Eleven dead, but none from District 12. I try to work out

who is left. Five Career Tributes. Foxface. Thresh and Rue. Rue

. . . so she made it through the first day after all. I can’t help

feeling glad. That makes ten of us. The other three I’ll figure

out tomorrow. Now when it is dark, and I have traveled far,

and I am nestled high in this tree, now I must try and rest.

I haven’t really slept in two days, and then there’s been the

long day’s journey into the arena. Slowly, I allow my muscles

to relax. My eyes to close. The last thing I think is it’s lucky I

don’t snore. . . .

Snap! The sound of a breaking branch wakes me. How long

have I been asleep? Four hours? Five? The tip of my nose is icy

cold. Snap! Snap! What’s going on? This is not the sound of a

branch under someone’s foot, but the sharp crack of one coming

from a tree. Snap! Snap! I judge it to be several hundred

yards to my right. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that 

direction. For a few minutes, there’s nothing but blackness and

some scuffling. Then I see a spark and a small fire begins to

bloom. A pair of hands warms over flames, but I can’t make

out more than that.

I have to bite my lip not to scream every foul name I know

at the fire starter. What are they thinking? A fire I’ll just at

nightfall would have been one thing. Those who battled at the

Cornucopia, with their superior strength and surplus of 

supplies, they couldn’t possibly have been near enough to spot

the flames then. But now, when they’ve probably been combing

the woods for hours looking for victims. You might as well be 

waving a flag and shouting, “Come and get me!”

And here I am a stone’s throw from the biggest idiot in

the Games. Strapped in a tree. Not daring to flee since my

general location has just been broadcast to any killer who

cares. I mean, I know it’s cold out here and not everybody

has a sleeping bag. But then you grit your teeth and stick it

out until dawn!

I lay smoldering in my bag for the next couple of hours really

thinking that if I can get out of this tree, I won’t have the least 

problem taking out my new neighbor. My instinct has been to 

flee, not fight. But obviously this person’s a hazard. Stupid 

people are dangerous. And this one probably doesn’t have 

much in the way of weapons while I’ve got this excellent knife.

The sky is still dark, but I can feel the first signs of dawn

approaching. I’m beginning to think we — meaning the person

whose death I’m now devising and me — we might actually

have gone unnoticed. Then I hear it. Several pairs of feet

breaking into a run. The fire starter must have dozed off.

They’re on her before she can escape. I know it’s a girl now, I

can tell by the pleading, the agonized scream that follows.

Then there’s laughter and congratulations from several voices.

Someone cries out, “Twelve down and eleven to go!” which

gets a round of appreciative hoots.

So they’re fighting in a pack. I’m not really surprised. Often

alliances are formed in the early stages of the Games. The

strong band together to hunt down the weak then, when the

tension becomes too great, begin to turn on one another. I

don’t have to wonder too hard who has made this alliance. It’ll

be the remaining Career Tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4.

Two boys and three girls. The ones who lunched together.

For a moment, I hear them checking the girl for supplies. I

can tell by their comments they’ve found nothing good. I 

wonder if the victim is Rue but quickly dismiss the thought. 

She’s much too bright to be building a fire like that.

“Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts

stinking.” I’m almost certain that’s the brutish boy from District

2. There are murmurs of assent and then, to my horror, I

hear the pack heading toward me. They do not know I’m here.

How could they? And I’m well concealed in the clump of trees.

At least while the sun stays down. Then my black sleeping bag

will turn from camouflage to trouble. If they just keep moving,

they will pass me and be gone in a minute.

But the Careers stop in the clearing about ten yards from

my tree. They have flashlights, torches. I can see an arm here,

a boot there, through the breaks in the branches. I turn to

stone, not even daring to breathe. Have they spotted me? No,

not yet. I can tell from their words their minds are elsewhere.

“Shouldn’t we have heard a cannon by now?”

“I’d say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately.”

“Unless she isn’t dead.”

“She’s dead. I stuck her myself.”

“Then where’s the cannon?”

“Someone should go back. Make sure the job’s done.”

“Yeah, we don’t want to have to track her down twice.”

“I said she’s dead!”

An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the others.

“We’re wasting time! I’ll go finish her and let’s move on!”

I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Peeta.

a stone’s throw 一箭之遥