第83章

  he won’t
  have so low of an opinion of me as to think i’d ignore the new
  rule and keep to myself. would he? he’s very hard to predict,
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  which might be interesting under different circumstances, but
  at the moment only provides an extra obstacle.
  it doesn’t take long to reach the spot where i peeled off to
  go the careers’ camp. there’s been no sign of peeta, but this
  doesn’t surprise me. i’ve been up and down this stretch three
  times since the tracker jacker incident. if he were nearby,
  surely i’d have had some suspicion of it. the stream begins to
  curve to the left into a part of the woods that’s new to me.
  muddy banks covered in tangled water plants lead to large
  rocks that increase in size until i begin to feel somewhat
  trapped. it would be no small matter to escape the stream
  now. fighting off cato or thresh as i climbed over this rocky
  terrain. in fact, i’ve just about decided i’m on the wrong track
  entirely, that a wounded boy would be unable to navigate get-
  ting to and from this water source, when i see the bloody
  streak going down the curve of a boulder. it’s long dried now,
  but the smeary lines running side to side suggest someone —
  who perhaps was not fully in control of his mental faculties —
  tried to wipe it away.
  hugging the rocks, i move slowly in the direction of the
  blood, searching for him. i find a few more bloodstains, one
  with a few threads of fabric glued to it, but no sign of life. i
  break down and say his name in a hushed voice. “peeta! pee-
  ta!” then a mockingjay lands on a scruffy tree and begins to
  mimic my tones so i stop. i give up and climb back down to the
  stream thinking, he must have moved on. somewhere farther
  down.
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  my foot has just broken the surface of the water when i
  hear a voice.
  “you here to finish me off, sweetheart?”
  i whip around. it’s come from the left, so i can’t pick it up
  very well. and the voice was hoarse and weak. still, it must
  have been peeta. who else in the arena would call me swee-
  theart? my eyes peruse the bank, but there’s nothing. just
  mud, the plants, the base of the rocks.
  “peeta?” i whisper. “where are you?” there’s no answer.
  could i just have imagined it? no, i’m certain it was real and
  very close at hand, too. “peeta?” i creep along the bank.
  “well, don’t step on me.”
  i jump back. his voice was right under my feet. still there’s
  nothing. then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown
  mud and green leaves. i gasp and am rewarded with a hint of
  white teeth as he laughs.
  it’s the final word in camouflage. forget chucking weights
  around. peeta should have gone into his private session with
  the gamemakers and painted himself into a tree. or a boulder.
  or a muddy bank full of weeds.
  “close your eyes again,” i order. he does, and his mouth,
  too, and completely disappears. most of what i judge to be his
  body is actually under a layer of mud and plants. his face and
  arms are so artfully disguised as to be invisible. i kneel beside
  him. “i guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off.”
  peeta smiles. “yes, frosting. the final defense of the dying.”
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  “you’re not going to die,” i tell him firmly. “says who?” his
  voice is so ragged. “says me. we’re on the same team now, you
  know,” i tell him.
  his eyes open. “so, i heard. nice of you to find what’s left of
  me.”
  i pull out my water bottle and give him a drink. “did cato
  cut you?”