I do not own any rights to this book, just putting it online as a pdf so more people can enjoy fanfiction

1. Mason: A Memoir
Chapter One
Screw that.
Honestly, that's the first thing that goes through my head. No sappy, melodramatic
bullshit, just a simple objection. Because there is no way that my name was just called.
I have things to do. I was supposed to be teaching Wane how to handle a hatchet
tomorrow, and what's going to happen to the spider I was going to stick down the back
of Sal's shirt? I mean, for christ's sake, I even told mother I'd help make dinner tonight.
I was feeling extra benevolent. It's reaping day, even I make an effort to be nice. And
now I'm just...done? Sent off to die? So long, Johanna, it's been fun! That's…sudden. Not
even a day to get my affairs in order. Who's going to get my stuff? There's not much of
it, but Sal would probably appreciate my other shoes (they're girl's shoes, but his are a
mess), Wane might like some of my books, when she gets old enough to understand
them, and Mother…well, mother can just sell whatever they can't use.
Barely a second has passed since my name was called, the echo from our stupid Capitol
escort's annoying voice is still in the air, microphone feedback still ringing a little. Hardly
anyone has even turned to look at me yet. I'm still caught up in my thoughts, unable to
move, when an image of Wane's scared face, waving me goodbye from outside the house
not ten minutes ago, flashes into my head. And then all of a sudden, I've doubled over
and I'm crying like there's no tomorrow.
Johanna. What the hell are you doing? You don't cry. But I am crying, sobbing into my
hands as if I've got a death wish by drowning. Get a grip. GET A GRIP. I try to snap
myself out of this episode mentally, but I just cry harder. Then I'm howling and
wondering if maybe I'm having an out-of-body experience, because I seem to have lost
all control.
"Can someone please give Miss Mason a helping hand?" I hear a voice from seemingly
very far away, though the accent tells that it's our escort onstage, April Flora (which I
seriously doubt is her legal last name). Then someone has a light grip on my elbow and
they're leading me through the crowd and to the stairs of the stage. I catch a glimpse of
dark hair through both my tears and the gaps in my fingers (I'm still covering my face)
before whoever it is has slipped back to their place and I'm left to stumble up onstage.
If I'm going to get a handle on the crying, it needs to happen now. I can't look like a
weakling in front of the whole district—the whole country. That's not how I want to be
remembered. But I'm still wailing when April calls the male tribute, some guy I've never
met. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't put a face to it until he steps out of
the fourteens section. He doesn't have a chance, I can tell that much and I can barely
see yet. I don't know what work they've got him doing in the forests, but it's clearly
nothing physical. If I had a mind to (and I wasn't crying so hard) I could tackle this
Juniper kid to the ground in point five of a second.
"Let's give a big round of applause for our two District Seven tributes!" April says into the
microphone, though her voice is already so loud she doesn't really need it. There's
lukewarm applause from the audience, only a fraction of the noise that a crowd so large
should be able to produce. Then 'our District Seven tributes!' are being swept into the
Justice building, and I'm still crying.

2. I manage to calm down to the point of just doing that gross, gasping thing you do after a
good sob session when they deposit me in some fancy room in the Justice Building. The
walls are paneled with something dark that I think is mahogany but I'm not sure because
the tears have left my eyesight a little blurry. I collapse onto a red sofa, feeling spent.
Who knew that crying could be so taxing? Not me, that's for sure, because I don't' cry.
Except, apparently, when it really matters.
I glance around the room: it's easily the nicest place I've ever been. Duh. Compared to
the literal shack where I live (lived), this place is insane. If I were ever going home, I'd
probably try to slip some of the stuff in here in my pockets. Heck, even the doorknob
would fetch a good price with someone.
I'm just staring at the doorknob, appraising how much someone would be willing to pay
for the lump of shiny metal when the knob in question turns and the door opens. In
comes my family, to say goodbye. Wane has clearly been doing some crying of her own,
and has her arms wrapped around mother's neck, though mother told Wane not a week
ago that she's getting too big to carry. Sal's not crying, though he looks pretty upset. He
tries to hide it, though, and the first thing he does is paste on a smirk and ask "What was
with the crying? That's not the Johanna Mason I know."
"I wouldn't expect you to understand." I say to my older brother in a superior tone,
because what am I supposed to say? I just got scared and flipped out? I don't think so.
"It's all a part of my master plan." I say off the top of my head.
Sal picks up on the sarcasm, but Wane is a little young for understanding those subtle
indicators, so she wriggles out of mother's arms and throws herself onto my lap. "What
master plan?" She asks.
Normally I'd be shoving her away from me, probably calling her a rude name, but this
will be the last time we see each other and I want her to remember me well. "My master
plan for winning the Games, of course." I reply confidentially.
"Please. Enlighten us." Sal says. His voice almost cracks around 'enlighten', but he keeps
it together and sits on the other side of the sofa.
"I don't know if you can handle this genius, but give it your best shot." I say, scrambling
to come up with something. "If I look weak enough, no one will bother me." I say. Hey.
That actually has some merit. I've always been a good liar, but only with rehearsed
stories, so I'm surprised to hear that the story I've come up with is so…reasonable. It
actually makes sense.
"Huh." Sal says, giving me a calculating look. "That might actually work." Something that
looks like hope begins to spread across his features, and that's not really what I meant to
accomplish.
"Hey, you understood. Guess you're not as stupid as you look." I say with a weak smile.
"Please. Come up with something original, why won't you?" Sal rolls his eyes as if we're
just ragging on each other on the way to work after school, but he can't hide the pain in
his eyes. I am thankful for the fact that everyone is holding back on the emotion, though.
I don't think I can handle much more crying.
Then the door has opened again and a Peacekeeper is saying that they have to leave
soon, so wrap it up. He slams the door and Wane digs around in the front pocket of her

3. dress as if she's just remembered something. "Here, I got you something to be a token."
While she searches, tongue sticking out a little bit, mother takes her opportunity to say
goodbye. She'd been standing somewhat awkwardly off to the side up until now, but she
takes a few steps forward and grabs my hand. Sal scoots to the side and she sits down,
grasp on my hand so tight that I begin to lose feeling in my fingers.
"Johanna, I don't have a speech to make." She's a woman of few words, is my mother.
"Just know that we all love you and we'll be waiting for you to come home."
"Yeah, love you guys too." I say casually, though I can feel the back of my throat
beginning to sting again.
"No, Johanna. That's a demand. You're coming home." My mother orders.
"Well, I'll try my best, but I can't make any promises." I frown. Of all the times for
mother to be unreasonable.
Her grip on my hand tightens yet further, and I try to pull away. But she's strong from
the years of working in the forests, and I can't free my hand. "You will come home." She
says, an almost dangerous look in her eyes.
"Sure, sure! I'll come home, I promise!" I say, eventually managing to yank free.
Mother's hand, now empty, occupies itself with bunching up her skirt and then smoothing
it out, then repeating. She looks angry, for once showing a little maternal instinct.
"I can't find it." Wane says unhappily. "But here, take this instead." She holds out a
closed fist and then drops something small and dirty into my outstretched palm.
"What is it?" I ask, holding it up to eye height. It seems to be a circle with an eclectic
collection of crumbs, dirt, hair, splinters, lint, and other assorted particles that one might
find in a pocket.
"'S a sucker candy. I was gonna eat it, but I think you should have it. Hope you don't
mind that I started on it." Wane says. I resist the urge to say something along the lines
of 'that's gross, you little brat, now get the hell away from me' but seeing as we may
never speak again I try to accept the sentiment for the well-meaning gesture it is and
pocket the slightly sticky candy.
"Thanks, Wane." I say, hoping that the distaste isn't showing in my voice.
"Time's up." Says the Peacekeeper, and opens the door to the hallway. Wane jumps off
my lap and gives me a long stare until mother stands and takes her hand, beginning to
pull her out of the room.
"Win, Johanna." Mother says, in a tone that clearly dictates now is not the time to
disobey me. I've gotten the tone innumerable times, but this is the first time it's been
about anything of importance. I nod solemnly to her, and she whisks Wane out the door.
Sal hangs back for a second, just long enough to give me an excessively tight hug and
say "Good luck." Then he walks out without looking back.
There's supposed to be other visitors in the rest of the hour, but I've just seen the last of
my only family and of course I've got no friends. Well, that's not strictly true. I'd thought
that maybe Carey or Arla would visit me, or maybe even Nichol. We all work together, I

4. would have called them friends, but I guess that doesn't amount to much when things
get serious. So instead I've got a while to think on my plan.
It's not really a plan yet, what I told Sal I was doing. Pretending to be weak so no one
would bother with me. It's barely an idea, just a nuance. It needs some refining to even
be worthwhile, and I don't know if I want to do it anyway. I'm no weakling, and I'm no
actress either. But…I've already done the breakdown routine at the reaping, I should at
least use the tears to my advantage.
Right?
Right.
So I think on it, and decide that yes, I'll go through with my "master plan". I can totally
pull this off. (Probably.) By the time the Peacekeepers come to take me away, I've
gotten myself sobbing again by biting my tongue hard enough to have to keep
swallowing the blood in mouthfuls (nauseating, but unavoidable). They roll their eyes at
me when they think I'm not looking, and I duck my head so they can't see the smirk
spreading across my face. This won't be hard at all.

