As I refill my pack I have an awful thought. The lake. The one

I saw while I was waiting for the gong to sound. What if that's

the only water source in the arena? That way they'll guarantee

drawing us in to fight. The lake is a full day's journey from

where I sit now, a much harder journey with nothing to drink.

And then, even if I reach it, it's sure to be heavily guarded by

some of the Career Tributes. I'm about to panic when I remember

the rabbit I startled earlier today. It has to drink, too.

I just have to find out where.

Twilight is closing in and I am ill at ease. The trees are too

thin to offer much concealment. The layer of pine needles that

muffles my footsteps also makes tracking animals harder

when I need their trails to find water. And I'm still heading

downhill, deeper and deeper into a valley that seems endless.

I’m hungry, too, but I don’t dare break into my precious

store of crackers and beef yet. Instead, I take my knife and go

to work on a pine tree, cutting away the outer bark and scraping 

off a large handful of the softer inner bark. I slowly chew

the stuff as I walk along. After a week of the finest food in the

world, it’s a little hard to choke down. But I’ve eaten plenty of

pine in my life. I’ll adjust quickly.

In another hour, it’s clear I’ve got to find a place to camp.

Night creatures are coming out. I can hear the occasional hoot

or howl, my first clue that I’ll be competing with natural 

predators for the rabbits. As to whether I’ll be viewed as a 

source of food, it’s too soon to tell. There could be any number 

of animals stalking me at this moment.

But right now, I decide to make my fellow tributes a priority.

I’m sure many will continue hunting through the night.

Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will have food, an

abundance of water from the lake, torches or flashlights, and

weapons they’re itching to use. I can only hope I’ve traveled

far and fast enough to be out of range.

Before settling down, I take my wire and set two twitch-up

snares in the brush. I know it’s risky to be setting traps, but

food will go so fast out here. And I can’t set snares on the run.

Still, I walk another five minutes before making camp.

I pick my tree carefully. A willow, not terribly tall but set in

a clump of other willows, offering concealment in those long,

flowing tresses. I climb up, sticking to the stronger branches

close to the trunk, and find a sturdy fork for my bed. It takes

some doing, but I arrange the sleeping bag in a relatively 

comfortable manner. I place my backpack in the foot of the bag,

then slide in after it. As a precaution, I remove my belt, loop it

all the way around the branch and my sleeping bag, and refasten 

it at my waist. Now if I roll over in my sleep, I won’t go

crashing to the ground. I’m small enough to tuck the top of the

bag over my head, but I put on my hood as well. As night falls,

the air is cooling quickly. Despite the risk I took in getting the

backpack, I know now it was the right choice. This sleeping bag, 

radiating back and preserving my body heat, will be invaluable.

I’m sure there are several other tributes whose biggest concern 

right now is how to stay warm whereas I may actually be able to 

get a few hours of sleep. If only I wasn’t so thirsty

. . .

Night has just come when I hear the anthem that proceeds

the death recap. Through the branches I can see the seal of the

Capitol, which appears to be floating in the sky. I’m actually

viewing another screen, an enormous one that’s transported

by of one of their disappearing hovercraft. The anthem fades

out and the sky goes dark for a moment. At home, we would

be watching full coverage of each and every killing, but that’s

thought to give an unfair advantage to the living tributes. For

instance, if I got my hands on the bow and shot someone, my

secret would be revealed to all. No, here in the arena, all we

see are the same photographs they showed when they televised

our training scores. Simple head shots. But now instead

of scores they post only district numbers. I take a deep breath

as the face of the eleven dead tributes begin and tick them off

one by one on my fingers.

The first to appear is the girl from District 3. That means

that the Career Tributes from 1 and 2 have all survived. No

surprise there. Then the boy from 4. I didn’t expect that one,

usually all the Careers make it through the first day. The boy

from District 5 . . . I guess the fox-faced girl made it. Both 

tributes from 6 and 7. The boy from 8. Both from 9. Yes, 

there’s the boy who I fought for the backpack. I’ve run 

through my fingers, only one more dead tribute to go. Is it 

Peeta? No, there’s the girl from District 10. That’s it. The 

Capitol seal is back with a final musical flourish. Then 

darkness and the sounds of the forest resume.

I’m relieved Peeta’s alive. I tell myself again that if I get

killed, his winning will benefit my mother and Prim the most.

This is what I tell myself to explain the conflicting emotions

that arise when I think of Peeta. The gratitude that he gave me

an edge by professing his love for me in the interview. The 

anger at his superiority on the roof. The dread that we may 

come face-to-face at any moment in this arena.

recap vt. 扼要重述