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Getting the broth into Peeta takes an hour of coaxing, begging,
threatening, and yes, kissing, but finally, sip by sip, he
empties the pot. I let him drift off to sleep then and attend to
my own needs, wolfing down a supper of groosling and roots
while I watch the daily report in the sky. No new casualties.
Still, Peeta and I have given the audience a fairly interesting
day. Hopefully, the Gamemakers will allow us a peaceful night.
I automatically look around for a good tree to nest in before
I realize that’s over. At least for a while. I can’t very well leave
Peeta unguarded on the ground. I left the scene of his last hiding
place on the bank of the stream untouched — how could I
conceal it? — and we’re a scant fifty yards downstream. I put
on my glasses, place my weapons in readiness, and settle
down to keep watch.
The temperature drops rapidly and soon I’m chilled to the
bone. Eventually, I give in and slide into the sleeping bag with
Peeta. It’s toasty warm and I snuggle down gratefully until I
realize it’s more than warm, it’s overly hot because the bag is
reflecting back his fever. I check his forehead and find it burning
and dry. I don’t know what to do. Leave him in the bag and
hope the excessive heat breaks the fever? Take him out and
hope the night air cools him off? I end up just dampening a
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