Catching Fire

“But there must be something else inside these trees.”
    We’re all on our feet at once. Our thirst. The lack of springs. The tree rat’s sharp front teeth and wet muzzle. There can only be one thing worth having inside these trees. Finnick goes to hammer the spile into the green bark of a massive tree with a rock, but I stop him. “Wait. You might damage it. We need to drill a hole first,” I say.
    There’s nothing to drill with, so Mags offers her awl and Peeta drives it straight into the bark, burying the spike two inches deep. He and Finnick take turns opening up the hole with the awl and the knives until it can hold the spile. I wedge it in carefully and we all stand back in anticipation. At first nothing happens. Then a drop of water rolls down the lip and lands in Mags’s palm. She licks it off and holds out her hand for more.
    By wiggling and adjusting the spile, we get a thin stream running out. We take turns holding our mouths under the tap, wetting our parched tongues. Mags brings over a basket, and the grass is so tightly woven it holds water. We fill the basket and pass it around, taking deep gulps and, later, luxuriously, splashing our faces clean. Like everything here, the water’s on the warm side, but this is no time to be picky.
    Without our thirst to distract us, we’re all aware of how exhausted we are and make preparations for the night. Last year, I always tried to have my gear ready in case I had to make a speedy retreat in the night. This year, there’s no backpack to prepare. Just my weapons, which won’t leave my grasp, anyway. Then I think of the spile and wrest it from the tree trunk. I strip a tough vine of its leaves, thread it through the hollow center, and tie the spile securely to my belt.
    Finnick offers to take the first watch and I let him, knowing it has to be one of the two of us until Peeta’s rested up. I lie down beside Peeta on the floor of the hut, telling Finnick to wake me when he’s tired. Instead I find myself jarred from sleep a few hours later by what seems to be the tolling of a bell. Bong! Bong! It’s not exactly like the one they ring in the Justice Building on New Year’s but close enough for me to recognize it. Peeta and Mags sleep through it, but Finnick has the same look of attentiveness I feel. The tolling stops.
    “I counted twelve,” he says.
    I nod. Twelve. What does that signify? One ring for each district? Maybe. But why? “Mean anything, do you think?”
    “No idea,” he says.
    We wait for further instructions, maybe a message from Claudius Templesmith. An invitation to a feast. The only thing of note appears in the distance. A dazzling bolt of electricity strikes a towering tree and then a lightning storm begins. I guess it’s an indication of rain, of a water source for those who don’t have mentors as smart as Haymitch.
    “Go to sleep, Finnick. It’s my turn to watch, anyway,” I say.
    Finnick hesitates, but no one can stay awake forever. He settles down at the mouth of the hut, one hand gripped around a trident, and drifts into a restless sleep.
    I sit with my bow loaded, watching the jungle, which is ghostly pale and green in the moonlight. After an hour or so, the lightning stops. I can hear the rain coming in, though, pattering on the leaves a few hundred yards away. I keep waiting for it to reach us but it never does.
    The sound of the cannon startles me, although it makes little impression on my sleeping companions. There’s no point in awakening them for this. Another victor dead. I don’t even allow myself to wonder who it is.
    The elusive rain shuts off suddenly, like the storm did last year in the arena.
    Moments after it stops, I see the fog sliding softly in from the direction of the recent downpour. Just a reaction. Cool rain on the steaming ground, I think. It continues to approach at a steady pace. Tendrils reach forward and then curl like fingers, as if they are pulling the rest behind them. As I watch, I feel the hairs on my neck begin to rise. Something’s wrong with this fog. The progression of the front line is too uniform to be natural. And if it’s not natural . . .
    A sickeningly sweet odor begins to invade my nostrils and I reach for the others, shouting for them to wake up.
    In the few seconds it takes to rouse them, I begin to blister.

Tiny, searing stabs. Wherever the droplets of mist touch my skin.
    “Run!” I scream at the others. “Run!”
    Finnick snaps awake instantly, rising to counter