END OF BOOK ONE 3 страница

I brace myself for the agony that’s sure to follow. But as I feel the tip open the first cut at my lip, some great form yanks Clove from my body and then she’s screaming. I’m too stunned at first, too unable to process what has happened. Has Peeta somehow come to my rescue? Have the Gamemakers sent in some wild animal to add to the fun? Has a hovercraft inexplicably plucked her into the air?

But when I push myself up on my numb arms, I see it’s none of the above. Clove is dangling a foot off the ground, imprisoned in Thresh’s arms. I let out a gasp, seeing him like that, towering over me, holding Clove like a rag doll. I remember him as big, but he seems more massive, more powerful than I even recall. If anything, he seems to have gained weight in the arena. He flips Clove around and flings her onto the ground.

When he shouts, I jump, never having heard him speak above a mutter. “What’d you do to that little girl? You kill her? ”

Clove is scrambling backward on all fours, like a frantic insect, too shocked to even call for Cato. “No! No, it wasn’t me! ”

“You said her name. I heard you. You kill her? ” Another thought brings a fresh wave of rage to his features. “You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here? ”

“No! No, I —” Clove sees the stone, about the size of a small loaf of bread in Thresh’s hand and loses it. “Cato! ” she screeches. “Cato! ”

“Clove! ” I hear Cato’s answer, but he’s too far away, I can tell that much, to do her any good. What was he doing? Trying to get Foxface or Peeta? Or had he been lying in wait for Thresh and just badly misjudged his location?

Thresh brings the rock down hard against Clove’s temple. It’s not bleeding, but I can see the dent in her skull and I know that she’s a goner. There’s still life in her now though, in the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the low moan escaping her lips.

When Thresh whirls around on me, the rock raised, I know it’s no good to run. And my bow is empty, the last loaded arrow having gone in Clove’s direction. I’m trapped in the glare of his strange golden brown eyes. “What’d she mean? About Rue being your ally? ”

“I — I — we teamed up. Blew up the supplies. I tried to save her, I did. But he got there first. District One, ” I say. Maybe if he knows I helped Rue, he won’t choose some slow, sadistic end for me.

“And you killed him? ” he demands.

“Yes. I killed him. And buried her in flowers, ” I say. “And I sang her to sleep. ”

Tears spring in my eyes. The tension, the fight goes out of me at the memory. And I’m overwhelmed by Rue, and the pain in my head, and my fear of Thresh, and the moaning of the dying girl a few feet away.

“To sleep? ” Thresh says gruffly.

“To death. I sang until she died, ” I say. “Your district. . . they sent me bread. ” My hand reaches up but not for an arrow that I know I’ll never reach. Just to wipe my nose. “Do it fast, okay, Thresh? ”

Conflicting emotions cross Thresh’s face. He lowers the rock and points at me, almost accusingly. “Just this one time, I let you go. For the little girl. You and me, we’re even then. No more owed. You understand? ”

I nod because I do understand. About owing. About hating it. I understand that if Thresh wins, he’ll have to go back and face a district that has already broken all the rules to thank me, and he is breaking the rules to thank me, too. And I understand that, for the moment, Thresh is not going to smash in my skull.

“Clove! ” Cato’s voice is much nearer now. I can tell by the pain in it that he sees her on the ground.

“You better run now, Fire Girl, ” says Thresh.

I don’t need to be told twice. I flip over and my feet dip into the hard-packed earth as I run away from Thresh and Clove and the sound of Cato’s voice. Only when I reach the woods do I turn back for an instant. Thresh and both large backpacks are vanishing over the edge of the plain into the area I’ve never seen. Cato kneels beside Clove, spear in hand, begging her to stay with him. In a moment, he will realize it’s futile, she can’t be saved. I crash into the trees, repeatedly swiping away the blood that’s pouring into my eye, fleeing like the wild, wounded creature I am. After a few minutes, I hear the cannon and I know that Clove has died, that Cato will be on one of our trails. Either Thresh’s or mine. I’m seized with terror, weak from my head wound, shaking. I load an arrow, but Cato can throw that spear almost as far as I can shoot.

