they have not quite captured the magnificence of the

glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into

the air, the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved

streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and

painted faces who have never missed a meal. All the

colors seem artificial, the pinks too deep, the greens too

bright, the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round

disks of hard candy we can never afford to buy at the

tiny sweet shop in District 12.

The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize

a tribute train rolling into the city. I step away from the

window, sickened by their excitement, knowing they

can’t wait to watch us die. But Peeta holds his ground,

actually waving and smiling at the gawking crowd. He

only stops when the train pulls into the station, blocking

us from their view.

He sees me staring at him and shrugs. “Who knows?” he

says. “One of them may be rich.”

I have misjudged him. I think of his actions since the

reaping began. The friendly squeeze of my hand. His

father showing up with the cookies and promising to feed

Prim . . . did Peeta put him up to that? His tears at the

station. Volunteering to wash Haymitch but then

challenging him this morning when apparently the

nice-guy approach had failed. And now the waving at the

window, already trying to win the crowd.

All of the pieces are still fitting together, but I sense he

has a plan forming. He hasn’t accepted his death. He is

already fighting hard to stay alive. Which also means that

kind Peeta Mellark, the boy who gave me the bread, is

fighting hard to kill me.

End of Chapter

Chapter 5.

R-i-i-i-p! I grit my teeth as Venia, a woman with aqua

hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip

of Fabric from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it.

“Sorry!” she pipes in her silly Capitol accent. “You’re just

so hairy!”

Why do these people speak in such a high pitch? Why do

their jaws barely open when they talk? Why do the ends

of their sentences go up as if they’re asking a question?

Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the

letter s... no wonder it’s impossible not to mimic them.

Venia makes what’s supposed to be a sympathetic face.

“Good news, though. This is the last one. Ready?” I get a

grip on the edges of the table I’m seated on and nod. The

final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk.

I’ve been in the Remake Center for more than three

hours and I still haven’t met my stylist. Apparently he

has no interest in seeing me until Venia and the other

members of my prep team have addressed some obvious

problems. This has included scrubbing down my body

with a gritty loam that has removed not only dirt but at

least three layers of skin, turning my nails into uniform

shapes, and primarily, ridding my body of hair. My legs,

arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have

been stripped of the Muff, leaving me like a plucked bird,

ready for roasting. I don’t like it. My skin feels sore and

tingling and intensely vulnerable. But I have kept my

side of the bargain with Haymitch, and no objection has

crossed my lips.

“You’re doing very well,” says some guy named Flavius.

He gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies

a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. “If there’s

one thing we can’t stand, it’s a whiner. Grease her

down!”

Venia and Octavia, a plump woman whose entire body

has been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down

with a lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw

skin. Then they pull me from the table, removing the thin

robe I’ve been allowed to wear off and on. I stand there,

completely naked, as the three circle me, wielding

tweezers to remove any last bits of hair. I know I should

be embarrassed, but they’re so unlike people that I’m no

more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly colored birds

were pecking around my feet.

The three step back and admire their work. “Excellent!

You almost look like a human being now!” says Flavius,

and they all laugh.

I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am.

“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “We don’t have much cause

to look nice in District Twelve.”

This wins them over completely. “Of course, you don’t,

you poor darling!” says Octavia clasping her hands

together in distress for me.

“But don’t worry,” says Venia. “By the time Cinna is

through with you, you’re going to be absolutely

gorgeous!”

“We promise! You know, now that we’ve gotten rid of all

the hair and filth, you’re not horrible at all!” says Flavius

encouragingly.

“Let’s call Cinna!”

They dart out of the room. It’s hard to hate my prep

team. They’re such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I

know they’re sincerely trying to help me.

I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the

impulse to retrieve my robe. But this Cinna, my stylist,

will surely make me remove it at once. Instead my hands

go to my hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team

had been told to leave alone. My fingers stroke the silky

braids my mother so carefully arranged. My mother. I left

her blue dress and shoes on the floor of my train car,

never thinking about retrieving them, of trying to hold on

to a piece of her, of home. Now I wish I had.

The door opens and a young man who must be Cinna

enters. I’m taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of

the stylists they interview on television are so dyed,

stenciled, and surgically altered they’re grotesque. But

Cinna’s close-cropped hair appears to be its natural

shade of brown. He’s in a simple black shirt and pants.

The only concession to self-alteration seems to be

metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light

hand. It brings out the flecks of gold in his green eyes.

And, despite my disgust with the Capitol and their

hideous fashions, I can’t help thinking how attractive it

looks.

“Hello, Katniss. I’m Cinna, your stylist,” he says in a

quiet voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol’s

affectations.

“Hello,” I venture cautiously.

“Just give me a moment, all right?” he asks. He walks

around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in

every inch of it with his eyes. I resist the impulse to cross

my arms over my chest. “Who did your hair?”

“My mother,” I say.

“It’s beautiful. Classic really. And in almost perfect

balance with your profile. She has very clever fingers,”

he says.

I had expected someone flamboyant, someone older

trying desperately to look young, someone who viewed

me as a piece of meat to be prepared for a platter. Cinna

has met none of these expectations.

“You’re new, aren’t you? I don’t think I’ve seen you

before,” I say. Most of the stylists are familiar, constants

in the ever-changing pool of tributes. Some have been

around my whole life.

“Yes, this is my first year in the Games,” says Cinna.

“So they gave you District Twelve,” I say. Newcomers

generally end up with us, the least desirable district.

“I asked for District Twelve,” he says without further

explanation. “Why don’t you put on your robe and we’ll

have a chat.”

Pulling on my robe, I follow him through a door into a

sitting room. Two red couches face off over a low table.

Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass,

providing a window to the city. I can see by the light that

it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has

turned overcast. Cinna invites me to sit on one of the

couches and takes his place across from me. He presses

a button on the side of the table. The top splits and from

below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch.

Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce

laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and

onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a

pudding the color of honey.

I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home.

Chickens are too expensive, but I could make do with a

wild turkey. I’d need to shoot a second turkey to trade

for an orange. Goat’s milk would have to substitute for

cream. We can grow peas in the garden. I’d have to get

wild onions from the woods. I don’t recognize the grain,

our own tessera ration cooks down to an unattractive

brown mush. Fancy rolls would mean another trade with

the baker, perhaps for two or three squirrels. As for the

pudding, I can’t even guess what’s in it. Days of hunting

and gathering for this one meal and even then it would

be a poor substitution for the Capitol version.

What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where

food appears at the press of a button? How would I

spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for

sustenance if it were so easy to come by? What do they

do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating

their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of

tributes to roll in and die for their entertainment?

I look up and find Cinna’s eyes trained on mine. “How

despicable we must seem to you,” he says.

Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my

thoughts? He’s right, though. The whole rotten lot of

them is despicable.

“No matter,” says Cinna. “So, Katniss, about your

costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Portia,

is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Peeta. And our

current thought is to dress you in complementary

costumes,” says Cinna. “As you know, it’s customary to

reflect the flavor of the district.”

For the opening ceremonies, you’re supposed to wear

something that suggests your district’s principal industry.

District 11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3,

factories. This means that coming from District 12, Peeta

and I will be in some kind of coal miner’s getup. Since

the baggy miner’s jumpsuits are not particularly

becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits

and hats with headlamps. One year, our tributes were

stark naked and covered in black powder to represent

coal dust. It’s always dreadful and does nothing to win

favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst.

“So, I’ll be in a coal miner outfit?” I ask, hoping it won’t

be indecent.

“Not exactly. You see, Portia and I think that coal miner

thing’s very overdone. No one will remember you in that.

And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve

tributes unforgettable,” says Cinna.

I’ll be naked for sure, I think.

“So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we’re

going to focus on the coal,” says Cinna. Naked and

covered in black dust, I think. “And what do we do with

coal? We burn it,” says Cinna.

“You’re not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?” He sees my

expression and grins.

A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the

most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening

ceremonies. I’m in a simple black unitard that covers me

from ankle to neck. Shiny leather boots lace up to my

knees. But it’s the fluttering cape made of streams of

orange, yellow, and red and the matching headpiece that

define this costume. Cinna plans to light them on fire just

before our chariot rolls into the streets.

“It’s not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire

Portia and I came up with. You’ll be perfectly safe,” he

says. But I’m not convinced I won’t be perfectly

barbecued by the time we reach the city’s center.

My face is relatively clear of makeup, just a bit of

highlighting here and there. My hair has been brushed

out and then braided down my back in my usual style. “I

want the audience to recognize you when you’re in the

arena,” says Cinna dreamily. “Katniss, the girl who was

on fire.”

It crosses my mind that Cinna’s calm and normal

demeanor masks a complete madman.

Despite this morning’s revelation about Peeta’s character,

I’m actually relieved when he shows up, dressed in an

identical costume. He should know about fire, being a

baker’s son and all. His stylist, Portia, and her team

accompany him in, and everyone is absolutely giddy with

excitement over what a splash we’ll make. Except Cinna.

He just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations.

We’re whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake

Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable. The opening

ceremonies are about to start. Pairs of tributes are being

loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses. Ours

are coal black. The animals are so well trained, no one

even needs to guide their reins. Cinna and Portia direct

us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body

positions, the drape of our capes, before moving off to

consult with each other.

“What do you think?” I whisper to Peeta. “About the

fire?”

“I’ll rip off your cape if you’ll rip off mine,” he says

through gritted teeth.

“Deal,” I say. Maybe, if we can get them off soon

enough, we’ll avoid the worst burns. It’s bad though.

They’ll throw us into the arena no matter what condition

we’re in. “I know we promised Haymitch we’d do exactly

what they said, but I don’t think he considered this

angle.”

“Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn’t he supposed to

protect us from this sort of thing?” says Peeta.

“With all that alcohol in him, it’s probably not advisable

to have him around an open flame,” I say.

And suddenly we’re both laughing. I guess we’re both so

nervous about the Games and more pressingly, petrified

of being turned into human torches, we’re not acting

sensibly.

The opening music begins. It’s easy to hear, blasted

around the Capitol. Massive doors slide open revealing

the crowd-lined streets. The ride lasts about twenty

minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will

welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the

Training Center, which will be our home/prison until the

Games begin.

The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by

snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted

silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels. District 1

makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar

of the crowd. They are always favorites.

District 2 gets into position to follow them. In no time at

all, we are approaching the door and I can see that

between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is

turning gray. The tributes from District 11 are just rolling

out when Cinna appears with a lighted torch. “Here we go

then,” he says, and before we can react he sets our

capes on fire. I gasp, waiting for the heat, but there is

only a faint tickling sensation. Cinna climbs up before us

and ignites our headdresses. He lets out a sign of relief.

“It works.” Then he gently tucks a hand under my chin.

“Remember, heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love

you!”

Cinna jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He

shouts something up at us, but the music drowns him

out. He shouts again and gestures.

“What’s he saying?” I ask Peeta. For the first time, I look

at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is

dazzling. And I must be, too.

“I think he said for us to hold hands,” says Peeta. He

grabs my right hand in his left, and we look to Cinna for

confirmation. He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that’s

the last thing I see before we enter the city.

The crowd’s initial alarm at our appearance quickly

changes to cheers and shouts of “District Twelve!” Every

head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three

chariots ahead of us. At first, I’m frozen, but then I catch

sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by

how breathtaking we look. In the deepening twilight, the

firelight illuminates our faces. We seem to be leaving a

trail of fire off the flowing capes. Cinna was right about

the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but

utterly recognizable.

Remember, heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love

you! I hear Cinna’s voice in my head. I lift my chin a bit

higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my

free hand. I’m glad now I have Peeta to clutch for

balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock. As I gain

confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd. The

people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with

flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they

have bothered to find on the program.

The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work

their way into my blood, and I can’t suppress my

excitement. Cinna has given me a great advantage. No

one will forget me. Not my look, not my name. Katniss.

The girl who was on fire.

For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me.

Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on!

And with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon,

why should I count myself out of the Games?

Someone throws me a red rose. I catch it, give it a

delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general

direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch

my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing.

“Katniss! Katniss!” I can hear my name being called from

all sides. Everyone wants my kisses.

It’s not until we enter the City Circle that I realize I must

have completely stopped the circulation in Peeta’s hand.

That’s how tightly I’ve been holding it. I look down at our

linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his

grip on me. “No, don’t let go of me,” he says. The

firelight flickers off his blue eyes. “Please. I might fall out

of this thing.”

“Okay,” I say. So I keep holding on, but I can’t help

feeling strange about the way Cinna has linked us

together. It’s not really fair to present us as a team and

then lock us into the arena to kill each other.

The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle. On the

buildings that surround the Circle, every window is

packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol.

Our horses pull our chariot right up to President Snow’s

mansion, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a

flourish.

The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair,

gives the official welcome from a balcony above us. It is

traditional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during

the speech. But I can see on the screen that we are

getting way more than our share of airtime. The darker it

becomes, the more difficult it is to take your eyes off our

flickering. When the national anthem plays, they do

make an effort to do a quick cut around to each pair of

tributes, but the camera holds on the District 12 chariot

as it parades around the circle one final time and

disappears into the Training Center.

The doors have only just shut behind us when we’re

engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible

as they babble out praise. As I glance around, I notice a

lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which

confirms what I’ve suspected, we’ve literally outshone

them all. Then Cinna and Portia are there, helping us

down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming

capes and headdresses. Portia extinguishes them with

some kind of spray from a canister.

I realize I’m still glued to Peeta and force my stiff fingers

to open. We both massage our hands.

“Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little

shaky there,” says Peeta.

“It didn’t show,” I tell him. “I’m sure no one noticed.”

“I’m sure they didn’t notice anything but you. You should

wear flames more often,” he says. “They suit you.” And

then he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet

with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected

warmth rushes through me.

A warning bell goes off in my head. Don’t be so stupid.

Peeta is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is

luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he

is, the more deadly he is.

But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe

and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.

End of Chapter

Chapter 6.

The Training Center has a tower designed exclusively for

the tributes and their teams. This will be our home until

the actual Games begin. Each district has an entire floor.

You simply step onto an elevator and press the number

of your district. Easy enough to remember.

I’ve ridden the elevator a couple of times in the Justice

Building back in District 12. Once to receive the medal for

my father’s death and then yesterday to say my final

goodbyes to my friends and family. But that’s a dark and

creaky thing that moves like a snail and smells of sour

milk. The walls of this elevator are made of crystal so

that you can watch the people on the ground floor shrink

to ants as you shoot up into the air. It’s exhilarating and

I’m tempted to ask Effie Trinket if we can ride it again,

but somehow that seems childish.

Apparently, Effie Trinket’s duties did not conclude at the

station. She and Haymitch will be overseeing us right into

the arena. In a way, that’s a plus because at least she

can be counted on to corral us around to places on time

whereas we haven’t seen Haymitch since he agreed to

help us on the train. Probably passed out somewhere.

Effie Trinket, on the other hand, seems to be flying high.

We’re the first team she’s ever chaperoned that made a

splash at the opening ceremonies.

She’s complimentary about not just our costumes but

how we conducted ourselves. And, to hear her tell it,

Effie knows everyone who’s anyone in the Capitol and

has been talking us up all day, trying to win us sponsors.

“I’ve been very mysterious, though,” she says, her eyes

squint half shut. “Because, of course, Haymitch hasn’t

bothered to tell me your strategies. But I’ve done my

best with what I had to work with. How Katniss sacrificed

herself for her sister. How you’ve both successfully

struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district.”

Barbarism? That’s ironic coming from a woman helping to

prepare us for slaughter. And what’s she basing our

success on? Our table manners?

“Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being

from the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever

of me, I said, ‘Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it

turns to pearls!’“ Effie beams at us so brilliantly that we

have no choice but to respond enthusiastically to her

cleverness even though it’s wrong.

Coal doesn’t turn to pearls. They grow in shellfish.

Possibly she meant coal turns to diamonds, but that’s

untrue, too. I’ve heard they have some sort of machine

in District 1 that can turn graphite into diamonds. But we

don’t mine graphite in District 12. That was part of

District 13’s job until they were destroyed.

I wonder if the people she’s been plugging us to all day

either know or care.

“Unfortunately, I can’t seal the sponsor deals for you.

Only Haymitch can do that,” says Effie grimly. “But don’t

worry, I’ll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary.”

Although lacking in many departments, Effie Trinket has

a certain determination I have to admire.

My quarters are larger than our entire house back home.

They are plush, like the train car, but also have so many

automatic gadgets that I’m sure I won’t have time to

press all the buttons. The shower alone has a panel with

more than a hundred options you can choose regulating

water temperature, pressure, soaps, shampoos, scents,

oils, and massaging sponges. When you step out on a

mat, heaters come on that blow-dry your body. Instead

of struggling with the knots in my wet hair, I merely

place my hand on a box that sends a current through my

scalp, untangling, parting, and drying my hair almost

instantly. It floats down around my shoulders in a glossy

curtain.

I program the closet for an outfit to my taste. The

windows zoom in and out on parts of the city at my

command. You need only whisper a type of food from a

gigantic menu into a mouthpiece and it appears, hot and

steamy, before you in less than a minute. I walk around

the room eating goose liver and puffy bread until there’s

a knock on the door. Effie’s calling me to dinner.

Good. I’m starving.

Peeta, Cinna, and Portia are standing out on a balcony

that overlooks the Capitol when we enter the dining

room. I’m glad to see the stylists, particularly after I hear

that Haymitch will be joining us. A meal presided over by

just Effie and Haymitch is bound to be a disaster.

Besides, dinner isn’t really about food, it’s about planning

out our strategies, and Cinna and Portia have already

proven how valuable they are.

A silent young man dressed in a white tunic offers us all

stemmed glasses of wine. I think about turning it down,

but I’ve never had wine, except the homemade stuff my

mother uses for coughs, and when will I get a chance to

try it again? I take a sip of the tart, dry liquid and

secretly think it could be improved by a few spoonfuls of

honey.

Haymitch shows up just as dinner is being served. It

looks as if he’s had his own stylist because he’s clean and

groomed and about as sober as I’ve ever seen him. He

doesn’t refuse the offer of wine, but when he starts in on

his soup, I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him

eat. Maybe he really will pull himself together long

enough to help us.

Cinna and Portia seem to have a civilizing effect on

Haymitch and Effie. At least they’re addressing each

other decently. And they both have nothing but praise for

our stylists’ opening act. While they make small talk, I

concentrate on the meal. Mushroom soup, bitter greens

with tomatoes the size of peas, rare roast beef sliced as

thin as paper, noodles in a green sauce, cheese that

melts on your tongue served with sweet blue grapes. The

servers, all young people dressed in white tunics like the

one who gave us wine, move wordlessly to and from the

table, keeping the platters and glasses full.

About halfway through my glass of wine, my head starts

feeling foggy, so I change to water instead. I don’t like

the feeling and hope it wears off soon. How Haymitch can

stand walking around like this full-time is a mystery.

I try to focus on the talk, which has turned to our

interview costumes, when a girl sets a gorgeous-looking

cake on the table and deftly lights it. It blazes up and

then the flames flicker around the edges awhile until it

finally goes out. I have a moment of doubt. “What makes

it burn? Is it alcohol?” I say, looking up at the girl.

“That’s the last thing I wa — oh! I know you!”

I can’t place a name or time to the girl’s face. But I’m

certain of it. The dark red hair, the striking features, the

porcelain white skin. But even as I utter the words, I feel

my insides contracting with anxiety and guilt at the sight

of her, and while I can’t pull it up, I know some bad

memory is associated with her. The expression of terror

that crosses her face only adds to my confusion and

unease. She shakes her head in denial quickly and

hurries away from the table.

When I look back, the four adults are watching me like

hawks.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly

know an Avox?” snaps Effie. “The very thought.”

“What’s an Avox?” I ask stupidly.

“Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue

so she can’t speak,” says Haymitch. “She’s probably a

traitor of some sort. Not likely you’d know her.”

“And even if you did, you’re not to speak to one of them

unless it’s to give an order,” says Effie. “Of course, you

don’t really know her.”

But I do know her. And now that Haymitch has

mentioned the word traitor I remember from where. The

disapproval is so high I could never admit it. “No, I guess

not, I just —” I stammer, and the wine is not helping.

Peeta snaps his fingers. “Delly Cartwright. That’s who it

is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I

realized she’s a dead ringer for Delly.”

Delly Cartwright is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with

yellowish hair who looks about as much like our server as

a beetle does a butterfly. She may also be the friendliest

person on the planet — she smiles constantly at

everybody in school, even me. I have never seen the girl

with the red hair smile. But I jump on Peeta’s suggestion

gratefully. “Of course, that’s who I was thinking of. It

must be the hair,” I say.

“Something about the eyes, too,” says Peeta.

The energy at the table relaxes. “Oh, well. If that’s all it

is,” says Cinna. “And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the

alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of

your fiery debut.”

We eat the cake and move into a sitting room to watch

the replay of the opening ceremonies that’s being

broadcast. A few of the other couples make a nice

impression, but none of them can hold a candle to us.

Even our own party lets out an “Ahh!” as they show us

coming out of the Remake Center.

“Whose idea was the hand holding?” asks Haymitch.

“Cinna’s,” says Portia.

“Just the perfect touch of rebellion,” says Haymitch.

“Very nice.”

Rebellion? I have to think about that one a moment. But

when I remember the other couples, standing stiffly

apart, never touching or acknowledging each other, as if

their fellow tribute did not exist, as if the Games had

already begun, I know what Haymitch means. Presenting

ourselves not as adversaries but as friends has

distinguished us as much as the fiery costumes.

“Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me

for breakfast and I’ll tell you exactly how I want you to

play it,” says Haymitch to Peeta and I. “Now go get some

sleep while the grown-ups talk.”

Peeta and I walk together down the corridor to our

rooms. When we get to my door, he leans against the

frame, not blocking my entrance exactly but insisting I

pay attention to him. “So, Delly Cartwright. Imagine

finding her lookalike here.”

He’s asking for an explanation, and I’m tempted to give

him one. We both know he covered for me. So here I am

in his debt again. If I tell him the truth about the girl,

somehow that might even things up. How can it hurt

really? Even if he repeated the story, it couldn’t do me

much harm. It was just something I witnessed. And he

lied as much as I did about Delly Cartwright.

I realize I do want to talk to someone about the girl.

Someone who might be able to help me figure out her

story.

Gale would be my first choice, but it’s unlikely I’ll ever

see Gale again. I try to think if telling Peeta could give

him any possible advantage over me, but I don’t see

how. Maybe sharing a confidence will actually make him

believe I see him as a friend.

Besides, the idea of the girl with her maimed tongue

frightens me. She has reminded me why I’m here. Not to

model flashy costumes and eat delicacies. But to die a

bloody death while the crowds urge on my killer.

To tell or not to tell? My brain still feels slow from the

wine. I stare down the empty corridor as if the decision

lies there.

Peeta picks up on my hesitation. “Have you been on the

roof yet?” I shake my head. “Cinna showed me. You can

practically see the whole city. The wind’s a bit loud,

though.”

I translate this into “No one will overhear us talking” in

my head. You do have the sense that we might be under

surveillance here. “Can we just go up?”

“Sure, come on,” says Peeta. I follow him to a flight of

stairs that lead to the roof. There’s a small dome-shaped

room with a door to the outside. As we step into the cool,

windy evening air, I catch my breath at the view. The

Capitol twinkles like a vast field of fireflies. Electricity in

District 12 comes and goes, usually we only have it a few

hours a day. Often the evenings are spent in candlelight.

The only time you can count on it is when they’re airing

the Games or some important government message on

television that it’s mandatory to watch. But here there

would be no shortage. Ever.

Peeta and I walk to a railing at the edge of the roof. I

look straight down the side of the building to the street,

which is buzzing with people. You can hear their cars, an

occasional shout, and a strange metallic tinkling. In

District 12, we’d all be thinking about bed right now.

“I asked Cinna why they let us up here. Weren’t they

worried that some of the tributes might decide to jump

right over the side?” says Peeta.

“What’d he say?” I ask.

“You can’t,” says Peeta. He holds out his hand into

seemingly empty space. There’s a sharp zap and he jerks

it back. “Some kind of electric field throws you back on

the roof.”

“Always worried about our safety,” I say. Even though

Cinna has shown Peeta the roof, I wonder if we’re

supposed to be up here now, so late and alone. I’ve

never seen tributes on the Training Center roof before.

But that doesn’t mean we’re not being taped. “Do you

think they’re watching us now?”

“Maybe,” he admits. “Come see the garden.”

On the other side of the dome, they’ve built a garden

with flower beds and potted trees. From the branches

hang hundreds of wind chimes, which account for the

tinkling I heard. Here in the garden, on this windy night,

it’s enough to drown out two people who are trying not to

be heard. Peeta looks at me expectantly.

I pretend to examine a blossom. “We were hunting in the

woods one day. Hidden, waiting for game,” I whisper.

“You and your father?” he whispers back.

“No, my friend Gale. Suddenly all the birds stopped

singing at once. Except one. As if it were giving a

warning call. And then we saw her. I’m sure it was the

same girl. A boy was with her. Their clothes were

tattered. They had dark circles under their eyes from no

sleep. They were running as if their lives depended on it,”

I say.

For a moment I’m silent, as I remember how the sight of

this strange pair, clearly not from District 12, fleeing

through the woods immobilized us. Later, we wondered if

we could have helped them escape. Perhaps we might

have. Concealed them. If we’d moved quickly. Gale and I

were taken by surprise, yes, but we’re both hunters. We

know how animals look at bay. We knew the pair was in

trouble as soon as we saw them. But we only watched.