5. Chapter Two
Juniper is nothing to worry about.
I know, for a girl pretending to be pathetic, I certainly don't reserve judgment. But you
can just tell. For starters, he's obviously got zero physical capability. Maybe he's got a
desk job or something, because this kid probably hasn't ever even picked up an axe.
We're all lanky in Seven, just because of the nature of our work. But the lean build also
comes with strength, something that Juniper is utterly lacking in. He's also maybe the
most acne-stricken teenager I've ever seen, which isn't about to win him any sponsors.
And, to top it off, he's stupid as dry rot. Or doing a very good job of acting.
No, he's just an idiot.
That's the main problem with us Sevens, why we have such a bad track record in the
Games. We may be strong, fast, survivors who are handy with axes, but the majority of
us are simpletons. Wouldn't know a Career if it tried to pin us to a tree with a knife: and
that happens all too often.
Another one of our flaws is a weakness for food. We don't get much to eat in Seven, at
least those of us who work in the forests. I don't know about the people who live in town
or are in charge of us lowly woodcutters. But when food comes our way, we take it. No
matter what that food may be. As a result, we've all got pretty strong stomachs (I once
ate three pinecones and a beetle in one sitting and didn't even get a little sick). So
obviously, when faced down with a table of the best food in Panem, we're likely to attack
it like we've never eaten before and never will again. I abandon my act for a little while
at dinner on the train, figuring that everyone is too busy chowing down to pay any
attention to me. Well, April conducts herself with prim-and-proper Capitol decorum, but
the rest of us aren't so civilized.
By the time we're all surely feeling a little sick from the sheer amount of amazing food, I
pick back up the act and try to look teary again. I bite my lip (which tastes like
strawberries and blood, not an entirely pleasant combination) and stare down at the
empty plate in front of me. I don't blink until my eyes start to water then let the tears
fall. I'm a natural. I congratulate myself while slowly standing then spinning around and
running out of the room.
As soon as I've closed the door behind me I begin walking again, swaying a little with the
rocking of the train. I wonder if maybe I should actually bring my mentor in on this little
scam of mine. Her name is Isa, and she's almost eighty. She seemed normal enough
during dinner, but I've heard tell that they really unhinged her in the arena, sixty-some
years ago, and that her mind has only declined with age. Yeah, she won't be any help. I
decide. Last thing I need is to tell some crazy old coot my secret, she'll probably let it slip
to everyone. Well, there's always the male mentor, Blight…but I don't know about that.
He seems trustworthy and what little I can remember from his Games eleven years ago
tells me that he's smart. But Juniper is his primary responsibility and I don't want to give
him too much to do. And anyway, he might choose Juniper over me and leak my plan to
him.
So it's just me in my own little web of deception. Something about that is amusing, and
I'm smiling when I open the door to my cabin and step inside. The cabin is nothing like
home, and I can't decide if I like it or not. This room is all plush and windows and pink
wallpaper (hey, I didn't ask for it), whereas home is…well, it's certainly not like this.

6. I guess you could call Seven one of the wilder districts. At least, it is for those of us who
live and work in the forests. I'm clueless about the people who live in town, or the
processing plants, or the sawmills, but most of us have our livelihood among the trees
and it's sort of bred us an attitude. We report for work or school in the mornings, do our
shifts in the afternoon, punch our timecards every day, but that's about the most control
the Capitol exercises over us, besides keeping our weapons under lock and key. We do
what we like, and we do it when we like. Children are left to their own devices, so they're
raised to be self-dependent daredevils. I climbed onto my first roof when I was four,
could scale the tallest of trees by six, learned to handle a hatchet at eight and was set to
splitting logs, got given my first axe at ten and was quickly a tree-cutting expert. While
this was going on, we were being encouraged to learn the habits of "borrowing" food
from our neighbors, take our money wherever we could get it, and basically be authority-
flouting hotheads. But of course, we know where to draw the line. If the authority in
question is in the form of a Peacekeeper or a foreman, then you hold your hands behind
you back, your chin high, and take whatever they dish out.
Point is, we roll with the punches in Seven. If we weren't graced with the worst
intelligence in the gene pool, we'd win the Games every year. Which is why I think
people may be a little doubtful of my act. But I have to make it believable, if I'm going to
use the crying at the reaping to my advantage. So I rub my eyes until they look good
and red, mess up my hair a little more, and then splash some water on my face (to make
it look like I tried to clean up). I really want to change out of my horrible reaping dress
and see if they've got something close to my customary overalls in that closet, but I
decide against it because if I'm so distressed then why would I care about my clothes?
I've only just come to this conclusion when there's a knock on the door.
I do a last check in the mirror in the corner to makes sure that I look like enough of a
mess (I do) and open the door. It's Juniper, standing awkwardly way too close to the
door. He doesn't say anything, just stares at me, so I take the initiative. "Can I help
you?" I ask, trying to make my voice sound as wobbly as possible. It's not really that
hard, because I'm beginning to think that the fourth plate of food was a mistake. I'm
feeling a little green.
"Um, we're gonna watch the reapings. Everyone thought you might want to join us."
Juniper says, shuffling in place. He decidedly doesn't meet my eyes, and twists his hands
nervously. What a loser. A doomed loser, too.
"That's so thoughtful of you." I say in what I think is a kind voice. What do I know of
kindness? I keep my head down and follow Juniper to the car he came to find everyone
gathered around a television. The District One reapings are wrapping up by the time we
take our seats, but I have time to gauge that the two are the deadly norm. Neither has
much going for them other than brute force, but that's certainly enough. Same with the
boy from Two, but the girl has a little smile that I don't like the looks of. She looks like
she's saying that she knows something we don't, and that's worrying. As always, Three
manages to look as though they've never set foot out of the computer lab before today.
The boy from Four is pretty cute, but I don't pay much attention. Not going to matter
when he's trying to spear me through the neck, is it?
Five is nothing special, as always. The boy from Six starts laughing like a crazy person
when they call his name, and I wonder if he's entirely sane. The girl from Six isn't
anything to worry about, she's only thirteen and barely four feet tall. Then it's our turn,
and I'm surprised to see that I look even weaker than I thought I did. And that's saying
something. The commentators have plenty of remarks about my "spectacle".
"This is one to look out for, that's for sure!"

7. "She's clearly the most dangerous player in the Games so far."
"Everyone had better watch their backs!"
Of course, this is all dripping with sarcasm. I glance around and see that everyone is
looking at me, so I stare at the bright light on the ceiling until tears begin to well up in
my eyes. Isa, April, and Juniper look away nervously, but Blight pats my shoulder. Maybe
not the most comforting gesture possible, but I appreciate the sentiment. Especially
because I'm feeling progressively worse. My churning stomach was only agitated by
seeing myself get reaped for the second time, and I don't have to pretend to look
miserable. I give him a watery smile, and he half-returns it before turning back to the
screen.
I've missed the tributes from Eight, but judging by the tone of the commentators, they're
the usual bloodbath material. So are the two from Nine, and Ten also falls short of having
the slightest ghost of a chance. The girl from Eleven is a stocky, muscular piece of
glowering work, and I mark her as one to watch out for. The boy is no threat, though.
Twelve is its usual pathetic self, then with a few last comments the program ends.
At that point, Blight makes an attempt on the conscientious mentor front, asking us
about strategies and special skills. Seeing as Juniper is hopeless and I'm pretending to be
so, we don't get too far with that. Eventually we all retreat to our cabins, and I spend an
oh-so-pleasant hour puking my guts out. Turns out that I have motion sickness.
Violent motion sickness.
I'm sick on and off all night, so I'm not in an amazing mood by the time the train rolls to
a stop the next morning, in the Capitol. I'm not at all cheered by the crowds and
nauseatingly bright colors, and it's hard to not glare at everyone I see. I have to remind
myself about a thousand times that I don't want to look menacing, but it's hard. These
people both disgust and scare me, the way they react to us poor damned souls rolling
into their fancy city. I can't even forget my act when the prep team is attending to me
(torturing me might be a better expression). What if they gossip to their friends that I'm
faking it? So I try to act like a mouse, scared and quiet and just begging that I don't get
eaten by a snake.
The stylist shows up maybe an hour in and introduces herself as Tillie. I decide right
away to not like her. She isn't too extreme, considering what I've already seen here, but
still utterly fake. She's wearing so much makeup I can't even imagine what her face
really looks like, under the sparkles and eye shadow and bright pink lipstick. Her accent
is even more grating because her voice is so high, and even the briefest introductions
sends shivers up my spine.
"Well, you're nothing special, but we can fix that!" Tillie chirps. It's all I can do to hold
back some snarky comment about any number of her physical features, but I manage to
make do with a quiet thank you and what I hope is a grateful smile.
There's no need to really act for Tillie, so I just suffer my treatment in silence. She seems
to be disdainful of the prep team, and does most of the work herself. I'm not in the
slightest inhibited, so there's not really an awkward factor, but it's still pretty painful. So
many beauty products I don't have names for more than a few and I don't even know
what most of them do. Tillie takes particular offense with my eyebrows, and I don't have
to pretend to make my eyes water once she breaks out the tweezers.

8. It's a long, painful few hours later when we find out that her idea of "fixing" me is
dressing me up like a tree. Go figure. Seven's been trees for a good quarter century.
"Don't you look marvelous." Tillie doesn't really make it a question, and I can't disagree
anyway. So I just nod and she leads me up to the City Circle. I'm one of the first here,
only the two from One and the boy from Ten have arrived already. Surprising, what with
the amount of care and time it took to prepare my costume. (You don't know me if you
think I was being serious there.)
While we wait for everyone to show up, I set to streaking my makeup like I've been
crying again. I need to come up with some more original stuff, because I can't build a
personality on crying. But my musings are put on hold by the arrival of Juniper, a mirror
image of me (though significantly spottier: they couldn't entirely fix his acne). God, I
look even worse than I thought. Tillie is an idiot. She can't possibly think this is actually
going to help us.
"Nice costume." Juniper says dryly.
"At least I wear it well." I say in my old voice, then catch myself. I try to lose the cynical
tone and say "The stylists are really nice, aren't they? I think they actually like us."
Juniper laughs shortly. "Please. I bet they've both got money on our lives."
Money on our deaths, more like. "See? Already they're rooting for us." I smile. Juniper
rolls his eyes at my naivety and I feel like flipping him off except I can't do that. So I just
face forward again, trying to contain a glare.
The chariots slowly fill up as tributes arrive. There's no socializing, except cursory
introductions between the Careers. We all look pretty typical: bedazzled costumes for
One, something mechanical that makes no sense for Three, us as trees, some sort of
livestock for Ten, racy miners jumpsuits for Twelve. I think Eleven looks best out of all of
us, in well-cut outfits that seem to be fashioned like some sort of grain. Everyone else
just looks plain stupid. Well, I'm the girl in the tree suit. I'm not one to talk.
The fanfare plays, and the doors open. District One is first out, to huge applause from
the crowds outside. One is always a favorite. Dandy for them. Two gets a similar
reception, Three not so much. But the applause picks back up at Four, though they're
looking idiotic as fish. Juniper turns to me as Five makes their appearance, and asks "Are
we supposed to wave and stuff?"
"I don't know. Do you think we should?" I have zero intention of waving or smiling for
these people, so I hope to high heaven he says no.
"I don't see how it'll make any difference. We're doomed anyway." Juniper says casually.
It's our turn next, and he's acting as though he could care less, but I can see how
nervous he is. I hope my own act isn't so transparent.
"Don't say such things." I say, widening my eyes like I'm scared. Ugh.
Then it's our turn to roll out the doors. I'm almost blinded by the flashing lights and
deafened by the shouting crowds, so my head ducks involuntarily. I decide to keep it
there, staring at my brown cloth shoes. I hope that in getting the sponsors to ignore me,
I'll achieve the same of the other tributes.