Only one thing calms me down. Thresh has Cato’s backpack containing the thing he needs desperately. If I had to bet, Cato headed out after Thresh, not me. Still I don’t slow down when I reach the water. I plunge right in, boots still on, and flounder downstream. I pull off Rue’s socks that I’ve been using for gloves and press them into my forehead, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but they’re soaked in minutes.

Somehow I make it back to the cave. I squeeze through the rocks. In the dappled light, I pull the little orange backpack from my arm, cut open the clasp, and dump the contents on the ground. One slim box containing one hypodermic needle. Without hesitating, I jam the needle into Peeta’s arm and slowly press down on the plunger.

My hands go to my head and then drop to my lap, slick with blood.

The last thing I remember is an exquisitely beautiful green-and-silver moth landing on the curve of my wrist.

22.

The sound of rain drumming on the roof of our house gently pulls me toward consciousness. I fight to return to sleep though, wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets, safe at home. I’m vaguely aware that my head aches. Possibly I have the flu and this is why I’m allowed to stay in bed, even though I can tell I’ve been asleep a long time. My mother’s hand strokes my cheek and I don’t push it away as I would in wakefulness, never wanting her to know how much I crave that gentle touch. How much I miss her even though I still don’t trust her. Then there’s a voice, the wrong voice, not my mother’s, and I’m scared.

“Katniss, ” it says. “Katniss, can you hear me? ”

My eyes open and the sense of security vanishes. I’m not home, not with my mother. I’m in a dim, chilly cave, my bare feet freezing despite the cover, the air tainted with the unmistakable smell of blood. The haggard, pale face of a boy slides into view, and after an initial jolt of alarm, I feel better. “Peeta. ”

“Hey, ” he says. “Good to see your eyes again. ”

“How long have I been out? ” I ask.

“Not sure. I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood, ” he says. “I think it’s stopped finally, but I wouldn’t sit up or anything. ”

I gingerly lift my hand to my head and find it bandaged. This simple gesture leaves me weak and dizzy. Peeta holds a bottle to my lips and I drink thirstily.

“You’re better, ” I say.

“Much better. Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick, ” he says. “By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone. ”

He doesn’t seem angry about my tricking him, drugging him, and running off to the feast. Maybe I’m just too beat-up and I’ll hear about it later when I’m stronger. But for the moment, he’s all gentleness.

“Did you eat? ” I ask.

“I’m sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realized it might have to last a while. Don’t worry, I’m back on a strict diet, ” he says.

“No, it’s good. You need to eat. I’ll go hunting soon, ” I say.

“Not too soon, all right? ” he says. “You just let me take care of you for a while. ”

I don’t really seem to have much choice. Peeta feeds me bites of groosling and raisins and makes me drink plenty of water. He rubs some warmth back into my feet and wraps them in his jacket before tucking the sleeping bag back up around my chin.

“Your boots and socks are still damp and the weather’s not helping much, ” he says. There’s a clap of thunder, and I see lightning electrify the sky through an opening in the rocks. Rain drips through several holes in the ceiling, but Peeta has built a sort of canopy over my head an upper body by wedging the square of plastic into the rock above me.

“I wonder what brought on this storm? I mean, who’s the target? ” says Peeta.

“Cato and Thresh, ” I say without thinking. “Foxface will be in her den somewhere, and Clove. . . she cut me an then. . . ” My voice trails off.

“I know Clove’s dead. I saw it in the sky last night, ” h says. “Did you kill her? ”

“No. Thresh broke her skull with a rock, ” I say.

“Lucky he didn’t catch you, too, ” says Peeta.

The memory of the feast returns full-force and I feel sick. “He did. But he let me go. ” Then, of course, I have to tell him. About things I’ve kept to myself because he was too sick to ask and I wasn’t ready to relive anyway. Like the explosion and my ear and Rue’s dying and the boy from District 1 and the bread. All of which leads to what happened with Thresh and how he was paying off a debt of sorts.

“He let you go because he didn’t want to owe you anything? ” asks Peeta in disbelief.

“Yes. I don’t expect you to understand it. You’ve always had enough. But if you’d lived in the Seam, I wouldn’t have to explain, ” I say.

