hunger-games-2

The kiss last night was nice, but working up to another will take some forethought.

The deluge continues as if the Gamemakers are intent on washing us all away.

In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Peeta was a million miles away, I’m struck by his immediacy now.

“Yeah, about that,” says Peeta, entwining his fingers in mine.

“I want to go home, Peeta,” I say plaintively, like a small child.

By the time I’ve worked through the emotions of surprise, admiration, anger, jealousy, and frustration, I’m watching that reddish mane of hair disappear into the trees well out of shooting range.

Even with the glasses, everything has an unfamiliar slant to it.

The glasses are quite remarkable, but I still sorely miss having the use of my left ear.

One where I’ve slipped into the woods, lantern in hand, to join Gale at some prearranged place where we’ll sit bundled together, sipping herb tea from metal flasks wrapped in quilting, hoping game will pass our way as the morning comes on.

She’ll probably be hanging somewhere nearby, seeing what she can scavenge.

It’s a slow and arduous process, but after a lot of sweating and shifting things around, I’m pretty pleased with my work.

He’s like listening to Haymitch before the alcohol has soaked him into incoherence.

We took her offer on the deer and she threw in a couple of venison steaks we could pick up after the butchering.

You don’t haggle with Rooba.

The butcher, a short, chunky woman named Rooba, came to the back door when we knocked.

You don’t scowl.

“You know, you’re kind of squeamish for such a lethal person,” says Peeta as I beat the shorts clean between two rocks.

Although, against the sterile bandage, the hem of his undershorts looks filthy and teeming with contagion.

And worst of all, the smell of festering flesh.

His flesh is very pale in the sunlight and he no longer looks strong and stocky.

Since treating his wounds seems pointless when he’s lying in what’s become a mud puddle, I manage to prop him up against a boulder.

Even if they think it’s a ruse, I hope they’ll decide I’m hidden somewhere near it.

Whatever doubts I’ve had about him dissipate because if either of us took the other’s life now we’d be pariahs when we returned to District 12.

It’s made of dark ration grain and shaped in a crescent.

Without emotion or the slightest tremor in my hands.

1) I make it to the copse Rue has told me about and again have to admire her cleverness. 2) My only hope is to make it back to Rue’s copse and conceal myself in greenery.

An acrid smoke fills the air, which is not the best remedy for someone trying to regain the ability to breathe.

So, I’m right about the booby trap, but it’s clearly more complex than I had imagined.

The whole setup is completely perplexing.

1) Having strayed farther afield than usual, I was hurrying back home, lugging my burlap sacks, when I came across a dead rabbit. 2) Most of the supplies, held in crates, burlap sacks, and plastic bins, are piled neatly in a pyramid in what seems

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.

Of course, people keel over from starvation all the time, but I can’t imagine the Peacekeepers murdering a simpleminded child.

Roasted over the fire, they have the sharp sweet taste of a parsnip.

Rue contributes a big handful of some sort of starchy root to the meal.

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 gently pull the stamen through the blossom and set the drop of nectar on my tongue.

A foul, rotten taste pervades my mouth, and the water has little effect on it.

But eventually I accept that the poison must have finally worked its way out of my system, leaving my body wracked and feeble.

Somewhere in my befuddled mind one thought connects to another and I’m on my feet, teetering through the trees back to Glimmer.

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.

Compared to the agony of last night’s climb, this one is a cinch.

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.

If the Careers want me, let them find me, I think before drifting into a stupor.

It’s spring-fed, bubbling up out of a crevice in some rocks, and blissfully cool.

My calf is screaming, my hands covered in red welts.

How long I scramble along dodging the fireballs I can’t say, but the attacks finally begin to abate.

A lifetime of watching the Hunger Games lets me know that certain areas of the arena are rigged for certain attacks.

I can’t see where they’re being launched from, but it’s not a hovercraft.

Crouching on my hands and knees, I retch until there’s nothing left to come up.

I hurdle over a burning log.

A few hours later, the stampede of feet shakes me from slumber.

My head throbs with every beat of my heart.

In no time, I’ve cleaned and gutted the animal, leaving the head, feet, tail, skin, and innards, under a pile of leaves.

Maybe it’s imprudent to check them with the others so close.

I remain in my awkward position, muscles trembling with exertion for a while longer, then hoist myself back onto my branch.

Seemed pretty simpleminded to me.

And Peeta had the gall to talk to me about disgrace?

Career tributes are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed, but only because they’re the Capitol’s lapdogs.

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 i

His use of Haymitch’s patronizing endearment.

While I’ve been ruminating on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity.

Often there are trees because barren landscapes are dull and the Games resolve too quickly without them.

I pull on a thick, fleecy nightgown and climb into bed.

The crowd slows our entourages of stylists and mentors and chaperones, so we have only each other for company.

“Oh, I eat it by the bucketful.”

The fox-faced girl from District 5 sly and elusive.

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.

I’m smiling at you even though you’re aggravating me.”

Effie makes me say a hundred banal phrases starting with a smile, while smiling, or ending with a smile.

His companionship replaced the long solitary hours in the woods.