第12章

  i say.
  “i’ll be all right, katniss,” says prim, clasping my face in her
  hands. “but you have to take care, too. you’re so fast and
  brave. maybe you can win.”
  i can’t win. prim must know that in her heart. the competi-
  tion will be far beyond my abilities. kids from wealthier dis-
  tricts, where winning is a huge honor, who’ve been trained
  their whole lives for this. boys who are two to three times my
  size. girls who know twenty different ways to kill you with a
  knife. oh, there’ll be people like me, too. people to weed out
  before the real fun begins.
  “maybe,” i say, because i can hardly tell my mother to carry
  on if i’ve already given up myself. besides, it isn’t in my nature
  to go down without a fight, even when things seem insur-
  mountable. “then we’d be rich as haymitch.”
  “i don’t care if we’re rich. i just want you to come home.
  you will try, won’t you? really, really try?” asks prim.
  “really, really try. i swear it,” i say. and i know, because of
  prim, i’ll have to.
  and then the peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time
  is up, and we’re all hugging one another so hard it hurts and
  all i’m saying is “i love you. i love you both.” and they’re say-
  37
  ing it back and then the peacekeeper orders them out and the
  door closes. i bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if
  this can block the whole thing out.
  someone else enters the room, and when i look up, i’m sur-
  prised to see it’s the baker, peeta mellark’s father. i can’t be-
  lieve he’s come to visit me. after all, i’ll be trying to kill his son
  soon. but we do know each other a bit, and he knows prim
  even better. when she sells her goat cheeses at the hob, she
  puts two of them aside for him and he gives her a generous
  amount of bread in return. we always wait to trade with him
  when his witch of a wife isn’t around because he’s so much
  nicer. i feel certain he would never have hit his son the way
  she did over the burned bread. but why has he come to see
  me?
  the baker sits awkwardly on the edge of one of the plush
  chairs. he’s a big, broad-shouldered man with burn scars from
  years at the ovens. he must have just said goodbye to his son.
  he pulls a white paper package from his jacket pocket and
  holds it out to me. i open it and find cookies. these are a lux-
  ury we can never afford.
  “thank you,” i say. the baker’s not a very talkative man in
  the best of times, and today he has no words at all. “i had
  some of your bread this morning. my friend gale gave you a
  squirrel for it.” he nods, as if remembering the squirrel. “not
  your best trade,” i say. he shrugs as if it couldn’t possibly mat-
  ter.
  then i can’t think of anything else, so we sit in silence until
  a peacemaker summons him. he rises and coughs to clear his
  38
  throat. “i’ll keep an eye on the little girl. make sure she’s eat-
  ing.”
  i feel some of the pressure in my chest lighten at his words.
  people deal with me, but they are genuinely fond of prim.
  maybe there will be enough fondness to keep her alive.
  my next guest is also unexpected. madge walks straight to
  me. she is not weepy or evasive, instead there’s an urgency
  about her tone that surprises me. “they let you wear one
  thing from your district in the arena. one thing to remind you
  of home. will you wear this?” she holds out the circular gold
  pin that was on her dress earlier. i hadn’t paid much attention
  to it before, but now i see it’s a small bird in flight.
  “your pin?”