“And don’t try. Obviously I’m too dim to get it. ”

“It’s like the bread. How I never seem to get over owing you for that, ” I say.

“The bread? What? From when we were kids? ” he says. “I think we can let that go. I mean, you just brought me back from the dead. ”

“But you didn’t know me. We had never even spoken. Besides, it’s the first gift that’s always the hardest to pay back. I wouldn’t even have been here to do it if you hadn’t helped me then, ” I say. “Why did you, anyway? ”

“Why? You know why, ” Peeta says. I give my head a slight, painful shake. “Haymitch said you would take a lot of convincing. ”

“Haymitch? ” I ask. “What’s he got to do with it? ”

“Nothing, ” Peeta says. “So, Cato and Thresh, huh? I guess it’s too much to hope that they’ll simultaneously destroy each other? ”

But the thought only upsets me. “I think we would like Thresh. I think he’d be our friend back in District Twelve, ” I say.

“Then let’s hope Cato kills him, so we don’t have to, ” says Peeta grimly.

I don’t want Cato to kill Thresh at all. I don’t want anyone else to die. But this is absolutely not the kind of thing that victors go around saying in the arena. Despite my best efforts, I can feel tears starting to pool in my eyes.

Peeta looks at me in concern. “What is it? Are you in a lot of pain? ”

I give him another answer, because it is equally true but can be taken as a brief moment of weakness instead of a terminal one. “I want to go home, Peeta, ” I say plaintively, like a small child.

“You will. I promise, ” he says, and bends over to give me a kiss.

“I want to go home now, ” I say.

“Tell you what. You go back to sleep and dream of home. And you’ll be there for real before you know it, ” lie says. “Okay? ”

“Okay, ” I whisper. “Wake me if you need me to keep watch. ”

“I’m good and rested, thanks to you and Haymitch. Besides, who knows how long this will last? ” he says.

What does he mean? The storm? The brief respite ii brings us? The Games themselves? I don’t know, but I’m ion sad and tired to ask.

It’s evening when Peeta wakes me again. The rain has turned to a downpour, sending streams of water through our ceiling where earlier there had been only drips. Peeta has placed the broth pot under the worst one and repositioned the plastic to deflect most of it from me. I feel a bit better, able to sit up without getting too dizzy, and I’m absolutely famished. So is Peeta. It’s clear he’s been waiting for me to wake up to eat and is eager to get started.

There’s not much left. Two pieces of groosling, a small mishmash of roots, and a handful of dried fruit.

“Should we try and ration it? ” Peeta asks.

“No, let’s just finish it. The groosling’s getting old anyway, and the last thing we need is to get sick off spoiled food, ” I say, dividing the food into two equal piles. We try and eat slowly, but we’re both so hungry were done in a couple of minutes. My stomach is in no way satisfied. “Tomorrow’s a hunting day, ” I say.

“I won’t be much help with that, ” Peeta says. “I’ve never hunted before. ”

“I’ll kill and you cook, ” I say. “And you can always gather. ”

“I wish there was some sort of bread bush out there, ” says Peeta.

“The bread they sent me from District Eleven was still warm, ” I say with a sigh. “Here, chew these. ” I hand him a couple of mint leaves and pop a few in my own mouth.

It’s hard to even see the projection in the sky, but it’s clear enough to know there were no more deaths today. So Cato and Thresh haven’t had it out yet.

“Where did Thresh go? I mean, what’s on the far side of the circle? ” I ask Peeta.

“A field. As far as you can see it’s full of grasses as high as my shoulders. I don’t know, maybe some of them are grain. There are patches of different colors. But there are no paths, ” says Peeta.

