he asks.
“you’ve got to move more quietly,” i say. “forget about ca-
to, you’re chasing off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius.”
“really?” he says. “sorry, i didn’t know.”
so, we start up again and he’s a tiny bit better, but even
with only one working ear, he’s making me jump.
“can you take your boots off?” i suggest.
“here?” he asks in disbelief, as if i’d asked him to walk bare-
foot on hot coals or something. i have to remind myself that
he’s still not used to the woods, that it’s the scary, forbidden
place beyond the fences of district 12. i think of gale, with his
velvet tread. it’s eerie how little sound he makes, even when
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the leaves have fallen and it’s a challenge to move at all with-
out chasing off the game. i feel certain he’s laughing back
home.
“yes,” i say patiently. “i will, too. that way we’ll both be
quieter.” like i was making any noise. so we both strip off our
boots and socks and, while there’s some improvement, i could
swear he’s making an effort to snap every branch we encoun-
ter.
needless to say, although it takes several hours to reach my
old camp with rue, i’ve shot nothing. if the stream would set-
tle down, fish might be an option, but the current is still too
strong. as we stop to rest and drink water, i try to work out a
solution. ideally, i’d dump peeta now with some simple root-
gathering chore and go hunt, but then he’d be left with only a
knife to defend himself against cato’s spears and superior
strength. so what i’d really like is to try and conceal him
somewhere safe, then go hunt, and come back and collect him.
but i have a feeling his ego isn’t going to go for that sugges-
tion.
“katniss,” he says. “we need to split up. i know i’m chasing
away the game.”
“only because your leg’s hurt,” i say generously, because
really, you can tell that’s only a small part of the problem.
“i know,” he says. “so, why don’t you go on? show me some
plants to gather and that way we’ll both be useful.”
“not if cato comes and kills you.” i tried to say it in a nice
way, but it still sounds like i think he’s a weakling.
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surprisingly, he just laughs. “look, i can handle cato. i
fought him before, didn’t i?”
yeah, and that turned out great. you ended up dying in a
mud bank. that’s what i want to say, but i can’t. he did save
my life by taking on cato after all. i try another tactic. “what if
you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while i
hunted?” i say, trying to make it sound like very important
work.
“what if you show me what’s edible around here and go get
us some meat?” he says, mimicking my tone. “just don’t go far,
in case you need help.”
i sigh and show him some roots to dig. we do need food, no
question. one apple, two rolls, and a blob of cheese the size of
a plum won’t last long. i’ll just go a short distance and hope
cato is a long way off.
i teach him a bird whistle — not a melody like rue’s but a
simple two-note whistle — which we can use to communicate
that we’re all right. fortunately, he’s good at this. leaving him
with the pack, i head off.
i feel like i’m eleven again, tethered not to the safety of the
fence but to peeta, allowing myself twenty, maybe thirty yards
of hunting space. away from him though, the woods come
alive with animal sounds. reassured by his periodic whistles, i
allow myself to drift farther away, and soon have two rabbits
and a fat squirrel to show for it. i decide it’s enough. i can set
snares and maybe get some fish. with peeta’s roots, this will
be enough for now.
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as i travel the short distance back, i realize we haven’t ex-
changed signals in a while. when my whistle receives no re-
sponse, i run. in no time, i find the pack, a neat pile of roots
beside it. the sheet of plastic has been laid on the ground
where the sun can reach the single layer of berries that covers
it. but where is he?
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