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 heal. 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 halfgallon

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. 

serrate adj. [生物] 锯齿状的

botched n. 办砸了（电影名）

rejuvenating 复壮

trekking n. 艰苦跋涉，徒步旅行；艰难旅程

casualties n. 伤亡；人员伤亡（casualty的复数）

fatalities n. 灾祸；命运；意外的的死亡事故（fatality的复数）

dehydration n. 脱水

deteriorate vi. 恶化，变坏