“I bet some of them are grain. I bet Thresh knows which ones, too, ” I say. “Did you go in there? ”

“No. Nobody really wanted to track Thresh down in that grass. It has a sinister feeling to it. Every time I look at that field, all I can think of are hidden things. Snakes, and rabid animals, and quicksand, ” Peeta says. “There could be anything in there. ”

I don’t say so but Peeta’s words remind me of the warnings they give us about not going beyond the fence in District 12. I can’t help, for a moment, comparing him with Gale, who would see that field as a potential source of food as well as a threat. Thresh certainly did. It’s not that Peeta’s soft exactly, and he’s proved he’s not a coward. But there are things you don’t question too much, I guess, when your home always smells like baking bread, whereas Gale questions everything. What would Peeta think of the irreverent banter that passes between us as we break the law each day? Would it shock him? The things we say about Panem? Gale’s tirades against the Capitol?

“Maybe there is a bread bush in that field, ” I say. “Maybe that’s why Thresh looks better fed now than when we started the Games. ”

“Either that or he’s got very generous sponsors, ” says Peeta. “I wonder what we’d have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread. ”

I raise my eyebrows before I remember he doesn’t know about the message Haymitch sent us a couple of nights ago. One kiss equals one pot of broth. It’s not the sort of thing I can blurt out, either. To say my thoughts aloud would be tipping off the audience that the romance has been fabricated to play on their sympathies and that would result in no food at all. Somehow, believably, I’ve got to get things back on track. Something simple to start with. I reach out and take his hand.

“Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out, ” I say mischievously.

“Yeah, about that, ” says Peeta, entwining his fingers in mine. “Don’t try something like that again. ”

“Or what? ” I ask.

“Or. . . or. . . ” He can’t think of anything good. “Just give me a minute. ”

“What’s the problem? ” I say with a grin.

“The problem is we’re both still alive. Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing, ” says Peeta.

“I did do the right thing, ” I say.

“No! Just don’t, Katniss! ” His grip tightens, hurting my hand, and there’s real anger in his voice. “Don’t die for me. You won’t be doing me any favors. All right? ”

I’m startled by his intensity but recognize an excellent opportunity for getting food, so I try to keep up. “Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta, did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren’t the only one who. . . who worries about. . . what it would be like if. . . ”

I fumble. I’m not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don’t want him to die. And it’s not about the sponsors. And it’s not about what will happen back home. And it’s not just that I don’t want to be alone. It’s him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread.

“If what, Katniss? ” he says softly.

I wish I could pull the shutters closed, blocking out this moment from the prying eyes of Panem. Even if it means losing food. Whatever I’m feeling, it’s no one’s business but mine.

“That’s exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of, ” I say evasively, although Haymitch never said anything of the kind. In fact, he’s probably cursing me out right now for dropping the ball during such an emotionally charged moment. But Peeta somehow catches it.

“Then I’ll just have to fill in the blanks myself, ” he says, and moves in to me.

This is the first kiss that we’re both fully aware of. Neither of us hobbled by sickness or pain or simply unconscious. Our lips neither burning with fever or icy cold. This is the first kiss where I actually feel stirring inside my chest. Warm and curious. This is the first kiss that makes me want another.

But I don’t get it. Well, I do get a second kiss, but it’s just a light one on the tip of my nose because Peeta’s been distracted. “I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it’s bedtime anyway, ” he says.

My socks are dry enough to wear now. I make Peeta put his jacket back on. The damp cold seems to cut right down to my bones, so he must be half frozen. I insist on taking the first watch, too, although neither of us think it’s likely anyone will come in this weather. But he won’t agree unless I’m in the bag, too, and I’m shivering so hard that it’s pointless to object. In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Peeta was a million miles away, I’m struck by his immediacy now. As we settle in, he pulls my head down to use his arm as a pillow, the other rests protectively over me even when he goes to sleep. No one has held me like this in such a long time. Since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else’s arms have made me feel this safe.

With the aid of the glasses, I lie watching the drips of water splatter on the cave floor. Rhythmic and lulling. Several times, I drift off briefly and then snap awake, guilty and angry with myself. After three or four hours, I can’t help it, I have to rouse Peeta because I can’t keep my eyes open. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Tomorrow, when it’s dry, I’ll find us a place so high in the trees we can both sleep in peace, ” I promise as I drift off.

But tomorrow is no better in terms of weather. The deluge continues as if the Gamemakers are intent on washing us all away. The thunder’s so powerful it seems to shake the ground. Peeta’s considering heading out anyway to scavenge for food, but I tell him in this storm it would be pointless. He won’t be able to see three feet in front of his face and he’ll only end up getting soaked to the skin for his troubles. He knows I’m right, but the gnawing in our stomachs is becoming painful.

