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191'

Besides, the idea of the girl with her maimed tongue frightens me. She has reminded me why I’m here

. Not to model flashy costumes and eat delicacies. But to die a bloody death
while the crowds urge on my killer.
To tell or not to tell? My brain still feels slow from the wine.

I stare down the empty corridor as if the decision lies there.
Peeta picks up on my hesitation. “Have you been on the roof yet?” I shake my head. “Cinna showed me. You can practically
see the whole city. The wind’s a bit loud, though.”

I translate this into “No one will overhear us talking” in myhead. You do have the sense that we might be under surveillance
here.

“Can we just go up?”
“Sure, come on,” says Peeta. I follow him to a flight of stairs
that lead to the roof.

There’s a small dome-shaped room with
a door to the outside. As we step into the cool, windy eveningair, I catch my breath at the view.

The Capitol twinkles like a
vast field of fireflies. Electricity in District 12 comes and goes,
usually we only have it a few hours a day. Often the evenings
are spent in candlelight.

The only time you can count on it is
when they’re airing the Games or some important government
message on television that it’s mandatory to watch.

But here there would be no shortage. Ever.
Peeta and I walk to a railing at the edge of the roof.

I look straight down the side of the building to the street, which is buzzing with people. You can hear their cars, an occasional
shout, and a strange metallic tinkling. In District 12, we’d all be thinking about bed right now.
“I asked Cinna why they let us up here. Weren’t they worried that some of the tributes might decide to jump right over
the side?” says Peeta.

“What’d he say?” I ask.
“You can’t,” says Peeta. He holds out his hand into seemingly
empty space. There’s a sharp zap and he jerks it back.
“Some kind of electric field throws you back on the roof.”
“Always worried about our safety,” I say. Even though Cinnahas shown Peeta the roof, I wonder if we’re supposed to beup here now, so late and alone.

I’ve never seen tributes on the
Training Center roof before. But that doesn’t mean we’re not being taped. “Do you think they’re watching us now?”
“Maybe,” he admits. “Come see the garden.”
On the other side of the dome, they’ve built a garden with flower beds and potted trees. From the branches hang hundreds
of wind chimes, which account for the tinkling I heard.

Here in the garden, on this windy night, it’s enough to drown out two people who are trying not to be heard. Peeta looks at
me expectantly.

460'

I pretend to examine a blossom. “We were hunting in the woods one day. Hidden, waiting for game,” I whisper.
“You and your father?” he whispers back.
“No, my friend Gale. Suddenly all the birds stopped singing at once. Except one. As if it were giving a warning call.

And then we saw her. I’m sure it was the same girl. A boy was with
her. Their clothes were tattered. They had dark circles under their eyes from no sleep. They were running as if their lives
depended on it,” I say.
For a moment I’m silent, as I remember how the sight of this strange pair, clearly not from District 12, fleeing through the woods immobilized us.

Later, we wondered if we could
have helped them escape. Perhaps we might have. Concealed
them.

If we’d moved quickly. Gale and I were taken by surprise,yes, but we’re both hunters. We know how animals look at bay. We knew the pair was in trouble as soon as we saw
them.

But we only watched.
“The hovercraft appeared out of nowhere,” I continue to
Peeta. “I mean, one moment the sky was empty and the next it was there. It didn’t make a sound, but they saw it. A net
dropped down on the girl and carried her up, fast, so fast like
the elevator.

They shot some sort of spear through the boy. It was attached to a cable and they hauled him up as well.

But I’m certain he was dead. We heard the girl scream once. The boy’s name, I think. Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished into thin air.

And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had happened.”

“Did they see you?” Peeta asked.
“I don’t know. We were under a shelf of rock,” I reply.

But I do know. There was a moment, after the birdcall, but before the hovercraft, where the girl had seen us. She’d locked
eyes with me and called out for help. But neither Gale or I had responded.
“You’re shivering,” says Peeta.

The wind and the story have blown all the warmth from my
body.

The girl’s scream. Had it been her last?
Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders.
I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness.

A friend would do that, right?
“They were from here?” he asks, and he secures a button at my neck.
I nod. They’d had that Capitol look about them.

The boy and the girl.
“Where do you suppose they were going?” he asks.
“I don’t know that,” I say. District 12 is pretty much the end of the line. Beyond us, there’s only wilderness.

If you don’t count the ruins of District 13 that still smolder from the toxic
bombs.

They show it on television occasionally, just to remind us. “Or why they would leave here.” Haymitch had called the Avoxes traitors.

Against what? It could only be the Capitol. But they had everything here. No cause to rebel.
“I’d leave here,” Peeta blurts out. Then he looks around
nervously. It was loud enough to hear above the chimes. He laughs.

“I’d go home now if they let me. But you have to admit, the food’s prime.”
He’s covered again. If that’s all you’d heard it would just sound like the words of a scared tribute, not someone contemplating the unquestionable goodness of the Capitol.
“It’s getting chilly. We better go in,” he says. Inside the dome, it’s warm and bright. His tone is conversational.

“Your friend Gale. He’s the one who took your sister away at the reaping?”
“Yes. Do you know him?” I ask.
“Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he was your cousin or something.

You favor each other,” he says.
“No, we’re not related,” I say.
Peeta nods, unreadable. “Did he come to say good-bye to you?”
“Yes,” I say, observing him carefully. “So did your father. He brought me cookies.”
Peeta raises his eyebrows as if this is news.

But after watching him lie so smoothly, I don’t give this much weight.

“Really? Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys.”

The idea that I might ever have been discussed, around the dinner table, at the bakery fire, just in passingin Peeta’s house
gives me a start. It must have been when the mother was out of the room.

“He knew your mother when they were kids,” says Peeta.
Another surprise. But probably true. “Oh, yes. She grew up in town,” I say. It seems impolite to say she never mentioned
the baker except to compliment his bread.
We’re at my door. I give back his jacket. “See you in the morning then.”
“See you,” he says, and walks off down the hall.
When I open my door, the redheaded girl is collecting my unitard and boots from where I left them on the floor before my shower. I want to apologize for possibly getting her in
trouble earlier.

But I remember I’m not supposed to speak to her unless I’m giving her an order.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I was supposed to get those back to Cinna.I’m sorry. Can you take them to him?”

She avoids my eyes, gives a small nod, and heads out the door.
I’d set out to tell her I was sorry about dinner. But I know that my apology runs much deeper.

That I’m ashamed I never
tried to help her in the woods. That I let the Capitol kill the boy and mutilate her without lifting a finger.
Just like I was watching the Games.
I kick off my shoes and climb under the covers in my clothes. The shivering hasn’t stopped.

Perhaps the girl doesn’t
even remember me. But I know she does. You don’t forget the
face of the person who was your last hope. I pull the covers up over my head as if this will protect me from the redheaded girl
who can’t speak.

But I can feel her eyes staring at me, piercing through walls and doors and bedding.I wonder if she’ll enjoy watching me die.