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stopped. I wear a bandage around my head though, just in
case physical exertion should bring it back.
As we head up alongside the stream, we pass the place
where I found Peeta camouflaged in the weeds and mud. One
good thing, between the downpour and the flooded banks, all
signs of his hiding place have been wiped out. That means
that, if need be, we can come back to our cave. Otherwise, I
wouldn’t risk it with Cato after us.
The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to pebbles,
and then, to my relief, we’re back on pine needles and the
gentle incline of the forest floor. For the first time, I realize we
have a problem. Navigating the rocky terrain with a bad leg —
well, you’re naturally going to make some noise. But even on
the smooth bed of needles, Peeta is loud. And I mean loud
loud, as if he’s stomping his feet or something. I turn and look
at him.
“What?” he asks.
“You’ve got to move more quietly,” I say. “Forget about Cato,
you’re chasing off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius.”
“Really?” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”
So, we start up again and he’s a tiny bit better, but even
with only one working ear, he’s making me jump.
“Can you take your boots off?” I suggest.
“Here?” he asks in disbelief, as if I’d asked him to walk barefoot
on hot coals or something. I have to remind myself that
he’s still not used to the woods, that it’s the scary, forbidden
place beyond the fences of District 12. I think of Gale, with his
velvet tread. It’s eerie how little sound he makes, even when
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