suzanna-kollinz-acliq-oyunlari-1-hisse-eng

swiftly as possible. That brief exposure sets my teeth chattering
beyond control.
Peeta’s face is gray in the pale moonlight. I make him lie
down before I probe his wound. Warm, slippery blood runs
over my fingers. A bandage will not be enough. I’ve seen my
mother tie a tourniquet a handful of times and try to replicate
it. I cut free a sleeve from my shirt, wrap it twice around his
leg just under his knee, and tie a half knot. I don’t have a stick,
so I take my remaining arrow and insert it in the knot, twisting
it as tightly as I dare. It’s risky business — Peeta may end
up losing his leg — but when I weigh this against him losing
his life, what alternative do I have? I bandage the wound in
the rest of my shirt and lay down with him.
“Don’t go to sleep,” I tell him. I’m not sure if this is exactly
medical protocol, but I’m terrified that if he drifts off he’ll
never wake again.
“Are you cold?” he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press
against him as he fastens it around me. It’s a bit warmer, sharing
our body heat inside my double layer of jackets, but the
night is young. The temperature will continue to drop.
Even now I can feel the Cornucopia, which burned so when
I first climbed it, slowly turning to ice.
“Cato may win this thing yet,” I whisper to Peeta.
“Don’t you believe it,” he says, pulling up my hood, but he’s
shaking harder than I am.
The next hours are the worst in my life, which if you think
about it, is saying something. The cold would be torture
enough, but the real nightmare is listening to Cato, moaning,
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