The day drags on turning into evening and there’s no break in the weather. Haymitch is our only hope, but nothing is forthcoming, either from lack of money — everything will cost an exorbitant amount — or because he’s dissatisfied with our performance. Probably the latter. I’d be the first to admit we’re not exactly riveting today. Starving, weak from injuries, trying not to reopen wounds. We’re sitting huddled together wrapped in the sleeping bag, yes, but mostly to keep warm. The most exciting thing either of us does is nap.

I’m not really sure how to ramp up the romance. The kiss last night was nice, but working up to another will take some forethought. There are girls in the Seam, some of the merchant girls, too, who navigate these waters so easily. But I’ve never had much time or use for it. Anyway, just a kiss isn’t enough anymore clearly because if it was we’d have gotten food last night. My instincts tell me Haymitch isn’t just looking for physical affection, he wants something more personal. The sort of stuff he was trying to get me to tell about myself when we were practicing for the interview. I’m rotten at it, but Peeta’s not. Maybe the best approach is to get him talking.

“Peeta, ” I say lightly. “You said at the interview you’d had a crush on me forever. When did forever start? ”

“Oh, let’s see. I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair. . . it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up, ” Peeta says.

“Your father? Why? ” I ask.

“He said, ‘See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner, ’” Peeta says.

“What? You’re making that up! ” I exclaim.

“No, true story, ” Peeta says. “And I said, ‘A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could’ve had you? ’ And he said, ‘Because when he sings. . . even the birds stop to listen. ’”

“That’s true. They do. I mean, they did, ” I say. I’m stunned and surprisingly moved, thinking of the baker telling this to Peeta. It strikes me that my own reluctance to sing, my own dismissal of music might not really be that I think it’s a waste of time. It might be because it reminds me too much of my father.

“So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent, ” Peeta says.

“Oh, please, ” I say, laughing.

“No, it happened. And right when your song ended, I knew — just like your mother — I was a goner, ” Peeta says. “Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you. ”

“Without success, ” I add.

“Without success. So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck, ” says Peeta.

For a moment, I’m almost foolishly happy and then confusion sweeps over me. Because we’re supposed to be making up this stuff, playing at being in love not actually being in love. But Peeta’s story has a ring of truth to it. That part about my father and the birds. And I did sing the first day of school, although I don’t remember the song. And that red plaid dress. . . there was one, a hand-me-down to Prim that got washed to rags after my father’s death.

It would explain another thing, too. Why Peeta took a beating to give me the bread on that awful hollow day. So, if those details are true. . . could it all be true?

“You have a. . . remarkable memory, ” I say haltingly.

“I remember everything about you, ” says Peeta, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention. ”

“I am now, ” I say.

“Well, I don’t have much competition here, ” he says.

I want to draw away, to close those shutters again, but I know I can’t. It’s as if I can hear Haymitch whispering in my ear, “Say it! Say it! ”

I swallow hard and get the words out. “You don’t have much competition anywhere. ” And this time, it’s me who leans in.

Our lips have just barely touched when the clunk outside makes us jump. My bow comes up, the arrow ready to fly, but there’s no other sound. Peeta peers through the rocks and then gives a whoop. Before I can stop him, lie’s out in the rain, then handing something in to me. A silver parachute attached to a basket. I rip it open at once and inside there’s a feast — fresh rolls, goat cheese, apples, and best of all, a tureen of that incredible lamb stew on wild rice. The very dish I told Caesar Flickerman was the most impressive thing the Capitol had to offer.

Peeta wriggles back inside, his face lit up like the sun. “I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve. ”

“I guess so, ” I answer.

But in my head I can hear Haymitch’s smug, if slightly exasperated, words, “Yes, that’s what I’m looking lot, sweetheart. ”

23.

