Now the Gamemakers will always be able to trace my 

whereabouts in the arena. Wouldn’t want to lose a tribute.

As soon as the tracker’s in place, the ladder releases me.

The woman disappears and Cinna is retrieved from the roof,

An Avox boy comes in and directs us to a room where breakfast

has been laid out. Despite the tension in my stomach, I eat

as much as I can, although none of the delectable food makes

any impression on me. I’m so nervous, I could be eating coal

dust. The one thing that distracts me at all is the view from the

windows as we sail over the city and then to the wilderness

beyond. This is what birds see. Only they’re free and safe. The

very opposite of me.

The ride lasts about half an hour before the windows black

out, suggesting that we’re nearing the arena. The hovercraft

lands and Cinna and I go back to the ladder, only this time it

leads down into a tube underground, into the catacombs that

lie beneath the arena. We follow instructions to my destination,

a chamber for my preparation. In the Capitol, they call it

the Launch Room. In the districts, it’s referred to as the 

Stockyard. The place animals go before slaughter.

Everything is brand-new, I will be the first and only tribute

to use this Launch Room. The arenas are historic sites, preserved

after the Games. Popular destinations for Capitol residents

to visit, to vacation. Go for a month, rewatch the Games,

tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths took

place. You can even take part in reenactments. They say the

food is excellent.

I struggle to keep my breakfast down as I shower and clean

my teeth. Cinna does my hair in my simple trademark braid

down my back. Then the clothes arrive, the same for every

tribute. Cinna has had no say in my outfit, does not even know

what will be in the package, but he helps me dress in the 

undergarments, simple tawny pants, light green blouse, sturdy

brown belt, and thin, hooded black jacket that falls to my

thighs. “The material in the jacket’s designed to reflect body

heat. Expect some cool nights,” he says.

The boots, worn over skintight socks, are better than I

could have hoped for. Soft leather not unlike my ones at home.

These have a narrow flexible rubber sole with treads though.

Good for running.

I think I’m finished when Cinna pulls the gold mockingjay

pin from his pocket. I had completely forgotten about it.

“Where did you get that?” I ask.

“Off the green outfit you wore on the train,” he says. I remember

now taking it off my mother’s dress, pinning it to the

shirt. “It’s your district token, right?” I nod and he fastens it on

my shirt. “It barely cleared the review board. Some thought

the pin could be used as a weapon, giving you an unfair advantage.

But eventually, they let it through,” says Cinna. “They

eliminated a ring from that District One girl, though. If you

twisted the gemstone, a spike popped out. Poisoned one. She

claimed she had no knowledge the ring transformed and there

was no way to prove she did. But she lost her token. There,

you’re all set. Move around. Make sure everything feels comfortable.”

I walk, run in a circle, swing my arms about. “Yes, it’s fine.

Fits perfectly.”

“Then there’s nothing to do but wait for the call,” says Cinna.

“Unless you think you could eat any more?”

I turn down food but accept a glass of water that I take tiny

sips of as we wait on a couch. I don’t want to chew on my nails

or lips, so I find myself gnawing on the inside of my cheek. It

still hasn’t fully healed from a few days ago. Soon the taste of

blood fills my mouth.

Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is to

come. I could be dead, flat-out dead, in an hour. Not even. My

fingers obsessively trace the hard little lump on my forearm

where the woman injected the tracking device. I press on it,

even though it hurts, I press on it so hard a small bruise begins

to form.

“Do you want to talk, Katniss?” Cinna asks.

I shake my head but after a moment hold out my hand to

him. Cinna encloses it in both of his. And this is how we sit until

a pleasant female voice announces it’s time to prepare for launch.

Still clenching one of Cinna’s hands, I walk over and stand

on the circular metal plate. “Remember what Haymitch said.

Run, find water. The rest will follow,” he says. I nod. “And 

remember this. I’m not allowed to bet, but if I could, my 

money would be on you.”

“Truly?” I whisper.

“Truly,” says Cinna. He leans down and kisses me on the

forehead. “Good luck, girl on fire.” And then a glass cylinder is

lowering around me, breaking our handhold, cutting him off

from me. He taps his fingers under his chin. Head high.

I lift my chin and stand as straight as I can. The cylinder begins

to rise. For maybe fifteen seconds, I’m in darkness and

then I can feel the metal plate pushing me out of the cylinder,

into the open air. For a moment, my eyes are dazzled by the

bright sunlight and I’m conscious only of a strong wind with

the hopeful smell of pine trees.

Then I hear the legendary announcer, Claudius Templesmith,

as his voice booms all around me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger

Games begin!”

reenactment n. 再制定；再扮演

tawny n. 黄褐色；茶色

seep n. 小泉；水陆两用的吉普车

flat-out adj. 直率的；坦白的；最高的