“The hovercraft appeared out of nowhere,” I continue to

Peeta. “I mean, one moment the sky was empty and the

next it was there. It didn’t make a sound, but they saw

it. A net dropped down on the girl and carried her up,

fast, so fast like the elevator. They shot some sort of

spear through the boy. It was attached to a cable and

they hauled him up as well. But I’m certain he was dead.

We heard the girl scream once. The boy’s name, I think.

Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished into thin air.

And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had

happened.”

“Did they see you?” Peeta asked.

“I don’t know. We were under a shelf of rock,” I reply.

But I do know. There was a moment, after the birdcall,

but before the hovercraft, where the girl had seen us.

She’d locked eyes with me and called out for help. But

neither Gale or I had responded.

“You’re shivering,” says Peeta.

The wind and the story have blown all the warmth from

my body. The girl’s scream. Had it been her last?

Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my

shoulders. I start to take a step back, but then I let him,

deciding for a moment to accept both his jacket and his

kindness. A friend would do that, right?

“They were from here?” he asks, and he secures a button

at my neck.

I nod. They’d had that Capitol look about them. The boy

and the girl.

“Where do you suppose they were going?” he asks.

“I don’t know that,” I say. District 12 is pretty much the

end of the line. Beyond us, there’s only wilderness. If you

don’t count the ruins of District 13 that still smolder from

the toxic bombs. They show it on television occasionally,

just to remind us. “Or why they would leave here.”

Haymitch had called the Avoxes traitors. Against what? It

could only be the Capitol. But they had everything here.

No cause to rebel.

“I’d leave here,” Peeta blurts out. Then he looks around

nervously. It was loud enough to hear above the chimes.

He laughs. “I’d go home now if they let me. But you have

to admit, the food’s prime.”

He’s covered again. If that’s all you’d heard it would just

sound like the words of a scared tribute, not someone

contemplating the unquestionable goodness of the

Capitol.

“It’s getting chilly. We better go in,” he says. Inside the

dome, it’s warm and bright. His tone is conversational.

“Your friend Gale. He’s the one who took your sister

away at the reaping?”

“Yes. Do you know him?” I ask.

“Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought

he was your cousin or something. You favor each other,”

he says.

“No, we’re not related,” I say.

Peeta nods, unreadable. “Did he come to say good-bye to

you?”

“Yes,” I say, observing him carefully. “So did your father.

He brought me cookies.”

Peeta raises his eyebrows as if this is news. But after

watching him lie so smoothly, I don’t give this much

weight. “Really? Well, he likes you and your sister. I

think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful

of boys.”

The idea that I might ever have been discussed, around

the dinner table, at the bakery fire, just in passing in

Peeta’s house gives me a start. It must have been when

the mother was out of the room.

“He knew your mother when they were kids,” says Peeta.

Another surprise. But probably true. “Oh, yes. She grew

up in town,” I say. It seems impolite to say she never

mentioned the baker except to compliment his bread.

We’re at my door. I give back his jacket. “See you in the

morning then.”

“See you,” he says, and walks off down the hall.

When I open my door, the redheaded girl is collecting my

unitard and boots from where I left them on the floor

before my shower. I want to apologize for possibly

getting her in trouble earlier. But I remember I’m not

supposed to speak to her unless I’m giving her an order.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I was supposed to get those back to

Cinna. I’m sorry. Can you take them to him?”

She avoids my eyes, gives a small nod, and heads out

the door.

I’d set out to tell her I was sorry about dinner. But I

know that my apology runs much deeper. That I’m

ashamed I never tried to help her in the woods. That I let

the Capitol kill the boy and mutilate her without lifting a

finger.

Just like I was watching the Games.

I kick off my shoes and climb under the covers in my

clothes. The shivering hasn’t stopped. Perhaps the girl

doesn’t even remember me. But I know she does. You

don’t forget the face of the person who was your last

hope. I pull the covers up over my head as if this will

protect me from the redheaded girl who can’t speak. But

I can feel her eyes staring at me, piercing through walls

and doors and bedding.

I wonder if she’ll enjoy watching me die.

End of Chapter

Chapter 7.

My slumbers are filled with disturbing dreams. The face

of the redheaded girl intertwines with gory images from

earlier Hunger Games, with my mother withdrawn and

unreachable, with Prim emaciated and terrified. I bolt up

screaming for my father to run as the mine explodes into

a million deadly bits of light.

Dawn is breaking through the windows. The Capitol has a

misty, haunted air. My head aches and I must have

bitten into the side of my cheek in the night. My tongue

probes the ragged flesh and I taste blood.

Slowly, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I

arbitrarily punch buttons on the control board and end up

hopping from foot to foot as alternating jets of icy cold

and steaming hot water assault me. Then I’m deluged in

lemony foam that I have to scrape off with a heavy

bristled brush. Oh, well. At least my blood is flowing.

When I’m dried and moisturized with lotion, I find an

outfit has been left for me at the front of the closet. Tight

black pants, a long-sleeved burgundy tunic, and leather

shoes. I put my hair in the single braid down my back.

This is the first time since the morning of the reaping

that I resemble myself. No fancy hair and clothes, no

flaming capes. Just me. Looking like I could be headed

for the woods. It calms me.

Haymitch didn’t give us an exact time to meet for

break-last and no one has contacted me this morning,

but I’m hungry so I head down to the dining room,

hoping there will be food. I’m not disappointed. While the

table is empty, a long board off to the side has been laid

with at least twenty dishes. A young man, an Avox,

stands at attention by the spread. When I ask if I can

serve myself, he nods assent. I load a plate with eggs,

sausages, batter cakes covered in thick orange

preserves, slices of pale purple melon. As I gorge myself,

I watch the sun rise over the Capitol. I have a second

plate of hot grain smothered in beef stew. Finally, I fill a

plate with rolls and sit at the table, breaking oil bits and

dipping them into hot chocolate, the way Peeta did on

the train.

My mind wanders to my mother and Prim. They must be

up. My mother getting their breakfast of mush. Prim

milking her goat before school. Just two mornings ago, I

was home. Can that be right? Yes, just two. And now

how empty the house feels, even from a distance. What

did they say last night about my fiery debut at the

Games? Did it give them hope, or simply add to their

terror when they saw the reality of twenty-four tributes

circled together, knowing only one could live?

Haymitch and Peeta come in, bid me good morning, fill

their plates. It makes me irritated that Peeta is wearing

exactly the same outfit I am. I need to say something to

Cinna. This twins act is going to blow up in out faces

once the Games begin. Surely, they must know this.

Then I remember Haymitch telling me to do exactly what

the stylists tell me to do. If it was anyone but Cinna, I

might be tempted to ignore him. But after last night’s

triumph, I don’t have a lot of room to criticize his

choices.

I’m nervous about the training. There will be three days

in which all the tributes practice together. On the last

afternoon, we’ll each get a chance to perform in private

before the Gamemakers. The thought of meeting the

other tributes face-toface makes me queasy. I turn the

roll I have just taken from the basket over and over in

my hands, but my appetite is gone.

When Haymitch has finished several platters of stew, he

pushes back his plate with a sigh. He takes a flask from

his pocket and takes a long pull on it and leans his

elbows on the table. “So, let’s get down to business.

Training. First off, if you like, I’ll coach you separately.

Decide now.”

“Why would you coach us separately?” I ask.

“Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the

other to know about,” says Haymitch.

I exchange a look with Peeta. “I don’t have any secret

skills,” he says. “And I already know what yours is, right?

I mean, I’ve eaten enough of your squirrels.”

I never thought about Peeta eating the squirrels I shot.

Somehow I always pictured the baker quietly going off

and frying them up for himself. Not out of greed. But

because town families usually eat expensive butcher

meat. Beef and chicken and horse.

“You can coach us together,” I tell Haymitch. Peeta nods.

“All right, so give me some idea of what you can do,”

says Haymitch.

“I can’t do anything,” says Peeta. “Unless you count

baking bread.”

“Sorry, I don’t. Katniss. I already know you’re handy with

a knife,” says Haymitch.

“Not really. But I can hunt,” I say. “With a bow and

arrow.”

“And you’re good?” asks Haymitch.

I have to think about it. I’ve been putting food on the

table for four years. That’s no small task. I’m not as good

as my father was, but he’d had more practice. I’ve better

aim than Gale, but I’ve had more practice. He’s a genius

with traps and snares. “I’m all right,” I say.

“She’s excellent,” says Peeta. “My father buys her

squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never

pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It’s the

same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can

even bring down deer.”

This assessment of my skills from Peeta takes me totally

by surprise. First, that he ever noticed. Second, that he’s

talking me up. “What are you doing?” I ask him

suspiciously.

“What are you doing? If he’s going to help you, he has to

know what you’re capable of. Don’t underrate yourself,”

says Peeta.

I don’t know why, but this rubs me the wrong way.

“What about you? I’ve seen you in the market. You can

lift hundred-pound bags of flour,” I snap at him. “Tell him

that. That’s not nothing.”

“Yes, and I’m sure the arena will be full of bags of flour

for me to chuck at people. It’s not like being able to use

a weapon. You know it isn’t,” he shoots back.

“He can wrestle,” I tell Haymitch. “He came in second in

our school competition last year, only after his brother.”

“What use is that? How many times have you seen

someone wrestle someone to death?” says Peeta in

disgust.

“There’s always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to

come up with a knife, and you’ll at least stand a chance.

If I get jumped, I’m dead!” I can hear my voice rising in

anger.

“But you won’t! You’ll be living up in some tree eating

raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You

know what my mother said to me when she came to say

good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District

Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she

didn’t mean me, she meant you!” bursts out Peeta.

“Oh, she meant you,” I say with a wave of dismissal.

“She said, ‘She’s a survivor, that one.’ She is,” says

Peeta.

That pulls me up short. Did his mother really say that

about me? Did she rate me over her son? I see the pain

in Peeta’s eyes and know he isn’t lying.

Suddenly I’m behind the bakery and I can feel the chill of

the rain running down my back, the hollowness in my

belly. I sound eleven years old when I speak. “But only

because someone helped me.”

Peeta’s eyes flicker down to the roll in my hands, and I

know he remembers that day, too. But he just shrugs.

“People will help you in the arena. They’ll be tripping over

each other to sponsor you.”

“No more than you,” I say.

Peeta rolls his eyes at Haymitch. “She has no idea. The

effect she can have.” He runs his fingernail along the

wood grain in the table, refusing to look at me.

What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we

were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one

except Peeta. Once I had something to barter with,

things changed. I’m a tough trader. Or am I? What effect

do I have? That I’m weak and needy? Is he suggesting

that I got good deals because people pitied me? I try to

think if this is true. Perhaps some of the merchants were

a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed

that to their long-standing relationship with my father.

Besides, my game is first-class. No one pitied me!

I glower at the roll sure he meant to insult me.

After about a minute of this, Haymitch says, “Well, then.

Well, well, well. Katniss, there’s no guarantee they’ll be

bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private

session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can

do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at

trapping?”

“I know a few basic snares,” I mutter.

“That may be significant in terms of food,” says

Haymitch. “And Peeta, she’s right, never underestimate

strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the

advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will

have weights, but don’t reveal how much you can lift in

front of the other tributes. The plan’s the same for both

of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to

learn something you don’t know. Throw a spear. Swing a

mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what

you’re best at until your private sessions.

Are we clear?” says Haymitch. Peeta and I nod.

“One last thing. In public, I want you by each other’s side

every minute,” says Haymitch. We both start to object,

but Haymitch slams his hand on the table. “Every

minute! It’s not open for discussion! You agreed to do as

I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to

each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten

for training.”

I bite my lip and stalk back to my room, making sure

Peeta can hear the door slam. I sit on the bed, hating

Haymitch, hating Peeta, hating myself for mentioning

that day long ago in the rain.

It’s such a joke! Peeta and I going along pretending to be

friends! Talking up each other’s strengths, insisting the

other take credit for their abilities. Because, in fact, at

some point, we’re going to have to knock it off and

accept we’re bitter adversaries. Which I’d be prepared to

do right now if it wasn’t for Haymitch’s stupid instruction

that we stick together in training. It’s my own fault, I

guess, for telling him he didn’t have to coach us

separately. But that didn’t mean I wanted to do

everything with Peeta. Who, by the way, clearly doesn’t

want to be partnering up with me, either.

I hear Peeta’s voice in my head. She has no idea. The

effect she can have. Obviously meant to demean me.

Right? but a tiny part of me wonders if this was a

compliment. That he meant I was appealing in some

way. It’s weird, how much he’s noticed me. Like the

attention he’s paid to my hunting. And apparently, I have

not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The

flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the

bread.

It’s almost ten. I clean my teeth and smooth back my

hair again. Anger temporarily blocked out my

nervousness about meeting the other tributes, but now I

can feel my anxiety rising again. By the time I meet Effie

and Peeta at the elevator, I catch myself biting my nails.

I stop at once.

The actual training rooms are below ground level of our

building. With these elevators, the ride is less than a

minute. The doors open into an enormous gymnasium

filled with various weapons and obstacle courses.

Although it’s not yet ten, we’re the last ones to arrive.

The other tributes are gathered in a tense circle. They

each have a cloth square with their district number on it

pinned to their shirts. While someone pins the number 12

on my back, I do a quick assessment. Peeta and I are the

only two dressed alike.

As soon as we join the circle, the head trainer, a tall,

athletic woman named Atala steps up and begins to

explain the training schedule. Experts in each skill will

remain at their stations. We will be free to travel from

area to area as we choose, per our mentor’s instructions.

Some of the stations teach survival skills, others fighting

techniques. We are forbidden to engage in any combative

exercise with another tribute. There are assistants on

hand if we want to practice with a partner.

When Atala begins to read down the list of the skill

stations, my eyes can’t help flitting around to the other

tributes. It’s the first time we’ve been assembled, on

level ground, in simple clothes. My heart sinks. Almost all

of the boys and at least half of the girls are bigger than I

am, even though many of the tributes have never been

fed properly. You can see it in their bones, their skin, the

hollow look in their eyes. I may be smaller naturally, but

overall my family’s resourcefulness has given me an edge

in that area. I stand straight, and while I’m thin, I’m

strong. The meat and plants from the woods combined

with the exertion it took to get them have given me a

healthier body than most of those I see around me.

The exceptions are the kids from the wealthier districts,

the volunteers, the ones who have been fed and trained

throughout their lives for this moment. The tributes from

1, 2, and 4 traditionally have this look about them. It’s

technically against the rules to train tributes before they

reach the Capitol but it happens every year. In District

12, we call them the Career Tributes, or just the Careers.

And like as not, the winner will be one of them.

The slight advantage I held coming into the Training

Center, my fiery entrance last night, seems to vanish in

the presence of my competition. The other tributes were

jealous of us, but not because we were amazing, because

our stylists were. Now I see nothing but contempt in the

glances of the Career Tributes. Each must have fifty to a

hundred pounds on me. They project arrogance and

brutality. When Atala releases us, they head straight for

the deadliest-looking weapons in the gym and handle

them with ease.

I’m thinking that it’s lucky I’m a fast runner when Peeta

nudges my arm and I jump. He is still beside me, per

Haymitch’s instructions. His expression is sober. “Where

would you like to start?”

I look around at the Career Tributes who are showing off,

clearly trying to intimidate the field. Then at the others,

the underfed, the incompetent, shakily having their first

lessons with a knife or an ax.

“Suppose we tie some knots,” I say.

“Right you are,” says Peeta. We cross to an empty

station where the trainer seems pleased to have

students. You get the feeling that the knot-tying class is

not the Hunger games hot spot. When he realizes I know

something about snares, he shows us a simple, excellent

trap that will leave a human competitor dangling by a leg

from a tree. We concentrate on this one skill for an hour

until both of us have mastered it. Then we move on to

camouflage. Peeta genuinely seems to enjoy this station,

swirling a combination of mud and clay and berry juices

around on his pale skin, weaving disguises from vines

and leaves. The trainer who runs the camouflage station

is full of enthusiasm at his work.

“I do the cakes,” he admits to me.

“The cakes?” I ask. I’ve been preoccupied with watching

the boy from District 2 send a spear through a dummy’s

heart from fifteen yards. “What cakes?”

“At home. The iced ones, for the bakery,” he says.

He means the ones they display in the windows. Fancy

cakes with flowers and pretty things painted in frosting.

They’re for birthdays and New Year’s Day. When we’re in

the square, Prim always drags me over to admire them,

although we’d never be able to afford one. There’s little

enough beauty in District 12, though, so I can hardly

deny her this.

I look more critically at the design on Peeta’s arm. The

alternating pattern of light and dark suggests sunlight

falling through the leaves in the woods. I wonder how he

knows this, since I doubt he’s ever been beyond the

fence. Has he been able to pick this up from just that

scraggly old apple tree in his backyard? Somehow the

whole thing — his skill, those inaccessible cakes, the

praise of the camouflage expert — annoys me.

“It’s lovely. If only you could frost someone to death,” I

say.

“Don’t be so superior. You can never tell what you’ll find

in the arena. Say it’s actually a gigantic cake —” begins

Peeta.

“Say we move on,” I break in.

So the next three days pass with Peeta and I going

quietly from station to station. We do pick up some

valuable skills, from starting fires, to knife throwing, to

making shelter. Despite Haymitch’s order to appear

mediocre, Peeta excels in hand-to-hand combat, and I

sweep the edible plants test without blinking an eye. We

steer clear of archery and weightlifting though, wanting

to save those for our private sessions.

The Gamemakers appeared early on the first day. Twenty

or so men and women dressed in deep purple robes.

They sit in the elevated stands that surround the

gymnasium, sometimes wandering about to watch us,

jotting down notes, other times eating at the endless

banquet that has been set for them, ignoring the lot of

us. But they do seem to be keeping their eye on the

District 12 tributes. Several times I’ve looked up to find

one fixated on me. They consult with the trainers during

our meals as well. We see them all gathered together

when we come back.

Breakfast and dinner are served on our floor, but at lunch

the twenty-four of us eat in a dining room off the

gymnasium. Food is arranged on carts around the room

and you serve yourself. The Career Tributes tend to

gather rowdily around one table, as if to prove their

superiority, that they have no fear of one another and

consider the rest of us beneath notice. Most of the other

tributes sit alone, like lost sheep. No one says a word to

us. Peeta and I eat together, and since Haymitch keeps

dogging us about it, try to keep up a friendly

conversation during the meals.

It’s not easy to find a topic. Talking of home is painful.

Talking of the present unbearable. One day, Peeta

empties our breadbasket and points out how they have

been careful to include types from the districts along with

the refined bread of the Capitol. The fish-shaped loaf

tinted green with seaweed from District 4. The crescent

moon roll dotted with seeds from District 11. Somehow,

although it’s made from the same stuff, it looks a lot

more appetizing than the ugly drop biscuits that are the

standard fare at home.

“And there you have it,” says Peeta, scooping the breads

back in the basket.

“You certainly know a lot,” I say.

“Only about bread,” he says. “Okay, now laugh as if I’ve

said something funny.”

We both give a somewhat convincing laugh and ignore

the stares from around the room.

“All right, I’ll keep smiling pleasantly and you talk,” says

Peeta. It’s wearing us both out, Haymitch’s direction to

be friendly. Because ever since I slammed my door,

there’s been a chill in the air between us. But we have

our orders.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I was chased by a

bear?” I ask.

“No, but it sounds fascinating,” says Peeta.

I try and animate my face as I recall the event, a true

story, in which I’d foolishly challenged a black bear over

the rights to a beehive. Peeta laughs and asks questions

right on cue. He’s much better at this than I am.

On the second day, while we’re taking a shot at spear

throwing, he whispers to me. “I think we have a

shadow.”

I throw my spear, which I’m not too bad at actually, if I

don’t have to throw too far, and see the little girl from

District 11 standing back a bit, watching us. She’s the

twelve-year-old, the one who reminded me so of Prim in

stature. Up close she looks about ten. She has bright,

dark, eyes and satiny brown skin and stands tilted up on

her toes with her arms slightly extended to her sides, as

if ready to take wing at the slightest sound. It’s

impossible not to think of a bird.

I pick up another spear while Peeta throws. “I think her

name’s Rue,” he says softly.

I bite my lip. Rue is a small yellow flower that grows in

the Meadow. Rue. Primrose. Neither of them could tip the

scale at seventy pounds soaking wet.

“What can we do about it?” I ask him, more harshly than

I intended.

“Nothing to do,” he says back. “Just making

conversation.”

Now that I know she’s there, it’s hard to ignore the child.

She slips up and joins us at different stations. Like me,

she’s clever with plants, climbs swiftly, and has good

aim. She can hit the target every time with a slingshot.

But what is a slingshot against a 220-pound male with a

sword?

Back on the District 12 floor, Haymitch and Effie grill us

throughout breakfast and dinner about every moment of

the day. What we did, who watched us, how the other

tributes size up. Cinna and Portia aren’t around, so

there’s no one to add any sanity to the meals. Not that

Haymitch and Effie are fighting anymore. Instead they

seem to be of one mind, determined to whip us into

shape. Full of endless directions about what we should do

and not do in training. Peeta is more patient, but I

become fed up and surly.

When we finally escape to bed on the second night, Peeta

mumbles, “Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink.”

I make a sound that is somewhere between a snort and a

laugh. Then catch myself. It’s messing with my mind too

much, trying to keep straight when we’re supposedly

friends and when we’re not. At least when we get into

the arena, I’ll know where we stand. “Don’t. Don’t let’s

pretend when there’s no one around.”

“All right, Katniss,” he says tiredly. After that, we only

talk in front of people.

On the third day of training, they start to call us out of

lunch for our private sessions with the Gamemakers.

District by district, first the boy, then the girl tribute. As

usual, District 12 is slated to go last. We linger in the

dining room, unsure where else to go. No one comes

back once they have left. As the room empties, the

pressure to appear friendly lightens. By the time they call

Rue, we are left alone. We sit in silence until they

summon Peeta. He rises.

“Remember what Haymitch said about being sure to

throw the weights.” The words come out of my mouth

without permission.

“Thanks. I will,” he says. “You . . . shoot straight.”

I nod. I don’t know why I said anything at all. Although if

I’m going to lose, I’d rather Peeta win than the others.

Better for our district, for my mother and Prim.

After about fifteen minutes, they call my name. I smooth

my hair, set my shoulders back, and walk into the

gymnasium. Instantly, I know I’m in trouble. They’ve

been here too long, the Gamemakers. Sat through

twenty-three other demonstrations. Had too much to

wine, most of them. Want more than anything to go

home.

There’s nothing I can do but continue with the plan. I

walk to the archery station. Oh, the weapons! I’ve been

itching to get my hands on them for days! Bows made of

wood and plastic and metal and materials I can’t even

name. Arrows with feathers cut in flawless uniform lines.

I choose a bow, string it,

and sling the matching quiver of arrows over my

shoulder. There’s a shooting range, but it’s much too

limited. Standard bull’s-eyes and human silhouettes. I

walk to the center of the gymnasium and pick my first

target. The dummy used for knife practice. Even as I pull

back on the bow I know something is wrong. The string’s

tighter than the one I use at home. The arrow’s more

rigid. I miss the dummy by a couple of inches and lose

what little attention I had been commanding. For a

moment, I’m humiliated, then I head back to the

bull’s-eye. I shoot again and again until I get the feel of

these new weapons.

Back in the center of the gymnasium, I take my initial

position and skewer the dummy right through the heart.

Then I sever the rope that holds the sandbag for boxing,

and the bag splits open as it slams to the ground.

Without pausing, I shoulder-roll forward, come up on one

knee, and send an arrow into one of the hanging lights

high above the gymnasium floor. A shower of sparks

bursts from the fixture.

It’s excellent shooting. I turn to the Gamemakers. A few

are nodding approval, but the majority of them are

fixated on a roast pig that has just arrived at their

banquet table.

Suddenly I am furious, that with my life on the line, they

don’t even have the decency to pay attention to me. That

I’m being upstaged by a dead pig. My heart starts to

pound, I can feel my face burning. Without thinking, I

pull an arrow from my quiver and send it straight at the

Gamemakers’ table. I hear shouts of alarm as people

stumble back. The arrow

skewers the apple in the pig’s mouth and pins it to the

wall behind it. Everyone stares at me in disbelief.

“Thank you for your consideration,” I say. Then I give a

slight bow and walk straight toward the exit without

being dismissed.

End of Chapter

Chapter 8.

As I stride toward the elevator, I fling my bow to one

side and my quiver to the other. I brush past the gaping

Avoxes who guard the elevators and hit the number

twelve button with my fist. The doors slide together and I

zip upward. I actually make it back to my floor before the

tears start running down my cheeks. I can hear the

others calling me from the sitting room, but I fly down

the hall into my room, bolt the door, and fling myself

onto my bed. Then I really begin to sob.

Now I’ve done it! Now I’ve ruined everything! If I’d stood

even a ghost of chance, it vanished when I sent that

arrow flying at the Gamemakers. What will they do to me

now? Arrest me? Execute me? Cut my tongue and turn

me into an Avox so I can wait on the future tributes of

Panem? What was I thinking, shooting at the

Gamemakers? Of course, I wasn’t, I was shooting at that

apple because I was so angry at being ignored. I wasn’t

trying to kill one of them. If I were, they’d be dead!

