The Hunger Games

sound comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. It’s as if the leaves are actually leaching the pain right out of the sting.
    Rue gives a giggle. “Lucky you had the sense to pull the stingers out or you’d be a lot worse.”
    “Do my neck! Do my cheek!” I almost beg.
    Rue stuffs another handful of leaves in her mouth, and soon I’m laughing because the relief is so sweet. I notice a long burn on Rue’s forearm. “I’ve got something for that.” I set aside my weapons and anoint her arm with the burn medicine.
    “You have good sponsors,” she says longingly.
    “Have you gotten anything yet?” I ask. She shakes her head. “You will, though. Watch. The closer we get to the end, the more people will realize how clever you are.” I turn the meat over.
    “You weren’t joking, about wanting me for an ally?” she asks.
    “No, I meant it,” I say. I can almost hear Haymitch groaning as I team up with this wispy child. But I want her. Because she’s a survivor, and I trust her, and why not admit it? She reminds me of Prim.
    “Okay,” she says, and holds out her hand. We shake. “It’s a deal.”
    Of course, this kind of deal can only be temporary, but neither of us mentions that.
    Rue contributes a big handful of some sort of starchy root to the meal. Roasted over the fire, they have the sharp sweet taste of a parsnip. She recognizes the bird, too, some wild thing they call a groosling in her district. She says sometimes a flock will wander into the orchard and they get a decent lunch that day. For a while, all conversation stops as we fill our stomachs. The groosling has delicious meat that’s so fatty, the grease drips down your face when you bite into it.
    “Oh,” says Rue with a sigh. “I’ve never had a whole leg to myself before.”
    I’ll bet she hasn’t. I’ll bet meat hardly ever comes her way. “Take the other,” I say.
    “Really?” she asks.
    “Take whatever you want. Now that I’ve got a bow and arrows, I can get more. Plus I’ve got snares. I can show you how to set them,” I say. Rue still looks uncertainly at the leg. “Oh, take it,” I say, putting the drumstick in her hands. “It will only keep a few days anyway, and we’ve got the whole bird plus the rabbit.” Once she’s got hold of it, her appetite wins out and she takes a huge mouthful.
    “I’d have thought, in District Eleven, you’d have a bit more to eat than us. You know, since you grow the food,” I say.
    Rue’s eyes widen. “Oh, no, we’re not allowed to eat the crops.”
    “They arrest you or something?” I ask.
    “They whip you and make everyone else watch,” says Rue. “The mayor’s very strict about it.”
    I can tell by her expression that it’s not that uncommon an occurrence. A public whipping’s a rare thing in District 12, although occasionally one occurs. Technically, Gale and I could be whipped on a daily basis for poaching in the woods — well, technically, we could get a whole lot worse — except all the officials buy our meat. Besides, our mayor, Madge’s father, doesn’t seem to have much taste for such events. Maybe being the least prestigious, poorest, most ridiculed district in the country has its advantages. Such as, being largely ignored by the Capitol as long as we produce our coal quotas.
    “Do you get all the coal you want?” Rue asks.
    “No,” I answer. “Just what we buy and whatever we track in on our boots.”
    “They feed us a bit extra during harvest, so that people can keep going longer,” says Rue.
    “Don’t you have to be in school?” I ask.
    “Not during harvest. Everyone works then,” says Rue.
    It’s interesting, hearing about her life. We have so little communication with anyone outside our district. In fact, I wonder if the Gamemakers are blocking out our conversation, because even though the information seems harmless, they don’t want people in different districts to know about one another.
    At Rue’s suggestion, we lay out all our food to plan ahead. She’s seen most of mine, but I add the last couple of crackers and beef strips to the pile. She’s gathered quite a collection of roots, nuts, greens, and even some berries.
    I roll an unfamiliar berry in my fingers. “You sure this is safe?”
    “Oh, yes, we have them back home. I’ve been eating them for days,” she says, popping a handful in her mouth. I tentatively bite into one, and it’s as good as our blackberries. Taking Rue on as an ally seems a better choice all