9. I begin to feel a little sick after maybe ten minutes of our twisted parade through the
city, motion sickness striking again. I'm flushed and sweaty under the makeup, trying to
breathe deeply and keep my nausea under control by the time we roll to a smooth,
synchronized stop in the City Circle. I breathe a sigh of relief, glad that I'm not going to
hurl. That might help my character a little, but seems like overkill. President Snow makes
his speech from a balcony above us, blathering on and on about…god, who knows? I stop
listening after maybe three minutes. I amuse myself by counting the number of people
who I see that are dyed red in the stands around us. I lose count around fifty and start
on orange.
I've gone through the rainbow and moved on to silver by the time Snow finally shuts up
and the nights "festivities" are done. It's a relief to get back to the training center,
though I don't enjoy being stuffed into the elevator with all the other tributes and their
entourages. I need my elbow room—I guess you could call it claustrophobia. But luckily,
there's never any shortage of empty space in Seven, so it's generally a non-issue. We
have to push out way to the doors on floor seven and I can see that Juniper is just as
drained as me.
"Well, I can't say that you two were very good." April says with a sigh as the elevator
closes behind us. "And especially you!" she turns on me, pointing a finger. "What was
that stunt you pulled?"
"What stunt?" I ask innocently, though I know she's referring to the fact that I
completely ignored the audience.
"You know what I mean. They couldn't have even shown your face onscreen unless they
had cameras in your knees." April folds her arms at me.
With all the psycho surgery here, that might be possible. "I just felt sick." That's the
truth.
"Well, you'll need to get over that if you want to have any chance of survival." April says.
"At this point, your odds are nonexistent."
That's the kind of thing that would set me off if I was who I'm pretending to be. I realize
this a little late and it probably looks a little disjointed when I cover my face with my
hands and run off down the hallway to my room as fast as is possible in the tree
costume. I slam the door behind me for dramatic effect.
The room is huge, five times bigger than my entire house. Well, seeing as our house is
little more than two rooms and comprised mostly of scrap wood, shingles and bent nails,
that's not saying much. But the room is still crazy impressive. I'm seized with an infantile
urge to play with every single gadget, even those that I don't know the use of, and I
decide to go ahead. First, though, I strip out of the horrible tree costume. I don't know
where to put it, so I leave it on the floor and go to search through the closet, utilizing
one of the contraptions on the wall to do so. But none of it is to my liking, it's all too
fancy. So I don't bother to get dressed. Not like anyone cares.
I set to playing with the apparatus around the room and I've accidentally zapped myself
a few times, turned the heating way up, and switched all the lights to a dark blue glow
by the time I'm showered (the shower is both bizarre and amazing) and there's a knock
on the door. I scramble to get back into character and find something to wear before
answering the door. It's Blight, telling me that they're having dinner and wanted to know
if I feel up to joining them. I reply that I am, and shadow him quietly to the dining room.

10. I don't really know what to think of Blight. I can't quite recall his Games, I was only three
or four. He's not an amazing mentor, only as good as can be expected. He doesn't talk
much, or at least hasn't so far. He's a big guy, broad-shouldered and well over six feet,
but I don't know if there's a brain behind it. Probably not. We are from Seven.
Dinner is an awkward affair in which no one talks, except for April. And she only pipes up
occasionally to make a comment about the food (which, by the way, is just as heavenly
as before). We all disperse to our rooms as soon as we've eaten, no small talk. Which is
fine by me: it means that I don't have to make an effort with my act and provides fewer
opportunities for me to slip up.
I'm stuffed and incredibly tired by the time I'm back in my room. I fiddle around with the
light level for a while to try and get them to turn off, but only succeed in making them
glow a bright, clinical white. So I give up and collapse into the giant bed, where I quickly
fall asleep despite the headache-inducing lights.
Being pathetic. It's exhausting work.

11. Chapter Three
This is it, Johanna. I try to prepare myself for another long day of being a weakling. It's
surprisingly difficult: walking with my shoulders drooped just right, the hesitation in my
voice, the skittish reaction to anything sudden, the tears constantly just on the edge of
spilling forth. I've developed a few guidelines for myself to follow in the days of training
to come, and I'm a little worried by how easily I'm slipping into the role. I can't allow
myself to actually get weak, it would spell death for certain.
Though, after observing the other tributes train for only half an hour, I decide that death
is pretty much a certainty anyway. Well, it's only really the Careers that spell imminent
and painful demise, but the girl from Eleven is also to be watched. She's handy with the
types of weapons one swings: probably from reaping grain. I name her Scythe, because
it's just so overdramatic that I can't help but chuckle to myself when I think of her and
that makes it all a little less terrifying.
I watch Scythe lop off the head of a dummy with a wicked sharp sword and decide to get
involved in something else before she catches me staring. I stick strictly to survival
stations, because I'm (of course) a pro at handling all sorts of wood-chopping
instruments and I might not have too poor luck at some other weapons. That wouldn't
help my image. So I stay innocuous, drifting from empty station to empty station.
Sometimes I let them teach me things, like at the knot-tying station, but other times I
make a big show of making mistakes such as "accidentally" setting a shoelace on fire and
flipping out.
I'm putting back on a slightly scorched shoe to chuckles from around the room when
they announce lunch. I, of course, sit alone after getting food. I try to not eat as
ravenously as usual, but do it nervously and in keeping with my other fake mannerisms.
I'm sitting at a table in the corner of the room, being ignored. That is, until the boy from
Six decides to sit with me. I can't very well turn him away, that's too aggressive for my
alter ego. So I watch in silence as he…I don't really know what to call it. But the boy
keeps up a running monologue through the whole meal, talking to someone that isn't
there. I mean, I know he isn't talking to me and just not looking at me because he keeps
calling the person he's addressing "Celine".
"Everyone keeps acting like they're scared of me. I just don't get it, Celine. I'm not
scary." He says, throwing up his hands and dropping a bread roll. Not scary. Just
psycho. "Anyway, training is going well, I think." Psycho continues to talk to "Celine"
through the rest of the meal. I wonder if she's a real girl, maybe back home, or if she's
some product of his imagination.
Juniper eventually joins me and psycho, for lack of anyone else to sit with. He sits down
and I see that he's got a few carrots on his tray. It's a stupid thing, really, but it sort of
depresses me. Mother bought carrots whenever we could afford it and gave them to us
raw. She said it improved eyesight…or was it bone density? I can't remember. I never
listened.
I catch myself staring at the carrots and biting my lip, so I decide to play this up. I pinch
my arm under the table, hard, and manage to get some tears. So soon I'm crying
quietly, fixated on the orange vegetables in question. "I'm sorry." I choke out. "It's just
that my mother…" I dissolve into heavier tears, and psycho stands up uncomfortably.
"Come on, Celine…let's go…" he goes to find an empty table on the other side of the
room. Then they announce that lunch is over, and I try to pull myself together.

12. I spend the rest of training in much the same manner. I skulk in corners, learn survival
skills, make obvious mistakes. The other tributes laugh amongst themselves at me
occasionally, but mostly they ignore me. What idiots. This is almost too easy. But by the
third day, I'm beginning to get a little on edge. I haven't insulted anyone in days. I can
almost feel my sarcastic capability draining away. And the nicknames I'm making up for
the other tributes are getting progressively worse. I mean, it started going downhill
around "psycho", which was well below my usual standard, but by the time I get around
to naming the girl from Two with the mysterious smile, all I can come up with is
"Smiley". Makes sense, I guess, because it's what I noticed about her first, but it's so
under par that I feel a little stupid saying it myself. For lack of better ideas, though, it's
what I call her.
I'm kneeling at the edible plants station and watching Smiley from afar. She's in a bad
mood, having just had the instructor kick her butt in a wrestling lesson (he just had to
grab her long ponytail and it was pretty much over), and is shooting a row of dummies
as though each one has done her a great personal wrong. Despite her irritation, her
accuracy is unnerving. I turn back to identifying plants, not wanting to scare myself more
than necessary. The instructor is getting a little fed up with me, because even though I'm
actually trying, I keep mixing up wild carrot and poison hemlock. I want to snap at the
instructor, preferably something very insulting, but I make do with dissolving into tears
after she reprimands me for about the fiftieth time. It really rubs me the wrong way, but
I do it anyway.
So my mood is in the negatives by the time they announce lunch, and it's not improved
by the fact that they start calling us for audiences with the Gamemakers before I can
finish my soup. Well, luckily, District Seven of course goes seventh on the roster, so I do
have a little extra time. They call Juniper first and I wish him good luck in my nervous
voice. The pressure to act has sort of lessened, but I have to keep it up at least to some
degree. I jump when they call my name, then rush out of the room like I'm all
embarrassed.
Most of the Gamemakers are in varying stages of drunkenness by the time I make my
appearance, and I feel a little like yelling at them for their blatant disregard for us
tributes. We at least deserve to be watched as we fight for the recognition that may save
our lives. But some of them are still paying attention, so I hold back and make a beeline
for the rack of axes in the corner. I've only just picked one up and felt the relief of having
something so familiar in my hand when I remember that I can't give up my act even
now. Though no tributes are watching, my training score will reflect my skills. And I don't
want a high number. So the next thing I do is drop the axe and let it almost hit my foot,
jumping back at the last second.
I continue to make ridiculous mistakes throughout the whole session. I cut myself on a
throwing knife, I trip over the spear rack, I back up into a dummy and fall to the ground.
The expressions on the few sober Gamemakers' faces are almost comical by the time one
of them clears his throat and says "You may go."
"Thank you." I say with a sweet smile up to the Gamemakers' table. Yech.
No one is waiting when I step off the elevator on the seventh floor, so I head back to my
room. I'm in a bad mood, due to the days of keeping my personality under wraps, my
staged failure of training, and the idiotic nature of the nicknames I'm coming up with (it
suggests that I'm actually going soft). So I spend a very pleasant few hours insulting
everything I see, just to cheer myself up. Most of it isn't very clever, but it makes me
feel better.