Oh, what does it matter? It’s not like I was going to win

the Games anyway. Who cares what they do to me?

What really scares me is what they might do to my

mother and Prim, how my family might suffer now

because of my impulsiveness. Will they take their few

belongings, or send my mother to prison and Prim to the

community home, or kill them? They wouldn’t kill them,

would they? Why not? What do they care?

I should have stayed and apologized. Or laughed, like it

was a big joke. Then maybe I would have found some

leniency. But instead I stalked out of the place in the

most disrespectful manner possible.

Haymitch and Effie are knocking on my door. I shout for

them to go away and eventually they do. It takes at least

an hour for me to cry myself out. Then I just lay curled

up on the bed, stroking the silken sheets, watching the

sun set over the artificial candy Capitol.

At first, I expect guards to come for me. But as time

passes, it seems less likely. I calm down. They still need

a girl tribute from District 12, don’t they? If the

Gamemakers want to punish me, they can do it publicly.

Wait until I’m in the arena and sic starving wild animals

on me. You can bet they’ll make sure I don’t have a bow

and arrow to defend myself.

Before that though, they’ll give me a score so low, no

one in their right mind would sponsor me. That’s what

will happen tonight. Since the training isn’t open to

viewers, the Game-makers announce a score for each

player. It gives the audience a starting place for the

betting that will continue throughout the Games. The

number, which is between one and twelve, one being

irredeemably bad and twelve being unattainably high,

signifies the promise of the tribute. The mark is not a

guarantee of which person will win. It’s only an indication

of the potential a tribute showed in training. Often,

because of the variables in the actual arena, high-scoring

tributes go down almost immediately. And a few years

ago, the boy who won the Games only received a three.

Still, the scores can help or hurt an individual tribute in

terms of sponsorship. I had been hoping my shooting

skills might get me a six or a seven, even if I’m not

particularly powerful. Now I’m sure I’ll have the lowest

score of the twenty-four. If no one sponsors me, my odds

of staying alive decrease to almost zero.

When Effie taps on the door to call me to dinner, I decide

I may as well go. The scores will be televised tonight. It’s

not like I can hide what happened forever. I go to the

bathroom and wash my face, but it’s still red and

splotchy.

Everyone’s waiting at the table, even Cinna and Portia. I

wish the stylists hadn’t shown up because for some

reason, I don’t like the idea of disappointing them. It’s as

if I’ve thrown away all the good work they did on the

opening ceremonies without a thought. I avoid looking at

anyone as I take tiny spoonfuls of fish soup. The

saltiness reminds me of my tears.

The adults begin some chitchat about the weather

forecast, and I let my eyes meet Peeta’s. He raises his

eyebrows. A question. What happened? I just give my

head a small shake. Then, as they’re serving the main

course, I hear Haymitch say, “Okay, enough small talk,

just how bad were you today?”

Peeta jumps in. “I don’t know that it mattered. By the

time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me.

They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think.

So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me

I could go.”

That makes me feel a bit better. It’s not like Peeta

attacked the Gamemakers, but at least he was provoked,

too.

“And you, sweetheart?” says Haymitch.

Somehow Haymitch calling me sweetheart ticks me off

enough that I’m at least able to speak. “I shot an arrow

at the Gamemakers.”

Everyone stops eating. “You what?” The horror in Effie’s

voice confirms my worse suspicions.

“I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their

direction. It’s like Peeta said, I was shooting and they

were ignoring me and I just . . . I just lost my head, so I

shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig’s mouth!” I say

defiantly.

“And what did they say?” says Cinna carefully.

“Nothing. Or I don’t know. I walked out after that,” I say.

“Without being dismissed?” gasps Effie.

“I dismissed myself,” I said. I remember how I promised

Prim that I really would try to win and I feel like a ton of

coal has dropped on me.

“Well, that’s that,” says Haymitch. Then he butters a roll.

“Do you think they’ll arrest me?” I ask. “Doubt it. Be a

pain to replace you at this stage,” says Haymitch.

“What about my family?” I say. “Will they punish them?”

“Don’t think so. Wouldn’t make much sense. See they’d

have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for

it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People

would need to know what you did. But they can’t since

it’s secret, so it’d be a waste of effort,” says Haymitch.

“More likely they’ll make your life hell in the arena.”

“Well, they’ve already promised to do that to us any

way,” says Peeta.

“Very true,” says Haymitch. And I realize the impossible

has happened. They have actually cheered me up.

Haymitch picks up a pork chop with his fingers, which

makes Effie frown, and dunks it in his wine. He rips off a

hunk of meat and starts to chuckle. “What were their

faces like?”

I can feel the edges of my mouth tilting up. “Shocked.

Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them.” An image pops

into my mind. “One man tripped backward into a bowl of

punch.”

Haymitch guffaws and we all start laughing except Effie,

although even she is suppressing a smile. “Well, it serves

them right. It’s their job to pay attention to you. And just

because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to

ignore you.” Then her eyes dart around as if she’s said

something totally outrageous. “I’m sorry, but that’s what

I think,” she says to no one in particular.

“I’ll get a very bad score,” I say.

“Scores only matter if they’re very good, no one pays

much attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they

know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score

on purpose. People use that strategy,” said Portia.

“I hope that’s how people interpret the four I’ll probably

get,” says Peeta. “If that. Really, is anything less

impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball

and throw it a couple of yards. One almost landed on my

foot.”

I grin at him and realize that I’m starving. I cut off a

piece of pork, dunk it in mashed potatoes, and start

eating. It’s okay. My family is safe. And if they are safe,

no real harm has been done.

After dinner, we go to sitting room to watch the scores

announced on television. First they show a photo of the

tribute, then flash their score below it. The Career

Tributes naturally get in the eight-to-ten range. Most of

the other players average a five. Surprisingly, little Rue

comes up with a seven. I don’t know what she showed

the judges, but she’s so tiny it must have been

impressive.

District 12 comes up last, as usual. Peeta pulls an eight

so at least a couple of the Gamemakers must have been

watching him. I dig my fingernails into my palms as my

face comes up, expecting the worst. Then they’re

flashing the number eleven on the screen.

Eleven!

Effie Trinket lets out a squeal, and everybody is slapping

me on the back and cheering and congratulating me. But

it doesn’t seem real.

“There must be a mistake. How . . . how could that

happen?” I ask Haymitch.

“Guess they liked your temper,” he says. “They’ve got a

show to put on. They need some players with some

heat.”

“Katniss, the girl who was on fire,” says Cinna and gives

me a hug. “Oh, wait until you see your interview dress.”

“More flames?” I ask. “Of a sort,” he says mischievously.

Peeta and I congratulate each other, another awkward

moment. We’ve both done well, but what does that mean

for the other? I escape to my room as quickly as possible

and burrow down under the covers. The stress of the

day, particularly the crying, has worn me out. I drift off,

reprieved, relieved, and with the number eleven still

flashing behind my eyelids.

At dawn, I lie in bed for a while, watching the sun come

up on a beautiful morning. It’s Sunday. A day off at

home. I wonder if Gale is in the woods yet. Usually we

devote all of Sunday to stocking up for the week. Rising

early, hunting and gathering, then trading at the Hob. I

think of Gale without me. Both of us can hunt alone, but

we’re better as a pair. Particularly if we’re trying for

bigger game. But also in the littler things, having a

partner lightened the load, could even make the arduous

task of filling my family’s table enjoyable.

I had been struggling along on my own for about six

months when I first ran into Gale in the woods. It was a

Sunday in October, the air cool and pungent with dying

things. I’d spent the morning competing with the

squirrels for nuts and the slightly warmer afternoon

wading in shallow ponds harvesting katniss. The only

meat I’d shot was a squirrel that had practically run over

my toes in its quest for acorns, but the animals would

still be afoot when the snow buried my other food

sources. Having strayed farther afield than usual, I was

hurrying back home, lugging my burlap sacks when I

came across a dead rabbit. It was hanging by its neck in

a thin wire a foot above my head. About fifteen yards

away was another. I recognized the twitch-up snares

because my father had used them. When the prey is

caught, it’s yanked into the air out of the reach of other

hungry animals. I’d been trying to use snares all summer

with no success, so I couldn’t help dropping my sacks to

examine this one. My fingers were just on the wire above

one of the rabbits when a voice rang out. “That’s

dangerous.”

I jumped back several feet as Gale materialized from

behind a tree. He must have been watching me the

whole time. He was only fourteen, but he cleared six feet

and was as good as an adult to me. I’d seen him around

the Seam and at school. And one other time. He’d lost his

father in the same blast that killed mine. In January, I’d

stood by while he received his medal of valor in the

Justice Building, another oldest child with no father. I

remembered his two little brothers clutching his mother,

a woman whose swollen belly announced she was just

days away from giving birth.

“What’s your name?” he said, coming over and

disengaging the rabbit from the snare. He had another

three hanging from his belt.

“Katniss,” I said, barely audible.

“Well, Catnip, stealing’s punishable by death, or hadn’t

you heard?” he said.

“Katniss,” I said louder. “And I wasn’t stealing it. I just

wanted to look at your snare. Mine never catch

anything.”

He scowled at me, not convinced. “So where’d you get

the squirrel?”

“I shot it.” I pulled my bow off my shoulder. I was still

using the small version my father had made me, but I’d

been practicing with the full-size one when I could. I was

hoping that by spring I might be able to bring down some

bigger game.

Gale’s eyes fastened on the bow. “Can I see that?” I

handed it over. “Just remember, stealing’s punishable by

death.”

That was the first time I ever saw him smile. It

transformed him from someone menacing to someone

you wished you knew. But it took several months before

I returned that smile.

We talked hunting then. I told him I might be able to get

him a bow if he had something to trade. Not food. I

wanted knowledge. I wanted to set my own snares that

caught a belt of fat rabbits in one day. He agreed

something might be worked out. As the seasons went by,

we grudgingly began to share our knowledge, our

weapons, our secret places that were thick with wild

plums or turkeys. He taught me snares and fishing. I

showed him what plants to eat and eventually gave him

one of our precious bows. And then one day, without

either of us saying it, we became a team. Dividing the

work and the spoils. Making sure that both our families

had food.

Gale gave me a sense of security I’d lacked since my

father’s death. His companionship replaced the long

solitary hours in the woods. I became a much better

hunter when I didn’t have to look over my shoulder

constantly, when someone was watching my back. But he

turned into so much more than a hunting partner. He

became my confidante, someone with whom I could

share thoughts I could never voice inside the fence. In

exchange, he trusted me with his. Being out in the woods

with Gale . . . sometimes I was actually happy.

I call him my friend, but in the last year it’s seemed too

casual a word for what Gale is to me. A pang of longing

shoots through my chest. If only he was with me now!

But, of course, I don’t want that. I don’t want him in the

arena where he’d be dead in a few days. I just . . . I just

miss him. And I hate being so alone. Does he miss me?

He must.

I think of the eleven flashing under my name last night. I

know exactly what he’d say to me. “Well, there’s some

room for improvement there.” And then he’d give me a

smile and I’d return it without hesitating now.

I can’t help comparing what I have with Gale to what I’m

pretending to have with Peeta. How I never question

Gale’s motives while I do nothing but doubt the latter’s.

It’s not a fair comparison really. Gale and I were thrown

together by a mutual need to survive. Peeta and I know

the other’s survival means our own death. How do you

sidestep that?

Effie’s knocking at the door, reminding me there’s

another “big, big, big day!” ahead. Tomorrow night will

be our televised interviews. I guess the whole team will

have their hands full readying us for that.

I get up and take a quick shower, being a bit more

careful about the buttons I hit, and head down to the

dining room. Peeta, Effie, and Haymitch are huddled

around the table talking in hushed voices. That seems

odd, but hunger wins out over curiosity and I load up my

plate with breakfast before I join them.

The stew’s made with tender chunks of lamb and dried

plums today. Perfect on the bed of wild rice. I’ve

shoveled about halfway through the mound when I

realize no one’s talking. I take a big gulp of orange juice

and wipe my mouth. “So, what’s going on? You’re

coaching us on interviews today, right?”

“That’s right,” says Haymitch.

“You don’t have to wait until I’m done. I can listen and

cat at the same time,” I say.

“Well, there’s been a change of plans. About our current

approach,” says Haymitch.

“What’s that?” I ask. I’m not sure what our current

approach is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the

other tributes is the last bit of strategy I remember.

Haymitch shrugs. “Peeta has asked to be coached

separately.”

End of Chapter

Chapter 9.

Betrayal. That’s the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous.

For there to be betrayal, there would have had to been

trust first. Between Peeta and me. And trust has not

been part of the agreement. We’re tributes. But the boy

who risked a beating to give me bread, the one who

steadied me in the chariot, who covered for me with the

redheaded Avox girl, who insisted Haymitch know my

hunting skills . . . was there some part of me that

couldn’t help trusting him?

On the other hand, I’m relieved that we can stop the

pretense of being friends. Obviously, whatever thin

connection we’d foolishly formed has been severed. And

high time, too. The Games begin in two days, and trust

will only be a weakness. Whatever triggered Peeta’s

decision — and I suspect it had to do with my

outperforming him in training — I should be nothing but

grateful for it. Maybe he’s finally accepted the fact that

the sooner we openly acknowledge that we are enemies,

the better.

“Good,” I say. “So what’s the schedule?”

“You’ll each have four hours with Effie for presentation

and four with me for content,” says Haymitch. “You start

with Effie, Katniss.”

I can’t imagine what Effie will have to teach me that

could take four hours, but she’s got me working down to

the last minute. We go to my rooms and she puts me in a

full-length gown and high-heeled shoes, not the ones I’ll

he wearing for the actual interview, and instructs me on

walking. The shoes are the worst part. I’ve never worn

high heels and can’t get used to essentially wobbling

around on the balls of my feet. But Effie runs around in

them full-time, and I’m determined that if she can do it,

so can I. The dress poses another problem. It keeps

tangling around my shoes so, of course, I hitch it up, and

then Effie swoops down on me like a hawk, smacking my

hands and yelling, “Not above the ankle!” When I finally

conquer walking, there’s still sitting, posture —

apparently I have a tendency to duck my head — eye

contact, hand gestures, and smiling. Smiling is mostly

about smiling more. Effie makes me say a hundred banal

phrases starting with a smile, while smiling, or ending

with a smile. By lunch, the muscles in my cheeks are

twitching from overuse.

“Well, that’s the best I can do,” Effie says with a sigh.

“Just remember, Katniss, you want the audience to like

you.”

“And you don’t think they will?” I ask.

“Not if you glare at them the entire time. Why don’t you

save that for the arena? Instead, think of yourself among

friends,” says Effie.

“They’re betting on how long I’ll live!” I burst out.

“They’re not my friends!”

“Well, try and pretend!” snaps Effie. Then she composes

herself and beams at me. “See, like this. I’m smiling at

you even though you’re aggravating me.”

“Yes, it feels very convincing,” I say. “I’m going to eat.” 1

kick off my heels and stomp down to the dining room,

hiking my skirt up to my thighs.

Peeta and Haymitch seem in pretty good moods, so I’m

thinking the content session should be an improvement

over the morning. I couldn’t be more wrong. After lunch,

Haymitch takes me into the sitting room, directs me to

the couch, and then just frowns at me for a while.

“What?” I finally ask.

“I’m trying to figure out what to do with you,” he says.

“How we’re going to present you. Are you going to be

charming? Aloof? Fierce? So far, you’re shining like a

star. You volunteered to save your sister. Cinna made

you look unforgettable. You’ve got the top training score.

People are intrigued, but no one knows who you are. The

impression you make tomorrow will decide exactly what I

can get you in terms of sponsors,” says Haymitch.

Having watched the tribute interviews all my life, I know

there’s truth to what he’s saying. If you appeal to the

crowd, either by being humorous or brutal or eccentric,

you gain favor.

“What’s Peeta’s approach? Or am I not allowed to ask?” I

say.

“Likable. He has a sort of self-deprecating humor

naturally,” says Haymitch. “Whereas when you open your

mouth, you come across more as sullen and hostile.”

“I do not!” I say.

“Please. I don’t know where you pulled that cheery, wavy

girl on the chariot from, but I haven’t seen her before or

since,” says Haymitch.

“And you’ve given me so many reasons to be cheery,” I

counter.

“But you don’t have to please me. I’m not going to

sponsor you. So pretend I’m the audience,” says

Haymitch. “Delight me.”

“Fine!” I snarl. Haymitch takes the role of the interviewer

and I try to answer his questions in a winning fashion.

But I can’t. I’m too angry with Haymitch for what he said

and that I even have to answer the questions. All I can

think is how unjust the whole thing is, the Hunger

Games. Why am I hopping around like some trained dog

trying to please people I hate? The longer the interview

goes on, the more my fury seems to rise to the surface,

until I’m literally spitting out answers at him.

“All right, enough,” he says. “We’ve got to find another

angle. Not only are you hostile, I don’t know anything

about you. I’ve asked you fifty questions and still have

no sense of your life, your family, what you care about.

They want to know about you, Katniss.”

“But I don’t want them to! They’re already taking my

future! They can’t have the things that mattered to me in

the past!” I say.

“Then lie! Make something up!” says Haymitch.

“I’m not good at lying,” I say.

“Well, you better learn fast. You’ve got about as much

charm as a dead slug,” says Haymitch.

Ouch. That hurts. Even Haymitch must know he’s been

too harsh because his voice softens. “Here’s an idea. Try

acting humble.”

“Humble,” I echo.

“That you can’t believe a little girl from District Twelve

has done this well. The whole thing’s been more than you

ever could have dreamed of. Talk about Cinna’s clothes.

How nice the people are. How the city amazes you. If you

won’t talk about yourself, at least compliment the

audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right.

Gush.”

The next hours are agonizing. At once, it’s clear I cannot

gush. We try me playing cocky, but I just don’t have the

arrogance. Apparently, I’m too “vulnerable” for ferocity.

I’m not witty. Funny. Sexy. Or mysterious.

By the end of the session, I am no one at all. Haymitch

started drinking somewhere around witty, and a nasty

edge has crept into his voice. “I give up, sweetheart. Just

answer the questions and try not to let the audience see

how openly you despise them.”

I have dinner that night in my room, ordering an

outrageous number of delicacies, eating myself sick, and

then taking out my anger at Haymitch, at the Hunger

Games, at every living being in the Capitol by smashing

dishes around my room. When the girl with the red hair

comes in to turn down my bed, her eyes widen at the

mess. “Just leave it!” I yell at her. “Just leave it alone!”

I hate her, too, with her knowing reproachful eyes that

call me a coward, a monster, a puppet of the Capitol,

both now and then. For her, justice must finally be

happening. At least my death will help pay for the life of

the boy in the woods.

But instead of fleeing the room, the girl closes the door

behind her and goes to the bathroom. She comes back

with a damp cloth and wipes my face gently then cleans

the blood from a broken plate off my hands. Why is she

doing this? Why am I letting her?

“I should have tried to save you,” I whisper.

She shakes her head. Does this mean we were right to

stand by? That she has forgiven me?

“No, it was wrong,” I say.

She taps her lips with her fingers then points to my

chest. I think she means that I would just have ended up

an Avox, too. Probably would have. An Avox or dead.

I spend the next hour helping the redheaded girl clean

the room. When all the garbage has been dropped down

a disposal and the food cleaned away, she turns down

my bed. I crawl in between the sheets like a five-year-old

and let her tuck me in. Then she goes. I want her to stay

until I fall asleep. To be there when I wake up. I want the

protection of this girl, even though she never had mine.

In the morning, it’s not the girl but my prep team who

are hanging over me. My lessons with Effie and Haymitch

are over. This day belongs to Cinna. He’s my last hope.

Maybe he can make me look so wonderful, no one will

care what comes out of my mouth.

The team works on me until late afternoon, turning my

skin to glowing satin, stenciling patterns on my arms,

painting flame designs on my twenty perfect nails. Then

Venia goes to work on my hair, weaving strands of red

into a pattern that begins at my left ear, wraps around

my head, and then falls in one braid down my right

shoulder. They erase my face with a layer of pale

makeup and draw my features back out. Huge dark eyes,

full red lips, lashes that throw off bits of light when I

blink. Finally, they cover my entire body in a powder that

makes me shimmer in gold dust.

Then Cinna enters with what I assume is my dress, but I

can’t really see it because it’s covered. “Close your eyes,”

he orders.

I can feel the silken inside as they slip it down over my

naked body, then the weight. It must be forty pounds. I

clutch Octavia’s hand as I blindly step into my shoes,

glad to find they are at least two inches lower than the

pair Effie had me practice in. There’s some adjusting and

fidgeting. Then silence.

“Can I open my eyes?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Cinna. “Open them.”

The creature standing before me in the full-length mirror

has come from another world. Where skin shimmers and

eyes flash and apparently they make their clothes from

jewels. Because my dress, oh, my dress is entirely

covered in reflective precious gems, red and yellow and

white with bits of blue that accent the tips of the flame

design. The slightest movement gives the impression I

am engulfed in tongues of fire.

I am not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am as radiant as

the sun.

For a while, we all just stare at me. “Oh, Cinna,” I finally

whisper. “Thank you.”

“Twirl for me,” he says. I hold out my arms and spin in a

circle. The prep team screams in admiration.

Cinna dismisses the team and has me move around in

the dress and shoes, which are infinitely more

manageable than Effie’s. The dress hangs in such a way

that I don’t have to lift the skirt when I walk, leaving me

with one less thing to worry about.

“So, all ready for the interview then?” asks Cinna. I can

see by his expression that he’s been talking to Haymitch.

That he knows how dreadful I am.

“I’m awful. Haymitch called me a dead slug. No matter

what we tried, I couldn’t do it. I just can’t be one of

those people he wants me to be,” I say.

Cinna thinks about this a moment. “Why don’t you just

be yourself?”

“Myself? That’s no good, either. Haymitch says I’m sullen

and hostile,” I say.

“Well, you are . . . around Haymitch,” says Cinna with a

grin. “I don’t find you so. The prep team adores you. You

even won over the Gamemakers. And as for the citizens

of the Capitol, well, they can’t stop talking about you. No

one can help but admire your spirit.”

My spirit. This is a new thought. I’m not sure exactly

what it means, but it suggests I’m a fighter. In a sort of

brave way. It’s not as if I’m never friendly. Okay, maybe

I don’t go around loving everybody I meet, maybe my

smiles are hard to come by, but I do care for some

people.

Cinna takes my icy hands in his warm ones. “Suppose,

when you answer the questions, you think you’re

addressing a friend back home. Who would your best

friend be?” asks Cinna.

“Gale,” I say instantly. “Only it doesn’t make sense,

Cinna. I would never be telling Gale those things about

me. He already knows them.”

“What about me? Could you think of me as a friend?”

asks Cinna.

Of all the people I’ve met since I left home, Cinna is by

far my favorite. I liked him right off and he hasn’t

disappointed me yet. “I think so, but —”

“I’ll be sitting on the main platform with the other

stylists. You’ll be able to look right at me. When you’re

asked a question, find me, and answer it as honestly as

possible,” says Cinna.

“Even if what I think is horrible?” I ask. Because it might

be, really.

“Especially if what you think is horrible,” says Cinna.

“You’ll try it?”

I nod. It’s a plan. Or at least a straw to grasp at.

Too soon it’s time to go. The interviews take place on a

stage constructed in front of the Training Center. Once I

leave my room, it will be only minutes until I’m in front

of the crowd, the cameras, all of Panem.

As Cinna turns the doorknob, I stop his hand. “Cinna . .

.” I’m completely overcome with stage fright.

“Remember, they already love you,” he says gently. “Just

be yourself.”

We meet up with the rest of the District 12 crowd at the

elevator. Portia and her gang have been hard at work.

Peeta looks striking in a black suit with flame accents.

While we look well together, it’s a relief not to be dressed

identically. Haymitch and Effie are all fancied up for the

occasion. I avoid Haymitch, but accept Effie’s

compliments. Effie can be tiresome and clueless, but

she’s not destructive like Haymitch.

When the elevator opens, the other tributes are being

lined up to take the stage. All twenty-four of us sit in a

big arc throughout the interviews. I’ll be last, or second

to last since the girl tribute precedes the boy from each

district. How I wish I could be first and get the whole

thing out of the way! Now I’ll have to listen to how witty,

funny, humble, fierce, and charming everybody else is

before I go up. Plus, the audience will start to get bored,

just as the Gamemakers did. And I can’t exactly shoot an

arrow into the crowd to get their attention.

Right before we parade onto the stage, Haymitch comes

up behind Peeta and me and growls, “Remember, you’re

still a happy pair. So act like it.”

What? I thought we abandoned that when Peeta asked

for separate coaching. But I guess that was a private, not

a public thing. Anyway, there’s not much chance for

interaction now, as we walk single-file to our seats and

take our places.

Just stepping on the stage makes my breathing rapid and

shallow. I can feel my pulse pounding in my temples. It’s

a relief to get to my chair, because between the heels

and my legs shaking, I’m afraid I’ll trip. Although evening

is falling, the City Circle is brighter than a summer’s day.

An elevated seating unit has been set up for prestigious

guests, with the stylists commanding the front row. The

cameras will turn to them when the crowd is reacting to

their handiwork. A large balcony off a building to the

right has been reserved for the Game-makers. Television

crews have claimed most of the other balconies. But the

City Circle and the avenues that feed into it are

completely packed with people. Standing room only. At

homes and community halls around the country, every

television set is turned on. Every citizen of Panem is

tuned in. There will be no blackouts tonight.

