The Hunger Games

risk I took in getting the backpack, I know now it was the right choice. This sleeping bag, radiating back and preserving my body heat, will be invaluable. I’m sure there are several other tributes whose biggest concern right now is how to stay warm whereas I may actually be able to get a few hours of sleep. If only I wasn’t so thirsty . . .
    Night has just come when I hear the anthem that proceeds the death recap. Through the branches I can see the seal of the Capitol, which appears to be floating in the sky. I’m actually viewing another screen, an enormous one that’s transported by one of their disappearing hovercraft. The anthem fades out and the sky goes dark for a moment. At home, we would be watching full coverage of each and every killing, but that’s thought to give an unfair advantage to the living tributes. For instance, if I got my hands on the bow and shot someone, my secret would be revealed to all. No, here in the arena, all we see are the same photographs they showed when they televised our training scores. Simple head shots. But now instead of scores they post only district numbers. I take a deep breath as the faces of the eleven dead tributes begin and tick them off one by one on my fingers.
    The first to appear is the girl from District 3. That means that the Career Tributes from 1 and 2 have all survived. No surprise there. Then the boy from 4. I didn’t expect that one, usually all the Careers make it through the first day. The boy from District 5 . . . I guess the fox-faced girl made it. Both tributes from 6 and 7. The boy from 8. Both from 9. Yes, there’s the boy who I fought for the backpack. I’ve run through my fingers, only one more dead tribute to go. Is it Peeta? No, there’s the girl from District 10. That’s it. The Capitol seal is back with a final musical flourish. Then darkness and the sounds of the forest resume.
    I’m relieved Peeta’s alive. I tell myself again that if I get killed, his winning will benefit my mother and Prim the most. This is what I tell myself to explain the conflicting emotions that arise when I think of Peeta. The gratitude that he gave me an edge by professing his love for me in the interview. The anger at his superiority on the roof. The dread that we may come face-to-face at any moment in this arena.
    Eleven dead, but none from District 12. I try to work out who is left. Five Career Tributes. Foxface. Thresh and Rue. Rue . . . so she made it through the first day after all. I can’t help feeling glad. That makes ten of us. The other three I’ll figure out tomorrow. Now when it is dark, and I have traveled far, and I am nestled high in this tree, now I must try and rest.
    I haven’t really slept in two days, and then there’s been the long day’s journey into the arena. Slowly, I allow my muscles to relax. My eyes to close. The last thing I think is it’s lucky I don’t snore. . . .
    Snap! The sound of a breaking branch wakes me. How long have I been asleep? Four hours? Five? The tip of my nose is icy cold. Snap! Snap! What’s going on? This is not the sound of a branch under someone’s foot, but the sharp crack of one coming from a tree. Snap! Snap! I judge it to be several hundred yards to my right. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. For a few minutes, there’s nothing but blackness and some scuffling. Then I see a spark and a small fire begins to bloom. A pair of hands warms over flames, but I can’t make out more than that.
    I have to bite my lip not to scream every foul name I know at the fire starter. What are they thinking? A fire lit just at nightfall would have been one thing. Those who battled at the Cornucopia, with their superior strength and surplus of supplies, they couldn’t possibly have been near enough to spot the flames then. But now, when they’ve probably been combing the woods for hours looking for victims. You might as well be waving a flag and shouting, “Come and get me!”
    And here I am a stone’s throw from the biggest idiot in the Games. Strapped in a tree. Not daring to flee since my general location has just been broadcast to any killer who cares. I mean, I know it’s cold out here and not everybody has a sleeping bag. But then you grit your teeth and stick it out until dawn!
    I lie smoldering in my bag for the next couple of hours, really thinking that if I can get out of this tree, I won’t have the least problem taking out my new neighbor. My instinct has been to flee, not