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

the bloodred liquid running toward the back of the train. “Only
not to us.”
Haymitch considers this a moment, then punches Peeta in
the jaw, knocking him from his chair. When he turns back to
reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between
his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers. I brace myself
to deflect his hit, but it doesn’t come. Instead he sits back
and squints at us.
“Well, what’s this?” says Haymitch. “Did I actually get a pair
of fighters this year?”
Peeta rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice
from under the fruit tureen. He starts to raise it to the red
mark on his jaw.
“No,” says Haymitch, stopping him. “Let the bruise show.
The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tribute
before you’ve even made it to the arena.”
“That’s against the rules,” says Peeta.
“Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you
weren’t caught, even better,” says Haymitch. He turns to me.
“Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?”
The bow and arrow is my weapon. But I’ve spent a fair
amount of time throwing knives as well. Sometimes, if I’ve
wounded an animal with an arrow, it’s better to get a knife into
it, too, before I approach it. I realize that if I want Haymitch’s
attention, this is my moment to make an impression. I
yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and
then throw it into the wall across the room. I was actually just
57