Caesar Flickerman, the man who has hosted the

interviews for more than forty years, bounces onto the

stage. It’s a little scary because his appearance has been

virtually unchanged during all that time. Same face under

a coating of pure white makeup. Same hairstyle that he

dyes a different color for each Hunger Games. Same

ceremonial suit, midnight blue dotted with a thousand

tiny electric bulbs that twinkle like stars. They do surgery

in the Capitol, to make people appear younger and

thinner. In District 12, looking old is something of an

achievement since so many people die early. You see an

elderly person you want to congratulate them on their

longevity, ask the secret of survival. A plump person is

envied because they aren’t scraping by like the majority

of us. But here it is different. Wrinkles aren’t desirable. A

round belly isn’t a sign of success.

This year, Caesar’s hair is powder blue and his eyelids

and lips are coated in the same hue. He looks freakish

but less frightening than he did last year when his color

was crimson and he seemed to be bleeding. Caesar tells

a few jokes to warm up the audience but then gets down

to business.

The girl tribute from District 1, looking provocative in a

see-through gold gown, steps up the center of the stage

to join Caesar for her interview. You can tell her mentor

didn’t have any trouble coming up with an angle for her.

With that flowing blonde hair, emerald green eyes, her

body tall and lush . . . she’s sexy all the way.

Each interview only lasts three minutes. Then a buzzer

goes off and the next tribute is up. I’ll say this for

Caesar, he really does his best to make the tributes

shine. He’s friendly, tries to set the nervous ones at ease,

laughs at lame jokes, and can turn a weak response into

a memorable one by the way he reacts.

I sit like a lady, the way Effie showed me, as the districts

slip by. 2, 3, 4. Everyone seems to be playing up some

angle. The monstrous boy from District 2 is a ruthless

killing machine. The fox-faced girl from District 5 sly and

elusive. I spotted Cinna as soon as he took his place, but

even his presence cannot relax me. 8, 9, 10. The crippled

boy from 10 is very quiet. My palms are sweating like

crazy, but the jeweled dress isn’t absorbent and they skid

right of if I try to dry them. 11.

Rue, who is dressed in a gossamer gown complete with

wings, flutters her way to Caesar. A hush falls over the

crowd at the sight of this magical wisp of a tribute.

Caesar’s very sweet with her, complimenting her seven

in training, an excellent score for one so small. When he

asks her what her greatest strength in the arena will be,

she doesn’t hesitate. “I’m very hard to catch,” she says

in a tremulous voice. “And if they can’t catch me, they

can’t kill me. So don’t count me out.”

“I wouldn’t in a million years,” says Caesar

encouragingly.

The boy tribute from District 11, Thresh, has the same

dark skin as Rue, but the resemblance stops there. He’s

one of the giants, probably six and a half feet tall and

built like an ox, but I noticed he rejected the invitations

from the Career Tributes to join their crowd. Instead he’s

been very solitary, speaking to no one, showing little

interest in training. Even so, he scored a ten and it’s not

hard to imagine he impressed the Gamemakers. He

ignores Caesar’s attempts at banter and answers with a

yes or no or just remains silent.

If only I was his size, I could get away with sullen and

hostile and it would be just fine! I bet half the sponsors

are at least considering him. If I had any money, I’d bet

on him myself.

And then they’re calling Katniss Everdeen, and I feel

myself, as if in a dream, standing and making my way

center stage. I shake Caesar’s outstretched hand, and he

has the good grace not to immediately wipe his off on his

suit.

“So, Katniss, the Capitol must be quite a change from

District Twelve. What’s impressed you most since you

arrived here?” asks Caesar.

What? What did he say? It’s as if the words make no

sense.

My mouth has gone as dry as sawdust. I desperately find

Cinna in the crowd and lock eyes with him. I imagine the

words coming from his lips. “What’s impressed you most

since you arrived here?” I rack my brain for something

that made me happy here. Be honest, I think. Be honest.

“The lamb stew,” I get out.

Caesar laughs, and vaguely I realize some of the

audience has joined in.

“The one with the dried plums?” asks Caesar. I nod. “Oh,

I eat it by the bucketful.” He turns sideways to the

audience in horror, hand on his stomach. “It doesn’t

show, does it?” They shout reassurances to him and

applaud. This is what I mean about Caesar. He tries to

help you out.

“Now, Katniss,” he says confidentially, “When you came

out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually

stopped. What did you think of that costume?”

Cinna raises one eyebrow at me. Be honest. “You mean

after I got over my fear of being burned alive?” I ask.

Big laugh. A real one from the audience.

“Yes. Start then,” says Caesar.

Cinna, my friend, I should tell him anyway. “I thought

Cinna was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume

I’d ever seen and I couldn’t believe I was wearing it. I

can’t believe I’m wearing this, either.” I lift up my skirt to

spread it out. “I mean, look at it!”

As the audience oohs and ahs, I see Cinna make the

tiniest circular motion with his finger. But I know what

he’s saying. Twirl for me.

I spin in a circle once and the reaction is immediate.

“Oh, do that again!” says Caesar, and so I lift up my

arms and spin around and around letting the skirt fly out,

letting the dress engulf me in flames. The audience

breaks into cheers. When I stop, I clutch Caesar’s arm.

“Don’t stop!” he says.

“I have to, I’m dizzy!” I’m also giggling, which I think

I’ve done maybe never in my lifetime. But the nerves and

the spinning have gotten to me.

Caesar wraps a protective arm around me. “Don’t worry,

I’ve got you. Can’t have you following in your mentor’s

footsteps.”

Everyone’s hooting as the cameras find Haymitch, who is

by now famous for his head dive at the reaping, and he

waves them away good-naturedly and points back to me.

“It’s all right,” Caesar reassures the crowd. “She’s safe

with me. So, how about that training score. E-le-ven.

Give us a hint what happened in there.”

I glance at the Gamemakers on the balcony and bite my

lip. “Um . . . all I can say, is I think it was a first.”

The cameras are right on the Gamemakers, who are

chuckling and nodding.

“You’re killing us,” says Caesar as if in actual pain.

“Details. Details.”

I address the balcony. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,

right?”

The Gamemaker who fell in the punch bowl shouts out,

“She’s not!”

“Thank you,” I say. “Sorry. My lips are sealed.”

“Let’s go back then, to the moment they called your

sister’s name at the reaping,” says Caesar. His mood is

quieter now. “And you volunteered. Can you tell us about

her?”

No. No, not all of you. But maybe Cinna. I don’t think I’m

imagining the sadness on his face. “Her name’s Prim.

She’s just twelve. And I love her more than anything.”

You could hear a pin drop in the City Circle now.

“What did she say to you? After the reaping?” Caesar

asks.

Be honest. Be honest. I swallow hard. “She asked me to

try really hard to win.” The audience is frozen, hanging

on my every word.

“And what did you say?” prompts Caesar gently.

But instead of warmth, I feel an icy rigidity take over my

body. My muscles tense as they do before a kill. When I

speak, my voice seems to have dropped an octave. “I

swore I would.”

“I bet you did,” says Caesar, giving me a squeeze. The

buzzer goes off. “Sorry we’re out of time. Best of luck,

Katniss Everdeen, tribute from District Twelve.”

The applause continues long after I’m seated. I look to

Cinna for reassurance. He gives me a subtle thumbs-up.

I’m still in a daze for the first part of Peeta’s interview.

He has the audience from the get-go, though; I can hear

them laughing, shouting out. He plays up the baker’s son

thing, comparing the tributes to the breads from their

districts. Then has a funny anecdote about the perils of

the Capitol showers. “Tell me, do I still smell like roses?”

he asks Caesar, and then there’s a whole run where they

take turns sniffing each other that brings down the

house. I’m coming back into focus when Caesar asks him

if he has a girlfriend back home.

Peeta hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his

head.

“Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl.

Come on, what’s her name?” says Caesar.

Peeta sighs. “Well, there is this one girl. I’ve had a crush

on her ever since I can remember. But I’m pretty sure

she didn’t know I was alive until the reaping.”

Sounds of sympathy from the crowd. Unrequited love

they can relate to.

“She have another fellow?” asks Caesar.

“I don’t know, but a lot of boys like her,” says Peeta.

“So, here’s what you do. You win, you go home. She

can’t turn you down then, eh?” says Caesar

encouragingly.

“I don’t think it’s going to work out. Winning . . . won’t

help in my case,” says Peeta.

“Why ever not?” says Caesar, mystified.

Peeta blushes beet red and stammers out. “Because . . .

because . . . she came here with me.”

End of Chapter

PART II

"THE GAMES"

Chapter 10.

For a moment, the cameras hold on Peeta’s downcast

eyes as what he says sinks in. Then I can see my face,

mouth half open in a mix of surprise and protest,

magnified on every screen as I realize, Me! He means

me! I press my lips together and stare at the floor,

hoping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up

inside of me.

“Oh, that is a piece of bad luck,” says Caesar, and there’s

a real edge of pain in his voice. The crowd is murmuring

in agreement, a few have even given agonized cries.

“It’s not good,” agrees Peeta.

“Well, I don’t think any of us can blame you. It’d be hard

not to fall for that young lady,” says Caesar. “She didn’t

know?”

Peeta shakes his head. “Not until now.”

I allow my eyes to flicker up to the screen long enough to

see that the blush on my cheeks is unmistakable.

“Wouldn’t you love to pull her back out here and get a

response?” Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams

assent. “Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen’s

time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta

Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say

our hearts go with yours.”

The roar of the crowd is deafening. Peeta has absolutely

wiped the rest of us off the map with his declaration of

love for me. When the audience finally settles down, he

chokes out a quiet “Thank you” and returns to his seat.

We stand for the anthem. I have to raise my head out of

the required respect and cannot avoid seeing that every

screen is now dominated by a shot of Peeta and me,

separated by a few feet that in the viewers’ heads can

never be breached. Poor tragic us.

But I know better.

After the anthem, the tributes file back into the Training

Center lobby and onto the elevators. I make sure to veer

into a car that does not contain Peeta. The crowd slows

our entourages of stylists and mentors and chaperones,

so we have only each other for company. No one speaks.

My elevator stops to deposit four tributes before I am

alone and then find the doors opening on the twelfth

floor. Peeta has only just stepped from his car when I

slam my palms into his chest. He loses his balance and

crashes into an ugly urn filled with fake flowers. The urn

tips and shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. Peeta

lands in the shards, and blood immediately flows from his

hands.

“What was that for?” he says, aghast.

“You had no right! No right to go saying those things

about me!” I shout at him.

Now the elevators open and the whole crew is there,

Effie, Haymitch, Cinna, and Portia.

“What’s going on?” says Effie, a note of hysteria in her

voice. “Did you fall?”

“After she shoved me,” says Peeta as Effie and Cinna

help him up.

Haymitch turns on me. “Shoved him?”

“This was your idea, wasn’t it? Turning me into some

kind of fool in front of the entire country?” I answer.

“It was my idea,” says Peeta, wincing as he pulls spikes

of pottery from his palms. “Haymitch just helped me with

it.”

“Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!” I say.

“You are a fool,” Haymitch says in disgust. “Do you think

he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could

never achieve on your own.”

“He made me look weak!” I say.

“He made you look desirable! And let’s face it, you can

use all the help you can get in that department. You were

about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you.

Now they all do. You’re all they’re talking about. The

star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!” says Haymitch.

“But we’re not star-crossed lovers!” I say.

Haymitch grabs my shoulders and pins me against the

wall. “Who cares? It’s all a big show. It’s all how you’re

perceived. The most I could say about you after your

interview was that you were nice enough, although that

in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you’re a

heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall

longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you

more sponsors?”

The smell of wine on his breath makes me sick. I shove

his hands off my shoulders and step away, trying to clear

my head.

Cinna comes over and puts his arm around me. “He’s

right, Katniss.”

I don’t know what to think. “I should have been told, so I

didn’t look so stupid.”

“No, your reaction was perfect. If you’d known, it

wouldn’t have read as real,” says Portia.

“She’s just worried about her boyfriend,” says Peeta

gruffly, tossing away a bloody piece of the urn.

My cheeks burn again at the thought of Gale. “I don’t

have a boyfriend.”

“Whatever,” says Peeta. “But I bet he’s smart enough to

know a bluff when he sees it. Besides you didn’t say you

loved me. So what does it matter?”

The words are sinking in. My anger fading. I’m torn now

between thinking I’ve been used and thinking I’ve been

given an edge. Haymitch is right. I survived my

interview, but what was I really? A silly girl spinning in a

sparkling, dress. Giggling. The only moment of any

substance I hail was when I talked about Prim. Compare

that with Thresh, his silent, deadly power, and I’m

forgettable. Silly and sparkly and forgettable. No, not

entirely forgettable, I have my eleven in training.

But now Peeta has made me an object of love. Not just

his. To hear him tell it I have many admirers. And if the

audience really thinks we’re in love . . . I remember how

strongly they responded to his confession. Star-crossed

lovers. Haymitch is right, they eat that stuff up in the

Capitol. Suddenly I’m worried that I didn’t react properly.

“After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in

love with him, too?” I ask.

“I did,” says Portia. “The way you avoided looking at the

cameras, the blush.”

They others chime in, agreeing.

“You’re golden, sweetheart. You’re going to have

sponsors lined up around the block,” says Haymitch.

I’m embarrassed about my reaction. I force myself to

acknowledge Peeta. “I’m sorry I shoved you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugs. “Although it’s technically

illegal.”

“Are your hands okay?” I ask. “They’ll be all right,” he

says.

In the silence that follows, delicious smells of our dinner

waft in from the dining room. “Come on, let’s eat,” says

Haymitch. We all follow him to the table and take our

places. But then Peeta is bleeding too heavily, and Portia

leads him off for medical treatment. We start the cream

and rose-petal soup without them. By the time we’ve

finished, they’re back. Peeta’s hands are wrapped in

bandages. I can’t help feeling guilty. Tomorrow we will be

in the arena. He has done me a favor and I have

answered with an injury. Will I never stop owing him?

After dinner, we watch the replay in the sitting room. I

seem frilly and shallow, twirling and giggling in my dress,

although the others assure me I am charming. Peeta

actually is charming and then utterly winning as the boy

in love. And there I am, blushing and confused, made

beautiful by Cinna’s hands, desirable by Peeta’s

confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts,

unforgettable.

When the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a

hush falls on the room. Tomorrow at dawn, we will be

roused and prepared for the arena. The actual Games

don’t start until ten because so many of the Capitol

residents rise late. But Peeta and I must make an early

start. There is no telling how far we will travel to the

arena that has been prepared for this year’s Games.

I know Haymitch and Effie will not be going with us. As

soon as they leave here, they’ll be at the Games

Headquarters, hopefully madly signing up our sponsors,

working out a strategy on how and when to deliver the

gifts to us. Cinna and Portia will travel with us to the very

spot from which we will be launched into the arena. Still

final good-byes must be said here.

Effie takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears

in her eyes, wishes us well. Thanks us for being the best

tributes it has ever been her privilege to sponsor. And

then, because it’s Effie and she’s apparently required by

law to say something awful, she adds “I wouldn’t be at all

surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district

next year!”

Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out,

overcome with either the emotional parting or the

possible improvement of her fortunes.

Haymitch crosses his arms and looks us both over.

“Any final words of advice?” asks Peeta.

“When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You’re

neither of you up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia.

Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between

yourselves and the others, and find a source of water,”

he says. “Got it?”

“And after that?” I ask.

“Stay alive,” says Haymitch. It’s the same advice he gave

us on the train, but he’s not drunk and laughing this

time. And we only nod. What else is there to say?

When I head to my room, Peeta lingers to talk to Portia.

I’m glad. Whatever strange words of parting we

exchange can wait until tomorrow. My covers are drawn

back, but there is no sign of the redheaded Avox girl. I

wish I knew her name. I should have asked it. She could

write it down maybe. Or act it out. But perhaps that

would only result in punishment for her.

I take a shower and scrub the gold paint, the makeup,

the scent of beauty from my body. All that remains of the

designteam’s efforts are the flames on my nails. I decide

to keep them as reminder of who I am to the audience.

Katniss, the girl who was on fire. Perhaps it will give me

something to hold on to in the days to come.

I pull on a thick, fleecy nightgown and climb into bed. It

takes me about five seconds to realize I’ll never fall

asleep. And I need sleep desperately because in the

arena every moment I give in to fatigue will be an

invitation to death.

It’s no good. One hour, two, three pass, and my eyelids

refuse to get heavy. I can’t stop trying to imagine exactly

what terrain I’ll be thrown into. Desert? Swamp? A frigid

wasteland? Above all I am hoping for trees, which may

afford me some means of concealment and food and

shelter, Often there are trees because barren landscapes

are dull and the Games resolve too quickly without them.

But what will the climate be like? What traps have the

Gamemakers hid den to liven up the slower moments?

And then there are my fellow tributes . . .

The more anxious I am to find sleep, the more it eludes

me. Finally, I am too restless to even stay in bed. I pace

the floor, heart beating too fast, breathing too short. My

room feels like a prison cell. If I don’t get air soon, I’m

going to start to throw things again. I run down the hall

to the door to the roof. It’s not only unlocked but ajar.

Perhaps someone forgot to close it, but it doesn’t matter.

The energy field enclosing the roof prevents any

desperate form of escape. And I’m not looking to escape,

only to fill my lungs with air. I want to see the sky and

the moon on the last night that no one will be hunting

me.

The roof is not lit at night, but as soon as my bare feel

reach its tiled surface I see his silhouette, black against

the lights that shine endlessly in the Capitol. There’s

quite a commotion going on down in the streets, music

and singing and car horns, none of which I could hear

through the thick glass window panels in my room. I

could slip away now, without him noticing me; he

wouldn’t hear me over the din, But the night air’s so

sweet, I can’t bear returning to that stuffy cage of a

room. And what difference does it make? Whether we

speak or not?

My feet move soundlessly across the tiles. I’m only yard

behind him when I say, “You should be getting some

sleep.”

He starts but doesn’t turn. I can see him give his head a

slight shake. “I didn’t want to miss the party. It’s for us,

after all.”

I come up beside him and lean over the edge of the rail.

The wide streets are full of dancing people. I squint to

make out their tiny figures in more detail. “Are they in

costumes?”

“Who could tell?” Peeta answers. “With all the crazy

clothes they wear here. Couldn’t sleep, either?”

“Couldn’t turn my mind off,” I say.

“Thinking about your family?” he asks.

“No,” I admit a bit guiltily. “All I can do is wonder about

tomorrow. Which is pointless, of course.” In the light

from below, I can see his face now, the awkward way he

holds his bandaged hands. “I really am sorry about your

hands.”

“It doesn’t matter, Katniss,” he says. “I’ve never been a

contender in these Games anyway.”

“That’s no way to be thinking,” I say.

“Why not? It’s true. My best hope is to not disgrace

myself and . . .” He hesitates.

“And what?” I say.

“I don’t know how to say it exactly. Only . . . I want to

die as myself. Does that make any sense?” he asks. I

shake my head. How could he die as anyone but himself?

“I don’t want them to change me in there. Turn me into

some kind of monster that I’m not.”

I bite my lip feeling inferior. While I’ve been ruminating

on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling

with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self. “Do

you mean you won’t kill anyone?” I ask.

“No, when the time comes, I’m sure I’ll kill just like

everybody else. I can’t go down without a fight. Only I

keep wishing I could think of a way to . . . to show the

Capitol they don’t own me. That I’m more than just a

piece in their Games,” says Peeta.

“But you’re not,” I say. “None of us are. That’s how the

Games work.”

“Okay, but within that framework, there’s still you,

there’s still me,” he insists. “Don’t you see?”

“A little. Only . . . no offense, but who cares, Peeta?” I

say.

“I do. I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at

this point?” he asks angrily. He’s locked those blue eyes

on mine now, demanding an answer.

I take a step back. “Care about what Haymitch said.

About staying alive.”

Peeta smiles at me, sad and mocking. “Okay. Thanks for

the tip, sweetheart.”

It’s like a slap in the face. His use of Haymitch’s

patronizing endearment. “Look, if you want to spend the

last hours of your life planning some noble death in the

arena, that’s your choice. I want to spend mine in District

Twelve.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if you do,” says Peeta. “Give my

mother my best when you make it back, will you?”

“Count on it,” I say. Then I turn and leave the roof. I

spend the rest of the night slipping in and out of a doze,

imagining the cutting remarks I will make to Peeta

Mellark in the morning. Peeta Mellark. We will see how

high and mighty he is when he's faced with life and

death. He'll probably turn into one of those raging beast

tributes, the kind who tries to eat someone's heart after

they've killed them. There was a guy like that a few

years ago from District 6 called Titus. He went

completely savage and the Gamemakers had to have him

stunned with electric guns to collect the bodies of the

players he'd killed before he ate them. There are no rules

in the arena, but cannibalism doesn't play well with the

Capitol audience, so they tried to head it off. There was

some speculation that the avalanche that finally took

Titus out was specifically engineered to ensure the victor

was not a lunatic.

I don't see Peeta in the morning. Cinna comes to me

before dawn, gives me a simple shift to wear, and guides

me to the roof. My final dressing and preparations will be

alone in the catacombs under the arena itself. A

hovercraft appears out of thin air, just like the one did in

the woods the day I saw the redheaded Avox girl

captured, and a ladder drops down. I place my hands and

feet on the lower rungs and instantly it's as if I'm frozen.

Some sort of current glues me to the ladder while I'm

lifted safely inside.

I expect the ladder to release me then, but I'm still stuck

when a woman in a white coat approaches me carrying a

syringe. "This is just your tracker, Katniss. The stiller you

are, the more efficiently I can place it," she says.

Still? I'm a statue. But that doesn't prevent me from

feeling the sharp stab of pain as the needle inserts the

metal tracking device deep under the skin on the inside

of my forearm. Now the Gamemakers will always be able

to trace my whereabouts in the arena. Wouldn’t want to

lose a tribute.

As soon as the tracker’s in place, the ladder releases me.

The woman disappears and Cinna is retrieved from the

roof, An Avox boy comes in and directs us to a room

where breakfast has been laid out. Despite the tension in

my stomach, I eat as much as I can, although none of

the delectable food makes any impression on me. I’m so

nervous, I could be eating coal dust. The one thing that

distracts me at all is the view from the windows as we

sail over the city and then to the wilderness beyond. This

is what birds see. Only they’re free and safe. The very

opposite of me.

The ride lasts about half an hour before the windows

black out, suggesting that we’re nearing the arena. The

hovercraft lands and Cinna and I go back to the ladder,

only this time it leads down into a tube underground, into

the catacombs that lie beneath the arena. We follow

instructions to my destination, a chamber for my

preparation. In the Capitol, they call it the Launch Room.

In the districts, it’s referred to as the Stockyard. The

place animals go before slaughter.

Everything is brand-new, I will be the first and only

tribute to use this Launch Room. The arenas are historic

sites, preserved after the Games. Popular destinations for

Capitol residents to visit, to vacation. Go for a month,

rewatch the Games, tour the catacombs, visit the sites

where the deaths took place. You can even take part in

reenactments. They say the food is excellent.

I struggle to keep my breakfast down as I shower and

clean my teeth. Cinna does my hair in my simple

trademark braid down my back. Then the clothes arrive,

the same for every tribute. Cinna has had no say in my

outfit, does not even know what will be in the package,

but he helps me dress in the undergarments, simple

tawny pants, light green blouse, sturdy brown belt, and

thin, hooded black jacket that falls to my thighs. “The

material in the jacket’s designed to reflect body heat.

Expect some cool nights,” he says.

The boots, worn over skintight socks, are better than I

could have hoped for. Soft leather not unlike my ones at

home. These have a narrow flexible rubber sole with

treads though. Good for running.

I think I’m finished when Cinna pulls the gold mockingjay

pin from his pocket. I had completely forgotten about it.

“Where did you get that?” I ask.

“Off the green outfit you wore on the train,” he says. I

remember now taking it off my mother’s dress, pinning it

to the shirt. “It’s your district token, right?” I nod and he

fastens it on my shirt. “It barely cleared the review

board. Some thought the pin could be used as a weapon,

giving you an unfair advantage. But eventually, they let it

through,” says Cinna. “They eliminated a ring from that

District One girl, though. If you twisted the gemstone, a

spike popped out. Poisoned one. She claimed she had no

knowledge the ring transformed and there was no way to

prove she did. But she lost her token. There, you’re all

set. Move around. Make sure everything feels

comfortable.”

I walk, run in a circle, swing my arms about. “Yes, it’s

fine. Fits perfectly.”

“Then there’s nothing to do but wait for the call,” says

Cinna. “Unless you think you could eat any more?”

I turn down food but accept a glass of water that I take

tiny sips of as we wait on a couch. I don’t want to chew

on my nails or lips, so I find myself gnawing on the inside

of my cheek. It still hasn’t fully healed from a few days

ago. Soon the taste of blood fills my mouth.

Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is to

come. I could be dead, flat-out dead, in an hour. Not

even. My fingers obsessively trace the hard little lump on

my forearm where the woman injected the tracking

device. I press on it, even though it hurts, I press on it

so hard a small bruise begins to form.

“Do you want to talk, Katniss?” Cinna asks.

I shake my head but after a moment hold out my hand

to him. Cinna encloses it in both of his. And this is how

we sit until a pleasant female voice announces it’s time to

prepare for launch.