Every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and cram it, handful by handful into my mouth. But Peeta’s voice stops me. “We better take it slow on that stew. Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn’t even starving then. ”

“You’re right. And I could just inhale the whole thing! ” I say regretfully. But I don’t. We are quite sensible. We each have a roll, half an apple, and an egg-size serving of stew and rice. I make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls — they even sent us silverware and plates — savoring each bite. When we finish, I stare longingly at the dish. “I want more. ”

“Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another serving, ” Peeta says.

“Agreed, ” I say. “It’s going to be a long hour. ”

“Maybe not that long, ” says Peeta. “What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me. . . no competition. . . best thing that ever happened to you. . . ”

“I don’t remember that last part, ” I say, hoping it’s too dim in here for the cameras to pick up my blush.

“Oh, that’s right. That’s what I was thinking, ” he says. “Scoot over, I’m freezing. ”

I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. I can feel Haymitch nudging me to keep up the act. “So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls? ” I ask him.

“No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you, ” he says.

“I’m sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam, ” I say.

“Hardly. But I couldn’t care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won’t be a girl from the Seam, you’ll be a girl from the Victor’s Village, ” he says.

That’s right. If we win, we’ll each get a house in the part of town reserved for Hunger Games’ victors. Long ago, when the Games began, the Capitol had built a dozen fine houses in each district. Of course, in ours only one is occupied. Most of the others have never been lived in at all.

A disturbing thought hits me. “But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch! ”

“Ah, that’ll be nice, ” says Peeta, tightening his arms around me. “You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games’ tales. ”

“I told you, he hates me! ” I say, but I can’t help laughing at the image of Haymitch becoming my new pal.

“Only sometimes. When he’s sober, I’ve never heard him say one negative thing about you, ” says Peeta.

“He’s never sober! ” I protest.

“That’s right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It’s Cinna who likes you. But that’s mainly because you didn’t try to run when he set you on fire, ” says Peeta. “On the other hand, Haymitch. . . well, if I were you, I’d avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you. ”

“I thought you said I was his favorite, ” I say.

“He hates me more, ” says Peeta. “I don’t think people in general are his sort of thing. ”

I know the audience will enjoy our having fun at Haymitch’s expense. He has been around so long, he’s practically an old friend to some of them. And after his head-dive off the stage at the reaping, everybody knows him. By this time, they’ll have dragged him out of the control room for interviews about us. No telling what sort of lies he’s made up. He’s at something of a disadvantage because most mentors have a partner, another victor to help them whereas Haymitch has to be ready to go into action at any moment. Kind of like me when I was alone in the arena. I wonder how he’s holding up, with the drinking, the attention, and the stress of trying to keep us alive.

It’s funny. Haymitch and I don’t get along well in person, but maybe Peeta is right about us being alike because he seems able to communicate with me by the timing of his gifts. Like how I knew I must be close to water when he withheld it and how I knew the sleep syrup just wasn’t something to ease Peeta’s pain and how I know now that I have to play up the romance. He hasn’t made much effort to connect with Peeta really. Perhaps he thinks a bowl of broth would just be a bowl of broth to Peeta, whereas I’ll see the strings attached to it.

A thought hits me, and I’m amazed the question’s taken so long to surface. Maybe it’s because I’ve only recently begun to view Haymitch with a degree of curiosity. “How do you think he did it? ”

“Who? Did what? ” Peeta asks.

“Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games? ” I say.

Peeta considers this quite a while before he answers. Haymitch is sturdily built, but no physical wonder like Cato or Thresh. He’s not particularly handsome. Not in the way that causes sponsors to rain gifts on you. And he’s so surly, it’s hard to imagine anyone teaming up with him. There’s only one way Haymitch could have won, and Peeta says it just as I’m reaching this conclusion myself.

“He outsmarted the others, ” says Peeta.

I nod, then let the conversation drop. But secretly I’m wondering if Haymitch sobered up long enough to help Peeta and me because he thought we just might have the wits to survive. Maybe he wasn’t always a drunk. Maybe, in the beginning, he tried to help the tributes. But then it got unbearable. It must be hell to mentor two kids and then watch them die. Year after year after year. I realize that if I get out of here, that will become my job. To mentor the girl from District 12. The idea is so repellent, I thrust it from my mind.

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