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Hunger Games, with my mother withdrawn and unreachable,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 breakfast

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-to-face 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.”