13. I've still got a little time to kill before dinner, so I set myself to trying to comb out my
hair. I've got a lot of it, never having had the opportunity to really cut it. Normally I just
tie it back in a messy bunch that reaches almost all the way down my back, not brushing
it or anything. But Tillie did something to it that's keeping it glossy, so I guess I should
probably keep it nice while I can. I've just untied it when I remember Smiley and her
defeat earlier today in training. The instructor used her hair to pull her to the ground.
Shit. I have to get rid of my hair, now. It's a liability. Someone could take it and pull me
back if I were trying to run away, or it could get tangled in a tree or whatever, or
someone could take a page out of that instructor's book and use it in a fight…heck, they
could even strangle me with it. It's that long. I cast around for scissors but after failing
that, for something else sharp. Like a knife. But obviously, there's nothing of the sort. So
a tribute can't try to commit suicide. I'm considering stealing a knife from the table at
dinner tonight when my eyes light on the mirror. There's an idea. Before I've even
thought about it, I find myself using the comb in my hand to smash a corner of the
mirror. It breaks easily, so I guess they didn't think that a tribute might try what I'm
doing. They don't give us enough credit: I could easily slit my wrists with any of these
bits of glass. And why not? Even with my strategy, I still don't like my chances. But no,
that's not fair. It'd get everyone in trouble: Juniper and Isa and Blight and probably my
family as well. They might even reap another girl to take my place. And who am I to play
god?
So I just take one of the larger shards and tie my hair back again, then begin hacking at
it. I cut close to my head, and by the time there's a knock on the door, April summoning
me to dinner, my head is about five pounds lighter. The cut isn't very glamorous, uneven
and choppy, but functional. That's one less way to die.
April doesn't see it quite that way. Her mouth literally falls open when I open the door.
"What did you do?" she asks, aghast.
"What does it look like I did?" I ask snippily, catching myself too late. I don't feel like
blundering through my mistake, so I just stalk off down the hallway. Even the most
pathetic have their moments, right?
Everyone seems shocked by my transformation at dinner. I feel like asking them what
the hell is so interesting about my hair, but I just throw myself into a chair and begin
steadfastly ignoring everyone. A few of those weirdly silent, white-uniformed attendants
serve dinner, and I stare at my plate as if it's the most fascinating thing this side of
District Five. Everyone eventually gives up on staring at me and begins talking about
training. Eventually our mentors (well, really only Blight) begin talking about strategy.
They drill Juniper and me about the other tributes, about what we think we learned,
about how we want to use the new skills. I answer the questions in my head, because I
do want all the help I can get, but I don't participate because I've already sacrificed too
much of my character tonight. I'm beginning to think that it was too smart to cut my
hair, like my pathetic side wouldn't have thought of it. Well, no going back now.
We turn on the television to watch the training scores handed out. One gets twin nines,
which comes as little surprise. The boy from Two gets a seven, but Smiley gets a ten. I
really have to come up with a better name for her, I think as the two from Three get
scores that match their usual low standard. Everyone seems to be conforming to the
norm this year, high scores for Four, low for Five, medium for Six (psycho gets a seven,
and I wonder what he did to merit that: he wasn't anything impressive in training).
Juniper scrapes a five, just on the edge of dismal.

14. Then my face is onscreen with an almost comical numeral one flashing in front of it. I
have to contain a snicker at the crestfallen expression on everyone's faces. I manage to
kick myself hard enough to get some tears going, then just cover my face with my hands
and dash from the room. That's only the fourth one ever "awarded" to a tribute. If there
was any doubt in my mind before, I know for certain that I will be ignored now.
Someone has replaced the shattered mirror and swept up the shards on the floor when I
saunter into the room. Convenient, I think, ruminating on the mirror. Isn't there a saying
about mirrors? Step on one and you break your mother's back? Whatever. I'm too tired
to think straight. I decide to just go to bed now, even though it's barely seven. I've
learned to control the lights at this point, and I turn them off instead of brighter this
time. But unlike the nights previous, I just can't sleep.
Training is over. We have our scores. Tomorrow is the interviews. And the day after
that…Don't think it. I warn myself. But I can't help it. The day after that, I probably die.
And if there's one thought that's capable of keeping you up all night, that's it.

15. Chapter Four
Caesar Flickerman is looking stupid for the tribute interviews, in his sparkly suit and his
face this year done up in dark purple. But I'm looking stupider.
Tillie had a fit when she saw my hair. "What have you done, what were you thinking, I
could lose my job, what are we going to do now?" But after she consoled herself from the
crushing loss, she fixed up the uneven cut into what she calls a cute bob but I think is
just idiotic. However, she has done my character a favor. The haircut, paired with my
pink little-girl dress, speaks to my innocence and helplessness.
I think I'm going to puke.
The interviews are pretty much on par with what they usually are. The Careers from One
and Two go on and on about their training and how they're planning a violent demise for
every other tribute—it's not especially pleasant stuff to listen to, but the audience
certainly seems to like it. I find out that Smiley's name is actually Daphne, but at this
point Smiley just sounds better in my head. And her creepy little smile is omnipresent
anyway. The district Three tributes mostly stutter, and it's obvious that they'd rather be
anywhere but here. Hey, they can join the club any time they want. The cute guy from
Four ends up being named Rafi, and he apparently has a proficiency in throwing spears. I
didn't notice during training, so I guess he might just be making stuff up to impress the
sponsors.
Psycho goes and talks to Celine the whole time, completely ignoring Caesar. It'd be funny
if he didn't seem so deranged while doing it. The girl from Six is named Pixia, which I
find a little amusing. Of course, it's an idiotic name, but it sounds a little like pixie and if
her interview is anything to go by, that's what she is. Small and pretty with a mean
vindictive streak. But she could be making it up as well. I am, Rafi is, who's to say that
any of us are being honest?
Then it's my turn, and I try to accentuate my act while going up to the chair next to
Caesar—stumbling a little halfway there, keeping my shoulders hunched, not looking at
the audience. I sit in the chair without looking at Caesar as the seconds of my interview
pass by. He makes a few attempts at small talk, but we don't get very far with that. So
he moves on to topics of importance, namely, my dismal training score. Well, he puts it a
little gentler. "So, Johanna, how do you feel about your training score of one?" He
doesn't mention that one is almost comically low.
"Oh, I was so disappointed. I tried so hard, I'd thought that maybe…" I shake my head
and look down at my knees, acting like I'm all distressed.
"Well, as long as you tried your best, that's all that matters." Caesar says, patting my
arm.
"You really think so?" I ask hopefully, looking up.
"I really do." There are a few appreciative aww's from the audience, but not many,
because they know that what we're saying is utter tripe. What matters is whether I can
survive or not, and my training score dictates that I can't.
Caesar moves on. "Any family at home?"

16. Ah. That's a touchy subject. My family situation has always been…complex. To hear my
mother tell it, the father of me and Sal is "Just not in the picture, alright? Now stop
pestering me!" but she's been telling us that story for our whole lives, even when it
stopped making sense. Because if he's not "in the picture", then where did Wane come
from? She certainly looks as though she belongs in the family, with my nose and Sal's
ears, and the wide-set eyes we all share, but then there are the features that clearly
come from no one we know. But I was only ten when she was born, so obviously my
capacity for imagining sordid extramarital affairs wasn't at its peak. And by the time I
was old enough to really wonder, the memories had gotten too fuzzy to make any
conclusions.
But that's far too complicated to try and explain to the Capitol audience, so I just go with
a tremulous "Yes, I do, and I miss them very much."
After a few more attempts at meaningless conversation, Caesar brings up what's
apparently a very big deal. "I think that one thing we're all wondering is what happened
to your hair?"
What is wrong with these people? They all care far too much about my hair. Is there
some sort of hair conspiracy I'm missing out on? I hadn't bothered to come up with any
reason for cutting off my hair, deciding that everyone would see it for the non-issue it is.
But apparently not. And cutting it so that no one could use it against me in a fight is far
too calculating for my character. I need to come up with a sob story, and do it now.
"Well, my mother used to do my hair. She'd brush it every night. A hundred strokes, she
said. And while she brushed, she would tell stories and sing songs…and I just…couldn't
look at it." I dissolve into tears and stumble back to my seat when the buzzer rings not
ten seconds later. Well, I was nothing stellar, but I think I probably looked harmless
enough.
Juniper is forgettable, as are the two from Eight. Nine and Ten have just about no
chance, which is a little surprising because normally Ten does alright. I learn that
Scythe's real name is Linnea, but that simply sounds too innocent for her. However, it's a
whole ton better than Scythe, so I decide that that's what I'll call her.
Twelve ends things with a bang (heavy sarcasm) and we're hurried back to the Training
Center. The elevator is just as claustrophobia-inducing as the previous times we've all
been in it, but I take the opportunity to step on the feet of everyone near me—just for
kicks. They won't know it was me, and it's funny watching them try to figure it out.
We shove our way out of the elevator and immediately we find that as per usual, April
has plenty of comments about our shortcomings. I want to tell her that she's in no
position to be making critiques, what with those stupid flowers she weaves into her not-
naturally blond hair and that constantly clueless expression she wears. Juniper decides
that he doesn't want to put up with her, so he just shakes his head and walks off into his
room.
With Juniper gone, I can say what I like. Blight and Isa won't matter in a few hours.
"April, why don't you do yourself a favor and find someone who actually gives a damn?" I
ask, interrupting her pointless tirade. It's not up to my usual standards, but I'm a little
rusty. And anyway, the relief from saying what's on my mind is instantaneous. Everyone
gives me questioning looks and I stomp off down the hall to my room, kicking off my
stupid pink shoes and slamming the door because I feel like it.

17. But the relief is short-lived, because I make the mistake of trying to go to sleep. It's
impossible. I know that it's because I'm so scared, but I tell myself it's anything but that.
First my haircut makes the pillow feel weird. Then the bed is too soft. The room is too
cold. The room is too hot. It's too dark. It's too bright. It must be one in the morning by
the time I can't think of another stupid complaint to keep me up and eventually I just
collapse into the sheets of the bed—they're a mess at this point, I keep getting up—and
let exhaustion take over.
I wonder if there will be nightmares? Of course there will be. What kind of idiot am I?
Nightmares are unavoidable. I am a tribute, after all. One of the twenty-four unluckiest
souls on the planet.
And hey, I finally remembered what it is they say about mirrors. Break one and you get
seven years of bad luck. Because the universe just hates me that much.

