Голодные игры

           Oneminutetorest.Itakethetimetoreordermysupplies,wadupthesleepingbag,andmessilystuffeverythingintothebackpack.Myminute’sup.Iknowit’stimetomoveon,butthesmokehascloudedmythoughts.Theswift-footedanimalsthatweremycompasshaveleftmebehind.IknowIhaven’tbeeninthispartofthewoodsbefore,therewerenosizablerocksliketheoneI’mshelteringagainstonmyearliertravels.WherearetheGamemakersdrivingme?Backtothelake?Toawholenewterrainfilledwithnewdangers?Ihadjustfoundafewhoursofpeaceatthepondwhenthisattackbegan.WouldtherebeanywayIcouldtravelparalleltothefireandworkmywaybackthere,toasourceofwateratleast?Thewalloffiremusthaveanendanditwon’tburnindefinitely.NotbecausetheGamemakerscouldn’tkeepitfueledbutbecause,again,thatwouldinviteaccusationsofboredomfromtheaudience.IfIcouldgetbackbehindthefireline,IcouldavoidmeetingupwiththeCareers.I’vejustdecidedtotryandloopbackaround,althoughitwillrequiremilesoftravelawayfromtheinfernoandthenaverycircuitousrouteback,whenthefirstfireballblastsintotherockabouttwofeetfrommyhead.Ispringoutfromundermyledge,energizedbyrenewedfear.

           Thegamehastakenatwist.Thefirewasjusttogetusmoving,nowtheaudiencewillgettoseesomerealfun.WhenIhearthenexthiss,Iflattenontheground,nottakingtimetolook.Thefireballhitsatreeofftomyleft,engulfingitinflames.Toremainstillisdeath.