suzanna-kollinz-acliq-oyunlari-1-hisse-eng

thing they call a groosling in her district. She says sometimes a
flock will wander into the orchard and they get a decent lunch
that day. For a while, all conversation stops as we fill our stomachs.
The groosling has delicious meal that’s so fatty, the
grease drips down your face when you bite into it.
“Oh,” says Rue with a sigh. “I’ve never had a whole leg to
myself before.”
I’ll bet she hasn’t. I’ll bet meat hardly ever comes her way.
“Take the other,” I say.
“Really?” she asks.
“Take whatever you want. Now that I’ve got a bow and arrows,
I can get more. Plus I’ve got snares. I can show you how
to set them,” I say. Rue still looks uncertainly at the leg. “Oh,
take it,” I say, putting the drumstick in her hands. “It will only
keep a few days anyway, and we’ve got the whole bird plus
the rabbit.” Once she’s got hold of it, her appetite wins out and
she takes a huge mouthful.
“I’d have thought, in District Eleven, you’d have a bit more
to eat than us. You know, since you grow the food,” I say.
Rue’s eyes widen. “Oh, no, we’re not allowed to eat the
crops.”
“They arrest you or something?” I ask.
“They whip you and make everyone else watch,” says Rue.
“The mayor’s very strict about it.”
I can tell by her expression that it’s not that uncommon an
occurrence. A public whipping’s a rare thing in District 12, although
occasionally one occurs. Technically, Gale and I could
be whipped on a daily basis for poaching in the woods — well,
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