18. Chapter Five
"So. Stun me with your expertise." I say, holding out the tribute uniform for Tillie's
inspection. I don't know what to make of it, and if she can give me any clues then I'll be
just that much better off for my entrance into the arena in less than ten minutes.
Tillie scans the clothes, pursing her lips. I get the distinct impression that she's trying to
make stuff up on the spot, because she probably is. "Well, I suppose that this could be
some sort of…and maybe here…yes, that makes sense…right, so that's…meaning
that…yes. You understand?" She says vaguely, gesturing to different bits of the uniform.
"Oh, yes. I completely understand. Thanks. It would have been so irritating if you hadn't
explained that properly." I say snippily. She could at least try.
"Just get dressed." Tillie says with a glare, probably wondering just where this girl has
come from because she's certainly not who I was yesterday.
I shrug and begin to pull on the uniform. It's too bad that Tillie's clueless, because I
could really use some suggestions as to what this maddeningly vague uniform means.
There are plain black pants, no pockets, which tie closed at the bottom. Actually, that
should probably be a clue, but I don't know to what. But the rest of it really is
unhelpful—grey shirt with sleeves that stop halfway up my forearm; yellow-brown-ish
jacket that I have to pull on over my head, made of some synthetic material; thin gray
socks; black boots with metal snaps instead of laces. I don't know what any of this
indicates beyond what I hope is a simple arena. Sometimes they just have a forest,
nothing special, and sometimes the arenas are whacked-out meshes of all sorts of terrain
that make about zero sense. If nothing else, I want trees. For the obvious reasons.
I'm feeling more than a little shaky by the time Tillie leads me into the Launch Room, but
I just clench my jaw and dig my nails into my palms, unwilling to let it show. I stand still
as stone on the metal plate, waiting for the glass to come down. When it does, Tillie
gives me a cheery wave and I sort of want to flip her off except I'm too tense to move.
I do manage to turn my face up to the bright light from above, because even a few more
seconds of knowing what I'm facing could be the difference between life and death. But
it's too bright to see anything until a few seconds after the plate has clicked into place.
And even then, I can't make sense of anything. This is nothing like the towering forests
of Seven, this is so alien that I can't even really absorb it.
Yellow. Dingy yellow, that's what the ground is. The ground is too high, almost up to my
knees. Grass? Yes, that's it. I'm looking at a huge field of grass, yellowed by the baking
sun above us in the pale blue sky that seems to go on forever. No clouds, the sun is
incredibly harsh. In the distance, to my left, I see something that may be trees. But it's
so far away, it just looks like a smudge. Could be anything, I suppose.
Prairie. The term comes to mind, from some old story mother told me and Sal when we
were kids. About a family who lived in a place like this. She said that the story was
ancient, from even before the formation of Panem, so I'd doubted its authenticity. But
clearly parts of it were accurate.
The Cornucopia, gold and gleaming, is sitting in some higher grass about twenty yards
away. I can sprint that far, maybe, but I'm not really a runner. I tire fast. Should I try for
supplies, or just make a break for safety? Well, I do have to keep up the act, at least for
now. What would my pathetic side do? She wouldn't throw herself into the thick of

19. things, she'd run away as if her life depended on it (because it would). But I'm going to
need supplies if I want to live, and an axe would be invaluable.
I'm still trying to decide what to do when the gong sounds and Claudius Templesmith
announces the beginning of the Games, signifying that our sixty seconds of waiting are
up. Maybe I've transformed into more of my character than I'd like, because I spook and
run forward, not away from the bloodbath but right towards where it will be worst: the
mouth of the Cornucopia. Oh, hell. This is not going to be pretty. But I'm too far gone
now to turn back. I just have to let this take me where it will.
The tributes standing next to me were the little pixie from Six and the boy from Three. I
had thought that neither of them would be any problem, but clearly I was wrong. Well,
the boy from Three is still far behind, trying to figure out which way to go. But the pixie
has sprinted past me, almost a blur with her speed. She makes her way to the mouth of
the Cornucopia and snatches up whatever she can before dashing off into the grass and
disappearing. She pays me no attention, which I find heartening. If I've fooled her, I may
have fooled the others.
And it turns out that I have. I'd thought that maybe I could avoid the worst of the
bloodbath, but of course the Careers have trained their whole lives for this and they're
the first there. I'm passing far too close to Rafi of Four, who is throwing Smiley a bow
and a quiver of arrows, before I can even try to change direction. But he just lets me run
past him, barely sparing me a glance. He probably would have stabbed me or something
if he were armed, but he hasn't gotten around to that yet and must think it'd be too
much effort to kill me with his bare hands. Not that he couldn't, if he had a mind to.
But then I've sprinted past him and I'm slipping over the pile of supplies at the mouth of
the Cornucopia, my eyes locking onto the axe lying just off to the side. It's what I really
need, what will guarantee me the best chance of survival. I should probably be grabbing
whatever I can, but I'm a little busy running for my life. I do manage to snatch a very,
very small brown backpack off the ground when I bend down to pick up the axe, but
that's it.
My fingers have just closed around the varnished wood handle of the weapon in question
when the first arrow streaks past me. It's a near miss, and I lose a chunk of hair. Tillie
will be so disappointed with me. I think, looking around to see where the shooter is. Of
course, it's Smiley. I remember her targeting that row of dummies in training—she's an
amazing shot. She reloads and I set off running faster, wondering why she's bothering
with me. I thought I'd convinced everyone. Of all the people to see through me, it has to
be the girl who's probably the most lethal tribute in this entire arena.
Her next shot scrapes along my shoulder. It's shallow cut, barely a scrape, but it still
hurts. I run faster and find myself doubling over and disappearing into the higher grass,
out of sight. I'm not worth pursuing, even if Smiley has seen through my act. I run and
run until I think I might collapse, and then I allow myself to slow to a walk. I keep
heading away from the Cornucopia, wondering what my next move should be. The sun
has moved a little to the west, and I'd say it's been maybe an hour since the beginning of
the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games. They're probably still fighting, but they won't be for
much longer.
I take the opportunity to sit down and inspect my cut. It's not serious at all, barely
bleeding, though it really is quite painful. While I'm resting, I go through the small
backpack I picked up. It can't contain much of worth, it's so small. And indeed, the
contents of the bag are measly: a small pocketknife that probably couldn't even facilitate

20. a good stab, iodine tablets for purifying water, a small packet of crackers, and a water
bottle about as tall as my palm and not even as wide. I begin to get a little angry with
myself, because I was right there at the mouth of the Cornucopia. That's where all the
good stuff is, and I completely missed my chance!
Well, at least I have my axe. I look over the weapon and decide that the risk was worth
it. The axe is a little heavier than I'm used to, but that's fine. Just means I can throw it
farther. The handle is a dark wood polished to a shine, though I don't recognize what sort
of wood it is. The head is a gleaming silver and the blade wicked sharp, not yet stained
with blood.
Not yet stained with blood. I don't want to dwell on the slightly morbid thoughts I've just
had, so I pull myself to my feet and prepare to keep walking. The iodine tablets and the
water bottle tell me that there is water in this arena somewhere, though I clearly won't
be finding it in this dry field. I'll need water if I want to survive…but how to find it? Well,
what do we know about water? It's…wet. You drink it. Bathe in it every few weeks, when
you can. You cry water, as I've found to hold very true recently. Rain is water, but I don't
think we're going to be getting rain any time soon. Trees need water, lots of it.
Trees need water. All I have to do is find some trees, and I'll find water. Didn't I think
that I saw trees, back at the Cornucopia? Really, that smudge could have been anything,
but I think it's my best shot. They were…to my left? Where would that be now? I take a
chance and change direction, hoping that I'm heading the right way.
I've not gone very far before the cannon shots begin going off. One, two, three, four,
five. I pause in my walking and count thirteen blasts. That's a lot, compared to the usual
nine or ten. I know that I am safe, as is the pixie girl, but otherwise I'll have to wait for
the death toll tonight.
I set off again, pushing through the grass. It's gotten taller the farther from the
Cornucopia I've walked, and now reaches a little over my head. Though it's dry and
scratches me every few steps, the grass is surprisingly resilient and springs back up once
I step off of it, creating a sort of bubble around me. They must have messed with its
genetic makeup. I can feel the claustrophobia creeping somewhere in the back of my
mind, but I grit my teeth and ignore it. I can't let myself get distracted, not when I could
be a mere fifty feet from another tribute and just not know it—this grass, however much
I hate it, is good cover.
I think I may be heading in circles by the time an hour has passed, and I'm almost
certain after two hours of identical brownish yellow grass. God, I hate this. I can't even
see the sky unless I stare straight up, but the sun still manages to be insanely bright. I
can feel myself getting sunburnt, and the temperature must be almost a hundred
degrees. I'm crazy thirsty, my blisters have blisters, and I'm probably going to wander in
this stupid prairie until I collapse. I want to just start shouting at the sky to release the
frustration at this endless field and barely manage to contain myself.
And that's before I see the snake. Small and pale brown, it just slithers across my path
and doesn't even look at me. But I jump back anyway, stifling a shriek. (Tell anyone
about that, and you'll regret it.) I hate, hate,hate, snakes. They're so…so…slithery…and
cold…and snaky….I can't describe just why they're so unnerving. But I don't need a
reason. This one seemed to not care that I even existed, but this place is
probably crawlingwith the filthy things, and who knows if they will all be so benign?

21. I walk for the rest of the day jumping at every little noise—it's either a tribute or a snake
and I don't fancy running into either. I'm not at all cheered when the sun sets, leaving
the air with a slight chill, and I know that I will have to bunk down for the night soon.
Horrible prospect, but I can't walk forever. I give up all hopes of reaching the trees by
nightfall and resign myself to a night in the field.
There are no paths, no clearings, so I just stop in my tracks and sit down. I hate the idea
of spending the night here with the snakes and tributes and whatever else must be
crawling through this field, but it's unavoidable. I grip my axe tighter, glaring around at
the shadowed grasses.
"There better not be any snakes out there." I whisper so quietly that probably even the
cameras can't pick it up. "I mean it. You'll regret coming near me." I say, shifting the axe
into a more stable position, ready to bring it down on any offending snaky necks—do
snakes have necks? Are they just one long neck? Or one long tail? I've never understood
that.
There's no response from the grass. "Yeah, that's right. You better run." I say, though
snakes can't actually run. I lie down warily after checking behind me for unwanted
reptiles, reluctant to try and sleep.
This is going to be even less fun than I'd thought. And that's really, really saying
something.

