第56章
return to the lake. no good. i’d never make it.
hope for rain. there’s not a cloud in the sky.
keep looking. yes, this is my only chance. but then, another
thought hits me, and the surge of anger that follows brings me
to me senses.
haymitch! he could send me water! press a button and
have it delivered to me in a silver parachute in minutes. i
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know i must have sponsors, at least one or two who could af-
ford a pint of liquid for me. yes, it’s pricey, but these people,
they’re made of money. and they’ll be betting on me as well.
perhaps haymitch doesn’t realize how deep my need is.
i say in a voice as loud as i dare. “water.” i wait, hopefully,
for a parachute to descend from the sky. but nothing is forth-
coming.
something is wrong. am i deluded about having sponsors?
or has peeta’s behavior made them all hang back? no, i don’t
believe it. there’s someone out there who wants to buy me
water only haymitch is refusing to let it go through. as my
mentor, he gets to control the flow of gifts from the sponsors. i
know he hates me. he’s made that clear enough. but enough to
let me die? from this? he can’t do that, can he? if a mentor mi-
streats 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? some-
how 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
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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. say-
ing what? then i know. there’s only one good reason hay-
mitch 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 mil-
lion 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.
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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 re-
gain my feet, but when the stick slides out from under me, i fi-
nally tumble 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!