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ther died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else’s
arms have made me feel this safe.
With the aid of the glasses, I lie watching the drips of water
splatter on the cave floor. Rhythmic and lulling. Several times,
I drift off briefly and then snap awake, guilty and angry with
myself. After three or four hours, I can’t help it, I have to rouse
Peeta because I can’t keep my eyes open. He doesn’t seem to
mind.
“Tomorrow, when it’s dry, I’ll find us a place so high in the
trees we can both sleep in peace,” I promise as I drift off.
But tomorrow is no better in terms of weather. The deluge
continues as if the Gamemakers are intent on washing us all
away. The thunder’s so powerful it seems to shake the ground.
Peeta’s considering heading out anyway to scavenge for food,
but I tell him in this storm it would be pointless. He won’t be
able to see three feet in front of his face and he’ll only end up
getting soaked to the skin for his troubles. He knows I’m right,
but the gnawing in our stomachs is becoming painful.
The day drags on turning into evening and there’s no break
in the weather. Haymitch is our only hope, but nothing is
forthcoming, either from lack of money — everything will cost
an exorbitant amount — or because he’s dissatisfied with our
performance. Probably the latter. I’d be the first to admit
we’re not exactly riveting today. Starving, weak from injuries,
trying not to reopen wounds. We’re sitting huddled together
wrapped in the sleeping bag, yes, but mostly to keep warm.
The most exciting thing either of us does is nap.
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