22. Chapter Six
I'm distracted from my uneasy scanning of the area by the sky lighting up and the
anthem playing, the daily death toll. I stare up at the screen in the sky, wondering in
passing what would happen if the hovercraft were to drop it. I mean, I know it probably
won't happen, but it'd be awfully convenient if they were to crush a couple tributes.
Then the image on the screen switches to the boy from Three, who stood next to me at
the Cornucopia. He didn't live long past that, clearly. Then his district partner is flashing
in the sky, Three dead in the bloodbath as usual. Then there's Rafi, which surprises me a
little, but I can't say I'm too devastated. One less Career is always good. Both from Five,
and then the psycho from Six. I feel sorry for Celine (if she's even real) because the way
he talked to her suggested they were sweethearts. Sucks to be her.
Then Juniper's in the sky, looking as if the photographer surprised him. Poor Juniper. Just
some pimply kid who didn't deserve to die. It's a short and not especially flattering
eulogy, but the only one I can give and probably the only one he's going to get.
Then there's the girl from Nine, and both from Twelve (that comes as no surprise), the
anthem plays again and the sky goes dark. Thirteen dead kids. That leaves me with all
the Careers except Rafi, the little pixie, the boy from Nine, both from Ten, and both from
Eleven. I should probably be more upset that thirteen children have just been murdered,
but I honestly just feel tired. Gross, sweaty, tired. Which is such a lovely image to be
broadcasting to Panem. In the next few days I'll be expected to either do some killing or
get killed myself, and I don't really want to think about that.
Bright stars, brighter than in Seven, have come out in the sky, and a huge yellow tinged
moon is starting to rise. It's kinda a nice image, and I think I might actually be able to
sleep. Even a little breeze has picked up—what am I saying? I can't sleep. Not with the
Careers and the snakes and the other tributes. We're all in this field, blundering around
until our inevitable and bloody run-ins. No, sleep is out. I can rest, but I can't sleep.
I manage to hold out for about a minute, but I know I can't keep it up and convince
myself that it couldn't hurt to just close my eyes. It'll just make my hearing better
anyway and that's what's important in this grass…
I'm woken by the sun pressing on my eyelids. Crap. I fell asleep after all. But evidently, I
wasn't found because I'm still alive. I just got lucky, but at least I also got some sleep. I
open my eyes to the glaring sun and make to sit up, but before I can I realize what that
strange weight is. Right where my ribcage ends, there lies a perfectly coiled snake.
Holy…there isn't even an expletive to describe the insane jolt of panic that runs through
me. I freeze, eyes locked onto the reptile. Of course the Gamemakers picked up on me
telling the snakes to keep their distance, with all their fancy instruments. And now
they're using my fear to toy with me. This can't possibly make for good television,
they're probably doing it for their own amusement. Sick fucks. What am I supposed
to do? If I try to move the napping snake, it'll wake up. If I try to wriggle away, it'll wake
up.
The snake is black, with bands of red. Does that mean it's venomous? Or does it have to
be yellow as well? This is the Hunger Games. Of course it's venomous. It's not especially
large, but could certainly do some damage. I have to get out of here. Maybe, maybe, I
can get away without waking it?

23. I hold my breath and try to tilt slightly to the side, bracing against the ground with my
arm and getting ready to jump up and run. The snake is just beginning to slide to the
side when it shifts slightly. I freeze and inspect it closely. Did I just imagine the
movement? It certainly seems to be asleep now. I tilt further and the snake looks like it
really is just going to fall off of me when its head lifts.
We both move at the same time. I flail backwards, forgetting about caution, and the
snake (still, unfortunately, on my stomach) springs forward. Not away from me, but right
at my left arm. I know immediately that it's a direct hit—the pain, the blood, how could it
not be? The snake drops to the ground and vanishes into the grass, leaving me trying as
hard as I can not to cry. It hurts so, so much. That was nothing like the snakes in Seven.
I hate them as well, but they're little things, gentle. We don't bother them and they don't
bother us. I think that the snake only managed to get me with one fang, but it's enough.
There's too much blood, it hurts so much, I feel a little dizzy. Is it from venom, or just
mental? Surely, surely the snake was venomous. What am I supposed to do? Though
we've got our fair share of snakes in Seven, they don't bite, so our knowledge of
handling this sort of situation is rather limited. Aren't I supposed to suck out the poison?
Better than doing nothing. I clamp down on my arm just below the elbow, where the bite
seems to be (it's hard to tell with all the blood) and begin trying to draw out the venom.
I'm spitting mouthful after mouthful of blood, wondering just how much I can stand to
lose. It's refusing to congeal, and I don't think I'm getting the venom out. I don't know
what the Gamemakers have done to it, but I know it's bad. I can see that the skin is
tightening, turning a red more vibrant than the blood. There's a sensation that could be
likened to the area around the bite being on fire, but that would be an understatement.
God, I hate the Gamemakers. This sort of thing can't be natural. My vision begins to
swim, and I only manage to direct myself to fall onto the arm that isn't wounded before I
hit the ground.
Hoofdstuk 7 ist verswchwunden:P

24. Chapter Eight
The sun is beginning to set when I finally wake up. And my god, sore is an
understatement. I can barely move without protest from every joint in my body, and my
arm is so numb I have to look over and make sure it's still there. I try to stand, but I
soon find that's out of the question for a little while, so instead I take inventory of my
situation.
I'm alive. Wounded, but alive. Whatever sort of venom the Gamemakers injected into
that snake, I probably didn't get enough to kill me. I don't think I'll be able to use my
arm properly for a while, because the skin has sort of bubbled up, it's red and streaky.
I'm still adrift in this field. Water could be miles away, and I'll need water if I want to
live.
And duh, I want to live. So I force myself to take hold of the pack and my axe and stand
up. Blood rushes into my head and I think I might collapse again, but I tell my body very
specifically what to do and manage to set off walking. I know where I'm going, I can tell
by the sun, but it's almost nightfall and soon I'll be walking blind.
Luckily, walking in a straight line isn't all that hard. I've always had a good sense of
direction, so I'm pretty sure I'm going in the right direction. The death toll happens right
on time, as soon as the sun goes down. The girl from Ten and the boy from Two are
dead—maybe the Careers jumped the girl but she managed to take one down with her.
Whatever. Doesn't affect me. All I have to do is keep hiking through this infernal field in
the hopes of finding water. I can go maybe another day without it, and even now I'm not
functioning properly. I stumble every few steps, everything is slightly blurry, my arm is
beginning to ache and pain flares up when it's touched by the grass, and my head is
pounding.
Hours later, my backpack feels like it weighs a thousand pounds and the axe feels ten
times heavier. (I can't do the math, because my mind is so foggy.) I shouldn't be so out
of it yet, that shouldn't set in until about noon tomorrow. It must be the venom. The
bright and even somewhat beautiful stars are beginning to fade by the time I decide that
I may as well just give up. If I can't get water, I won't be able to recover from the
snakebite. And the bite prevents me from getting water.
Is that irony, or just a sick coincidence? I stumble to a stop and sit down, trying to keep
my bad arm from the grass. And I had fully intended on making good on my promise to
mother, winning and going home…only to be thwarted by a stupid snake…
There's a slight rustling in the grass nearby, and my head snaps to the source of the
sound. God, no more snakes. I can't hold out against another bite, that's for sure. I close
my eyes and try to listen hard, find out if the noise is a snake or just some sort of bug.
The rustling has stopped, but there's some other sort of background noise. A…rushing. A
continuous rushing.
Like water. Can I hear water? I use the axe to push myself upright, energized by the
hope that there might be water so nearby I can hear it. I try to walk in the direction I
think it's coming from, and though each step is incredibly painful I force myself to keep
going. The rushing gets louder with each step I take, and I think the grass is growing
shorter. Yes, the grass is getting shorter, certainly. I can vaguely see something over the
grass if I stand on my toes.

25. The grass takes a sudden drop to waist height, and I see that the "something over the
grass" is trees. Thank god. Water, water, water. I break into a pained and not especially
graceful run towards the trees that dictate water just beyond them. The sky is just
beginning to light up as I reach the first of the trees. I don't even bother to scan for
other tributes, I'm in such a rush to reach the water. There's a small dirt incline that I
almost trip going down, but then I'm surrounded by trees, running over weirdly soft
grass that's actually green. Twenty feet away, a large creek runs swiftly. Between me
and the creek are plenty of trees—box elders, silver maples, cottonwoods. None of them
are very large, but they're close enough to the trees at home that I'm smiling before I've
even reached the water.
I kneel in the little bit of mud that separates the creek from the grass and fill up the far-
too-small bottle from the pack. I really just want to jump into the creek, but I can't swim
and it looks to be maybe fifteen feet deep in the very middle. Maybe when I'm in better
condition. It kills to be responsible and wait the proper half hour for the iodine to purify
the water, but I manage to do it.
At the end of the half hour, water never tasted so good. The bottle empties fast, it's so
small, so I refill it and wait another half hour, watching the sun rise. I decide that I'm
rehydrated after the fifth bottle, and repeat the process once more to get water to tend
to my injuries. The cut on my shoulder is easy to rinse and it'll probably be healed pretty
soon anyway, but the snakebite is a lot more serious. The water is really painful on the
skin, which has tightened and gained a sort of melted look, still red and now tinged with
yellow. I decide that I need to bind it and even though it's ridiculously painful I tear a
strip of cloth from the sleeve of my shirt and wet it, then wrap it around the bite.
Once the pain subsides, I do begin to feel a little better. The sun isn't too hot yet, I'm
surrounded by trees, I've got water, and at least for now I should be safe from the other
tributes. So I find a good tree and climb it, hoping to catch a few hours of sleep. Though
I've actually slept for about half of the Games so far, my night of stumbling through the
field has left me drained. And if I can stock up on sleep now, I'll only be better off later.
So I shimmy up the trunk of a relatively large silver maple and try to hide myself in the
branches, in the unlikely case a tribute comes along. I don't need to strap myself to the
tree or anything, I can keep my balance even when asleep (I speak from experience—but
don't tell the foreman).
The sun is beating when I wake up, too hot even through the leaves of the tree. I'm
thirsty again and I don't think I'll be able to fall back asleep, so I jump down from the
tree into the soft grass. I get more water and sit in the grass, eating a few of the
crackers from my pack while I wait for the iodine to run its course. The crackers taste a
lot like sawdust, but they're food. And yes, I do know what sawdust tastes like. Refer to
an unfortunate field trip to a sawmill in my first year of school.
It feels a little foolhardy to just be sitting out in the open, but I'm almost certain I could
take on any of my fellow tributes if they were to show up. I could split open their skull
with my axe before they can blink, from twenty feet away. I guess that Smiley is the only
one I really have to worry about, and she's got the other Careers holding her back. I
wonder how long it'll be until she kills their dumb asses. Probably a day or so. Then I can
be worried.
I should probably get moving, try to track down some tributes, but that would involve
going back into the field and I really don't want to do that. It's nice here, cool in the
shade, I have water, I'm well rested, my injuries aren't really bothering me at the
moment. I think I'll stay here, lying in the grass and staring at the sky, for a while
longer. But I can't sit still for long and begin to get antsy after only a few minutes, I need