Still clenching one of Cinna’s hands, I walk over and

stand on the circular metal plate. “Remember what

Haymitch said. Run, find water. The rest will follow,” he

says. I nod. “And remember this. I’m not allowed to bet,

but if I could, my money would be on you.”

“Truly?” I whisper.

“Truly,” says Cinna. He leans down and kisses me on the

forehead. “Good luck, girl on fire.” And then a glass

cylinder is lowering around me, breaking our handhold,

cutting him off from me. He taps his fingers under his

chin. Head high.

I lift my chin and stand as straight as I can. The cylinder

begins to rise. For maybe fifteen seconds, I’m in

darkness and then I can feel the metal plate pushing me

out of the cylinder, into the open air. For a moment, my

eyes are dazzled by the bright sunlight and I’m conscious

only of a strong wind with the hopeful smell of pine trees.

Then I hear the legendary announcer, Claudius

Templesmith, as his voice booms all around me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger

Games begin!”

End of Chapter

Chapter 11.

Sixty seconds. That’s how long we’re required to stand

on our metal circles before the sound of a gong releases

us. Step off before the minute is up, and land mines blow

your legs off. Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes

all equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn

shaped like a cone with a curved tail, the mouth of which

is at least twenty feet high, spilling over with the things

that will give us life here in the arena. Food, containers of

water, weapons, medicine, garments, fire starters.

Strewn around the Cornucopia are other supplies, their

value decreasing the farther they are from the horn. For

instance, only a few steps from my feet lays a three-foot

square of plastic. Certainly it could be of some use in a

downpour. But there in the mouth, I can see a tent pack

that would protect from almost any sort of weather. If I

had the guts to go in and fight for it against the other

twenty-three tributes.

Which I have been instructed not to do.

We’re on a flat, open stretch of ground. A plain of

hard-packed dirt. Behind the tributes across from me, I

can see nothing, indicating either a steep downward

slope or even cliff. To my right lies a lake. To my left and

back, spars piney woods. This is where Haymitch would

want me to go. Immediately.

I hear his instructions in my head. “Just clear out, put as

much distance as you can between yourselves and the

others, and find a source of water.”

But it’s tempting, so tempting, when I see the bounty

waiting there before me. And I know that if I don’t get it,

someone else will. That the Career Tributes who survive

the bloodbath will divide up most of these life-sustaining

spoils. Something catches my eye. There, resting on a

mound of blanket rolls, is a silver sheath of arrows and a

bow, already strung, just waiting to be engaged. That’s

mine, I think. It’s meant for me.

I’m fast. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in our

school although a couple can beat me in distance races.

But this forty-yard length, this is what I am built for. I

know I can get it, I know I can reach it first, but then the

question is how quickly can I get out of there? By the

time I’ve scrambled up the packs and grabbed the

weapons, others will have reached the horn, and one or

two I might be able to pick off, but say there’s a dozen,

at that close range, they could take me down with the

spears and the clubs. Or their own powerful fists.

Still, I won’t be the only target. I’m betting many of the

other tributes would pass up a smaller girl, even one who

scored an eleven in training, to take out their more fierce

adversaries.

Haymitch has never seen me run. Maybe if he had he’d

tell me to go for it. Get the weapon. Since that’s the very

weapon that might be my salvation. And I only see one

bow in that whole pile. I know the minute must be almost

up and will have to decide what my strategy will be and I

find myself positioning my feet to run, not away into the

stir rounding forests but toward the pile, toward the bow.

When suddenly I notice Peeta, he’s about five tributes to

my right, quite a fair distance, still I can tell he’s looking

at me and I think he might be shaking his head. But the

sun’s in my eyes, and while I’m puzzling over it the gong

rings out.

And I’ve missed it! I’ve missed my chance! Because

those extra couple of seconds I’ve lost by not being

ready are enough to change my mind about going in. My

feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my

brain wants to take and then I lunge forward, scoop up

the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. The pickings are

so small and I’m so angry with Peeta for distracting me

that I sprint in twenty yards to retrieve a bright orange

backpack that could hold anything because I can’t stand

leaving with virtually nothing.

A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the

same time I do and for a brief time we grapple for it and

then he coughs, splattering my face with blood. I stagger

back, repulsed by the warm, sticky spray. Then the boy

slips to the ground. That’s when I see the knife in his

back. Already other tributes have reached the Cornucopia

and are spreading out to attack. Yes, the girl from

District 2, ten yards away, running toward me, one hand

clutching a half-dozen knives. I’ve seen her throw in

training. She never misses. And I’m her next target.

All the general fear I’ve been feeling condenses into at

immediate fear of this girl, this predator who might kill

me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling

the pack over one shoulder and run full-speed for the

woods. I can hear the blade whistling toward me and

reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head. The

blade lodges in the pack. Both straps on my shoulders

now, I make for the trees. Somehow I know the girl will

not pursue me. That she’ll be drawn back into the

Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. A grin

crosses my face. Thanks for the knife, I think.

At the edge of the woods I turn for one instant to survey

the field. About a dozen or so tributes are hacking away

at one another at the horn. Several lie dead already on

the ground. Those who have taken flight are disappearing

into the trees or into the void opposite me. I continue

running until the woods have hidden me from the other

tributes then slow into a steady jog that I think I can

maintain for a while. For the next few hours, I alternate

between jogging and walking, putting as much distance

as I can between myself and my competitors. I lost my

bread during the struggle with the boy from District 9 but

managed to stuff my plastic in my sleeve so as I walk I

fold it neatly and tuck it into a pocket. I also free the

knife — it’s a fine one with a long sharp blade, serrated

near the handle, which will make it handy for sawing

through things — and slide it into my belt. I don’t dare

stop to examine the contents of the pack yet. I just keep

moving, pausing only to check for pursuers.

I can go a long time. I know that from my days in the

woods. But I will need water. That was Haymitch’s

second instruction, and since I sort of botched the first, I

keep a sharp eye out for any sign of it. No luck.

The woods begin to evolve, and the pines are intermixed

with a variety of trees, some I recognize, some

completely foreign to me. At one point, I hear a noise

and pull my knife, thinking I may have to defend myself,

but I’ve only startled a rabbit. “Good to see you,” I

whisper. If there’s one rabbit, there could be hundreds

just waiting to be snared.

The ground slopes down. I don’t particularly like this.

Valleys make me feel trapped. I want to be high, like in

the hills around District 12, where I can see my enemies

approaching. But I have no choice but to keep going.

Funny though, I don’t feel too bad. The days of gorging

myself have paid off. I’ve got staying power even though

I’m short on sleep. Being in the woods is rejuvenating.

I’m glad for the solitude, even though it’s an illusion,

because I’m probably on-screen right now. Not

consistently but off and on. There are so many deaths to

show the first day that a tribute trekking through the

woods isn’t much to look at. But they’ll show me enough

to let people know I’m alive, uninjured and on the move.

One of the heaviest days of betting is the opening, when

the initial casualties come in. But that can’t compare to

what happens as the field shrinks to a handful of players.

It’s late afternoon when I begin to hear the cannons.

Each shot represents a dead tribute. The fighting must

have finally stopped at the Cornucopia. They never

collect the bloodbath bodies until the killers have

dispersed. On the opening day, they don’t even fire the

cannons until the initial fighting’s over because it’s too

hard to keep track of the fatalities. I allow myself to

pause, panting, as I count the shots. One . . . two . . .

three . . . on and on until they reach eleven. Eleven dead

in all. Thirteen left to play. My fingernails scrape at the

dried blood the boy from District 9 coughed into my face.

He’s gone, certainly. I wonder about Peeta. Has he lasted

through the day? I’ll know in a few hours. When they

project the dead’s images into the sky for the rest of us

to see.

All of a sudden, I’m overwhelmed by the thought that

Peeta may be already lost, bled white, collected, and in

the process of being transported back to the Capitol to be

cleaned up, redressed, and shipped in a simple wooden

box back to District 12. No longer here. Heading home. I

try hard to remember if I saw him once the action

started. But the last image I can conjure up is Peeta

shaking his head as the gong rang out. Maybe it’s better,

if he’s gone already. He had no confidence he could win.

And I will not end up with the unpleasant task of killing

him. Maybe it’s better if he’s out of this for good.

I slump down next to my pack, exhausted. I need to go

through it anyway before night falls. See what I have to

work with. As I unhook the straps, I can feel it’s sturdily

made although a rather unfortunate color. This orange

will practically glow in the dark. I make a mental note to

camouflage it first thing tomorrow.

I flip open the flap. What I want most, right at this

moment, is water. Haymitch’s directive to immediately

find water was not arbitrary. I won’t last long without it.

For a few days, I’ll be able to function with unpleasant

symptoms of dehydration, but after that I'll deteriorate

into helplessness and be dead in a week, tops. I carefully

lay out the provisions. One thin black sleeping bag that

reflects body heat. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried

beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box of wooden matches.

A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. And a

half-gallon plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water

that's bone dry.

No water. How hard would it have been for them to fill up

the bottle? I become aware of the dryness in my throat

and mouth, the cracks in my lips. I've been moving all

day long. It's been hot and I've sweat a lot. I do this at

home, but there are always streams to drink from, or

snow to melt if it should come to it.

As I refill my pack I have an awful thought. The lake. The

one I saw while I was waiting for the gong to sound.

What if that's the only water source in the arena? That

way they'll guarantee drawing us in to fight. The lake is a

full day's journey from where I sit now, a much harder

journey with nothing to drink. And then, even if I reach

it, it's sure to be heavily guarded by some of the Career

Tributes. I'm about to panic when I remember the rabbit

I startled earlier today. It has to drink, too. I just have to

find out where.

Twilight is closing in and I am ill at ease. The trees are

too thin to offer much concealment. The layer of pine

needles that muffles my footsteps also makes tracking

animals harder when I need their trails to find water. And

I'm still heading downhill, deeper and deeper into a

valley that seems endless. I’m hungry, too, but I don’t

dare break into my precious store of crackers and beef

yet. Instead, I take my knife and go to work on a pine

tree, cutting away the outer bark and scraping off a large

handful of the softer inner bark. I slowly chew the stuff

as I walk along. After a week of the finest food in the

world, it’s a little hard to choke down. But I’ve eaten

plenty of pine in my life. I’ll adjust quickly.

In another hour, it’s clear I’ve got to find a place to

camp. Night creatures are coming out. I can hear the

occasional hoot or howl, my first clue that I’ll be

competing with natural predators for the rabbits. As to

whether I’ll be viewed as a source of food, it’s too soon

to tell. There could be any number of animals stalking me

at this moment.

But right now, I decide to make my fellow tributes a

priority. I’m sure many will continue hunting through the

night. Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will

have food, an abundance of water from the lake, torches

or flashlights, and weapons they’re itching to use. I can

only hope I’ve traveled far and fast enough to be out of

range.

Before settling down, I take my wire and set two

twitch-up snares in the brush. I know it’s risky to be

setting traps, but food will go so fast out here. And I

can’t set snares on the run. Still, I walk another five

minutes before making camp.

I pick my tree carefully. A willow, not terribly tall but set

in a clump of other willows, offering concealment in those

long, flowing tresses. I climb up, sticking to the stronger

branches close to the trunk, and find a sturdy fork for my

bed. It takes some doing, but I arrange the sleeping bag

in a relatively comfortable manner. I place my backpack

in the foot of the bag, then slide in after it. As a

precaution, I remove my belt, loop it all the way around

the branch and my sleeping bag, and refasten it at my

waist. Now if I roll over in my sleep, I won’t go crashing

to the ground. I’m small enough to tuck the top of the

bag over my head, but I put on my hood as well. As

night falls, the air is cooling quickly. Despite the risk I

took in getting the backpack, I know now it was the right

choice. This sleeping bag, radiating back and preserving

my body heat, will be invaluable. I’m sure there are

several other tributes whose biggest concern right now is

how to stay warm whereas I may actually be able to get

a few hours of sleep. If only I wasn’t so thirsty . . .

Night has just come when I hear the anthem that

proceeds the death recap. Through the branches I can

see the seal of the Capitol, which appears to be floating

in the sky. I’m actually viewing another screen, an

enormous one that’s transported by of one of their

disappearing hovercraft. The anthem fades out and the

sky goes dark for a moment. At home, we would be

watching full coverage of each and every killing, but

that’s thought to give an unfair advantage to the living

tributes. For instance, if I got my hands on the bow and

shot someone, my secret would be revealed to all. No,

here in the arena, all we see are the same photographs

they showed when they televised our training scores.

Simple head shots. But now instead of scores they post

only district numbers. I take a deep breath as the face of

the eleven dead tributes begin and tick them off one by

one on my fingers.

The first to appear is the girl from District 3. That means

that the Career Tributes from 1 and 2 have all survived.

No surprise there. Then the boy from 4. I didn’t expect

that one, usually all the Careers make it through the first

day. The boy from District 5 . . . I guess the fox-faced

girl made it. Both tributes from 6 and 7. The boy from 8.

Both from 9. Yes, there’s the boy who I fought for the

backpack. I’ve run through my fingers, only one more

dead tribute to go. Is it Peeta? No, there’s the girl from

District 10. That’s it. The Capitol seal is back with a final

musical flourish. Then darkness and the sounds of the

forest resume.

I’m relieved Peeta’s alive. I tell myself again that if I get

killed, his winning will benefit my mother and Prim the

most. This is what I tell myself to explain the conflicting

emotions that arise when I think of Peeta. The gratitude

that he gave me an edge by professing his love for me in

the interview. The anger at his superiority on the roof.

The dread that we may come face-to-face at any

moment in this arena.

Eleven dead, but none from District 12. I try to work out

who is left. Five Career Tributes. Foxface. Thresh and

Rue. Rue . . . so she made it through the first day after

all. I can’t help feeling glad. That makes ten of us. The

other three I’ll figure out tomorrow. Now when it is dark,

and I have traveled far, and I am nestled high in this

tree, now I must try and rest.

I haven’t really slept in two days, and then there’s been

the long day’s journey into the arena. Slowly, I allow my

muscles to relax. My eyes to close. The last thing I think

is it’s lucky I don’t snore. . . .

Snap! The sound of a breaking branch wakes me. How

long have I been asleep? Four hours? Five? The tip of my

nose is icy cold. Snap! Snap! What’s going on? This is not

the sound of a branch under someone’s foot, but the

sharp crack of one coming from a tree. Snap! Snap! I

judge it to be several hundred yards to my right. Slowly,

noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction.

For a few minutes, there’s nothing but blackness and

some scuffling. Then I see a spark and a small fire begins

to bloom. A pair of hands warms over flames, but I can’t

make out more than that.

I have to bite my lip not to scream every foul name I

know at the fire starter. What are they thinking? A fire

just at nightfall would have been one thing. Those who

battled at the Cornucopia, with their superior strength

and surplus of supplies, they couldn’t possibly have been

near enough to spot the flames then. But now, when

they’ve probably been combing the woods for hours

looking for victims. You might as well be waving a flag

and shouting, “Come and get me!”

And here I am a stone’s throw from the biggest idiot in

the Games. Strapped in a tree. Not daring to flee since

my general location has just been broadcast to any killer

who cares. I mean, I know it’s cold out here and not

everybody has a sleeping bag. But then you grit your

teeth and stick it out until dawn!

I lay smoldering in my bag for the next couple of hours

really thinking that if I can get out of this tree, I won’t

have the least problem taking out my new neighbor. My

instinct has been to flee, not fight. But obviously this

person’s a hazard. Stupid people are dangerous. And this

one probably doesn’t have much in the way of weapons

while I’ve got this excellent knife.

The sky is still dark, but I can feel the first signs of dawn

approaching. I’m beginning to think we — meaning the

person whose death I’m now devising and me — we

might actually have gone unnoticed. Then I hear it.

Several pairs of feet breaking into a run. The fire starter

must have dozed off. They’re on her before she can

escape. I know it’s a girl now, I can tell by the pleading,

the agonized scream that follows. Then there’s laughter

and congratulations from several voices. Someone cries

out, “Twelve down and eleven to go!” which gets a round

of appreciative hoots.

So they’re fighting in a pack. I’m not really surprised.

Often alliances are formed in the early stages of the

Games. The strong band together to hunt down the weak

then, when the tension becomes too great, begin to turn

on one another. I don’t have to wonder too hard who has

made this alliance. It’ll be the remaining Career Tributes

from Districts 1, 2, and 4. Two boys and three girls. The

ones who lunched together.

For a moment, I hear them checking the girl for supplies.

I can tell by their comments they’ve found nothing good.

I wonder if the victim is Rue but quickly dismiss the

thought. She’s much too bright to be building a fire like

that.

“Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts

stinking.” I’m almost certain that’s the brutish boy from

District 2. There are murmurs of assent and then, to my

horror, I hear the pack heading toward me. They do not

know I’m here. How could they? And I’m well concealed

in the clump of trees. At least while the sun stays down.

Then my black sleeping bag will turn from camouflage to

trouble. If they just keep moving, they will pass me and

be gone in a minute.

But the Careers stop in the clearing about ten yards from

my tree. They have flashlights, torches. I can see an arm

here, a boot there, through the breaks in the branches. I

turn to stone, not even daring to breathe. Have they

spotted me? No, not yet. I can tell from their words their

minds are elsewhere.

“Shouldn’t we have heard a cannon by now?”

“I’d say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in

immediately.”

“Unless she isn’t dead.”

“She’s dead. I stuck her myself.”

“Then where’s the cannon?”

“Someone should go back. Make sure the job’s done.”

“Yeah, we don’t want to have to track her down twice.”

“I said she’s dead!”

An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the

others. “We’re wasting time! I’ll go finish her and let’s

move on!”

I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Peeta.

End of Chapter

Chapter 12.

Thank goodness, I had the foresight to belt myself in.

I’ve rolled sideways off the fork and I’m facing the

ground, held in place by the belt, one hand, and my feet

straddling the pack inside my sleeping bag, braced

against the trunk. There must have been some rustling

when I tipped sideways, but the Careers have been too

caught up in their own argument to catch it.

“Go on, then, Lover Boy,” says the boy from District 2.

“See for yourself.”

I just get a glimpse of Peeta, lit by a torch, heading back

to the girl by the fire. His face is swollen with bruises,

there’s a bloody bandage on one arm, and from the

sound of his gait he’s limping somewhat. I remember him

shaking him his head, telling me not to go into the fight

for the supplies, when all along, all along he’d planned to

throw himself into the thick of things. Just the opposite of

what Haymitch had told him to do.

Okay, I can stomach that. Seeing all those supplies was

tempting. But this . . . this other thing. This teaming up

with the Career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. No

one from District 12 would think of doing such a thing!

Career tributes are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed,

but only because they’re the Capitol’s lapdogs.

Universally, solidly hated by all but those from their own

districts. I can imagine the things they’re saying about

him back home now. And Peeta had the gall to talk to me

about disgrace?

Obviously, the noble boy on the rooftop was playing just

one more game with me. But this will be his last. I will

eagerly watch the night skies for signs of his death, if I

don’t kill him first myself.

The Career tributes are silent until he gets out of ear

shot, then use hushed voices.

“Why don’t we just kill him now and get it over with?”

“Let him tag along. What’s the harm? And he’s handy

with that knife.”

Is he? That’s news. What a lot of interesting things I’m

learning about my friend Peeta today.

“Besides, he’s our best chance of finding her.”

It takes me a moment to register that the “her” they’re

referring to is me.

“Why? You think she bought into that sappy romance

stuff?”

“She might have. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me.

Every time I think about her spinning around in that

dress, I want to puke.”

“Wish we knew how she got that eleven.”

“Bet you Lover Boy knows.”

The sound of Peeta returning silences them.

“Was she dead?” asks the boy from District 2.

“No. But she is now,” says Peeta. Just then, the cannon

fires. “Ready to move on?”

The Career pack sets off at a run just as dawn begins to

break, and birdsong fills the air. I remain in my awkward

position, muscles trembling with exertion for a while

longer, then hoist myself back onto my branch. I need to

get down, to get going, but for a moment I lie there,

digesting what I’ve heard. Not only is Peeta with the

Careers, he’s helping them find me. The simpleminded

girl who has to be taken seriously because of her eleven.

Because she can use a bow and arrow. Which Peeta

knows better than anyone.

But he hasn’t told them yet. Is he saving that information

because he knows it’s all that keeps him alive? Is he still

pretending to love me for the audience? What is going on

in his head?

Suddenly, the birds fall silent. Then one gives a

high-pitched warning call. A single note. Just like the one

Gale and I heard when the redheaded Avox girl was

caught. High above the dying campfire a hovercraft

materializes. A set of huge metal teeth drops down.

Slowly, gently, the dead tribute girl is lifted into the

hovercraft. Then it vanishes. The birds resume their

song.

“Move,” I whisper to myself. I wriggle out of my sleeping

bag, roll it up, and place it in the pack. I take a deep

breath. While I’ve been concealed by darkness and the

sleeping bag and the willow branches, it has probably

been difficult for the cameras to get a good shot of me. I

know they must be tracking me now though. The minute

I hit the ground, I’m guaranteed a close-up.

The audience will have been beside themselves, knowing

I was in the tree, that I overheard the Careers talking,

that I discovered Peeta was with them. Until I work out

exactly how I want to play that, I’d better at least act on

top of things. Not perplexed. Certainly not confused or

frightened.

No, I need to look one step ahead of the game.

So as I slide out of the foliage and into the dawn light, I

pause a second, giving the cameras time to lock on me.

Then I cock my head slightly to the side and give a

knowing smile. There! Let them figure out what that

means!

I’m about to take off when I think of my snares. Maybe

it’s imprudent to check them with the others so close.

But have to. Too many years of hunting, I guess. And the

lure of possible meat. I’m rewarded with one fine rabbit.

In no time, I’ve cleaned and gutted the animal, leaving

the head, feet, tail, skin, and innards, under a pile of

leaves. I’m wishing for a fire — eating raw rabbit can

give you rabbit fever, a lesson I learned the hard way —

when I think of the dead tribute. I hurry back to her

camp. Sure enough, the coals of her dying fire are still

hot. I cut up the rabbit, fashion a spit out of branches,

and set it over the coals.

I’m glad for the cameras now. I want sponsors to see I

can hunt, that I’m a good bet because I won’t be lured

into traps as easily as the others will by hunger. While

the rabbit cooks, I grind up part of a charred branch and

set about camouflaging my orange pack. The black tones

it down, but I feel a layer of

mud would definitely help. Of course, to have mud, I’d

need water . . .

I pull on my gear, grab my spit, kick some dirt over the

coals, and take off in the opposite direction the Careers

went. I eat half the rabbit as I go, then wrap up the

leftovers in my plastic for later. The meat stops the

grumbling in my stomach but does little to quench my

thirst. Water is my top priority now.

As I hike along, I feel certain I’m still holding the screen

in the Capitol, so I’m careful to continue to hide my

emotions. But what a good time Claudius Templesmith

must be having with his guest commentators, dissecting

Peeta’s behavior, my reaction. What to make of it all?

Has Peeta revealed his true colors? How does this affect

the betting odds? Will we lose sponsors? Do we even

have sponsors? Yes, I feel certain we do, or at least did.

Certainly Peeta has thrown a wrench into our

star-crossed lover dynamic. Or has he? Maybe, since he

hasn’t spoken much about me, we can still get some

mileage out of it. Maybe people will think it’s something

we plotted together if I seem like it amuses me now.

The sun rises in the sky and even through the canopy it

seems overly bright. I coat my lips in some grease from

the rabbit and try to keep from panting, but it’s no use.

It’s only been a day and I’m dehydrating fast. I try and

think of everything I know about finding water. It runs

downhill, so, in fact, continuing down into this valley isn’t

a bad thing. If I could just locate a game trail or spot a

particularly green patch of vegetation, these might help

me along, but nothing seems to change. There’s just the

slight gradual slope, the birds, the sameness to the trees.

As the day wears on, I know I’m headed for trouble.

What little urine I’ve been able to pass is a dark brown,

my head is aching, and there’s a dry patch on my tongue

that refuses to moisten. The sun hurts my eyes so I dig

out my sunglasses, but when I put them on they do

something funny to my vision, so I just stuff them back

in my pack.

It’s late afternoon when I think I’ve found help. I spot a

cluster of berry bushes and hurry to strip the fruit, to

suck the sweet juices from the skins. But just as I’m

holding them to my lips, I get a hard look at them. What

I thought were blueberries have a slightly different

shape, and when I break one open the insides are

bloodred. I don’t recognize these berries, perhaps they

are edible, but I’m guessing this is some evil trick on the

part of the Gamemakers. Even the plant instructor in the

Training Center made a point of telling us to avoid berries

unless you were 100 percent sure they weren’t toxic.

Something I already knew, but I’m so thirsty it takes her

reminder to give me the strength to fling them away.

Fatigue is beginning to settle on me, but it’s not the

usual tiredness that follows a long hike. I have to stop

and rest frequently, although I know the only cure for

what ails me requires continued searching. I try a new

tactic — climbing a tree as high as I dare in my shaky

state — to look for any signs of water. But as far as I can

see in any direction, there’s the same unrelenting stretch

of forest.

Determined to go on until nightfall, I walk until I’m

stumbling over my own feet.

Exhausted, I haul myself up into a tree and belt myself

in. I’ve no appetite, but I suck on a rabbit bone just to

give my mouth something to do. Night falls, the anthem

plays, and high in the sky I see the picture of the girl,

who was apparently from District 8. The one Peeta went

back to finish off.

