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I don’t say so but Peeta’s words remind me of the warnings
they give us about not going beyond the fence in District 12. I
can’t help, for a moment, comparing him with Gale, who
would see that field as a potential source of food as well as a
threat. Thresh certainly did. It’s not that Peeta’s soft exactly,
and he’s proved he’s not a coward. But there are things you
don’t question too much, I guess, when your home always
smells like baking bread, whereas Gale questions everything.
What would Peeta think of the irreverent banter that passes
between us as we break the law each day? Would it shock
him? The things we say about Panem? Gale’s tirades against
the Capitol?
“Maybe there is a bread bush in that field,” I say. “Maybe
that’s why Thresh looks better fed now than when we started
the Games.”
“Either that or he’s got very generous sponsors,” says Peeta.
“I wonder what we’d have to do to get Haymitch to send us
some bread.”
I raise my eyebrows before I remember he doesn’t know
about the message Haymitch sent us a couple of nights ago.
One kiss equals one pot of broth. It’s not the sort of thing I can
blurt out, either. To say my thoughts aloud would be tipping
off the audience that the romance has been fabricated to play
on their sympathies and that would result in no food at all.
Somehow, believably, I’ve got to get things back on track.
Something simple to start with. I reach out and take his hand.
“Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me
knock you out,” I say mischievously.
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