第114章

  i bandage the wound in
  the rest of my shirt and lay down with him.
  “don’t go to sleep,” i tell him. i’m not sure if this is exactly
  medical protocol, but i’m terrified that if he drifts off he’ll
  never wake again.
  “are you cold?” he asks. he unzips his jacket and i press
  against him as he fastens it around me. it’s a bit warmer, shar-
  ing our body heat inside my double layer of jackets, but the
  night is young. the temperature will continue to drop.
  even now i can feel the cornucopia, which burned so when
  i first climbed it, slowly turning to ice.
  “cato may win this thing yet,” i whisper to peeta.
  “don’t you believe it,” he says, pulling up my hood, but he’s
  shaking harder than i am.
  the next hours are the worst in my life, which if you think
  about it, is saying something. the cold would be torture
  enough, but the real nightmare is listening to cato, moaning,
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  begging, and finally just whimpering as the mutts work away
  at him. after a very short time, i don’t care who he is or what
  he’s done, all i want is for his suffering to end.
  “why don’t they just kill him?” i ask peeta.
  “you know why,” he says, and pulls me closer to him.
  and i do. no viewer could turn away from the show now.
  from the gamemakers’ point of view, this is the final word in
  entertainment.
  it goes on and on and on and eventually completely con-
  sumes my mind, blocking out memories and hopes of tomor-
  row, erasing everything but the present, which i begin to be-
  lieve will never change. there will never be anything but cold
  and fear and the agonized sounds of the boy dying in the horn.
  peeta begins to doze off now, and each time he does, i find
  myself yelling his name louder and louder because if he goes
  and dies on me now, i know i’ll go completely insane. he’s
  fighting it, probably more for me than for him, and it’s hard
  because unconsciousness would be its own form of escape.
  but the adrenaline pumping through my body would never al-
  low me to follow him, so i can’t let him go. i just can’t.
  the only indication of the passage of time lies in the hea-
  vens, the subtle shift of the moon. so peeta begins pointing it
  out to me, insisting i acknowledge its progress and sometimes,
  for just a moment i feel a flicker of hope before the agony of
  the night engulfs me again.
  finally, i hear him whisper that the sun is rising. i open my
  eyes and find the stars fading in the pale light of dawn. i can
  see, too, how bloodless peeta’s face has become. how little
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  time he has left. and i know i have to get him back to the capi-
  tol.
  still, no cannon has fired. i press my good ear against the
  horn and can just make out cato’s voice.
  “i think he’s closer now. katniss, can you shoot him?” peeta
  asks.
  if he’s near the mouth, i may be able to take him out. it
  would be an act of mercy at this point.
  “my last arrow’s in your tourniquet,” i say.
  “make it count,” says peeta, unzipping his jacket, letting me
  loose.
  so i free the arrow, tying the tourniquet back as tightly as
  my frozen fingers can manage. i rub my hands together, trying
  to regain circulation. when i crawl to the lip of the horn and
  hang over the edge, i feel peeta’s hands grip me for support.
  it takes a few moments to find cato in the dim light, in the
  blood. then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy
  makes a sound, and i know where his mouth is. and i think
  the word he’s trying to say is please.
  pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into his skull.
  peeta pulls me back up, bow in hand, quiver empty.
  “did you get him?”