e a bright orange backpack that could hold anything because I canˇt stand leaving with virtually nothing。
A boy； I think from District 9； reaches the pack at the same time I do and for a brief time we grapple for it and then he coughs； splattering my face with blood。 I stagger back； repulsed by the warm； sticky spray。 Then the boy slips to the ground。 Thatˇs when I see the knife in his back。 Already other tributes have reached the Cornucopia and are spreading out to attack。 Yes； the girl from District 2； ten yards away； running toward me； one hand clutching a half…dozen knives。 Iˇve seen her throw in training。 She never misses。 And Iˇm her next target。
All the general fear Iˇve been feeling condenses into at immediate fear of this girl； this predator who might kill me in seconds。 Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the pack over one shoulder and run full…speed for the woods。 I can hear the blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head。 The blade lodges in the pack。 Both straps on my shoulders now； I make for the trees。 Somehow I know the girl will not pursue me。 That sheˇll be drawn back into the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone。 A grin crosses my face。 Thanks for the knife； I think。
At the edge of the woods I turn for one instant to survey the field。 About a dozen or so tributes are hacking away at one another at the horn。 Several lie dead already on the ground。 Those who have taken flight are disappearing into the trees or into the void opposite me。 I continue running until the woods have hidden me from the other tributes then slow into a steady jog that I think I can maintain for a while。 For the next few hours； I alternate between jogging and walking； putting as much distance as I can between myself and my petitors。 I lost my bread during the struggle with the boy from District 9 but managed to stuff my plastic in my sleeve so as I walk I fold it neatly and tuck it into a pocket。 I also free the knife itˇs a fine one with a long sharp blade； serrated near the handle； which will make it handy for sawing through things and slide it into my belt。 I donˇt dare stop to examine the contents of the pack yet。 I just keep moving； pausing only to check for pursuers。
I can go a long time。 I know that from my days in the woods。 But I will need water。 That was Haymitchˇs second instruction； and since I sort of botched the first； I keep a sharp eye out for any sign of it。 No luck。
The woods begin to evolve； and the pines are intermixed with a variety of trees； some I recognize； some pletely foreign to me。 At one point； I hear a noise and pull my knife； thinking I may have to defend myself； but Iˇve only startled a rabbit。 ¨Good to see you；〃 I whisper。 If thereˇs one rabbit； there could be hundreds just waiting to be snared。
The ground slopes down。 I donˇt particularly like this。 Valleys make me feel trapped。 I want to be high； like in the hills around District 12； where I can see my enemies approaching。 But I have no choice but to keep going。
Funny though； I donˇt feel too bad。 The days of gorging myself have paid off。 Iˇve got staying power even though Iˇm short on sleep。 Being in the woods is rejuvenating。 Iˇm glad for the solitude； even though itˇs an illusion； because Iˇm probably on…screen right now。 Not consistently but off and on。 There are so many deaths to show the first day that a tribute trekking through the woods isnˇt much to look at。 But theyˇll show me enough to let people know Iˇm alive； uninjured and on the move。 One of the heaviest days of betting is the opening； when the initial casualties e in。 But that canˇt pare to what happens as the field shrinks to a handful of players。
Itˇs late afternoon when I begin to hear the cannons。 Each shot represents a dead tribute。 The fighting must have finally stopped at the Cornucopia。 They never collect the bloodbath bodies until the killers have dispersed。 On the opening day； they donˇt even fire the cannons until the initial fightingˇs over because itˇs too hard to keep track of the fatalities。 I allow myself to pause； panting； as I count the shots。 One 。 。 。 two 。 。 。 three 。 。 。 on and on until they reach eleven。 Eleven dead in all。 Thirteen left to play。 My fingernails scrape at the dried blood the boy from District 9 coughed into my face。 Heˇs gone； certainly。 I wonder about Peeta。 Has he lasted through the day？ Iˇll know in a few hours。 When they project the deadˇs images into the sky for the rest of us to see。
All of a sudden； Iˇm overwhelmed by the thought that Peeta may be already lost； bled white； collected； and in the process of being transported back to the Capitol to be cleaned up； redressed； and shipped in a simple wooden box back to District 12。 No longer here。 Heading home。 I try hard to remember if I saw him once the action started。 But the last image I can conjure up is Peeta shaking his head as the gong rang out。
Maybe itˇs better； if heˇs gone already。 He had no confidence he could win。 And I will not end up with the unpleasant task of killing him。 Maybe itˇs better if heˇs out of this for good。
I slump down next to my pack； exhausted。 I need to go through it anyway before night falls。 See what I have to work with。 As I unhook the straps； I can feel itˇs sturdily made although a rather unfortunate color。 This orange will practically glow in the dark。 I make a mental note to camouflage it first thing tomorrow。
I flip open the flap。 What I want most； right at this moment； is water。 Haymitchˇs directive to immediately find water was not arbitrary。 I wonˇt last long without it。 For a few days； Iˇll be able to function with unpleasant symptoms of dehydration； but after that I'll deteriorate into helplessness and be dead in a week； tops。 I carefully lay out the provisions。 One thin black sleeping bag that reflects body heal。 A pack of crackers。 A pack of dried beef strips。 A bottle of iodine。 A box of wooden matches。 A small coil of wire。 A pair of sunglasses。 And a halfgallon plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water that's bone dry。
No water。 How hard would it have been for them to fill up the bottle？ I bee aware of the dryness in my throat and mouth； the cracks in my lips。 I've been moving all day long。 It's been hot and I've sweat a lot。 I do this at home； but there are always streams to drink from； or snow to melt if it should e to it。
As I refill my pack I have an awful thought。 The lake。 The one I saw while I was waiting for the gong to sound。 What if that's the only water source in the arena？ That way they'll guarantee drawing us in to fight。 The lake is a full day's journey from where I sit now； a much harder journey with nothing to drink。 And then； even if I reach it； it's sure to be heavily guarded by some of the Career Tributes。 I'm about to panic when I remember the rabbit I startled earlier today。 It has to drink； too。 I just have to find out where。
Twilight is closing in and I am ill at ease。 The trees are too thin to offer much concealment。 The layer of pine needles that muffles my footsteps also makes tracking animals harder when I need their trails to find water。 And I'm still heading downhill； deeper and deeper into a valley that seems endless。
Iˇm hungry； too； but I donˇt dare break into my precious store of crackers and beef yet。 Instead； I take my knife and go to work on a pine tree； cutting away the outer bark and scraping off a large handful of the softer inner bark。 I slowly chew the stuff as I walk along。 After a week of the finest food in the
world； itˇs a little hard to choke down。 But Iˇve eaten plenty of pine in my life。 Iˇll adjust quickly。
In another hour； itˇs clear Iˇve got to find a place to camp。 Night creatures are ing out。 I can hear the occasional hoot or howl； my first clue that Iˇll be peting with natural predators for the rabbits。 As to whether Iˇll be viewed as a source of food； itˇs too soon to tell。 There could be any number of animals stalking me at this moment。
But right now； I decide to make my fellow tributes a priority。 Iˇm sure many will continue hunting through the night。 Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will have food； an abundance of water from the lake； torches or flashlights； and wea