My fear of the Career pack is minor compared to my

burning thirst. Besides, they were heading away from me

and by now they, too, will have to rest. With the scarcity

of water, they may even have had to return to the lake

for refills.

Maybe, that is the only course for me as well.

Morning brings distress. My heads throbs with every beat

of my heart. Simple movements send stabs of pain

through my joints. I fall, rather than jump from the tree.

It takes several minutes for me to assemble my gear.

Somewhere inside me, I know this is wrong. I should be

acting with more caution, moving with more urgency. But

my mind seems foggy and forming a plan is hard. I lean

back against the trunk of my tree, one finger gingerly

stroking the sandpaper surface of my tongue, as I assess

my options. How can I get water?

Return to the lake. No good. I’d never make it.

Hope for rain. There’s not a cloud in the sky.

Keep looking. Yes, this is my only chance. But then,

another thought hits me, and the surge of anger that

follows brings me to me senses.

Haymitch! He could send me water! Press a button and

have it delivered to me in a silver parachute in minutes. I

know I must have sponsors, at least one or two who

could afford a pint of liquid for me. Yes, it’s pricey, but

these people, they’re made of money. And they’ll be

betting on me as well. Perhaps Haymitch doesn’t realize

how deep my need is.

I say in a voice as loud as I dare. “Water.” I wait,

hopefully, for a parachute to descend from the sky. But

nothing is forthcoming.

Something is wrong. Am I deluded about having

sponsors? Or has Peeta’s behavior made them all hang

back? No, I don’t believe it. There’s someone out there

who wants to buy me water only Haymitch is refusing to

let it go through. As my mentor, he gets to control the

flow of gifts from the sponsors. I know he hates me. He’s

made that clear enough. But enough to let me die? From

this? He can’t do that, can he? If a mentor mistreats his

tributes, he’ll be held accountable by the viewers, by the

people back in District 12. Even Haymitch wouldn’t risk

that, would he? Say what you will about my fellow

traders in the Hob, but I don’t think they’d welcome him

back there if he let me die this way. And then where

would he get his liquor? So . . . what? Is he trying to

make me suffer for defying him? Is he directing all the

sponsors toward Peeta? Is he just too drunk to even

notice what’s going on at the moment? Somehow I don’t

believe that and I don’t believe he’s trying to kill me off

by neglect, either. He has, in fact, in his own unpleasant

way, genuinely been trying to prepare me for this. Then

what is going on?

I bury my face in my hands. There’s no danger of tears

now, I couldn’t produce one to save my life. What is

Haymitch doing? Despite my anger, hatred, and

suspicions, a small voice in the back of my head whispers

an answer.

Maybe he’s sending you a message, it says. A message.

Saying what? Then I know. There’s only one good reason

Haymitch could be withholding water from me. Because

he knows I’ve almost found it.

I grit my teeth and pull myself to my feet. My backpack

seems to have tripled in weight. I find a broken branch

that will do for a walking stick and I start off. The sun’s

beating down, even more searing than the first two days.

I feel like an old piece of leather, drying and cracking in

the heat. every step is an effort, but I refuse to stop. I

refuse to sit down. If I sit, there’s a good chance I won’t

be able to get up again, that I won’t even remember my

task.

What easy prey I am! Any tribute, even tiny Rue, could

take me right now, merely shove me over and kill me

with my own knife, and I’d have little strength to resist.

But if anyone is in my part of the woods, they ignore me.

The truth is, I feel a million miles from another living

soul.

Not alone though. No, they’ve surely got a camera

tracking me now. I think back to the years of watching

tributes starve, freeze, bleed, and dehydrate to death.

Unless there’s a really good fight going on somewhere,

I’m being featured.

My thoughts turn to Prim. It’s likely she won’t be

watching me live, but they’ll show updates at the school

during lunch. For her sake, I try to look as least

desperate as I can.

But by afternoon, I know the end is coming. My legs are

shaking and my heart too quick. I keep forgetting,

exactly what I’m doing. I’ve stumbled repeatedly and

managed to regain my feet, but when the stick slides out

from under me, I finally tumble to the ground unable to

get up. I let my eyes close.

I have misjudged Haymitch. He has no intention of

helping me at all.

This is all right, I think. This is not so bad here. The air is

less hot, signifying evening’s approach. There’s a slight,

sweet scent that reminds me of lilies. My fingers stroke

the smooth ground, sliding easily across the top. This is

an okay place to die, I think.

My fingertips make small swirling patterns in the cool,

slippery earth. I love mud, I think. How many times I’ve

tracked game with the help of its soft, readable surface.

Good for bee stings, too. Mud. Mud. Mud! My eyes fly

open and I dig my fingers into the earth. It is mud! My

nose lifts in the air. And those are lilies! Pond lilies!

I crawl now, through the mud, dragging myself toward

the scent. Five yards from where I fell, I crawl through a

tangle of plants into a pond. Floating on the top, yellow

flowers in bloom, are my beautiful lilies.

It’s all I can do not to plunge my face into the water and

gulp down as much as I can hold. But I have jus enough

sense left to abstain. With trembling hands, I get out my

flask and fill it with water. I add what I remember to be

the right number of drops of iodine for purifying it. The

half an hour of waiting is agony, but I do it. At least, I

think it’s a half an hour, but it’s certainly as long as I can

stand.

Slowly, easy now, I tell myself. I take one swallow and

make myself wait. Then another. Over the next couple of

hours, I drink the entire half gallon. Then a second. I

prepare another before I retire to a tree where I continue

sipping, eating rabbit, and even indulge in one of my

precious crackers. By the time the anthem plays, I feel

remarkably better. There are no faces tonight, no

tributes died today. Tomorrow I’ll stay here, resting,

camouflaging my backpack with mud, catching some of

those little fish I saw as I sipped, digging up the roots of

the pond lilies to make a nice meal. I snuggle down in my

sleeping bag, hanging on to my water bottle for dear life,

which, of course, it is.

A few hours later, the stampede of feet shakes me from

slumber. I look around in bewilderment. It’s not yet

dawn, but my stinging eyes can see it.

It would be hard to miss the wall of fire descending on

me.

End of Chapter

Chapter 13.

My first impulse is to scramble from the tree, but I’m

belted in. Somehow my fumbling fingers release the

buckle and I fall to the ground in a heap, still snarled in

my sleeping bag. There’s no time for any kind of packing.

Fortunately, my backpack and water bottle are already in

the bag. I shove in the belt, hoist the bag over my

shoulder, and flee.

The world has transformed to flame and smoke. Burning

branches crack from trees and fall in showers of sparks

at my feet. All I can do is follow the others, the rabbits

and deer and I even spot a wild dog pack shooting

through the woods. I trust their sense of direction

because their instincts are sharper than mine. But they

are much faster, flying through the underbrush so

gracefully as my boots catch on roots and fallen tree

limbs, that there’s no way I can keep apace with them.

The heat is horrible, but worse than the heat is the

smoke, which threatens to suffocate me at any moment.

I pull the top of my shirt up over my nose, grateful to

find it soaked in sweat, and it offers a thin veil of

protection. And I run, choking, my bag banging against

my back, my face cut with branches that materialize from

the gray haze without warning, because I know I am

supposed to run.

This was no tribute’s campfire gone out of control, no

accidental occurrence. The flames that bear down on me

have an unnatural height, a uniformity that marks them

as human-made, machine-made, Gamemaker-made.

Things have been too quiet today. No deaths, perhaps no

fights at all. The audience in the Capitol will be getting

bored, claiming that these Games are verging on

dullness. This is the one thing the Games must not do.

It’s not hard to follow the Gamemakers’ motivation.

There is the Career pack and then there are the rest of

us, probably spread far and thin across the arena. This

fire is designed to flush us out, to drive us together. It

may not be the most original device I’ve seen, but it’s

very, very effective.

I hurdle over a burning log. Not high enough. The tail

end of my jacket catches on fire and I have to stop to rip

it from my body and stamp out the flames. But I don’t

dare leave the jacket, scorched and smoldering as it is, I

take the risk of shoving it in my sleeping bag, hoping the

lack of air will quell what I haven’t extinguished. This is

all I have, what I carry on my back, and it’s little enough

to survive with.

In a matter of minutes, my throat and nose are burning.

The coughing begins soon after and my lungs begin to

feel as if they are actually being cooked. Discomfort turns

to distress until each breath sends a searing pain through

my chest. I manage to take cover under a stone

outcropping just as the vomiting begins, and I lose my

meager supper and whatever water has remained in my

stomach. Crouching on my hands and knees, I retch until

there’s nothing left to come up.

I know I need to keep moving, but I’m trembling and

light-headed now, gasping for air. I allow myself about a

spoonful of water to rinse my mouth and spit then take a

few swallows from my bottle. You get one minute, I tell

myself. One minute to rest. I take the time to reorder my

supplies, wad up the sleeping bag, and messily stuff

everything into the backpack. My minute’s up. I know it’s

time to move on, but the smoke has clouded my

thoughts. The swift-footed animals that were my

compass have left me behind. I know I haven’t been in

this part of the woods before, there were no sizable rocks

like the one I’m sheltering against on my earlier travels.

Where are the Gamemakers driving me? Back to the

lake? To a whole new terrain filled with new dangers? I

had just found a few hours of peace at the pond when

this attack began. Would there be any way I could travel

parallel to the fire and work my way back there, to a

source of water at least? The wall of fire must have an

end and it won’t burn indefinitely. Not because the

Gamemakers couldn’t keep it fueled but because, again,

that would invite accusations of boredom from the

audience. If I could get back behind the fire line, I could

avoid meeting up with the Careers. I’ve just decided to

try and loop back around, although it will require miles of

travel away from the inferno and then a very circuitous

route back, when the first fireball blasts into the rock

about two feet from my head. I spring out from under my

ledge, energized by renewed fear.

The game has taken a twist. The fire was just to get us

moving, now the audience will get to see some real fun.

When I hear the next hiss, I flatten on the ground, not

taking time to look. The fireball hits a tree off to my left,

engulfing it in flames. To remain still is death. I’m barely

on my feet before the third ball hits the ground where I

was lying, sending a pillar of fire up behind me. Time

loses meaning now as I frantically try to dodge the

attacks. I can’t see where they’re being launched from,

but it’s not a hovercraft. The angles are not extreme

enough. Probably this whole segment of the woods has

been armed with precision launchers that are concealed

in trees or rocks. Somewhere, in a cool and spotless

room, a Gamemaker sits at a set of controls, fingers on

the triggers that could end my life in a second. All that is

needed is a direct hit.

Whatever vague plan I had conceived regarding returning

to my pond is wiped from my mind as I zigzag and dive

and leap to avoid the fireballs. Each one is only the size

of an apple, but packs tremendous power on contact.

Every sense I have goes into overdrive as the need to

survive takes over. There’s no time to judge if a move is

the correct one. When there’s a hiss, I act or die.

Something keeps me moving forward, though. A lifetime

of watching the Hunger Games lets me know that certain

areas of the arena are rigged for certain attacks. And

that if I can just get away from this section, I might be

able to move out of reach of the launchers. I might also

then fall straight into a pit of vipers, but I can’t worry

about that now.

How long I scramble along dodging the fireballs I can’t

say, but the attacks finally begin to abate. Which is good,

because I’m retching again. This time it’s an acidic

substance that scalds my throat and makes its way into

my nose as well. I’m forced to stop as my body

convulses, trying desperately to rid itself of the poisons

I’ve been sucking in during the attack. I wait for the next

hiss, the next signal to bolt. It doesn’t come. The force of

the retching has squeezed tears out of my stinging eyes.

My clothes are drenched in sweat. Somehow, through the

smoke and vomit, I pick up the scent of singed hair. My

hand fumbles to my braid and finds a fireball has seared

off at least six inches of it. Strands of blackened hair

crumble in my fingers. I stare at them, fascinated by the

transformation, when the hissing registers.

My muscles react, only not fast enough this time. The

fireball crashes into the ground at my side, but not

before it skids across my right calf. Seeing my pants leg

on fire sends me over the edge. I twist and scuttle

backward on my hands and feet, shrieking, trying to

remove myself from the horror. When I finally regain

enough sense, I roll the leg back and forth on the

ground, which stifles the worst of it. But then, without

thinking, I rip away the remaining fabric with my bare

hands.

I sit on the ground, a few yards from the blaze set off by

the fireball. My calf is screaming, my hands covered in

red welts. I’m shaking too hard to move. If the

Gamemakers want to finish me off, now is the time.

I hear Cinna’s voice, carrying images of rich fabric and

sparkling gems. “Katniss, the girl who was on fire.” What

a good laugh the Gamemakers must be having over that

one. Perhaps, Cinna’s beautiful costumes have even

brought on this particular torture for me. I know he

couldn’t have foreseen this, must be hurting for me

because, in fact, I believe he cares about me. But all in

all, maybe showing up stark naked in that chariot would

have been safer for me.

The attack is now over. The Gamemakers don’t want me

dead. Not yet anyway. Everyone knows they could

destroy us all within seconds of the opening gong. The

real sport of the Hunger Games is watching the tributes

kill one another. Every so often, they do kill a tribute just

to remind the players they can. But mostly, they

manipulate us into confronting one another face-to-face.

Which means, if I am no longer being fired at, there is at

least one other tribute close at hand.

I would drag myself into a tree and take cover now if I

could, but the smoke is still thick enough to kill me. I

make myself stand and begin to limp away from the wall

of flames that lights up the sky. It does not seem to be

pursuing me any longer, except with its stinking black

clouds.

Another light, daylight, begins to softly emerge. Swirls of

smoke catch the sunbeams. My visibility is poor. I can

see maybe fifteen yards in any direction. A tribute could

easily be concealed from me here. I should draw my

knife as a precaution, but I doubt my ability to hold it for

long. The pain in my hands can in no way compete with

that in my calf. I hate burns, have always hated them,

even a small one gotten from pulling a pan of bread from

the oven. It is the worst kind of pain to me, but I have

never experienced anything like this.

I’m so weary I don’t even notice I’m in the pool until I’m

ankle-deep. It’s spring-fed, bubbling up out of a crevice

in some rocks, and blissfully cool. I plunge my hands into

the shallow water and feel instant relief. Isn’t that what

my mother always says? The first treatment for a burn is

cold water? That it draws out the heat? But she means

minor burns. Probably she’d recommend it for my hands.

But what of my calf? Although I have not yet had the

courage to examine it, I’m guessing that it’s an injury in

a whole different class.

I lie on my stomach at edge of the pool for a while,

dangling my hands in the water, examining the little

flames on my fingernails that are beginning to chip off.

Good. I’ve had enough fire for a lifetime.

I bathe the blood and ash from my face. I try to recall all

I know about burns. They are common injuries in the

Seam where we cook and heat our homes with coal.

Then there are the mine accidents. . . . A family once

brought in an unconscious young man pleading with my

mother to help him. The district doctor who’s responsible

for treating the miners had written him off, told the

family to take him home to die. But they wouldn’t accept

this. He lay on our kitchen table, senseless to the world. I

got a glimpse of the wound on his thigh, gaping, charred

flesh, burned clear down to the bone, before I ran from

the house. I went to the woods and hunted the entire

day, haunted by the gruesome leg, memories of my

father’s death. What’s funny was, Prim, who’s scared of

her own shadow, stayed and helped. My mother says

healers are born, not made. They did their best, but the

man died, just like the doctor said he would.

My leg is in need of attention, but I still can’t look at it.

What if it’s as bad as the man’s and I can see my bone?

Then I remember my mother saying that if a burn’s

severe, the victim might not even feel pain because the

nerves would be destroyed. Encouraged by this, I sit up

and swing my leg in front of me.

I almost faint at the sight of my calf. The flesh is a

brilliant red covered with blisters. I force myself to take

deep, slow breaths, feeling quite certain the cameras are

on my face. I can’t show weakness at this injury. Not if I

want help. Pity does not get you aid. Admiration at your

refusal to give in does. I cut the remains of the pant leg

off at the knee and examine the injury more closely. The

burned area is about the size of my hand. None of the

skin is blackened. I think it’s not too bad to soak.

Gingerly I stretch out my leg into the pool, propping the

heel of my boot on a rock so the leather doesn’t get too

sodden, and sigh, because this does offer some relief. I

know there are herbs, if I could find them, that would

speed the healing, but I can’t quite call them to mind.

Water and time will probably be all I have to work with.

Should I be moving on? The smoke is slowly clearing but

still too heavy to be healthy. If I do continue away from

the fire, won’t I be walking straight into the weapons of

the Careers? Besides, every time I lift my leg from the

water, the pain rebounds so intensely I have to slide it

back in. My hands are slightly less demanding. They can

handle small breaks from the pool. So I slowly put my

gear back in order. First I fill my bottle with the pool

water, treat it, and when enough time has passed, begin

to rehydrate my body. After a time, I force myself to

nibble on a cracker, which helps settle my stomach. I roll

up my sleeping bag. Except for a few black marks, it’s

relatively unscathed. My jacket’s another matter.

Stinking and scorched, at least a foot of the back beyond

repair. I cut off the damaged area leaving me with a

garment that comes just to the bottom of my ribs. But

the hood’s intact and it’s far better than nothing.

Despite the pain, drowsiness begins to take over. I’d take

to a tree and try to rest, except I’d be too easy to spot.

Besides, abandoning my pool seems impossible. I neatly

arrange my supplies, even settle my pack on my

shoulders, but I can’t seem to leave. I spot some water

plants with edible roots and make a small meal with my

last piece of rabbit. Sip water. Watch the sun make its

slow arc across the sky. Where would I go anyway that is

any safer than here? I lean back on my pack, overcome

by drowsiness. If the Careers want me, let them find me,

I think before drifting into a stupor. Let them find me.

And find me, they do. It’s lucky I’m ready to move on

because when I hear the feet, I have less than a minute

head start. Evening has begun to fall. The moment I

awake, I’m up and running, splashing across the pool,

flying into the underbrush. My leg slows me down, but I

sense my pursuers are not as speedy as they were

before the fire, either. I hear their coughs, their raspy

voices calling to one another.

Still, they are closing in, just like a pack of wild dogs, and

so I do what I have done my whole life in such

circumstances. I pick a high tree and begin to climb. If

running hurt, climbing is agonizing because it requires

not only exertion but direct contact of my hands on the

tree bark. I’m fast, though, and by the time they’ve

reached the base of my trunk, I’m twenty feet up. For a

moment, we stop and survey one another. I hope they

can’t hear the pounding of my heart.

This could be it, I think. What chance do I have against

them? All six are there, the five Careers and Peeta, and

my only consolation is they’re pretty beat-up, too. Even

so, look at their weapons. Look at their faces, grinning

and snarling at me, a sure kill above them. It seems

pretty hopeless. But then something else registers.

They’re bigger and stronger than I am, no doubt, but

they’re also heavier. There’s a reason it’s me and not

Gale who ventures up to pluck the highest fruit, or rob

the most remote bird nests. I must weigh at least fifty or

sixty pounds less than the smallest Career.

Now I smile. “How’s everything with you?” I call down

cheerfully.

This takes them aback, but I know the crowd will love it.

“Well enough,” says the boy from District 2. “Yourself?”

“It’s been a bit warm for my taste,” I say. I can almost

hear the laughter from the Capitol. “The air’s better up

here. Why don’t you come on up?”

“Think I will,” says the same boy.

“Here, take this, Cato,” says the girl from District 1, and

she offers him the silver bow and sheath of arrows. My

bow! My arrows! Just the sight of them makes me so

angry I want to scream, at myself, at that traitor Peeta

for distracting me from having them. I try to make eye

contact with him now, but he seems to be intentionally

avoiding my gaze as he polishes his knife with the edge

of his shirt.

“No,” says Cato, pushing away the bow. “I’ll do better

with my sword.” I can see the weapon, a short, heavy

blade at his belt.

I give Cato time to hoist himself into the tree before I

begin to climb again. Gale always says I remind him of a

squirrel the way I can scurry up even the slenderest limb.

Part of it’s my weight, but part of it’s practice. You have

to know where to place your hands and feet. I’m another

thirty feet in the air when I hear the crack and look down

to see Cato flailing as he and a branch go down. He hits

the ground hard and I’m hoping he possibly broke his

neck when he gets back to his feet, swearing like a fiend.

The girl with the arrows, Glimmer I hear someone call

her — ugh, the names the people in District 1 give their

children are so ridiculous — anyway Glimmer scales the

tree until the branches begin to crack under her feet and

then has the good sense to stop. I’m at least eighty feet

high now. She tries to shoot me and it’s immediately

evident that she’s incompetent with a bow. One of the

arrows gets lodged in the tree near me though and I’m

able to seize it. I wave it teasingly above her head, as if

this was the sole purpose of retrieving it, when actually I

mean to use it if I ever get the chance. I could kill them,

everyone of them, if those silver weapons were in my

hands.

The Careers regroup on the ground and I can hear them

growling conspiratorially among themselves, furious I

have made them look foolish. But twilight has arrived

and their window of attack on me is closing. Finally, I

hear Peeta say harshly, “Oh, let her stay up there. It’s

not like she’s going anywhere. We’ll deal with her in the

morning.”

Well, he’s right about one thing. I’m going nowhere. All

the relief from the pool water has gone, leaving me to

feel the full potency of my burns. I scoot down to a fork

in the tree and clumsily prepare for bed. Put on my

jacket. Lay out my sleeping bed. Belt myself in and try to

keep from moaning. The heat of the bag’s too much for

my leg. I cut a slash in the fabric and hang my calf out in

the open air. I drizzle water on the wound, my hands.

All my bravado is gone. I’m weak from pain and hunger

but can’t bring myself to eat. Even if I can last the night,

what will the morning bring? I stare into the foliage

trying to will myself to rest, but the burns forbid it. Birds

are settling down for the night, singing lullabies to their

young. Night creatures emerge. An owl hoots. The faint

scent of a skunk cuts through the smoke. The eyes of

some animal peer at me from the neighboring tree — a

possum maybe — catching the firelight from the Careers’

torches. Suddenly, I’m up on one elbow. Those are no

possum’s eyes, I know their glassy reflection too well. In

fact, those are not animal eyes at all. In the last dim rays

of light, I make her out, watching me silently from

between the branches. Rue.

How long has she been here? The whole time probably.

Still and unobserved as the action unfolded beneath her.

Perhaps she headed up her tree shortly before I did,

hearing the pack was so close.

For a while we hold each other’s gaze. Then, without

even rustling a leaf, her little hand slides into the open

and points to something above my head.

End of Chapter

Chapter 14.

My eyes follow the line of her finger up into the foliage

above me. At first, I have no idea what she’s pointing to,

but then, about fifteen feet up, I make out the vague

shape in the dimming light. But of . . . of what? Some

sort of animal? It looks about the size of a raccoon, but it

hangs from the bottom of a branch, swaying ever so

slightly. There’s something else. Among the familiar

evening sounds of the woods, my ears register a low

hum. Then I know. It’s a wasp nest.

Fear shoots through me, but I have enough sense to

keep still. After all, I don’t know what kind of wasp lives

there. It could be the ordinary

leave-us-alone-and-we’ll-leave-youalone type. But these

are the Hunger Games, and ordinary isn’t the norm. More

likely they will be one of the Capitol’s muttations, tracker

jackers. Like the jabberjays, these killer wasps were

spawned in a lab and strategically placed, like land

mines, around the districts during the war. Larger than

regular wasps, they have a distinctive solid gold body

and a sting that raises a lump the size of a plum on

contact. Most people can’t tolerate more than a few

stings. Some die at once. If you live, the hallucinations

brought on by the venom have actually driven people to

madness. And there’s another thing, these wasps will

hunt down anyone who disturbs their nest and attempt to

kill them. That’s where the tracker part of the name

comes from.

After the war, the Capitol destroyed all the nests

surrounding their city, but the ones near the districts

were left untouched. Another reminder of our weakness,

I suppose, just like the Hunger Games. Another reason to

keep inside the fence of District 12. When Gale and I

come across a tracker jacker nest, we immediately head

in the opposite direction.

So is that what hangs above me? I look back to Rue for

help, but she’s melted into her tree.

Given my circumstances, I guess it doesn’t matter what

type of wasp nest it is. I’m wounded and trapped.

Darkness has given me a brief reprieve, but by the time

the sun rises, the Careers will have formulated a plan to

kill me. There’s no way they could do otherwise after I’ve

made them look so stupid. That nest may be the sole

option I have left. If I can drop it down on them, I may

be able to escape. But I’ll risk my life in the process.

Of course, I’ll never be able to get in close enough to the

actual nest to cut it free. I’ll have to saw off the branch

at the trunk and send the whole thing down. The

serrated portion of my knife should be able to manage

that. But can my hands? And will the vibration from the

sawing raise the swarm? And what if the Careers figure

out what I’m doing and move their camp? That would

defeat the whole purpose.

I realize that the best chance I’ll have to do the sawing

without drawing notice will be during the anthem. That

could begin any time. I drag myself out of my bag, make

sure my knife is secured in my belt, and begin to make

my way up the tree. This in itself is dangerous since the

branches are becoming precariously thin even for me,

but I persevere. When I reach the limb that supports the

nest, the humming becomes more distinctive. But it’s still

oddly subdued if these are tracker jackers. It’s the

smoke, I think. It’s sedated them. This was the one

defense the rebels found to battle the wasps.

