The Hunger Games

other’s lives in here. And beyond that, he will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though . . . and I feel Gale’s gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12.
    Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta’s shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss.
    “We’re wasting hunting time,” I say when I finally break away.
    “I wouldn’t call it wasting,” he says, giving a big stretch as he sits up. “So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?”
    “Not us,” I say. “We stuff ourselves to give us staying power.”
    “Count me in,” Peeta says. But I can see he’s surprised when I divide the rest of the stew and rice and hand a heaping plate to him. “All this?”
    “We’ll earn it back today,” I say, and we both plow into our plates. Even cold, it’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I abandon my fork and scrape up the last dabs of gravy with my finger. “I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my manners.”
    “Hey, Effie, watch this!” says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, “We miss you, Effie!”
    I cover his mouth with my hand, but I’m laughing. “Stop! Cato could be right outside our cave.”
    He grabs my hand away. “What do I care? I’ve got you to protect me now,” says Peeta, pulling me to him.
    “Come on,” I say in exasperation, extricating myself from his grasp but not before he gets in another kiss.
    Once we’re packed up and standing outside our cave, our mood shifts to serious. It’s as though for the last few days, sheltered by the rocks and the rain and Cato’s preoccupation with Thresh, we were given a respite, a holiday of sorts. Now, although the day is sunny and warm, we both sense we’re really back in the Games. I hand Peeta my knife, since whatever weapons he once had are long gone, and he slips it into his belt. My last seven arrows — of the twelve I sacrificed three in the explosion, two at the feast — rattle a bit too loosely in the quiver. I can’t afford to lose any more.
    “He’ll be hunting us by now,” says Peeta. “Cato isn’t one to wait for his prey to wander by.”
    “If he’s wounded —” I begin.
    “It won’t matter,” Peeta breaks in. “If he can move, he’s coming.”
    With all the rain, the stream has overrun its banks by several feet on either side. We stop there to replenish our water. I check the snares I set days ago and come up empty. Not surprising with the weather. Besides, I haven’t seen many animals or signs of them in this area.
    “If we want food, we better head back up to my old hunting grounds,” I say.
    “Your call. Just tell me what you need me to do,” Peeta says.
    “Keep an eye out,” I say. “Stay on the rocks as much as possible, no sense in leaving him tracks to follow. And listen for both of us.” It’s clear, at this point, that the explosion destroyed the hearing in my left ear for good.
    I’d walk in the water to cover our tracks completely, but I’m not sure Peeta’s leg could take the current. Although the drugs have erased the infection, he’s still pretty weak. My forehead hurts along the knife cut, but after three days the bleeding has stopped. I wear a bandage around my head though, just in case physical exertion should bring it back.
    As we head up alongside the stream, we pass the place where I found Peeta camouflaged in the weeds and mud. One good thing, between the downpour and the flooded banks, all signs of his hiding place have been wiped out. That means that, if need be, we can come back to our cave. Otherwise, I wouldn’t risk it with Cato after us.
    The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to pebbles, and then, to my relief, we’re back on pine needles and the gentle incline of the forest floor. For the first time, I realize we have a problem. Navigating the rocky terrain with a bad leg — well, you’re naturally going to make some noise. But even on the smooth bed of needles, Peeta is loud. And I mean loud loud, as if he’s stomping his feet or something. I turn and look at him.
    “What?” he asks.
    “You’ve got to move more quietly,” I say. “Forget about Cato, you’re chasing off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius.”
    “Really?” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t