Голодные игры

           Icrashintothetrees,repeatedlyswipingawaythebloodthat’spouringintomyeye,fleeinglikethewild,woundedcreatureIam.Afterafewminutes,IhearthecannonandIknowthatClovehasdied,thatCatowillbeononeofourtrails.EitherThresh’sormine.I’mseizedwithterror,weakfrommyheadwound,shaking.Iloadanarrow,butCatocanthrowthatspearalmostasfarasIcanshoot.

           Onlyonethingcalmsmedown.ThreshhasCato’sbackpackcontainingthethingheneedsdesperately.IfIhadtobet,CatoheadedoutafterThresh,notme.StillIdon’tslowdownwhenIreachthewater.Iplungerightin,bootsstillon,andflounderdownstream.IpulloffRue’ssocksthatI’vebeenusingforglovesandpressthemintomyforehead,tryingtostaunchtheflowofblood,butthey’resoakedinminutes.

           SomehowImakeitbacktothecave.Isqueezethroughtherocks.Inthedappledlight,Ipullthelittleorangebackpackfrommyarm,cutopentheclasp,anddumpthecontentsontheground.Oneslimboxcontainingonehypodermicneedle.Withouthesitating,IjamtheneedleintoPeeta’sarmandslowlypressdownontheplunger.

           Myhandsgotomyheadandthendroptomylap,slickwithblood.

           ThelastthingIrememberisanexquisitelybeautifulgreen-and-silvermothlandingonthecurveofmywrist.