But now Peeta has made me an object of love. Not just his.

To hear him tell it I have many admirers. And if the audience

really thinks we’re in love . . . I remember how strongly they

responded to his confession. Star-crossed lovers. Haymitch is

right, they eat that stuff up in the Capitol. Suddenly I’m worried

that I didn’t react properly.

“After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love

with him, too?” I ask.

“I did,” says Portia. “The way you avoided looking at the

cameras, the blush.”

They others chime in, agreeing.

“You’re golden, sweetheart. You’re going to have sponsors

lined up around the block,” says Haymitch.

I’m embarrassed about my reaction. I force myself to acknowledge

Peeta. “I’m sorry I shoved you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugs. “Although it’s technically illegal.”

“Are your hands okay?” I ask. “They’ll be all right,” he says.

In the silence that follows, delicious smells of our dinner waft 

in from the dining room. “Come on, let’s eat,” says Haymitch.

We all follow him to the table and take our places. But

then Peeta is bleeding too heavily, and Portia leads him off for

medical treatment. We start the cream and rose-petal soup

without them. By the time we’ve finished, they’re back. Peeta’s

hands are wrapped in bandages. I can’t help feeling guilty. 

Tomorrow we will be in the arena. He has done me a favor and 

I have answered with an injury. Will I never stop owing him?

After dinner, we watch the replay in the sitting room. I

seem frilly and shallow, twirling and giggling in my dress, 

although the others assure me I am charming. Peeta actually is

charming and then utterly winning as the boy in love. And

there I am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna’s

hands, desirable by Peeta’s confession, tragic by circumstance,

and by all accounts, unforgettable.

When the anthem finishes and the screen goes dark, a hush

falls on the room. Tomorrow at dawn, we will be roused and

prepared for the arena. The actual Games don’t start until ten

because so many of the Capitol residents rise late. But Peeta and 

I must make an early start. There is no telling how far we will 

travel to the arena that has been prepared for this year’s Games.

I know Haymitch and Effie will not be going with us. As

soon as they leave here, they’ll be at the Games Headquarters,

hopefully madly signing up our sponsors, working out a strategy

on how and when to deliver the gifts to us. Cinna and Portia will 

travel with us to the very spot from which we will be launched 

into the arena. Still final good-byes must be said here.

Effie takes both of us by the hand and, with actual tears in

her eyes, wishes us well. Thanks us for being the best tributes

it has ever been her privilege to sponsor. And then, because

it’s Effie and she’s apparently required by law to say something

awful, she adds “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I finally

get promoted to a decent district next year!”

Then she kisses us each on the cheek and hurries out, overcome

with either the emotional parting or the possible improvement

of her fortunes.

Haymitch crosses his arms and looks us both over.

“Any final words of advice?” asks Peeta.

“When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You’re

neither of you up to the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Just

clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves

and the others, and find a source of water,” he says. “Got it?”

“And after that?” I ask.

“Stay alive,” says Haymitch. It’s the same advice he gave us

on the train, but he’s not drunk and laughing this time. And we

only nod. What else is there to say?

When I head to my room, Peeta lingers to talk to Portia. I’m

glad. Whatever strange words of parting we exchange can

wait until tomorrow. My covers are drawn back, but there is

no sign of the redheaded Avox girl. I wish I knew her name. I

should have asked it. She could write it down maybe. Or act it

out. But perhaps that would only result in punishment for her.

I take a shower and scrub the gold paint, the makeup, the scent 

of beauty from my body. All that remains of the designteam’s

efforts are the flames on my nails. I decide to keep them as 

reminder of who I am to the audience. Katniss, the girl who was 

on fire. Perhaps it will give me something to hold on to in the 

days to come.

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

takes me about five seconds to realize I’ll never fall asleep.

And I need sleep desperately because in the arena every 

moment I give in to fatigue will be an invitation to death.

It’s no good. One hour, two, three pass, and my eyelids

refuse to get heavy. I can’t stop trying to imagine exactly what

terrain I’ll be thrown into. Desert? Swamp? A frigid wasteland?

Above all I am hoping for trees, which may afford me some 

means of concealment and food and shelter, Often there

are trees because barren landscapes are dull and the Games

resolve too quickly without them. But what will the climate be

like? What traps have the Gamemakers hidden to liven up the

slower moments? And then there are my fellow tributes . . .

The more anxious I am to find sleep, the more it eludes me.

Finally, I am too restless to even stay in bed. I pace the floor,

heart beating too fast, breathing too short. My room feels like

a prison cell. 

Cornucopia n. 哺乳宙斯的羊角；装满花果及谷穗表丰饶的羊角状物；丰饶的象征

terrain n. [地理] 地形，地势；领域；地带