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she throws with her right, but it’s enough to slow her down a
few moments, having to pull the arrow from her arm, take in
the severity of the wound. I keep moving, positioning the next
arrow automatically, as only someone who has hunted for
years can do.
I’m at the table now, my fingers closing over the tiny
orange backpack. My hand slips between the straps and I yank
it up on my arm, it’s really too small to fit on any other part of
my anatomy, and I’m turning to fire again when the second
knife catches me in the forehead. It slices above my right eyebrow,
opening a gash that sends a gush running down my face,
blinding my eye, filling my mouth with the sharp, metallic
taste of my own blood. I stagger backward but still manage to
send my readied arrow in the general direction of my assailant.
I know as it leaves my hands it will miss. And then Clove
slams into me, knocking me flat on my back, pinning my
shoulders to the ground, with her knees.
This is it, I think, and hope for Prim’s sake it will be fast. But
Clove means to savor the moment. Even feels she has time. No
doubt Cato is somewhere nearby, guarding her, waiting for
Thresh and possibly Peeta.
“Where’s your boyfriend, District Twelve? Still hanging
on?” she asks.
Well, as long as we’re talking I’m alive. “He’s out there now.
Hunting Cato,” I snarl at her. Then I scream at the top of my
lungs. “Peeta!”
Clove jams her fist into my windpipe, very effectively cutting
off my voice. But her head’s whipping from side to side,
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