26. to occupy myself with something. I really don't want to leave my creek yet, to that field
full of those vile snakes and the tributes out for my blood, so I decide to wade in the
shallower part of the creek for a while. To wash off the blood and sweat of the past few
days, you understand. I leave my shoes and socks on the bank, then decide to hell with
it and leave the rest of my clothes with them. Not a big deal. Though I do keep on the
grey undergarments that were a part of the uniform—this is on national television, and
there are kids watching.
I keep the axe within a second's reach while I wade in five feet of water, trying to keep
vigilant. I should be more worried than I am, but I can't help it. I guess that's my fatal
flaw, being too self-assured. But I have good reason to be, honestly. I just sort of hang
around in the cool water for a little while, knowing that I can't make it to the opposite
bank where I can see a grassy area similar to the one on this side. But that's a little
boring, so I spend some time trying to teach myself to swim in the shallow water. Sal
was always going on and on about how he wanted to learn to swim, and I always called
him weird for it. Such a random thing for a Seven to want. But I think he may have had
a point—though I can only manage an uncoordinated splashy stroke, and only for a few
seconds, swimming is a lot of fun.
You're not here to have fun. I decide that I've indulged myself for far too long. I force
myself out of the water and get dressed again, now slightly damp. My arm is still aching
and a little bit of that fiery feeling has come back, but I can get along. Even without my
left arm, I can still climb the tallest tree in the area to try and get a look at the arena
from above.
The tree is an unusually tall cottonwood, and I have to walk about ten minutes
downstream to find it. But when I scale the branches as high as they'll hold me, the walk
is worth it. The tree is easily taller than the dirt incline leading to my creek, and when I
finally peer out of the leaves I can see the field stretching far into the distance and get a
good idea of how the prairie is organized. From what I can tell, the grass is tallest nearer
to me, and goes down to a regular grass height in the distance. I can't see any tributes,
but I do try to find them. If I want to get out of here, they're going to have to die. (Sad
but true.)
I find a good spot and lean against the trunk of the cottonwood, resigning myself to
hours of surveillance. The day slips past and I see no tributes, not even a movement in
the grass or a shadow in the distance. Whereis everyone? It's midafternoon when I
decide that I can't just sit in this tree and wait for tributes to come to me. Time to get
preemptive. So I drop down out of the tree, not enjoying the thought of going back into
the grass. But at least now I have somewhere to return to.
I climb back up the incline and unhappily reenter the grass, carefully watching my step
for snakes. How many hours can I spend looking for tributes before I must return to the
creek? It's been a slow day, so I should probably make for the creek when night falls.
Who knows what the Gamemakers have planned to make these Games more interesting?
I'd rather be somewhere marginally safe when they decide to liven things up. I'd put the
time around four right now, so I've got a little while.
The field is just as horrible as before, the sun beating down and the grass scratchy,
though I don't see any snakes. The temperature must be over a hundred, and I know I'm
going to be wicked sunburnt tomorrow. If I'm alive tomorrow. Yes, I will be alive
tomorrow. I'm going to win this and go home. Whatever the cost. It's only those
thoughts that keep me walking forward through the damned field, knowing that it's all
going to be worth it. Each step is a step closer to home.

27. It must be six and I'm considering turning back when I hear it. The crackling of dry grass
underfoot. I freeze, wondering if that was just me taking an unusually loud step. But no,
there it is again. Not a regular step, more of a stumble and a dragging noise. A wounded
tribute. This will be beyond easy. I try to move towards the tribute in question as quietly
as possible, though they won't be able to run anyway.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, those pesky little voices are trying to stop me. What
are you doing, injured and unprepared, this is pure murder, that tribute is innocent, how
can you do this? But I can't allow myself to listen because how am I going to get home if
I let morals get in the way? I can sort all that out later. So I just slip quietly through the
grass, following the footsteps.
I see the tribute, the boy from Nine, before he sees me. I come up behind him, seeing
that indeed he was injured very badly, probably at the Cornucopia—he won't live long,
even if I don't kill him. (But just letting him go won't sit well with the sponsors.) Just
above the knee, he's tied his sweater in a sort of bandage around a wound so bloody that
the sweater is almost entirely soaked red. I'm squaring off against my target, his neck,
when he makes to turn to the left. I try to disappear further into the grass separating us,
but it's already too late and he's seen me.
I give up on trying to make this a clean kill and just shift my hands to a stable hold on
the handle of the axe, ready to spring forward and make contact however possible. The
boy has just enough time to sigh in relief because oh thank god it's only her when that
shiny silver axe blade is inches deep in his skull. The cannon fires, and Johanna Mason
has one tribute on her kill list.
Quick, probably mostly painless. It was that fast. That easy. It shouldn't have been that
easy. I don't mean that he should have put up more of a fight, because he was a
weakling to begin with and wounded by the time I got to him. But shouldn't I have
stopped myself, listened to those little voices? It's one thing to kill, but a cold-blooded hit
from behind…
Shut up, shut up, shut up. Shut up, Johanna. You're going home, and whoever stands in
your way is just making a mistake. It's what you have to do. No it's not, I don't have to
do anything—yes it is. These tributes are just obstacles in your way, now wipe the blood
off your axe and clear out. The hovercraft will be here soon.
So I do that. I wipe as much of the blood possible off onto the ground and sling the axe
over my shoulder, heading back to my creek for the night just as the sun begins to set.
And just to please the sponsors, I whistle a little tune as I walk. See? Johanna Mason is
unbroken. Couldn't care less.
(But somewhere in my mind, I know that's not true.)

28. Chapter Nine
I arrive at the creek just before the sun goes down. I've got some time before the death
toll, so I set more water to purify while waiting. I'm pretty sure that the only death today
was my kill, the boy from Nine (I don't know his name). But I was asleep for a while, I
could have missed something.
I watch the sky from the grass, wondering if the sunset I'm looking at is even real or just
some apparition on a huge screen. Are we penned in, under a dome of some sort? My
unfortunate case of claustrophobia begins to creep up my spine, and to prove to myself
that I have plenty of room I flop onto my back, throwing my arms out to the sides. See?
Lots of space. I'm still lying down in the grass when the sky lights up with the death toll.
As I'd thought, just the boy from Nine appears in the sky. That leaves me with four
Careers, the pixie girl, and Linnea. Of course, there are also the two from Ten and
Linnea's district partner, but I don't think they're really threats.
The anthem plays once more and the sky goes dark. I re-bind the snakebite, which hurts
just as much as before but only when I touch it—otherwise it's just sort of numb and
feels a little tingly. (It's also now turned an extremely disturbing yellow-blue color, which
I don't think can be good.) I've still got a few crackers left and seeing as I've eaten just
about nothing over the past few days they suddenly look really, really good. I've barely
blinked before the last of my food is gone. They confiscated my token, the sucker candy,
because I guess they thought I might try to eat it. Not that I would, because there's so
much inedible matter on it that it'd probably make me really sick if not kill me, but I'll
probably be pretty desperate by the time I get out of here.
So what am I supposed to do for food now? Can I eat snakes? God, I hope not. They're
probably poisonous anyway. I guess that the snakes have to eat something other than
tributes, so maybe I can find mice in the field or whatever. And I might even have a
sponsor or two at this point, now that they've seen what I can do. Well, I'll think of
something.
But right now, I'm going to sleep. The audience might have been satisfied with my kill
earlier, but chances are that the Gamemakers have something not entirely pleasant
planned for us tributes in the near future. I want to be in the best condition I can
manage when that happens, so I need to rest. I make my way back to the tall
cottonwood and scale the tree to the highest branch that'll hold my weight, the one I sat
on earlier.
I'm about to drift off when a thought occurs to me. Shouldn't I be more upset? After all, I
killed a boy today. Not two hours ago. I ought to be…I don't know, crying or something.
Praying. Asking his district, his family for forgiveness. I should be disregarding the rules
I've put in place for myself, forgetting about how he's just a felled obstacle in my path
home. But instead I'm accepting them as the truth. Is something wrong with me? This
isn't normal, surely.
Johanna, this is the last time I'm telling you. Shut up and go to sleep before I smack you
into next Tuesday. I tell myself, gritting my teeth and willing my mind to leave me alone
so I can sleep another slightly chilly night away. I manage to keep from further worry
about my lack of distress at the kill, and do eventually fall into a shallow, restless sleep. I
surface over and over, and I know this is going to be one of those nights where you wake
up more tired than you went to sleep. At some point in the early hours of the morning
I'm no longer sure what's real and what I'm dreaming, but then I'm pulled into real

