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Since treating his wounds seems pointless when he’s lying
in what’s become a mud puddle, I manage to prop him up
against a boulder. He sits there, uncomplaining, while I wash
away all the traces of dirt from his hair and skin. His flesh is
very pale in the sunlight and he no longer looks strong and
stocky. I have to dig the stingers out of his tracker jacker
lumps, which causes him to wince, but the minute I apply the
leaves he sighs in relief. While he dries in the sun, I wash his
filthy shirt and jacket and spread them over boulders. Then I
apply the burn cream to his chest. This is when I notice how
hot his skin is becoming. The layer of mud and the bottles of
water have disguised the fact that he’s burning with fever. I
dig through the first-aid kit I got from the boy from District 1
and find pills that reduce your temperature. My mother actually
breaks down and buys these on occasion when her
home remedies fail.
“Swallow these,” I tell him, and he obediently takes the
medicine. “You must be hungry.”
“Not really. It’s funny, I haven’t been hungry for days,” says
Peeta. In fact, when I offer him groosling, he wrinkles his nose
at it and turns away. That’s when I know how sick he is.
“Peeta, we need to get some food in you,” I insist.
“It’ll just come right back up,” he says. The best I can do is
to get him to eat a few bits of dried apple. “Thanks. I’m much
better, really. Can I sleep now, Katniss?” he asks.
“Soon,” I promise. “I need to look at your leg first.” Trying to
be as gentle as I can, I remove his boots, his socks, and then
very slowly inch his pants off of him. I can see the tear Cato’s
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