The seal of the Capitol shines above me and the anthem

blares out. It’s now or never, I think, and begin to saw.

Blisters burst on my right hand as I awkwardly drag the

knife back and forth. Once I’ve got a groove, the work

requires less effort but is almost more than I can handle.

I grit my teeth and saw away occasionally glancing at the

sky to register that there were no deaths today. That’s all

right. The audience will be sated seeing me injured and

treed and the pack below me. But the anthem’s running

out and I’m only three quarters of the way through the

wood when the music ends, the sky goes dark, and I’m

forced to stop.

Now what? I could probably finish off the job by sense of

feel but that may not be the smartest plan. If the wasps

are too groggy, if the nest catches on its way down, if I

try to escape, this could all be a deadly waste of time.

Better, I think, to sneak up here at dawn and send the

nest into my enemies.

In the faint light of the Careers’ torches, I inch back

down to my fork to find the best surprise I’ve ever had.

Sitting on my sleeping bag is a small plastic pot attached

to a silver parachute.

My first gift from a sponsor! Haymitch must have had it

sent in during the anthem. The pot easily fits in the palm

of my hand. What can it be? Not food surely. I unscrew

the lid and I know by the scent that it’s medicine.

Cautiously, I probe the surface of the ointment. The

throbbing in my fingertip vanishes.

“Oh, Haymitch,” I whisper. “Thank you.” He has not

abandoned me. Not left me to fend entirely for myself.

The cost of this medicine must be astronomical. Probably

not one but many sponsors have contributed to buy this

one tiny pot. To me, it is priceless.

I dip two fingers in the jar and gently spread the balm

over my calf. The effect is almost magical, erasing the

pain on contact, leaving a pleasant cooling sensation

behind. This is no herbal concoction that my mother

grinds up out of woodland plants, it’s high-tech medicine

brewed up in the Capitol’s labs. When my calf is treated,

I rub a thin layer into my hands. After wrapping the pot

in the parachute, I nestle it safely away in my pack. Now

that the pain has eased, it’s all I can do to reposition

myself in my bag before I plunge into sleep.

A bird perched just a few feet from me alerts me that a

new day is dawning. In the gray morning light, I examine

my hands. The medicine has transformed all the angry

red patches to a soft baby-skin pink. My leg still feels

inflamed, but that burn was far deeper. I apply another

coat of medicine and quietly pack up my gear. Whatever

happens, I’m going to have to move and move fast. I

also make myself eat a cracker and a strip of beef and

drink a few cups of water.

Almost nothing stayed in my stomach yesterday, and I’m

already starting to feel the effects of hunger.

Below me, I can see the Career pack and Peeta asleep on

the ground. By her position, leaning up against the trunk

of the tree, I’d guess Glimmer was supposed to be on

guard, but fatigue overcame her.

My eyes squint as they try to penetrate the tree next to

me, but I can’t make out Rue. Since she tipped me off, it

only seems fair to warn her. Besides, if I’m going to die

today, it’s Rue I want to win. Even if it means a little

extra food for my family, the idea of Peeta being crowned

victor is unbearable.

I call Rue’s name in a hushed whisper and the eyes

appear, wide and alert, at once. She points up to the

nest again. I hold up my knife and make a sawing

motion. She nods and disappears. There’s a rustling in a

nearby tree. Then the same noise again a bit farther off.

I realize she’s leaping from tree to tree. It’s all I can do

not to laugh out loud. Is this what she showed the

Gamemakers? I imagine her flying around the training

equipment never touching the floor. She should have

gotten at least a ten.

Rosy streaks are breaking through in the east. I can’t

afford to wait any longer. Compared to the agony of last

night’s climb, this one is a cinch. At the tree limb that

holds the nest, I position the knife in the groove and I’m

about to draw the teeth across the wood when I see

something moving. There, on the nest. The bright gold

gleam of a tracker jacker lazily making its way across the

papery gray surface. No question, it’s acting a little

subdued, but the wasp is up and moving and that means

the others will be out soon as well. Sweat breaks out on

the palms of my hands, beading up through the

ointment, and I do my best to pat them dry on my shirt.

If I don’t get through this branch in a matter of seconds,

the entire swarm could emerge and attack me.

There’s no sense in putting it off. I take a deep breath,

grip the knife handle and bear down as hard as I can.

Back, forth, back, forth! The tracker jackers begin to

buzz and I hear them coming out. Back, forth, back,

forth! A stabbing pain shoots through my knee and I

know one has found me and the others will be honing in.

Back, forth, back, forth. And just as the knife cuts

through, I shove the end of the branch as far away from

me as I can. It crashes down through the lower

branches, snagging temporarily on a few but then

twisting free until it smashes with a thud on the ground.

The nest bursts open like an egg, and a furious swarm of

tracker jackers takes to the air.

I feel a second sting on the cheek, a third on my neck,

and their venom almost immediately makes me woozy. I

cling to the tree with one arm while I rip the barbed

stingers out of my flesh. Fortunately, only these three

tracker jackers had identified me before the nest went

down. The rest of the insects have targeted their

enemies on the ground.

It’s mayhem. The Careers have woken to a full-scale

tracker jacker attack. Peeta and a few others have the

sense to drop everything and bolt. I can hear cries of “To

the lake! To the lake!” and know they hope to evade the

wasps by taking to the water. It must be close if they

think they can outdistance the furious insects. Glimmer

and another girl, the one from District 4, are not so

lucky. They receive multiple stings before they’re even

out of my view. Glimmer appears to go completely mad,

shrieking and trying to bat the wasps off with her bow,

which is pointless. She calls to the others for help but, of

course, no one returns. The girl from District 4 staggers

out of sight, although I wouldn’t bet on her making it to

the lake. I watch Glimmer fall, twitch hysterically around

on the ground for a few minutes, and then go still.

The nest is nothing but an empty shell. The wasps have

vanished in pursuit of the others. I don’t think they’ll

return, but I don’t want to risk it. I scamper down the

tree and hit the ground running in the opposite direction

of the lake. The poison from the stingers makes me

wobbly, but I find my way back to my own little pool and

submerge myself in the water, just in case any wasps are

still on my trail. After about five minutes, I drag myself

onto the rocks. People have not exaggerated the effects

of the tracker jacker stings. Actually, the one on my knee

is closer to an orange than a plum in size. A foul-smelling

green liquid oozes from the places where I pulled out the

stingers.

The swelling. The pain. The ooze. Watching Glimmer

twitching to death on the ground. It’s a lot to handle

before the sun has even cleared the horizon. I don’t want

to think about what Glimmer must look like now. Her

body disfigured. Her swollen fingers stiffening around the

bow . . .

The bow! Somewhere in my befuddled mind one thought

connects to another and I’m on my feet, teetering

through the trees back to Glimmer. The bow. The arrows.

I must get them. I haven’t heard the cannons fire yet, so

perhaps Glimmer is in some sort of coma, her heart still

struggling against the wasp venom. But once it stops and

the cannon signals her death, a hovercraft will move in

and retrieve her body, taking the only bow and sheath of

arrows I’ve seen out of the Games for good. And I refuse

to let them slip through my fingers again!

I reach Glimmer just as the cannon fires. The tracker

jackers have vanished. This girl, so breathtakingly

beautiful in her golden dress the night of the interviews,

is unrecognizable. Her features eradicated, her limbs

three times their normal size. The stinger lumps have

begun to explode, spewing putrid green liquid around

her. I have to break several of what used to be her

fingers with a stone to free the bow. The sheath of

arrows is pinned under her back. I try to roll over her

body by pulling on one arm, but the flesh disintegrates in

my hands and I fall back on the ground.

Is this real? Or have the hallucinations begun? I squeeze

my eyes tight and try to breathe through my mouth,

ordering myself not to become sick. Breakfast must stay

down, it might be days before I can hunt again. A second

cannon fires and I’m guessing the girl from District 4 has

just died. I hear the birds fall silent and then one give the

warning call, which means a hovercraft is about to

appear. Confused, I think it’s for Glimmer, although this

doesn’t quite make sense because I’m still in the picture,

still fighting for the arrows. I lurch back onto my knees

and the trees around me begin to spin in circles. In the

middle of the sky, I spot the hovercraft. I throw myself

over Glimmer’s body as if to protect it but then I see the

girl from District 4 being lifted into the air and vanishing.

“Do this!” I command myself. Clenching my jaw, I dig my

hands under Glimmer’s body, get a hold on what must be

her rib cage, and force her onto her stomach. I can’t help

it, I’m hyperventilating now, the whole thing is so

nightmarish and I’m losing my grasp on what’s real. I tug

on the silver sheath of arrows, but it’s caught on

something, her shoulder blade, something, and finally

yank it free. I’ve just encircled the sheath with my arms

when I hear the footsteps, several pairs, coming through

the underbrush, and I realize the Careers have come

back. They’ve come back to kill me or get their weapons

or both.

But it’s too late to run. I pull a slimy arrow from the

sheath and try to position it on the bowstring but instead

of one string I see three and the stench from the stings is

so repulsive I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.

I’m helpless as the first hunter crashes through the trees,

spear lifted, poised to throw. The shock on Peeta’s face

makes no sense to me. I wait for the blow. Instead his

arm drops to his side.

“What are you still doing here?” he hisses at me. I stare

uncomprehendingly as a trickle of water drips off a sting

under his ear. His whole body starts sparkling as if he’s

been dipped in dew. “Are you mad?” He’s prodding me

with the shaft of the spear now. “Get up! Get up!” I rise,

but he’s still pushing at me. What? What is going on? He

shoves me away from him hard. “Run!” he screams.

“Run!”

Behind him, Cato slashes his way through the brush. He’s

sparkling wet, too, and badly stung under one eye. I

catch the gleam of sunlight on his sword and do as Peeta

says. Holding tightly to my bow and arrows, banging into

trees that appear out of nowhere, tripping and falling as I

try to keep my balance. Back past my pool and into

unfamiliar woods. The world begins to bend in alarming

ways. A butterfly balloons to the size of a house then

shatters into a million stars. Trees transform to blood and

splash down over my boots. Ants begin to crawl out of

the blisters on my hands and I can’t shake them free.

They’re climbing up my arms, my neck. Someone’s

screaming, a long high pitched scream that never breaks

for breath. I have a vague idea it might be me. I trip and

fall into a small pit lined with tiny orange bubbles that

hum like the tracker jacker nest. Tucking my knees up to

my chin, I wait for death.

Sick and disoriented, I’m able to form only one thought:

Peeta Mellark just saved my life.

Then the ants bore into my eyes and I black out.

End of Chapter

Chapter 15.

I enter a nightmare from which I wake repeatedly only to

find a greater terror awaiting me. All the things I dread

most, all the things I dread for others manifest in such

vivid detail I can’t help but believe they’re real. Each time

I wake, I think, At last, this is over, but it isn’t. It’s only

the beginning of a new chapter of torture. How many

ways do I watch Prim die? Relive my father’s last

moments? Feel my own body ripped apart? This is the

nature of the tracker jacker venom, so carefully created

to target the place where fear lives in your brain.

When I finally do come to my senses, I lie still, waiting

for the next onslaught of imagery. But eventually I

accept that the poison must have finally worked its way

out of my system, leaving my body wracked and feeble.

I’m still lying on my side, locked in the fetal position. I lift

a hand to my eyes to find them sound, untouched by

ants that never existed. Simply stretching out my limbs

requires an enormous effort. So many parts of me hurt,

it doesn’t seem worthwhile taking inventory of them.

Very, very slowly I manage to sit up. I’m in a shallow

hole, not filled with the humming orange bubbles of my

hallucination but with old, dead leaves. My clothing’s

damp, but I don’t know whether pond water, dew, rain,

or sweat is the cause. For a long time, all I can do is take

tiny sips from my bottle and watch a beetle crawl up the

side of a honeysuckle bush.

How long have I been out? It was morning when I lost

reason. Now it’s afternoon. But the stiffness in my joints

suggests more than a day has passed, even two possibly.

If so, I’ll have no way of knowing which tributes survived

that tracker jacker attack. Not Glimmer or the girl from

District 4. But there was the boy from District 1, both

tributes from District 2, and Peeta. Did they die from the

stings? Certainly if they lived, their last days must have

been as horrid as my own. And what about Rue? She’s so

small, it wouldn’t take much venom to do her in. But

then again . . . the tracker jackers would’ve had to catch

her, and she had a good head start.

A foul, rotten taste pervades my mouth, and the water

has little effect on it. I drag myself over to the

honeysuckle bush and pluck a flower. I gently pull the

stamen through the blossom and set the drop of nectar

on my tongue. The sweetness spreads through my

mouth, down my throat, warming my veins with

memories of summer, and my home woods and Gale’s

presence beside me. For some reason, our discussion

from that last morning comes back to me.

“We could do it, you know.”

“What?”

“Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I,

we could make it.”

And suddenly, I’m not thinking of Gale but of Peeta and .

. . Peeta! He saved my life! I think. Because by the time

we met up, I couldn’t tell what was real and what the

tracker jacker venom had caused me to imagine. But if

he did, and my instincts tell me he did, what for? Is he

simply working the Lover Boy angle he initiated at the

interview? Or was he actually trying to protect me? And if

he was, what was he doing with those Careers in the first

place? None of it makes sense.

I wonder what Gale made of the incident for a moment

and then I push the whole thing out of my mind because

for some reason Gale and Peeta do not coexist well

together in my thoughts.

So I focus on the one really good thing that’s happened

since I landed in the arena. I have a bow and arrows! A

full dozen arrows if you count the one I retrieved in the

tree. They bear no trace of the noxious green slime that

came from Glimmer’s body — which leads me to believe

that might not have been wholly real — but they have a

fair amount of dried blood on them. I can clean them

later, but I do take a minute to shoot a few into a nearby

tree. They are more like the weapons in the Training

Center than my ones at home, but who cares? That I can

work with.

The weapons give me an entirely new perspective on the

Games. I know I have tough opponents left to face. But I

am no longer merely prey that runs and hides or takes

desperate measures. If Cato broke through the trees

right now, I wouldn’t flee, I’d shoot. I find I’m actually

anticipating the moment with pleasure.

But first, I have to get some strength back in my body.

I’m very dehydrated again and my water supply is

dangerously low. The little padding I was able to put on

by gorging myself during prep time in the Capitol is gone,

plus several more pounds as well. My hip bones and ribs

are more prominent than I remember them being since

those awful months after my father’s death. And then

there are my wounds to contend with — burns, cuts, and

bruises from smashing into the trees, and three tracker

jacker stings, which are as sore and swollen as ever. I

treat my burns with the ointment and try dabbing a bit

on my stings as well, but it has no effect on them. My

mother knew a treatment for them, some type of leaf

that could draw out the poison, but she seldom had

cause to use it, and I don’t even remember its name let

alone its appearance.

Water first, I think. You can hunt along the way now. It’s

easy to see the direction I came from by the path of

destruction my crazed body made through the foliage. So

I walk off in the other direction, hoping my enemies still

lie locked in the surreal world of tracker jacker venom.

I can’t move too quickly, my joints reject any abrupt

motions. But I establish the slow hunter’s tread I use

when tracking game. Within a few minutes, I spot a

rabbit and make my first kill with the bow and arrow. It’s

not my usual clean shot through the eye, but I’ll take it.

After about an hour, I find a stream, shallow but wide,

and more than sufficient for my needs. The sun’s hot and

severe, so while I wait for my water to purify I strip down

to my underclothes and wade into the mild current. I’m

filthy from head to toe, I try splashing myself but

eventually just lay down in the water for a few minutes,

letting it wash off the soot and blood and skin that has

started to peel off my burns. After rinsing out my clothes

and hanging them on bushes to dry, I sit on the bank in

the sun for a bit, untangling my hair with my fingers. My

appetite returns and I eat a cracker and a strip of beef.

With a handful of moss, I polish the blood from my silver

weapons.

Refreshed, I treat my burns again, braid back my hair,

and dress in the damp clothes, knowing the sun will dry

them soon enough. Following the stream against its

current seems the smartest course of action. I’m

traveling uphill now, which I prefer, with a source of

fresh water not only for myself but possible game. I

easily take out a strange bird that must be some form of

wild turkey. Anyway, it looks plenty edible to me. By late

afternoon, I decide to build a small fire to cook the meat,

betting that dusk will help conceal the smoke and I can

quench the fire by nightfall. I clean the game, taking

extra care with the bird, but there’s nothing alarming

about it. Once the feathers are plucked, it’s no bigger

than a chicken, but it’s plump and firm. I’ve just placed

the first lot over the coals when I hear the twig snap.

In one motion, I turn to the sound, bringing the bow and

arrow to my shoulder. There’s no one there. No one I can

see anyway. Then I spot the tip of a child’s boot just

peeking out from behind the trunk of a tree. My

shoulders relax and I grin. She can move through the

woods like a shadow, you have to give her that. How else

could she have followed me? The words come out of my

mouth before I can stop them.

“You know, they’re not the only ones who can form

alliances,” I say.

For a moment, no response. Then one of Rue’s eyes

edges around the trunk. “You want me for an ally?”

“Why not? You saved me with those tracker jackers.

You’re smart enough to still be alive. And I can’t seem to

shake you anyway,” I say. She blinks at me, trying to

decide. “You hungry?” I can see her swallow hard, her

eye flickering to the meat. “Come on then, I’ve had two

kills today.”

Rue tentatively steps out into the open. “I can fix your

stings.”

“Can you?” I ask. “How?”

She digs in the pack she carries and pulls out a handful

of leaves. I’m almost certain they’re the ones my mother

uses. “Where’d you find those?”

“Just around. We all carry them when we work in the

orchards. They left a lot of nests there,” says Rue. “There

are a lot here, too.”

“That’s right. You’re District Eleven. Agriculture,” I say.

“Orchards, huh? That must be how you can fly around

the trees like you’ve got wings.” Rue smiles. I’ve landed

on one of the few things she’ll admit pride in. “Well,

come on, then. Fix me up.”

I plunk down by the fire and roll up my pant leg to reveal

the sting on my knee. To my surprise, Rue places the

handful of leaves into her mouth and begins to chew

them. My mother would use other methods, but it’s not

like we have a lot of options. After a minute or so, Rue

presses a gloppy green wad of chewed leaves and spit on

my knee.

“Ohhh.” The sound comes out of my mouth before I can

stop it. It’s as if the leaves are actually leaching the pain

right out of the sting.

Rue gives a giggle. “Lucky you had the sense to pull the

stingers out or you’d be a lot worse.”

“Do my neck! Do my cheek!” I almost beg.

Rue stuffs another handful of leaves in her mouth, and

soon I’m laughing because the relief is so sweet. I notice

a long burn on Rue’s forearm. “I’ve got something for

that.” I set aside my weapons and anoint her arm with

the burn medicine.

“You have good sponsors,” she says longingly.

“Have you gotten anything yet?” I ask. She shakes her

head. “You will, though. Watch. The closer we get to the

end, the more people will realize how clever you are.” I

turn the meat over.

“You weren’t joking, about wanting me for an ally?” she

asks.

“No, I meant it,” I say. I can almost hear Haymitch

groaning as I team up with this wispy child. But I want

her. Because she’s a survivor, and I trust her, and why

not admit it? She reminds me of Prim.

“Okay,” she says, and holds out her hand. We shake.

“It’s a deal.”

Of course, this kind of deal can only be temporary, but

neither of us mentions that.

Rue contributes a big handful of some sort of starchy root

to the meal. Roasted over the fire, they have the sharp

sweet taste of a parsnip. She recognizes the bird, too,

some wild thing they call a groosling in her district. She

says sometimes a flock will wander into the orchard and

they get a decent lunch that day. For a while, all

conversation stops as we fill our stomachs. The groosling

has delicious meal that’s so fatty, the grease drips down

your face when you bite into it.

“Oh,” says Rue with a sigh. “I’ve never had a whole leg

to myself before.”

I’ll bet she hasn’t. I’ll bet meat hardly ever comes her

way. “Take the other,” I say.

“Really?” she asks.

“Take whatever you want. Now that I’ve got a bow and

arrows, I can get more. Plus I’ve got snares. I can show

you how to set them,” I say. Rue still looks uncertainly at

the leg. “Oh, take it,” I say, putting the drumstick in her

hands. “It will only keep a few days anyway, and we’ve

got the whole bird plus the rabbit.” Once she’s got hold

of it, her appetite wins out and she takes a huge

mouthful.

“I’d have thought, in District Eleven, you’d have a bit

more to eat than us. You know, since you grow the food,”

I say.

Rue’s eyes widen. “Oh, no, we’re not allowed to eat the

crops.”

“They arrest you or something?” I ask.

“They whip you and make everyone else watch,” says

Rue. “The mayor’s very strict about it.”

I can tell by her expression that it’s not that uncommon

an occurrence. A public whipping’s a rare thing in District

12, although occasionally one occurs. Technically, Gale

and I could be whipped on a daily basis for poaching in

the woods — well, technically, we could get a whole lot

worse — except all the officials buy our meat. Besides,

our mayor, Madge’s father, doesn’t seem to have much

taste for such events. Maybe being the least prestigious,

poorest, most ridiculed district in the country has its

advantages. Such as, being largely ignored by the Capitol

as long as we produce our coal quotas.

“Do you get all the coal you want?” Rue asks.

“No,” I answer. “Just what we buy and whatever we track

in on our boots.”

“They feed us a bit extra during harvest, so that people

can keep going longer,” says Rue.

“Don’t you have to be in school?” I ask.

“Not during harvest. Everyone works then,” says Rue.

It’s interesting, hearing about her life. We have so little

communication with anyone outside our district. In fact, I

wonder if the Gamemakers are blocking out our

conversation, because even though the information

seems harmless, they don’t want people in different

districts to know about one another.

At Rue’s suggestion, we lay out all our food to plan

ahead. She’s seen most of mine, but I add the last couple

of crackers and beef strips to the pile. She’s gathered

quite a collection of roots, nuts, greens, and even some

berries.

I roll an unfamiliar berry in my fingers. “You sure this is

safe?”

“Oh, yes, we have them back home. I’ve been eating

them for days,” she says, popping a handful in her

mouth. I tentatively bite into one, and it’s as good as our

blackberries. Taking Rue on as an ally seems a better

choice all the time. We divide up our food supplies, so in

case we’re separated, we’ll both be set for a few days.

Apart from the food, Rue has a small water skin, a

homemade slingshot, and an extra pair of socks. She

also has a sharp shard of rock she uses as a knife. “I

know it’s not much,” she says as if embarrassed, “but I

had to get away from the Cornucopia fast.”

“You did just right,” I say. When I spread out my gear,

she gasps a little when she sees the sunglasses.

“How did you get those?” she asks.

“In my pack. They’ve been useless so far. They don’t

block the sun and they make it harder to see,” I say with

a shrug.

“These aren’t for sun, they’re for darkness,” exclaims

Rue. “Sometimes, when we harvest through the night,

they’ll pass out a few pairs to those of us highest in the

trees. Where the torchlight doesn’t reach. One time, this

boy Martin, he tried to keep his pair. Hid it in his pants.

They killed him on the spot.”

“They killed a boy for taking these?” I say.

“Yes, and everyone knew he was no danger. Martin

wasn’t right in the head. I mean, he still acted like a

three-year-old. He just wanted the glasses to play with,”

says Rue.

Hearing this makes me feel like District 12 is some sort

of safe haven. Of course, people keel over from

starvation all the time, but I can’t imagine the

Peacekeepers murdering a simpleminded child. There’s a

little girl, one of Greasy Sae’s grandkids, who wanders

around the Hob. She’s not quite right, but she’s treated

as a sort of pet. People toss her scraps and things.

“So what do these do?” I ask Rue, taking the glasses.

“They let you see in complete darkness,” says Rue. “Try

them tonight when the sun goes down.”

I give Rue some matches and she makes sure I have

plenty of leaves in case my stings flare up again. We

extinguish our fire and head upstream until it’s almost

nightfall.

“Where do you sleep?” I ask her. “In the trees?” She

nods. “In just your jacket?”

Rue holds up her extra pair of socks. “I have these for

my hands.”

I think of how cold the nights have been. “You can share

my sleeping bag if you want. We’ll both easily fit.” Her

face lights up. I can tell this is more than she dared hope

for.

We pick a fork high in a tree and settle in for the night

just as the anthem begins to play. There were no deaths

today.

“Rue, I only woke up today. How many nights did I

miss?” The anthem should block out our words, but still I

whisper. I even take the precaution of covering my lips

with my hand. I don’t want the audience to know what

I’m planning to tell her about Peeta. Taking a cue from

me, she does the same.

“Two,” she says. “The girls from Districts One and Four

are dead. There’s ten of us left.”

“Something strange happened. At least, I think it did. It

might have been the tracker jacker venom making me

imagine things,” I say. “You know the boy from my

district? Peeta? I think he saved my life. But he was with

the Careers.”

“He’s not with them now,” she says. “I’ve spied on their

base camp by the lake. They made it back before they

collapsed from the stingers. But he’s not there. Maybe he

did save you and had to run.”

I don’t answer. If, in fact, Peeta did save me, I’m in his

debt again. And this can’t be paid back. “If he did, it was

all probably just part of his act. You know, to make

people think he’s in love with me.”

“Oh,” says Rue thoughtfully. “I didn’t think that was an

act.”

“Course it is,” I say. “He worked it out with our mentor.”

The anthem ends and the sky goes dark. “Let’s try out

these glasses.” I pull out the glasses and slip them on.

