the hunger games-饥饿游戏(英文版)-第50章
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ens； Theyˇll have privacy at home but support in the square。 People will give them a kind word； a bit of food if they can spare it。 I wonder if the baker has sought them out； especially now that Peeta and I are a team； and made good on his promise to keep my sisterˇs belly full。
Spirits must be running high in District 12。 We so rarely have anyone to root for at this point in the Games。 Surely； people are excited about Peeta and me； especially now that weˇre together。 If I close my eyes； I can imagine their shouts at the screens； urging us on。 I see their faces Greasy Sac and Madge and even the Peacekeepers who buy my meat cheering for us。
And Gale。 I know him。 He wonˇt be shouting and cheering。 But heˇll be watching； every moment； every twist and turn； and willing me to e home。 I wonder if heˇs hoping that Peeta makes it as well。 Galeˇs not my boyfriend； but would he be； if I opened that door？ He talked about us running away together。 Was that just a practical calculation of our chances of survival away from the district？ Or something more？
I wonder what he makes of all this kissing。
Through a crack in the rocks； I watch the moon cross the sky。 At what I judge to be about three hours before dawn； I begin final preparations。 Iˇm careful to leave Peeta with water and the medical kit right beside him。 Nothing else will be of much use if I donˇt return； and even these would only prolong his life a short time。 After some debate； I strip him of his jacket and zip it on over my own。 He doesnˇt need it。 Not now in the sleeping bag with his fever； and during the day； if Iˇm not there to remove it； heˇll be roasting in it。 My hands are already stiff from cold； so I take Rueˇs spare pair of socks； cut holes for my fingers and thumbs； and pull them on。 It helps anyway。 I fill her small pack with some food； a water bottle； and bandages； tuck the knife in my belt； get my bow and arrows。 Iˇm about to leave when I remember the importance of sustaining the star…crossed lover routine and I lean over and give Peeta a long； lingering kiss。 I imagine the teary sighs emanating from the Capitol and pretend to brush away a tear of my own。 Then I squeeze through the opening in the rocks out into the night。
My breath makes small white clouds as it hits the air。 Itˇs as cold as a November night at home。 One where Iˇve slipped into the woods； lantern in hand； to join Gale at some prearranged place where weˇll sit bundled together； sipping herb tea from metal flasks e will pass our way as the morning es on。 Oh； Gale； I think。 If only you had my back now 。 。 。
I move as fast as I dare。 The glasses are quite remarkable； but I still sorely miss having the use of my left ear。 I donˇt know what the explosion did； but it damaged something deep and irreparable。 Never mind。 If I get home； Iˇll be so stinking rich； Iˇll be able to pay someone to do my hearing。
The woods always look different at night。 Even with the glasses； everything has an unfamiliar slant to it。 As if the daytime trees and flowers and stones had gone to bed and sent slightly more ominous versions of themselves to take their places。 I donˇt try anything tricky； like taking a new route。 I make my way back up the stream and follow the same path back to Rueˇs hiding place near the lake。 Along the way； I see no sign of another tribute； not a puff of breath； not a quiver of a branch。 Either Iˇm the first to arrive or the others positioned themselves last night。 Thereˇs still more than an hour； maybe two； when I wriggle into the underbrush and wait for the blood to begin to flow。
I chew a few mint leaves； my stomach isnˇt up for much more。 Thank goodness； I have Peetaˇs jacket as well as my own。 If not； Iˇd be forced to move around to stay warm。 The sky turns a misty morning gray and still thereˇs no sign of the other tributes。 Itˇs not surprising really。 Everyone has distinguished themselves either by strength or deadliness or cunning。 Do they suppose； I wonder； that I have Peeta with me？ I doubt Foxface and Thresh even know he was wounded。 All the better if they think heˇs covering me when I go in for the backpack。
But where is it？ The arena has lightened enough for me to remove my glasses。 I can hear the morning birds singing。 Isnˇt it time？ For a second； Iˇm panicked that Iˇm at the wrong location。 But no； Iˇm certain I remember Claudius Templesmith specifying the Cornucopia。 And there it is。 And here I am。 So whereˇs my feast？
Just as the first ray of sun glints off the gold Cornucopia； thereˇs a disturbance on the plain。 The ground before the mouth of the horn splits in two and a round table with a snowy white cloth rises into the arena。 On the table sit four backpacks； two large black ones with the numbers 2 and 11； a medium…size green one with the number 5； and a tiny orange one really I could carry it around my wrist that must be marked with a 12。
The table has just clicked into place when a figure darts out of the Cornucopia； snags the green backpack； and speeds off。 Foxface！ Leave it to her to e up with such a clever and risky idea！ The rest of us are still poised around the plain； sizing up the situation； and sheˇs got hers。 Sheˇs got us trapped； too； because no one wants to chase her down； not while their own pack sits so vulnerable on the table。 Foxface must have purposefully left the other packs alone； knowing that to steal one without her number would definitely bring on a pursuer。 That should have been my strategy！ By the lime Iˇve worked through the emotions of surprise； admiration； anger； jealousy； and frustration； Iˇm watching that reddish mane of hair disappear into the trees well out of shooting range。 Huh。 Iˇm always dreading the others； but maybe Foxface is the real opponent here。
Sheˇs cost me time； too； because by now itˇs clear that I must get to the table next。 Anyone who beats me to it will easily scoop up my pack and be gone。 Without hesitation； I sprint for the table。 I can sense the emergence of danger before I see it。 Fortunately； the first knife es whizzing in on my right side so I can hear it and Iˇm able to deflect it with my bow。 I turn； drawing back the bowstring and send an arrow straight at Cloveˇs heart。 She turns just enough to avoid a fatal hit； but the point punctures her upper left arm。 Unfortunately； she throws with her right； but itˇs enough to slow her down a few moments； having to pull the arrow from her arm； take in the severity of the wound。 I keep moving； positioning the next arrow automatically； as only someone who has hunted for years can do。
Iˇm at the table now； my fingers closing over the tiny orange backpack。 My hand slips between the straps and I yank it up on my arm； itˇs really too small to fit on any other part of my anatomy； and Iˇm turning to fire again when the second knife catches me in the forehead。 It slices above my right eyebrow； opening a gash that sends a gush running down my face； blinding my eye； filling my mouth with the sharp； metallic taste of my own blood。 I stagger backward but still manage to send my readied arrow in the general direction of my assailant。 I know as it leaves my hands it will miss。 And then Clove slams into me； knocking me flat on my back； pinning my shoulders to the ground； with her knees。
This is it； I think； and hope for Primˇs sake it will be fast。 But Clove means to savor the moment。 Even feels she has time。 No doubt Cato is somewhere nearby； guarding her； waiting for Thresh and possibly Peeta。
¨Whereˇs your boyfriend； District Twelve？ Still hanging on？〃 she asks。
Well； as long as weˇre talking Iˇm alive。 ¨Heˇs out there now。 Hunting Cato；〃 I snarl at her。 Then I scream at the top of my lungs。 ¨Peeta！〃
Clove jams her fist into my windpipe； very effectively cutting off my voice。 But her headˇs whipping from side to side； and I know for a moment sheˇs at least considering Iˇm telling the truth。 Since no Peeta appears to save me； she turns back to me。
¨Liar；〃 she says with a grin。 ¨Heˇs nearly dead。 Cato knows where he cut him。 Youˇve probably got him strapped up in some tree while you try to keep his heart going。 Whatˇs in the pretty little backpack？ That medicine for Lover Boy？ Too bad heˇll never get it。〃
Clove
