【饥饿游戏】50

If a mentor 1 mistreats his tributes, he’ll be held accountable by the 
viewers, by the people back in District 12. Even Haymitch wouldn’t 
risk that, would he? Say what you will about my fellow traders in
the Hob, but I don’t think they’d welcome him back there if he
let me die this way. And then where would he get his liquor?
So . . . what? Is he trying to make me suffer for defying him? Is
he directing all the sponsors toward Peeta? Is he just too
drunk to even notice what’s going on at the moment? Somehow
I don’t believe that and I don’t believe he’s trying to kill
me off by neglect, either. He has, in fact, in his own unpleasant
way, genuinely been trying to prepare me for this. Then what
is going on?
I bury my face in my hands. There’s no danger of tears now,
I couldn’t produce one to save my life. What is Haymitch
doing? Despite my anger, hatred 2, and suspicions, a small voice
in the back of my head whispers an answer.
Maybe he’s sending you a message, it says. A message. Saying
what? Then I know. There’s only one good reason Haymitch
could be withholding 3 water from me. Because he knows
I’ve almost found it.
I grit 4 my teeth and pull myself to my feet. My backpack
seems to have tripled in weight. I find a broken branch that
will do for a walking stick and I start off. The sun’s beating
down, even more searing than the first two days. I feel like an
old piece of leather, drying and cracking in the heat. every
step is an effort, but I refuse to stop. I refuse to sit down. If I
sit, there’s a good chance I won’t be able to get up again, that I
won’t even remember my task.
What easy prey 5 I am! Any tribute, even tiny Rue 6, could take
me right now, merely shove me over and kill me with my own
knife, and I’d have little strength to resist. But if anyone is in
my part of the woods, they ignore me. The truth is, I feel a 
million miles from another living soul.
Not alone though. No, they’ve surely got a camera tracking
me now. I think back to the years of watching tributes starve,
freeze, bleed, and dehydrate 7 to death. Unless there’s a really
good fight going on somewhere, I’m being featured.
My thoughts turn to Prim 8. It’s likely she won’t be watching
me live, but they’ll show updates at the school during lunch.
For her sake, I try to look as least desperate as I can.
But by afternoon, I know the end is coming. My legs are
shaking and my heart too quick. I keep forgetting, exactly
what I’m doing. I’ve stumbled repeatedly and managed to 
regain 9 my feet, but when the stick slides out from under me, 
I finallytumble to the ground unable to get up. I let my eyes 
close. I have misjudged Haymitch. He has no intention of 
helping 10 me at all. This is all right, I think. This is not so bad 
here. The air is less hot, signifying evening’s approach. There’s 
a slight, sweet scent 11 that reminds me of lilies. My fingers stroke 
the smooth ground, sliding easily across the top. This is an okay 
place to die, I think. My fingertips make small swirling 12 patterns 
in the cool, slippery earth. I love mud, I think. How many times 
I’ve tracked game with the help of its soft, readable surface. Good
for bee stings, too. Mud. Mud. Mud! My eyes fly open and I dig
my fingers into the earth. It is mud! My nose lifts in the air.
And those are lilies! Pond lilies!
I crawl now, through the mud, dragging myself toward the
scent. Five yards from where I fell, I crawl through a tangle 13 of
plants into a pond. Floating on the top, yellow flowers in
bloom, are my beautiful lilies.
It’s all I can do not to plunge 14 my face into the water and
gulp 15 down as much as I can hold. But I have jus enough sense
left to abstain 16. With trembling hands, I get out my flask 17 and fill
it with water. I add what I remember to be the right number of
drops of iodine 18 for purifying it. The half an hour of waiting is
agony, but I do it. At least, I think it’s a half an hour, but it’s 
certainly as long as I can stand.
Slowly, easy now, I tell myself. I take one swallow and make
myself wait. Then another. Over the next couple of hours, I
drink the entire half gallon. Then a second. I prepare another
before I retire to a tree where I continue sipping 19, eating rabbit,
and even indulge in one of my precious crackers 20. By the
time the anthem 21 plays, I feel remarkably 22 better. There are no
faces tonight, no tributes died today. Tomorrow I’ll stay here,
resting, camouflaging 23 my backpack with mud, catching 24 some
of those little fish I saw as I sipped 25, digging up the roots of the
pond lilies to make a nice meal. I snuggle down in my sleeping
bag, hanging on to my water bottle for dear life, which, of
course, it is. A few hours later, the stampede of feet shakes me 
from slumber 26. I look around in bewilderment. It’s not yet dawn, 
but my stinging eyes can see it.
It would be hard to miss the wall of fire descending 27 on me.