If a mentor mistreats his tributes, he’ll be held accountable by the 

viewers, by the people back in District 12. Even Haymitch wouldn’t 

risk that, would he? Say what you will about my fellow traders in

the Hob, but I don’t think they’d welcome him back there if he

let me die this way. And then where would he get his liquor?

So . . . what? Is he trying to make me suffer for defying him? Is

he directing all the sponsors toward Peeta? Is he just too

drunk to even notice what’s going on at the moment? Somehow

I don’t believe that and I don’t believe he’s trying to kill

me off by neglect, either. He has, in fact, in his own unpleasant

way, genuinely been trying to prepare me for this. Then what

is going on?

I bury my face in my hands. There’s no danger of tears now,

I couldn’t produce one to save my life. What is Haymitch

doing? Despite my anger, hatred, and suspicions, a small voice

in the back of my head whispers an answer.

Maybe he’s sending you a message, it says. A message. Saying

what? Then I know. There’s only one good reason Haymitch

could be withholding water from me. Because he knows

I’ve almost found it.

I grit my teeth and pull myself to my feet. My backpack

seems to have tripled in weight. I find a broken branch that

will do for a walking stick and I start off. The sun’s beating

down, even more searing than the first two days. I feel like an

old piece of leather, drying and cracking in the heat. every

step is an effort, but I refuse to stop. I refuse to sit down. If I

sit, there’s a good chance I won’t be able to get up again, that I

won’t even remember my task.

What easy prey I am! Any tribute, even tiny Rue, could take

me right now, merely shove me over and kill me with my own

knife, and I’d have little strength to resist. But if anyone is in

my part of the woods, they ignore me. The truth is, I feel a 

million miles from another living soul.

Not alone though. No, they’ve surely got a camera tracking

me now. I think back to the years of watching tributes starve,

freeze, bleed, and dehydrate to death. Unless there’s a really

good fight going on somewhere, I’m being featured.

My thoughts turn to Prim. It’s likely she won’t be watching

me live, but they’ll show updates at the school during lunch.

For her sake, I try to look as least desperate as I can.

But by afternoon, I know the end is coming. My legs are

shaking and my heart too quick. I keep forgetting, exactly

what I’m doing. I’ve stumbled repeatedly and managed to 

regain my feet, but when the stick slides out from under me, 

I finallytumble to the ground unable to get up. I let my eyes 

close. I have misjudged Haymitch. He has no intention of 

helping me at all. This is all right, I think. This is not so bad 

here. The air is less hot, signifying evening’s approach. There’s 

a slight, sweet scent that reminds me of lilies. My fingers stroke 

the smooth ground, sliding easily across the top. This is an okay 

place to die, I think. My fingertips make small swirling patterns 

in the cool, slippery earth. I love mud, I think. How many times 

I’ve tracked game with the help of its soft, readable surface. Good

for bee stings, too. Mud. Mud. Mud! My eyes fly open and I dig

my fingers into the earth. It is mud! My nose lifts in the air.

And those are lilies! Pond lilies!

I crawl now, through the mud, dragging myself toward the

scent. Five yards from where I fell, I crawl through a tangle of

plants into a pond. Floating on the top, yellow flowers in

bloom, are my beautiful lilies.

It’s all I can do not to plunge my face into the water and

gulp down as much as I can hold. But I have jus enough sense

left to abstain. With trembling hands, I get out my flask and fill

it with water. I add what I remember to be the right number of

drops of iodine for purifying it. The half an hour of waiting is

agony, but I do it. At least, I think it’s a half an hour, but it’s 

certainly as long as I can stand.

Slowly, easy now, I tell myself. I take one swallow and make

myself wait. Then another. Over the next couple of hours, I

drink the entire half gallon. Then a second. I prepare another

before I retire to a tree where I continue sipping, eating rabbit,

and even indulge in one of my precious crackers. By the

time the anthem plays, I feel remarkably better. There are no

faces tonight, no tributes died today. Tomorrow I’ll stay here,

resting, camouflaging my backpack with mud, catching some

of those little fish I saw as I sipped, digging up the roots of the

pond lilies to make a nice meal. I snuggle down in my sleeping

bag, hanging on to my water bottle for dear life, which, of

course, it is. A few hours later, the stampede of feet shakes me 

from slumber. I look around in bewilderment. It’s not yet dawn, 

but my stinging eyes can see it.

It would be hard to miss the wall of fire descending on me.