The Hunger Games

and how I knew the sleep syrup just wasn’t something to ease Peeta’s pain and how I know now that I have to play up the romance. He hasn’t made much effort to connect with Peeta really. Perhaps he thinks a bowl of broth would just be a bowl of broth to Peeta, whereas I’ll see the strings attached to it.
    A thought hits me, and I’m amazed the question’s taken so long to surface. Maybe it’s because I’ve only recently begun to view Haymitch with a degree of curiosity. “How do you think he did it?”
    “Who? Did what?” Peeta asks.
    “Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?” I say.
    Peeta considers this quite a while before he answers. Haymitch is sturdily built, but no physical wonder like Cato or Thresh. He’s not particularly handsome. Not in the way that causes sponsors to rain gifts on you. And he’s so surly, it’s hard to imagine anyone teaming up with him. There’s only one way Haymitch could have won, and Peeta says it just as I’m reaching this conclusion myself.
    “He outsmarted the others,” says Peeta.
    I nod, then let the conversation drop. But secretly I’m wondering if Haymitch sobered up long enough to help Peeta and me because he thought we just might have the wits to survive. Maybe he wasn’t always a drunk. Maybe, in the beginning, he tried to help the tributes. But then it got unbearable. It must be hell to mentor two kids and then watch them die. Year after year after year. I realize that if I get out of here, that will become my job. To mentor the girl from District 12. The idea is so repellent, I thrust it from my mind.
    About half an hour has passed before I decide I have to eat again. Peeta’s too hungry himself to put up an argument. While I’m dishing up two more small servings of lamb stew and rice, we hear the anthem begin to play. Peeta presses his eyes against a crack in the rocks to watch the sky.
    “There won’t be anything to see tonight,” I say, far more interested in the stew than the sky. “Nothing’s happened or we would’ve heard a cannon.”
    “Katniss,” Peeta says quietly.
    “What? Should we split another roll, too?” I ask.
    “Katniss,” he repeats, but I find myself wanting to ignore him.
    “I’m going to split one. But I’ll save the cheese for tomorrow,” I say. I see Peeta staring at me. “What?”
    “Thresh is dead,” says Peeta.
    “He can’t be,” I say.
    “They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it,” says Peeta.
    “Are you sure? I mean, it’s pouring buckets out there. I don’t know how you can see anything,” I say. I push him away from the rocks and squint out into the dark, rainy sky. For about ten seconds, I catch a distorted glimpse of Thresh’s picture and then he’s gone. Just like that.
    I slump down against the rocks, momentarily forgetting about the task at hand. Thresh dead. I should be happy, right? One less tribute to face. And a powerful one, too. But I’m not happy. All I can think about is Thresh letting me go, letting me run because of Rue, who died with that spear in her stomach. . . .
    “You all right?” asks Peeta.
    I give a noncommittal shrug and cup my elbows in my hands, hugging them close to my body. I have to bury the real pain because who’s going to bet on a tribute who keeps sniveling over the deaths of her opponents. Rue was one thing. We were allies. She was so young. But no one will understand my sorrow at Thresh’s murder. The word pulls me up short. Murder! Thankfully, I didn’t say it aloud. That’s not going to win me any points in the arena. What I do say is, “It’s just . . . if we didn’t win . . . I wanted Thresh to. Because he let me go. And because of Rue.”
    “Yeah, I know,” says Peeta. “But this means we’re one step closer to District Twelve.” He nudges a plate of food into my hands. “Eat. It’s still warm.”
    I take a bite of the stew to show I don’t really care, but it’s like glue in my mouth and takes a lot of effort to swallow. “It also means Cato will be back hunting us.”
    “And he’s got supplies again,” says Peeta.
    “He’ll be wounded, I bet,” I say.
    “What makes you say that?” Peeta asks.
    “Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight. He’s so strong, I mean, he was. And they were in his territory,” I say.
    “Good,” says Peeta. “The more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how Foxface is making out.”
    “Oh, she’s fine,” I say peevishly. I’m still