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ly mad, shrieking and trying to bat the wasps off with her bow,
which is pointless. She calls to the others for help but, of
course, no one returns. The girl from District 4 staggers out of
sight, although I wouldn’t bet on her making it to the lake. I
watch Glimmer fall, twitch hysterically around on the ground
for a few minutes, and then go still.
The nest is nothing but an empty shell. The wasps have vanished
in pursuit of the others. I don’t think they’ll return, but
I don’t want to risk it. I scamper down the tree and hit the
ground running in the opposite direction of the lake. The poison
from the stingers makes me wobbly, but I find my way
back to my own little pool and submerge myself in the water,
just in case any wasps are still on my trail. After about five
minutes, I drag myself onto the rocks. People have not exaggerated
the effects of the tracker jacker stings. Actually, the one
on my knee is closer to an orange than a plum in size. A foulsmelling
green liquid oozes from the places where I pulled out
the stingers.
The swelling. The pain. The ooze. Watching Glimmer
twitching to death on the ground. It’s a lot to handle before
the sun has even cleared the horizon. I don’t want to think
about what Glimmer must look like now. Her body disfigured.
Her swollen fingers stiffening around the bow . . .
The bow! Somewhere in my befuddled mind one thought
connects to another and I’m on my feet, teetering through the
trees back to Glimmer. The bow. The arrows. I must get them.
I haven’t heard the cannons fire yet, so perhaps Glimmer is in
some sort of coma, her heart still struggling against the wasp
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