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told me that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. And I
said, “I won’t unless I bring it home.” That shut her up.
When my stomach feels like it’s about to split open, I lean
back and take in my breakfast companions. Peeta is still eating,
breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate.
Haymitch hasn’t paid much attention to his platter, but he’s
knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning with
a clear liquid from a bottle. Judging by the fumes, it’s some
kind of spirit. I don’t know Haymitch, but I’ve seen him often
enough in the Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter
of the woman who sells white liquor. He’ll be incoherent by
the time we reach the Capitol.
I realize I detest Haymitch. No wonder the District 12 tributes
never stand a chance. It isn’t just that we’ve been underfed
and lack training. Some of our tributes have still been
strong enough to make a go of it. But we rarely get sponsors
and he’s a big part of the reason why. The rich people who
back tributes — either because they’re betting on them or
simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner — expect
someone classier than Haymitch to deal with.
“So, you’re supposed to give us advice,” I say to Haymitch.
“Here’s some advice. Stay alive,” says Haymitch, and then
bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Peeta before I remember
I’m having nothing more to do with him. I’m surprised
to see the hardness in his eyes. He generally seems so
mild.
“That’s very funny,” says Peeta. Suddenly he lashes out at
the glass in Haymitch’s hand. It shatters on the floor, sending
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