The Hunger Games

Haymitch before the alcohol has soaked him into incoherence. I give him another dose of fever medicine before he goes off his head completely.
    As I go down to the stream to wash up, all I can think is that he’s going to die if I don’t get to that feast. I’ll keep him going for a day or two, and then the infection will reach his heart or his brain or his lungs and he’ll be gone. And I’ll be here all alone. Again. Waiting for the others.
    I’m so lost in thought that I almost miss the parachute, even though it floats right by me. Then I spring after it, yanking it from the water, tearing off the silver fabric to retrieve the vial. Haymitch has done it! He’s gotten the medicine — I don’t know how, persuaded some gaggle of romantic fools to sell their jewels — and I can save Peeta! It’s such a tiny vial though. It must be very strong to cure someone as ill as Peeta. A ripple of doubt runs through me. I uncork the vial and take a deep sniff. My spirits fall at the sickly sweet scent. Just to be sure, I place a drop on the tip of my tongue. There’s no question, it’s sleep syrup. It’s a common medicine in District 12. Cheap, as medicine goes, but very addictive. Almost everyone’s had a dose at one time or another. We have some in a bottle at home. My mother gives it to hysterical patients to knock them out to stitch up a bad wound or quiet their minds or just to help someone in pain get through the night. It only takes a little. A vial this size could knock Peeta out for a full day, but what good is that? I’m so furious I’m about to throw Haymitch’s last offering into the stream when it hits me. A full day? That’s more than I need.
    I mash up a handful of berries so the taste won’t be as noticeable and add some mint leaves for good measure. Then I head back up to the cave. “I’ve brought you a treat. I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream.”
    Peeta opens his mouth for the first bite without hesitation. He swallows then frowns slightly. “They’re very sweet.”
    “Yes, they’re sugar berries. My mother makes jam from them. Haven’t you ever had them before?” I say, poking the next spoonful in his mouth.
    “No,” he says, almost puzzled. “But they taste familiar. Sugar berries?”
    “Well, you can’t get them in the market much, they only grow wild,” I say. Another mouthful goes down. Just one more to go.
    “They’re sweet as syrup,” he says, taking the last spoonful. “Syrup.” His eyes widen as he realizes the truth. I clamp my hand over his mouth and nose hard, forcing him to swallow instead of spit. He tries to make himself vomit the stuff up, but it’s too late, he’s already losing consciousness. Even as he fades away, I can see in his eyes what I’ve done is unforgivable.
    I sit back on my heels and look at him with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction. A stray berry stains his chin and I wipe it away. “Who can’t lie, Peeta?” I say, even though he can’t hear me.
    It doesn’t matter. The rest of Panem can.

In the remaining hours before nightfall, I gather rocks and do my best to camouflage the opening of the cave. It’s a slow and arduous process, but after a lot of sweating and shifting things around, I’m pretty pleased with my work. The cave now appears to be part of a larger pile of rocks, like so many in the vicinity. I can still crawl in to Peeta through a small opening, but it’s undetectable from the outside. That’s good, because I’ll need to share that sleeping bag again tonight. Also, if I don’t make it back from the feast, Peeta will be hidden but not entirely imprisoned. Although I doubt he can hang on much longer without medicine. If I die at the feast, District 12 isn’t likely to have a victor.
    I make a meal out of the smaller, bonier fish that inhabit the stream down here, fill every water container and purify it, and clean my weapons. I’ve nine arrows left in all. I debate leaving the knife with Peeta so he’ll have some protection while I’m gone, but there’s really no point. He was right about camouflage being his final defense. But I still might have use for the knife. Who knows what I’ll encounter?
    Here are some things I’m fairly certain of. That at least Cato, Clove, and Thresh will be on hand when the feast starts. I’m not sure about Foxface since direct confrontation isn’t her style or her forte. She’s even smaller than I am and unarmed, unless she’s picked up some