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although the day is sunny and warm, we both sense we’re really
back in the Games. I hand Peeta my knife, since whatever
weapons he once had are long gone, and he slips it into his
belt. My last seven arrows — of the twelve I sacrificed three in
the explosion, two at the feast — rattle a bit too loosely in the
quiver. I can’t afford to lose any more.
“He’ll be hunting us by now,” says Peeta. “Cato isn’t one to
wait for his prey to wander by.”
“If he’s wounded —” I begin.
“It won’t matter,” Peeta breaks in. “If he can move, he’s
coming.”
With all the rain, the stream has overrun its banks by several
feet on either side. We stop there to replenish our water. I
check the snares I set days ago and come up empty. Not surprising
with the weather. Besides, I haven’t seen many animals
or signs of them in this area.
“If we want food, we better head back up to my old hunting
grounds,” I say.
“Your call. Just tell me what you need me to do,” Peeta says.
“Keep an eye out,” I say. “Stay on the rocks as much as possible,
no sense in leaving him tracks to follow. And listen for
both of us.” It’s clear, at this point, that the explosion destroyed
the hearing in my left ear for good.
I’d walk in the water to cover our tracks completely, but I’m
not sure Peeta’s leg could take the current. Although the drugs
have erased the infection, he’s still pretty weak. My forehead
hurts along the knife cut, but after three days the bleeding has
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