Голодные игры
Chapter 12
Myfingersstrokethesmoothground,slidingeasilyacrossthetop.Thisisanokayplacetodie,Ithink.
Myfingertipsmakesmallswirlingpatternsinthecool,slipperyearth.Ilovemud,Ithink.HowmanytimesI’vetrackedgamewiththehelpofitssoft,readablesurface.Goodforbeestings,too.Mud.Mud.Mud!MyeyesflyopenandIdigmyfingersintotheearth.Itismud!Mynoseliftsintheair.Andthosearelilies!Pondlilies!
Icrawlnow,throughthemud,draggingmyselftowardthescent.FiveyardsfromwhereIfell,Icrawlthroughatangleofplantsintoapond.Floatingonthetop,yellowflowersinbloom,aremybeautifullilies.
It’sallIcandonottoplungemyfaceintothewaterandgulpdownasmuchasIcanhold.ButIhavejustenoughsenselefttoabstain.Withtremblinghands,Igetoutmyflaskandfillitwithwater.IaddwhatIremembertobetherightnumberofdropsofiodineforpurifyingit.Thehalfanhourofwaitingisagony,butIdoit.Atleast,Ithinkit’sahalfanhour,butit’scertainlyaslongasIcanstand.
Slowly,easynow,Itellmyself.Itakeoneswallowandmakemyselfwait.Thenanother.Overthenextcoupleofhours,Idrinktheentirehalfgallon.Thenasecond.IprepareanotherbeforeIretiretoatreewhereIcontinuesipping,eatingrabbit,andevenindulgeinoneofmypreciouscrackers.Bythetimetheanthemplays,Ifeelremarkablybetter.Therearenofacestonight,notributesdiedtoday
