i say.
“so, you’re not going?” he asks.
“of course, i’m not going. give me some credit. do you think
i’m running straight into some free-for-all against cato and
clove and thresh? don’t be stupid,” i say, helping him back to
bed. “i’ll let them fight it out, we’ll see who’s in the sky tomor-
row night and work out a plan from there.”
“you’re such a bad liar, katniss. i don’t know how you’ve
survived this long.” he begins to mimic me. “i knew that goat
would be a little gold mine. you’re a little cooler though. of
course, i’m not going. he shakes his head. “never gamble at
cards. you’ll lose your last coin,” he says.
anger flushes my face. “all right, i am going, and you can’t
stop me!”
“i can follow you. at least partway. i may not make it to the
cornucopia, but if i’m yelling your name, i bet someone can
find me. and then i’ll be dead for sure,” he says.
“you won’t get a hundred yards from here on that leg,” i
say.
“then i’ll drag myself,” says peeta. “you go and i’m going,
too.”
he’s just stubborn enough and maybe just strong enough to
do it. come howling after me in the woods. even if a tribute
doesn’t find him, something else might. he can’t defend him-
270
self. i’d probably have to wall him up in the cave just to go my-
self. and who knows what the exertion will do to him?
“what am i supposed to do? sit here and watch you die?” i
say. he must know that’s not an option. that the audience
would hate me. and frankly, i would hate myself, too, if i
didn’t even try.
“i won’t die. i promise. if you promise not to go,” he says.
we’re at something of a stalemate. i know i can’t argue him
out of this one, so i don’t try. i pretend, reluctantly, to go
along. “then you have to do what i say. drink your water,
wake me when i tell you, and eat every bite of the soup no
matter how disgusting it is!” i snap at him.
“agreed. is it ready?” he asks.
“wait here,” i say. the air’s gone cold even though the sun’s
still up. i’m right about the gamemakers messing with the
temperature. i wonder if the thing someone needs desperately
is a good blanket. the soup is still nice and warm in its iron
pot. and actually doesn’t taste too bad.
peeta eats without complaint, even scraping out the pot to
show his enthusiasm. he rambles on about how delicious it is,
which should be encouraging if you don’t know what fever
does to people. he’s like listening to haymitch before the al-
cohol 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
271
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 ques-
tion, it’s sleep syrup. it’s a common medicine in district 12.
cheap, as medicine goes, but very addictive. almost every-
one’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?
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