All that is needed is a direct hit.

Whatever vague plan I had conceived regarding returning

to my pond is wiped from my mind as I zigzag and dive and

leap to avoid the fireballs. Each one is only the size of an apple,

but packs tremendous power on contact. Every sense I

have goes into overdrive as the need to survive takes over.

There’s no time to judge if a move is the correct one. When

there’s a hiss, I act or die.

Something keeps me moving forward, though. A lifetime of

watching the Hunger Games lets me know that certain areas

of the arena are rigged for certain attacks. And that if I can just

get away from this section, I might be able to move out of

reach of the launchers. I might also then fall straight into a pit

of vipers, but I can’t worry about that now.

How long I scramble along dodging the fireballs I can’t say,

but the attacks finally begin to abate. Which is good, because

I’m retching again. This time it’s an acidic substance that

scalds my throat and makes its way into my nose as well. I’m

forced to stop as my body convulses, trying desperately to rid

itself of the poisons I’ve been sucking in during the attack. I

wait for the next hiss, the next signal to bolt. It doesn’t come.

The force of the retching has squeezed tears out of my stinging

eyes. My clothes are drenched in sweat. Somehow,

through the smoke and vomit, I pick up the scent of singed

hair. My hand fumbles to my braid and finds a fireball has

seared off at least six inches of it. Strands of blackened hair

crumble in my fingers. I stare at them, fascinated by the 

transformation, when the hissing registers.

My muscles react, only not fast enough this time. The fireball

crashes into the ground at my side, but not before it skids

across my right calf. Seeing my pants leg on fire sends me over

the edge. I twist and scuttle backward on my hands and feet,

shrieking, trying to remove myself from the horror. When I finally

regain enough sense, I roll the leg back and forth on the

ground, which stifles the worst of it. But then, without thinking,

I rip away the remaining fabric with my bare hands.

I sit on the ground, a few yards from the blaze set off by the

fireball. My calf is screaming, my hands covered in red welts.

I’m shaking too hard to move. If the Gamemakers want to

finish me off, now is the time.

I hear Cinna’s voice, carrying images of rich fabric and

sparkling gems. “Katniss, the girl who was on fire.” What a

good laugh the Gamemakers must be having over that one.

Perhaps, Cinna’s beautiful costumes have even brought on this

particular torture for me. I know he couldn’t have foreseen

this, must be hurting for me because, in fact, I believe he cares

about me. But all in all, maybe showing up stark naked in that

chariot would have been safer for me.

The attack is now over. The Gamemakers don’t want me

dead. Not yet anyway. Everyone knows they could destroy us

all within seconds of the opening gong. The real sport of the

Hunger Games is watching the tributes kill one another. Every

so often, they do kill a tribute just to remind the players they

can. But mostly, they manipulate us into confronting one

another face-to-face. Which means, if I am no longer being

fired at, there is at least one other tribute close at hand.

I would drag myself into a tree and take cover now if I

could, but the smoke is still thick enough to kill me. I make

myself stand and begin to limp away from the wall of flames

that lights up the sky. It does not seem to be pursuing me any

longer, except with its stinking black clouds.

Another light, daylight, begins to softly emerge. Swirls of

smoke catch the sunbeams. My visibility is poor. I can see

maybe fifteen yards in any direction. A tribute could easily be

concealed from me here. I should draw my knife as a precaution,

but I doubt my ability to hold it for long. The pain in my

hands can in no way compete with that in my calf. I hate

burns, have always hated them, even a small one gotten from

pulling a pan of bread from the oven. It is the worst kind of

pain to me, but I have never experienced anything like this.

I’m so weary I don’t even notice I’m in the pool until I’m

ankle-deep. It’s spring-fed, bubbling up out of a crevice in

some rocks, and blissfully cool. I plunge my hands into the

shallow water and feel instant relief. Isn’t that what my mother 

always says? The first treatment for a burn is cold water?

That it draws out the heat? But she means minor burns. 

Probably she’d recommend it for my hands. But what of my 

calf? Although I have not yet had the courage to examine it, 

I’m guessing that it’s an injury in a whole different class.

I lie on my stomach at edge of the pool for a while, dangling

my hands in the water, examining the little flames on my 

fingernails that are beginning to chip off. Good. I’ve had 

enough fire for a lifetime.

rigged adj. 作弊的，以不正当手段操纵的

vipers n. 毒蛇

retching n. 干呕；恶心

scalds n. 烫伤（scald的复数）

convulse vt. 震撼；使剧烈震动；使抽搐

singe n. 烧焦；烤焦

crevice n. 裂缝；裂隙