The Hunger Games

faces.
    The butcher, a short, chunky woman named Rooba, came to the back door when we knocked. You don’t haggle with Rooba. She gives you one price, which you can take or leave, but it’s a fair price. We took her offer on the deer and she threw in a couple of venison steaks we could pick up after the butchering. Even with the money divided in two, neither Gale nor I had held so much at one time in our lives. We decided to keep it a secret and surprise our families with the meat and money at the end of the next day.
    This is where I really got the money for the goat, but I tell Peeta I sold an old silver locket of my mother’s. That can’t hurt anyone. Then I pick up the story in the late afternoon of Prim’s birthday.
    Gale and I went to the market on the square so that I could buy dress materials. As I was running my fingers over a length of thick blue cotton cloth, something caught my eye. There’s an old man who keeps a small herd of goats on the other side of the Seam. I don’t know his real name, everyone just calls him the Goat Man. His joints are swollen and twisted in painful angles, and he’s got a hacking cough that proves he spent years in the mines. But he’s lucky. Somewhere along the way he saved up enough for these goats and now has something to do in his old age besides slowly starve to death. He’s filthy and impatient, but the goats are clean and their milk is rich if you can afford it.
    One of the goats, a white one with black patches, was lying down in a cart. It was easy to see why. Something, probably a dog, had mauled her shoulder and infection had set in. It was bad, the Goat Man had to hold her up to milk her. But I thought I knew someone who could fix it.
    “Gale,” I whispered. “I want that goat for Prim.”
    Owning a nanny goat can change your life in District 12. The animals can live off almost anything, the Meadow’s a perfect feeding place, and they can give four quarts of milk a day. To drink, to make into cheese, to sell. It’s not even against the law.
    “She’s hurt pretty bad,” said Gale. “We better take a closer look.”
    We went over and bought a cup of milk to share, then stood over the goat as if idly curious.
    “Let her be,” said the man.
    “Just looking,” said Gale.
    “Well, look fast. She goes to the butcher soon. Hardly anyone will buy her milk, and then they only pay half price,” said the man.
    “What’s the butcher giving for her?” I asked.
    The man shrugged. “Hang around and see.” I turned and saw Rooba coming across the square toward us. “Lucky thing you showed up,” said the Goat Man when she arrived. “Girl’s got her eye on your goat.”
    “Not if she’s spoken for,” I said carelessly.
    Rooba looked me up and down then frowned at the goat. “She’s not. Look at that shoulder. Bet you half the carcass will be too rotten for even sausage.”
    “What?” said the Goat Man. “We had a deal.”
    “We had a deal on an animal with a few teeth marks. Not that thing. Sell her to the girl if she’s stupid enough to take her,” said Rooba. As she marched off, I caught her wink.
    The Goat Man was mad, but he still wanted that goat off his hands. It took us half an hour to agree on the price. Quite a crowd had gathered by then to hand out opinions. It was an excellent deal if the goat lived; I’d been robbed if she died. People took sides in the argument, but I took the goat.
    Gale offered to carry her. I think he wanted to see the look on Prim’s face as much as I did. In a moment of complete giddiness, I bought a pink ribbon and tied it around her neck. Then we hurried back to my house.
    You should have seen Prim’s reaction when we walked in with that goat. Remember this is a girl who wept to save that awful old cat, Buttercup. She was so excited she started crying and laughing all at once. My mother was less sure, seeing the injury, but the pair of them went to work on it, grinding up herbs and coaxing brews down the animal’s throat.
    “They sound like you,” says Peeta. I had almost forgotten he was there.
    “Oh, no, Peeta. They work magic. That thing couldn’t have died if it tried,” I say. But then I bite my tongue, realizing what that must sound like to Peeta, who is dying, in my incompetent hands.
    “Don’t worry. I’m not trying,” he jokes. “Finish the story.”
    “Well, that’s it. Only I remember that night, Prim insisted on sleeping with Lady on a blanket next to the fire. And just before