Rue wasn’t kidding. I can see everything from the leaves

on the trees to a skunk strolling through the bushes a

good fifty feet away. I could kill it from here if I had a

mind to. I could kill anyone.

“I wonder who else got a pair of these,” I say.

“The Careers have two pairs. But they’ve got everything

down by the lake,” Rue says. “And they’re so strong.”

“We’re strong, too,” I say. “Just in a different way.”

“You are. You can shoot,” she says. “What can I do?”

“You can feed yourself. Can they?” I ask.

“They don’t need to. They have all those supplies,” Rue

says.

“Say they didn’t. Say the supplies were gone. How long

would they last?” I say. “I mean, it’s the Hunger Games,

right?”

“But, Katniss, they’re not hungry,” says Rue.

“No, they’re not. That’s the problem,” I agree. And for

the first time, I have a plan. A plan that isn’t motivated

by the need for flight and evasion. An offensive plan. “I

think we’re going to have to fix that, Rue.”

End of Chapter

Chapter 16.

Rue has decided to trust me wholeheartedly. I know this

because as soon as the anthem finishes she snuggles up

against me and falls asleep. Nor do I have any misgivings

about her, as I take no particular precautions. If she’d

wanted me dead, all she would have had to do was

disappear from that tree without pointing out the tracker

jacker nest. Needling me, at the very back of my mind, is

the obvious. Both of us can’t win these Games. But since

the odds are still against either of us surviving, I manage

to ignore the thought.

Besides, I’m distracted by my latest idea about the

Careers and their supplies. Somehow Rue and I must find

a way to destroy their food. I’m pretty sure feeding

themselves will be a tremendous struggle. Traditionally,

the Career tributes’ strategy is to get hold of all the food

early on and work from there. The years when they have

not protected it well — one year a pack of hideous

reptiles destroyed it, another a Gamemakers’ flood

washed it away — those are usually the years that

tributes from other districts have won. That the Careers

have been better red growing up is actually to their

disadvantage, because they don’t know how to be

hungry. Not the way Rue and I do.

But I’m too exhausted to begin any detailed plan tonight.

My wounds recovering, my mind still a bit foggy from the

venom, and the warmth of Rue at my side, her head

cradled on my shoulder, have given me a sense of

security. I realize, for the first time, how very lonely I’ve

been in the arena. How comforting the presence of

another human being can be. I give in to my drowsiness,

resolving that tomorrow the tables will turn. Tomorrow,

it’s the Careers who will have to watch their backs.

The boom of the cannon jolts me awake. The sky’s

streaked with light, the birds already chattering. Rue

perches in a branch across from me, her hands cupping

something. We wait, listening for more shots, but there

aren’t any.

“Who do you think that was?” I can’t help thinking of

Peeta.

“I don’t know. It could have been any of the others,”

says Rue. “I guess we’ll know tonight.”

“Who’s left again?” I ask.

“The boy from District One. Both tributes from Two. The

boy from Three. Thresh and me. And you and Peeta,”

says Rue. “That’s eight. Wait, and the boy from Ten, the

one with the bad leg. He makes nine.”

There’s someone else, but neither of us can remember

who it is.

“I wonder how that last one died,” says Rue.

“No telling. But it’s good for us. A death should hold the

crowd for a bit. Maybe we’ll have time to do something

before the Gamemakers decide things have been moving

too slowly,” I say. “What’s in your hands?”

“Breakfast,” says Rue. She holds them out revealing two

big eggs.

“What kind are those?” I ask.

“Not sure. There’s a marshy area over that way. Some

kind of waterbird,” she says.

It’d be nice to cook them, but neither of us wants to risk

a fire. My guess is the tribute who died today was a

victim of the Careers, which means they’ve recovered

enough to be back in the Games. We each suck out the

insides of an egg, eat a rabbit leg and some berries. It’s

a good breakfast anywhere.

“Ready to do it?” I say, pulling on my pack.

“Do what?” says Rue, but by the way she bounces up,

you can tell she’s up for whatever I propose.

“Today we take out the Careers’ food,” I say.

“Really? How?” You can see the glint of excitement in her

eyes. In this way, she’s exactly the opposite of Prim for

whom adventures are an ordeal.

“No idea. Come on, we’ll figure out a plan while we

hunt,” I say.

We don’t get much hunting done though because I’m too

busy getting every scrap of information I can out of Rue

about the Careers’ base. She’s only been in to spy on

them briefly, but she’s observant. They have set up their

camp beside the lake. Their supply stash is about thirty

yards away. During the day, they’ve been leaving

another tribute, the boy from District 3, to watch over

the supplies.

“The boy from District Three?” I ask. “He’s working with

them?”

“Yes, he stays at the camp full-time. He got stung, too,

when they drew the tracker jackers in by the lake,” says

Rue. “I guess they agreed to let him live if he acted as

their guard. But he’s not very big.”

“What weapons does he have?” I ask.

“Not much that I could see. A spear. He might be able to

hold a few of us off with that, but Thresh could kill him

easily,” says Rue.

“And the food’s just out in the open?” I say. She nods.

“Something’s not quite right about that whole setup.”

“I know. But I couldn’t tell what exactly,” says Rue.

“Katniss, even if you could get to the food, how would

you get rid of it?”

“Burn it. Dump it in the lake. Soak it in fuel.” I poke Rue

in the belly, just like I would Prim. “Eat it!” She giggles.

“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. Destroying things is

much easier than making them.”

For a while, we dig roots, we gather berries and greens,

we devise a strategy in hushed voices. And I come to

know Rue, the oldest of six kids, fiercely protective of her

siblings, who gives her rations to the younger ones, who

forages in the meadows in a district where the

Peacekeepers are far less obliging than ours. Rue, who

when you ask her what she loves most in the world,

replies, of all things, “Music.”

“Music?” I say. In our world, I rank music somewhere

between hair ribbons and rainbows in terms of

usefulness. At least a rainbow gives you a tip about the

weather. “You have a lot of time for that?”

“We sing at home. At work, too. That’s why I love your

pin,” she says, pointing to the mockingjay that I’ve again

forgotten about.

“You have mockingjays?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. I have a few that are my special friends. We

can sing back and forth for hours. They carry messages

for me,” she says.

“What do you mean?” I say.

“I’m usually up highest, so I’m the first to see the flag

that signals quitting time. There’s a special little song I

do,” says Rue. She opens her mouth and sings a little

four-note run in a sweet, clear voice. “And the

mockingjays spread it around the orchard. That’s how

everyone knows to knock off,” she continues. “They can

be dangerous though, if you get too near their nests. But

you can’t blame them for that.”

I unclasp the pin and hold it out to her. “Here, you take

it. It has more meaning for you than me.”

“Oh, no,” says Rue, closing my fingers back over the pin.

“I like to see it on you. That’s how I decided I could trust

you. Besides, I have this.” She pulls a necklace woven

out of some kind of grass from her shirt. On it, hangs a

roughly carved wooden star. Or maybe it’s a flower. “It’s

a good luck charm.”

“Well, it’s worked so far,” I say, pinning the mockingjay

back on my shirt. “Maybe you should just stick with

that.”

By lunch, we have a plan. By early afternoon, we are

poised to carry it out. I help Rue collect and place the

wood for the first two campfires, the third she’ll have

time for on her own. We decide to meet afterward at the

site where we ate our first meal together. The stream

should help guide me back to it. Before I leave, I make

sure Rue’s well stocked with food and matches. I even

insist she take my sleeping bag, in case it’s not possible

to rendezvous by nightfall.

“What about you? Won’t you be cold?” she asks.

“Not if I pick up another bag down by the lake,” I say.

“You know, stealing isn’t illegal here,” I say with a grin.

At the last minute, Rue decides to teach me her

mockingjay signal, the one she gives to indicate the day’s

work is done. “It might not work. But if you hear the

mockingjays singing it, you’ll know I’m okay, only I can’t

get back right away.”

“Are there many mockingjays here?” I ask.

“Haven’t you seen them? They’ve got nests everywhere,”

she says. I have to admit I haven’t noticed.

“Okay, then. If all goes according to plan, I’ll see you for

dinner,” I say.

Unexpectedly, Rue throws her arms around me. I only

hesitate a moment before I hug her back.

“You be careful,” she says to me.

“You, too,” I say. I turn and head back to the stream,

feeling somehow worried. About Rue being killed, about

Rue not being killed and the two of us being left for last,

about leaving Rue alone, about leaving Prim alone back

home. No, Prim has my mother and Gale and a baker

who has promised she won’t go hungry. Rue has only

me.

Once I reach the stream, I have only to follow it downhill

to the place I initially picked it up after the tracker jacker

attack. I have to be cautious as I move along the water

though, because I find my thoughts preoccupied with

unanswered questions, most of which concern Peeta. The

cannon that fired early this morning, did that signify his

death? If so, how did he die? At the hand of a Career?

And was that in revenge for letting me live? I struggle

again to remember that moment over Glimmer’s body,

when he burst through the trees. But just the fact that he

was sparkling leads me to doubt everything that

happened.

I must have been moving very slowly yesterday because

I reach the shallow stretch where I took my bath in just a

few hours. I stop to replenish my water and add a layer

of mud to my backpack. It seems bent on reverting to

orange no matter how many times I cover it.

My proximity to the Careers’ camp sharpens my senses,

and the closer I get to them, the more guarded I am,

pausing frequently to listen for unnatural sounds, an

arrow already fitted into the string of my bow. I don’t see

any other tributes, but I do notice some of the things Rue

has mentioned. Patches of the sweet berries. A bush with

the leaves that healed my stings. Clusters of tracker

jacker nests in the vicinity of the tree I was trapped in.

And here and there, the black-and-white flash of a

mockingjay wing in the branches high over my head.

When I reach the tree with the abandoned nest at the

foot, I pause a moment, to gather my courage. Rue has

given specific instructions on how to reach the best

spying place near the lake from this point. Remember, I

tell myself. You’re the hunter now, not them. I get a

firmer grasp on my bow and go on. I make it to the

copse Rue has told me about and again have to admire

her cleverness. It’s right at the edge of the wood, but the

bushy foliage is so thick down low I can easily observe

the Career camp without being spotted. Between us lies

the flat expanse where the Games began.

There are four tributes. The boy from District 1, Cato and

the girl from District 2, and a scrawny, ashen-skinned

boy who must be from District 3. He made almost no

impression on me at all during our time in the Capitol. I

can remember almost nothing about him, not his

costume, not his training score, not his interview. Even

now, as he sits there fiddling with some kind of plastic

box, he’s easily ignored in the presence of his large and

domineering companions. But he must be of some value

or they wouldn’t have bothered to let him live. Still,

seeing him only adds to my sense of unease over why

the Careers would possibly leave him as a guard, why

they have allowed him to live at all.

All four tributes seem to still be recovering from the

tracker jacker attack. Even from here, I can see the large

swollen lumps on their bodies. They must not have had

the sense to remove the stingers, or if they did, not

known about the leaves that healed them. Apparently,

whatever medicines they found in the Cornucopia have

been ineffective.

The Cornucopia sits in its original position, but its insides

have been picked clean. Most of the supplies, held in

crates, burlap sacks, and plastic bins, are piled neatly in

a pyramid in what seems a questionable distance from

the camp. Others are sprinkled around the perimeter of

the pyramid, almost mimicking the layout of supplies

around the Cornucopia at the onset of the Games. A

canopy of netting that, aside from discouraging birds,

seems to be useless shelters the pyramid itself.

The whole setup is completely perplexing. The distance,

the netting, and the presence of the boy from District 3.

One thing’s for sure, destroying those supplies is not

going to be as simple as it looks. Some other factor is at

play here, and I’d better stay put until I figure out what it

is. My guess is the pyramid is booby-trapped in some

manner. I think of concealed pits, descending nets, a

thread that when broken sends a poisonous dart into

your heart. Really, the possibilities are endless.

While I am mulling over my options, I hear Cato shout

out. He’s pointing up to the woods, far beyond me, and

without turning I know that Rue must have set the first

campfire. We’d made sure to gather enough green wood

to make the smoke noticeable. The Careers begin to arm

themselves at once.

An argument breaks out. It’s loud enough for me to hear

that it concerns whether or not the boy from District 3

should stay or accompany them.

“He’s coming. We need him in the woods, and his job’s

done here anyway. No one can touch those supplies,”

says Cato.

“What about Lover Boy?” says the boy from District 1.

“I keep telling you, forget about him. I know where I cut

him. It’s a miracle he hasn’t bled to death yet. At any

rate, he’s in no shape to raid us,” says Cato.

So Peeta is out there in the woods, wounded badly. But I

am still in the dark on what motivated him to betray the

Careers.

“Come on,” says Cato. He thrusts a spear into the hands

of the boy from District 3, and they head off in the

direction of the fire. The last thing I hear as they enter

the woods is Cato saying, “When we find her, I kill her in

my own way, and no one interferes.”

Somehow I don’t think he’s talking about Rue. She didn’t

drop a nest of tracker jackers on him.

I stay put for a half an hour or so, trying to figure out

what to do about the supplies. The one advantage I have

with the bow and arrow is distance. I could send a

flaming arrow into the pyramid easily enough — I’m a

good enough shot to get it through those openings in the

net — but there’s no guarantee it would catch. More

likely it’d just burn itself out and then what? I’d have

achieved nothing and given them far too much

information about myself. That I was here, that I have an

accomplice, that I can use the bow and arrow with

accuracy.

There’s no alternative. I’m going to have to get in closer

and see if I can’t discover what exactly protects the

supplies. In fact, I’m just about to reveal myself when a

movement catches my eye. Several hundred yards to my

right, I see someone emerge from the woods. For a

second, I think it’s Rue, but then I recognize Foxface —

she’s the one we couldn’t remember this morning —

creeping out onto the plain. When she decides it’s safe,

she runs for the pyramid, with quick, small steps. Just

before she reaches the circle of supplies that have been

littered around the pyramid, she stops, searches the

ground, and carefully places her feet on a spot. Then she

begins to approach the pyramid with strange little hops,

sometimes landing on one foot, teetering slightly,

sometimes risking a few steps. At one point, she

launches up in the air, over a small barrel and lands

poised on her tiptoes. But she overshot slightly, and her

momentum throws her forward. I hear her give a sharp

squeal as her hands hit the ground, but nothing happens.

In a moment, she’s regained her feet and continues until

she has reached the bulk of the supplies.

So, I’m right about the booby trap, but it’s clearly more

complex than I had imagined. I was right about the girl,

too. How wily is she to have discovered this path into the

food and to be able to replicate it so neatly? She fills her

pack, taking a few items from a variety of containers,

crackers from a crate, a handful of apples from a burlap

sack that hangs suspended from a rope off the side of a

bin. But only a handful from each, not enough to tip off

that the food is missing. Not enough to cause suspicion.

And then she’s doing her odd little dance back out of the

circle and scampering into the woods again, safe and

sound.

I realize I’m grinding my teeth in frustration. Foxface has

confirmed what I’d already guessed. But what sort of

trap have they laid that requires such dexterity? Has so

many trigger points? Why did she squeal so as her hands

made contact with the earth? You’d have thought . . .

and slowly it begins to dawn on me . . . you’d have

thought the very ground was going to explode.

“It’s mined,” I whisper. That explains everything. The

Careers’ willingness to leave their supplies, Foxface’s

reaction, the involvement of the boy from District 3,

where they have the factories, where they make

televisions and automobiles and explosives. But where

did he get them? In the supplies? That’s not the sort of

weapon the Gamemakers usually provide, given that they

like to see the tributes draw blood personally. I slip out of

the bushes and cross to one of the round metal plates

that lifted the tributes into the arena. The ground around

it has been dug up and patted back down. The land

mines were disabled after the sixty seconds we stood on

the plates, but the boy from District 3 must have

managed to reactivate them. I’ve never seen anyone in

the Games do that. I bet it came as a shock even to the

Gamemakers.

Well, hurray for the boy from District 3 for putting one

over on them, but what am I supposed to do now?

Obviously, I can’t go strolling into that mess without

blowing myself sky-high. As for sending in a burning

arrow, that’s more laughable than ever. The mines are

set off by pressure. It doesn’t have to be a lot, either.

One year, a girl dropped her token, a small wooden ball,

while she was at her plate, and they literally had to

scrape bits of her off the ground.

My arm’s pretty good, I might be able to chuck some

rocks in there and set off what? Maybe one mine? That

could start a chain reaction. Or could it? Would the boy

from District 3 have placed the mines in such a way that

a single mine would not disturb the others? Thereby

protecting the supplies but ensuring the death of the

invader. Even if I only blew up one mine, I’d draw the

Careers back down on me for sure. And anyway, what

am I thinking? There’s that net, clearly strung to deflect

any such attack. Besides, what I’d really need is to throw

about thirty rocks in there at once, setting off a big chain

reaction, demolishing the whole lot.

I glance back up at the woods. The smoke from Rue’s

second fire is wafting toward the sky. By now, the

Careers have probably begun to suspect some sort of

trick. Time is running out.

There is a solution to this, I know there is, if I can only

focus hard enough. I stare at the pyramid, the bins, the

crates, too heavy to topple over with an arrow. Maybe

one contains cooking oil, and the burning arrow idea is

reviving when I realize I could end up losing all twelve of

my arrows and not get a direct hit on an oil bin, since I’d

just be guessing. I’m genuinely thinking of trying to

re-create Foxface’s trip up to the pyramid in hopes of

finding a new means of destruction when my eyes light

on the burlap bag of apples. I could sever the rope in one

shot, didn’t I do as much in the Training Center? It’s a

big bag, but it still might only be good for one explosion.

If only I could free the apples themselves . . .

I know what to do. I move into range and give myself

three arrows to get the job done. I place my feet

carefully, block out the rest of the world as I take

meticulous aim, The first arrow tears through the side of

the bag near the top, leaving a split in the burlap. The

second widens it to a gaping hole. I can see the first

apple teetering when I let the third arrow go, catching

the torn flap of burlap and ripping it from the bag.

For a moment, everything seems frozen in time. Then

the apples spill to the ground and I’m blown backward

into the air.

End of Chapter

Chapter 17.

The impact with the hard-packed earth of the plain

knocks the wind out of me. My backpack does little to

soften the blow. Fortunately my quiver has caught in the

crook of my elbow, sparing both itself and my shoulder,

and my bow is locked in my grasp. The ground still

shakes with explosions. I can’t hear them. I can’t hear

anything at the moment. But the apples must have set

off enough mines, causing debris to activate the others. I

manage to shield my face with my arms as shattered bits

of matter, some of it burning, rain down around me. An

acrid smoke fills the air, which is not the best remedy for

someone trying to regain the ability to breathe.

After about a minute, the ground stops vibrating. I roll on

my side and allow myself a moment of satisfaction the

sight of the smoldering wreckage that was recently the

pyramid. The Careers aren’t likely to salvage anything

out of that.

I’d better get out of here, I think. They’ll be making a

beeline for the place. But once I’m on my feet, I realize

escape may not be so simple. I’m dizzy. Not the slightly

wobbly kind, but the kind that sends the trees swooping

around you and causes the earth to move in waves under

your feet.

I take a few steps and somehow wind up on my hands

and knees. I wait a few minutes to let it pass, but it

doesn’t.

Panic begins to set in. I can’t stay here. Flight is

essential. But I can neither walk nor hear. I place a hand

to my left ear, the one that was turned toward the blast,

and it comes away bloody. Have I gone deaf from the

explosion? The idea frightens me. I rely as much on my

ears as my eyes as a hunter, maybe more at times. But I

can’t let my fear show. Absolutely, positively, I am live

on every screen in Panem.

No blood trails, I tell myself, and manage to pull my hood

up over my head, tie the cord under my chin with

uncooperative fingers. That should help soak up the

blood. I can’t walk, but can I crawl? I move forward

tentatively. Yes, if I go very slowly, I can crawl. Most of

the woods will offer insufficient cover. My only hope is to

make it back to Rue’s copse and conceal myself in

greenery. I can’t get caught out here on my hands and

knees in the open. Not only will I face death, it’s sure to

be a long and painful one at Cato’s hand. The thought of

Prim having to watch that keeps me doggedly inching my

way toward the hideout.

Another blast knocks me flat on my face. A stray mine,

set off by some collapsing crate. This happens twice

more. I’m reminded of those last few kernels that burst

when Prim and I pop corn over the fire at home.

To say I make it in the nick of time is an understatement.

I have literally just dragged myself into the tangle of

hushes at the base of the trees when there’s Cato,

barreling onto the plain, soon followed by his

companions. His rage is so extreme it might be comical

— so people really do tear out their hair and beat the

ground with their fists — if I didn’t know that it was

aimed at me, at what I have done to him. Add to that my

proximity, my inability to run or defend myself, and in

fact, the whole thing has me terrified. I’m glad my hiding

place makes it impossible for the cameras to get a close

shot of me because I’m biting my nails like there’s no

tomorrow. Gnawing off the last bits of nail polish, trying

to keep my teeth from chattering.

The boy from District 3 throws stones into the ruins and

must have declared all the mines activated because the

Careers are approaching the wreckage.

Cato has finished the first phase of his tantrum and takes

out his anger on the smoking remains by kicking open

various containers. The other tributes are poking around

in the mess, looking for anything to salvage, but there’s

nothing. The boy from District 3 has done his job too

well. This idea must occur to Cato, too, because he turns

on the boy and appears to be shouting at him. The boy

from District 3 only has time to turn and run before Cato

catches him in a headlock from behind. I can see the

muscles ripple in Cato’s arms as he sharply jerks the

boy’s head to the side.

It’s that quick. The death of the boy from District 3.

The other two Careers seem to be trying to calm Cato

down. I can tell he wants to return to the woods, but

they keep pointing at the sky, which puzzles me until I

realize, Of course. They think whoever set off the

explosions is dead.

They don’t know about the arrows and the apples. They

assume the booby trap was faulty, but that the tribute

who blew up the supplies was killed doing it. If there was

a cannon shot, it could have been easily lost in the

subsequent explosions. The shattered remains of the

thief removed by hovercraft. They retire to the far side of

the lake to allow the Gamemakers to retrieve the body of

the boy from District 3. And they wait.

I suppose a cannon goes off. A hovercraft appears and

takes the dead boy. The sun dips below the horizon.

Night falls. Up in the sky, I see the seal and know the

anthem must have begun. A moment of darkness. They

show the boy from District 3. They show the boy from

District 10, who must have died this morning. Then the

seal reappears. So, now they know. The bomber

survived. In the seal’s light, I can see Cato and the girl

from District 2 put on their night-vision glasses. The boy

from District 1 ignites a tree branch for a torch,

illuminating the grim determination on all their faces. The

Careers stride back into the woods to hunt. The dizziness

has subsided and while my left ear is still deafened, I can

hear a ringing in my right, which seems a good sign.

There’s no point in leaving my hiding place, though. I’m

about as safe as I can be, here at the crime scene. They

probably think the bomber has a two-or three-hour lead

on them. Still it’s a long time before I risk moving.

The first thing I do is dig out my own glasses and put

them on, which relaxes me a little, to have at least one

of my hunter’s senses working. I drink some water and

wash the blood from my ear. Fearing the smell of meat

will draw unwanted predators — fresh blood is bad

enough — I make a good meal out of the greens and

roots and berries Rue and I gathered today.

Where is my little ally? Did she make it back to the

rendezvous point? Is she worried about me? At least, the

sky has shown we’re both alive.

I run through the surviving tributes on my fingers. The

boy from 1, both from 2, Foxface, both from 11 and 12.

Just eight of us. The betting must be getting really hot in

the Capitol. They’ll be doing special features on each of

us now. Probably interviewing our friends and families.

It’s been a long time since a tribute from District 12

made it into the top eight. And now there are two of us.

Although from what Cato said, Peeta’s on his way out.

Not that Cato is the final word on anything. Didn’t he just

lose his entire stash of supplies?

Let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin, Cato, I

think. Let them begin for real.

A cold breeze has sprung up. I reach for my sleeping bag

before I remember I left it with Rue. I was supposed to

pick up another one, but what with the mines and all, I

forgot. I begin to shiver. Since roosting overnight in a

tree isn’t sensible anyway, I scoop out a hollow under the

bushes and cover myself with leaves and pine needles.

I’m still freezing. I lay my sheet of plastic over my upper

body and position my backpack to block the wind. It’s a

little better. I begin to have more sympathy for the girl

from District 8 that lit the fire that first night. But now it’s

me who needs to grit my teeth and tough it out until

morning. More leaves, more pine needles. I pull my arms

inside my jacket and tuck my knees up to my chest.

Somehow, I drift off to sleep.

When I open my eyes, the world looks slightly fractured,

and it takes a minute to realize that the sun must be well

up and the glasses fragmenting my vision. As I sit up and

remove them, I hear a laugh somewhere near the lake

and freeze. The laugh’s distorted, but the fact that it

registered at all means I must be regaining my hearing.

Yes, my right ear can hear again, although it’s still

ringing. As for my left ear, well, at least the bleeding has

stopped.

I peer through the bushes, afraid the Careers have

returned, trapping me here for an indefinite time. No, it’s

Foxface, standing in the rubble of the pyramid and

laughing. She’s smarter than the Careers, actually finding

a few useful items in the ashes. A metal pot. A knife

blade. I’m perplexed by her amusement until I realize

that with the Careers’ stores eliminated, she might

actually stand a chance. Just like the rest of us. It

crosses my mind to reveal myself and enlist her as a