“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.