29. consciousness by the flashing of a light on the ground. I perk up and pinch myself to
induce some clarity, and I can just make out voices from the ground.
"Put that out, you idiot!" the circle of light sweeps to the side all of a sudden, like
someone's hitting the flashlight it's surely coming from. The voice sounds female, but it's
hard to tell.
"Why should I? No one is here." That voice is definitely that of a male tribute. The
Careers? I freeze, hoping to not be seen. I can't take on all of the Careers at once.
"They're asleep, of course. But you could wake the dead with that thing." Says the first
voice.
"It's not that bright." The boy says defensively, but the light flicks off. The voices sound
to be near the base of my tree, and though they don't know I'm here I still hold my
breath. I can't fight two tributes, even if they're not the Careers.
The first voice sighs. "Thank you."
"For what?" The boy teases, trying to make the first person give him a proper apology.
"For recognizing that I'm always right, now shut the hell up!" the first voice says, walking
a little closer. I decide that it's a girl. Maybe the pair from Ten?
"Ooh, rawr. This isn't the best time to be PMSing, you know." The boy says, following the
girl, who spins on him and puts her hands on her hips. I can see both of them through
the leaves now, facing off maybe ten feet away. I can't make out too much, because it's
so dark, and I still don't know who they are.
"Don't make me regret teaming up with you. Oh, wait. I already do." The girl says,
taking a step towards the boy. The amount of venom in her voice is enough to make the
boy take a step back, and he holds up his hands defensively.
"Whoa, calm down." I think he might be about to apologize and they'll just go on their
merry way, but then he says "It's just the hormones talking."
"You are an utter idiot. It's a miracle we haven't been killed yet."
"Yeah, because of your constant bitching."
"No, because you seem to have a complete disregard for caution and safety and not to
mention the whole fire debacle—"
"What, you think you can scare me with some big words? Nice try, Rachel."
"I'm not trying to scare you. I'm simply talking and if you're too stupid to see that what
I'm saying is the truth then—"
"I'm not stupid! Stop treating me like I am! Ever since you got that fancy job in town,
you think you're all that. And let me just tell you that you're—"
"I got 'that fancy job in town' because I was smart enough to take the opportunity when
it came and pass the tests, unlike someone…"

30. The two are stage whispering, though I'm pretty sure that at any moment they're going
to begin yelling. It's sort of funny to get this look into the lives that I know nothing about
and will surely be ending soon. The boy hisses something at the girl, Rachel, the two now
forehead to forehead. I can't hear it, but it sounds nasty. Rachel gasps in outrage, and I
guess he touched a nerve.
"You know what? I'm done with this." Rachel says, voice tight. It sounds like the boy
tries to say something else, but he cuts off halfway through and there's a cannon shot.
The boy collapses out of my sight. Whoa. That's sudden. Or maybe not: from the sounds
of their argument, they've not been on the best of terms. I guess she finally just had
enough? Rachel sighs and pockets her knife, then kneels down to take the boy's pack.
This is my chance.
I drop down out of the tree, landing in a crouch. I can take on one girl, even if she is
armed. She did in the boy for me, now I just have to get her and that's two obstacles
gone in five minutes. Good progress. The expression of shock on Rachel's face is almost
comical as she stumbles to her feet, fumbling for the knife she's just put away. I imagine
how this looks from her perspective: a mystery tribute materializes out of nowhere,
armed with a deadly-looking axe, and stares at her with a little smile before taking a step
forward and shifting the axe to gather more momentum when swung.
Yeah, she's scared.
Well, not for long. Rachel's only just pulled her knife when I make my move, closing the
space between us in about a second and connecting the blade of the axe with her neck.
There's a spurt of blood, and then a cannon shot. That's two tributes I've killed now. I
didn't hit hard enough to decapitate her, so I've got to yank the axe out of her
neck. Well, that's just lovely, I think, wiping the axe on the grass. Two tributes less to
fight. Two tributes closer to home. That's all this is.
This is turning out to be a pretty quick Games. Three days in and already we're down to
nine tributes. Or has it been four days? How long was I out after the snakebite? Doesn't
matter. It can't be long before the Careers turn on each other now. Or, more realistically,
Smiley kills them all. She's the one to watch here. Well, Linnea is clearly also a threat
and the pixie girl is a danger as well. And then there's me. Us four deadly girls. We'll
probably be the last ones left to fight. (And I'll be winning that fight.)
The sun will be coming up soon, so I decide to quickly go through the two tributes' packs
and get back to the field, to try and track down another tribute. (The faster these Games
are over, the less chance the Gamemakers have to mess with us.) The two must have
been sharing one backpack, because Rachel doesn't have one of her own. They have a
little food, meat jerky and incredibly stale bread. Enough for maybe two days, if I don't
eat much. A half-full water bottle of a more reasonable size than mine. A roll of
bandages, only a little missing. Something labeled as sunscreen—medicine of some sort?
It's certainly not food, as I find out a little late.
I bind the snakebite with the bandages from their packs, trying to be as gentle with it as
possible. Mostly it's just sore and achy, but actual contact brings waves of pain. I don't
think I got all of the venom out, and I don't want to agitate it any more than I have to.
They'll fix me up when I get to the Capitol, I just have to hold out until then.
The sun begins to rise, and I reluctantly head back into the field. I can't just hang around
and wait for the other tributes to kill each other, as much as I'd like to. So it's a long day
of trudging through the grass, backpack heavier than ever with the extra water. Not that

31. I'm unhappy about the water—today feels like the hottest day yet, and I know I'd be
getting sunburnt if I wasn't already red head-to-toe. I give the sunscreen a try around
noon, thinking that the name might signify it heals sunburn. It doesn't, and I'm pretty
sure that my blood is going to start boiling if the sun gets any hotter.
"How hard would it be for them to give us some rain, honestly?" I mutter to myself,
glaring at the ground while I walk. My only comfort is that the other tributes must be just
as unhappy.
There's about ten seconds delay, and then it all begins to happen very fast. First, there's
a cannon shot. I look up, and realize that I just looked up without squinting. The sun has
been covered by a very thin veil of clouds, blown in by the quick wind starting to pick up.
Another cannon shot. The wind gets faster, bending the grass forward. It's still too tall to
see over, what with the probable genetic modification allowing it to stand against the
wind, but I have to struggle to stay in place. The wind dies down a little, just in time to
hear the third cannon shot and the fourth in quick succession. That must be the Careers
turning on each other, as is inevitable. I don't know why whoever's doing the killing
resorted to a fight, didn't stab the others while they slept. Maybe they just snapped, like
Rachel? Tensions build in the heat, after all. I've been on edge all day, and I wasn't with
four other people who would very soon be my mortal enemies. Whatever the reason,
we're now down to five. Me, the pixie, Linnea, her district partner, and a Career. Almost
certainly Smiley.
Another gust of wind through the grass manages to push me forward a few inches. A
quick glance at the sky reveals that a bank of storm clouds has rolled in, the sun is now
completely covered. It's like the Gamemakers have made it their mission to screw with
my mind. I warn the snakes to stay away from me, they make sure I get bitten. I ask for
rain, they send me a storm.
And what a storm it is. Just like in that story mother told us, weather on the prairie gets
ugly fast. A light rain begins to fall, and I'm glad for about a second. Then the wind picks
up further and the rain gets heavier, painful when it hits my bite. Back to the creek?
There are trees there, shelter from the storm. But what about lightning? Trees attract
lightning like nobody's business, at least in Seven where they're the tallest things
around. But I don't think that I have any choice, because this storm has crossed that line
where it's not just an inconvenience, this is going to be really dangerous in a few
seconds.
Not that danger is any change. Still. I'll feel safer surrounded by trees, and an illusion of
safety is as close as I'm getting. I turn back, hoping to make it to the creek before this
gets really bad. I can take cover in a tree, wait out the storm.
But of course, it's not easy. The wind has picked up to howling proportions, pushing me
to the side with every step and whipping through the grass, flattening it to the ground.
I'd be in danger of being seen by the other tributes if rain wasn't coming down in sheets,
making seeing more than a few inches in front of my face impossible. I'm stumbling
blind, arm on fire and no idea if I'm even going towards the creek anymore.
My sense of direction has utterly abandoned me, I could be walking in circles. I could be
walking towards the edge of a cliff or right at another tribute, and I'd have no idea. Only
the knowledge that giving up would put me utterly at the Gamemakers mercy (as long as
I'm being entertaining, they won't kill me off) keeps me moving forward. Minutes, hours,
days, I don't know how long the storm howls on, I don't know how long I blunder

32. through the leveled grass. Exhaustion is beginning to set in, I don't think I can keep
going much longer, when I see a shape through the sheets of grey rain. I try to shield
my eyes with a hand, squint through the driving rain, see if I'm looking at a tribute or
what. No, it's too big for a tribute. I take a few steps closer, almost tripping over the
clumped grass the ground. My cottonwood. It's my tree.
Oh, thank god. I'm saved. I begin to stagger with renewed energy, ready to just cling to
a branch of my tree and wait for this storm to end. The Gamemakers can't keep it going
forever, the audience would get bored. But I've been so numbed by this freezing rain
that when I reach the edge of the dirt incline leading to my creek, I trip over my foot and
go pitching down the small hill, head over heels.
I swear that my life flashes before my eyes. I shit you not, I do a three-sixty flip. I land
in an uncoordinated crouch, sighing with relief. But the incline is muddy and running with
rain, and I slip again. A rather colorful collection of swear words runs through my head
as I roll down the hill, cutting myself or hitting on every single freaking stick and rock in
the hill. I don't remember the dirt being this rocky before. Maybe because before I wasn't
rolling down it at a ridiculous speed, just trying to get to my feet. I almost manage it,
too.
But the grass is slick with rain as well, the wind is still whipping across the arena at
breakneck speeds, and I'm not really operating at full capacity right now. I manage to
use my momentum from the fall down the hill to propel myself upright, but unfortunately
that same momentum sends me toppling backwards into the creek with an ungraceful
and slightly embarrassing windmilling of my arms that causes me to drop my axe,
hopefully on the ground.
The creek has gone from calm and barely moving to swelled and agitated with the storm,
and I'm immediately wishing that I spent a little more time teaching myself to swim. But
somehow, I don't think it would have done much good. Because the creek has risen just
enough to take away any control of mine, tossing me about in the churning water like
Wane's ragdoll when that dog got a hold of it. Unfortunately, the creek still isn't
especially deep and I'm hitting the rocks on the bottom every few seconds. I can feel
myself getting cut even through the relentless beating of the water, and I eventually just
try to tuck my bitten arm and my head in a moderately safe position, waiting to bob to
the surface for another panicked breath before being sucked back under.
However this ends, it ain't gonna be pretty.