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

Chapter 12

Thank goodness, I had the foresight to belt myself in. I’ve

rolled sideways off the fork and I’m facing the ground, held in

place by the belt, one hand, and my feet straddling the pack

inside my sleeping bag, braced against the trunk. There must

have been some rustling when I tipped sideways, but the 

Careers have been too caught up in their own argument to catch 

it. “Go on, then, Lover Boy,” says the boy from District 2. “See

for yourself.”

I just get a glimpse of Peeta, lit by a torch, heading back to

the girl by the fire. His face is swollen with bruises, there’s a

bloody bandage on one arm, and from the sound of his gait

he’s limping somewhat. I remember him shaking him his head,

telling me not to go into the fight for the supplies, when all

along, all along he’d planned to throw himself into the thick 

of things. Just the opposite of what Haymitch had mid him to 

do. Okay, I can stomach that. Seeing all those supplies was

tempting. But this . . . this other thing. This teaming up with

the Career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. No one from

District 12 would think of doing such a thing! Career tributes

are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed, but only because

they’re the Capitol’s lapdogs.

Universally, solidly hated by all but those from their own

districts. I can imagine the things they’re saying about him

back home now. And Peeta had the gall to talk to me about

disgrace?

Obviously, the noble boy on the rooftop was playing just

one more game with me. But this will be his last. I will eagerly

watch the night skies for signs of his death, if I don’t kill him

first myself.

The Career tributes are silent until he gets out of ear shot,

then use hushed voices.

“Why don’t we just kill him now and get it over with?”

“Let him tag along. What’s the harm? And he’s handy with

that knife.”

Is he? That’s news. What a lot of interesting things I’m

learning about my friend Peeta today.

“Besides, he’s our best chance of finding her.”

It takes me a moment to register that the “her” they’re 

referring to is me.

“Why? You think she bought into that sappy romance

stuff?”

“She might have. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me. Every

time I think about her spinning around in that dress, I want to

puke.”

“Wish we knew how she got that eleven.”

“Bet you Lover Boy knows.”

The sound of Peeta returning silences them.

“Was she dead?” asks the boy from District 2.

“No. But she is now,” says Peeta. Just then, the cannon fires.

“Ready to move on?”

The Career pack sets off at a run just as dawn begins to break, 

and birdsong fills the air. I remain in my awkward position,

muscles trembling with exertion for a while longer, then

hoist myself back onto my branch. I need to get down, to get

going, but for a moment I lie there, digesting what I’ve heard.

Not only is Peeta with the Careers, he’s helping them find me.

The simpleminded girl who has to be taken seriously because

of her eleven. Because she can use a bow and arrow. Which

Peeta knows better than anyone.

But he hasn’t told them yet. Is he saving that information

because he knows it’s all that keeps him alive? Is he still 

pretending to love me for the audience? What is going on in 

his head?

Suddenly, the birds fall silent. Then one gives a highpitched

warning call. A single note. Just like the one Gale and I

heard when the redheaded Avox girl was caught. High above

the dying campfire a hovercraft materializes. A set of huge

metal teeth drops down. Slowly, gently, the dead tribute girl is

lifted into the hovercraft. Then it vanishes. The birds resume

their song.

“Move,” I whisper to myself. I wriggle out of my sleeping

bag, roll it up, and place it in the pack. I take a deep breath.

While I’ve been concealed by darkness and the sleeping bag

and the willow branches, it has probably been difficult for the

cameras to get a good shot of me. I know they must be tracking 

me now though. The minute I hit the ground, I’m guaranteed

a close-up.

The audience will have been beside themselves, knowing I

was in the tree, that I overheard the Careers talking, that I 

discovered Peeta was with them. Until I work out exactly how 

I want to play that, I’d better at least act on top of things. Not

perplexed. Certainly not confused or frightened.

No, I need to look one step ahead of the game.

So as I slide out of the foliage and into the dawn light, I

pause a second, giving the cameras time to lock on me. Then I

cock my head slightly to the side and give a knowing smile.

There! Let them figure out what that means!

I’m about to take off when I think of my snares. Maybe it’s

imprudent to check them with the others so close. But have to.

Too many years of hunting, I guess. And the lure of possible

meat. I’m rewarded with one fine rabbit. In no time, I’ve

cleaned and gutted the animal, leaving the head, feet, tail, skin,

and innards, under a pile of leaves. I’m wishing for a fire —

eating raw rabbit can give you rabbit fever, a lesson I learned

the hard way — when I think of the dead tribute. I hurry back

to her camp. Sure enough, the coals of her dying fire are still

hot. I cut up the rabbit, fashion a spit out of branches, and set

it over the coals.

I’m glad for the cameras now. I want sponsors to see I can

hunt, that I’m a good bet because I won’t be lured into traps as

easily as the others will by hunger. While the rabbit cooks, I

grind up part of a charred branch and set about camouflaging

my orange pack. The black tones it down, but I feel a layer of

mud would definitely help. Of course, to have mud, I’d need

water . . .

I pull on my gear, grab my spit, kick some dirt over the

coals, and take off in the opposite direction the Careers went.