Catching Fire

her cracker with the bird again. “A mockingjay. Just a glimpse of it as it flies by. The same one every time.”
    “Back home, we think they keep reusing the old footage because the Capitol can’t show what’s really there now,” says Bonnie.
    I give a grunt of disbelief. “You’re going to District Thirteen based on that? A shot of a bird? You think you’re going to find some new city with people strolling around in it? And that’s just fine with the Capitol?”
    “No,” Twill says earnestly. “We think the people moved underground when everything on the surface was destroyed. We think they’ve managed to survive. And we think the Capitol leaves them alone because, before the Dark Days, District Thirteen’s principal industry was nuclear development.”
    “They were graphite miners,” I say. But then I hesitate, because that’s information I got from the Capitol.
    “They had a few small mines, yes. But not enough to justify a population of that size. That, I guess, is the only thing we know for sure,” says Twill.
    My heart’s beating too quickly. What if they’re right? Could it be true? Could there be somewhere to run besides the wilderness? Somewhere safe? If a community exists in District 13, would it be better to go there, where I might be able to accomplish something, instead of waiting here for my death? But then . . . if there are people in District 13, with powerful weapons . . .
    “Why haven’t they helped us?” I say angrily. “If it’s true, why do they leave us to live like this? With the hunger and the killings and the Games?” And suddenly I hate this imaginary underground city of District 13 and those who sit by, watching us die. They’re no better than the Capitol.
    “We don’t know,” Bonnie whispers. “Right now, we’re just holding on to the hope that they exist.”
    That snaps me to my senses. These are delusions. District 13 doesn’t exist because the Capitol would never let it exist. They’re probably mistaken about the footage. Mockingjays are about as rare as rocks. And about as tough. If they could survive the initial bombing of 13, they’re probably doing better than ever now.
    Bonnie has no home. Her family is dead. Returning to District 8 or assimilating into another district would be impossible. Of course the idea of an independent, thriving District 13 draws her. I can’t bring myself to tell her she’s chasing a dream as insubstantial as a wisp of smoke. Perhaps she and Twill can carve out a life somehow in the woods. I doubt it, but they’re so pitiful I have to try to help.
    First I give them all the food in my pack, grain and dried beans mostly, but there’s enough to hold them for a while if they’re careful. Then I take Twill out in the woods and try to explain the basics of hunting. She’s got a weapon that if necessary can convert solar energy into deadly rays of power, so that could last indefinitely. When she manages to kill her first squirrel, the poor thing is mostly a charred mess because it took a direct hit to the body. But I show her how to skin and clean it. With some practice, she’ll figure it out. I cut a new crutch for Bonnie. Back at the house, I peel off an extra layer of socks for the girl, telling her to stuff them in the toes of her boots to walk, then wear them on her feet at night. Finally I teach them how to build a proper fire.
    They beg me for details of the situation in District 12 and I tell them about life under Thread. I can see they think this is important information that they’ll be bringing to those who run District 13, and I play along so as not to destroy their hopes. But when the light signals late afternoon, I’m out of time to humor them.
    “I have to go now,” I say.
    They pour out thanks and embrace me.
    Tears spill from Bonnie’s eyes. “I can’t believe we actually got to meet you. You’re practically all anyone’s talked about since —”
    “I know. I know. Since I pulled out those berries,” I say tiredly.
    I hardly notice the walk home even though a wet snow begins to fall. My mind is spinning with new information about the uprising in District 8 and the unlikely but tantalizing possibility of District 13.
    Listening to Bonnie and Twill confirmed one thing: President Snow has been playing me for a fool. All the kisses and endearments in the world couldn’t have derailed the momentum building up in District 8. Yes, my holding out the berries had been the spark, but I had no way to