CATCHING FIRE Part 10 pot

When I wake, I have a brief, delicious feeling of happiness that is

somehow connected with Peeta. Happiness, of course, is a complete

absurdity at this point, since at the rate things are going, I'll be dead in a

day. And that's the best-case scenario, if I'm able to eliminate the rest of the

field, including myself, and get Peeta crowned as the winner of the Quarter

Quell. Still, the sensation's so unexpected and sweet I cling to it, if only for

a few moments. Before the gritty sand, the hot sun, and my itching skin

demand a return to reality.

Everyone's already up and watching the descent of a parachute to the

beach. I join them for another delivery of bread. It's identical to the one we

received the night before. Twenty-four rolls from District 3. That gives us

thirty-three in all. We each take five, leaving eight in reserve. No one says

it, but eight will divide up perfectly after the next death. Somehow, in the

light of day, joking about who will be around to eat the rolls has lost its

humor.

How long can we keep this alliance? I don't think anyone expected the

number of tributes to drop so quickly. What if I am wrong about the others

protecting Peeta? If things were simply coincidental, or it's all been a

strategy to win our trust to make us easy prey, or I don't understand what's

actually going on? Wait, there's no ifs about that. I don't understand what's

going on. And if I don't, it's time for Peeta and me to clear out of here.

I sit next to Peeta on the sand to eat my rolls. For some reason, it's

difficult to look at him. Maybe it was all that kissing last night, although the

two of us kissing isn't anything new. It might not even have felt any

different for him. Maybe it's knowing the brief amount of time we have left.

And how we're working at such cross-purposes when it comes to who

should survive these Games.

After we eat, I take his hand and tug him toward the water. “Come on.

I'll teach you how to swim.” I need to get him away from the others where

we can discuss breaking away. It will be tricky, because once they realize

we're severing the alliance, we'll be instant targets.

If I was really teaching him to swim, I'd make him take off the belt since

it keeps him afloat, but what does it matter now? So I just show him the

basic stroke and let him practice going back and forth in waist-high water.

At first, I notice Johanna keeping a careful eye on us, but eventually she

loses interest and goes to take a nap. Finnick's weaving a new net out of

vines and Beetee plays with his wire. I know the time has come.

While Peeta has been swimming, I've discovered something. My

remaining scabs are starting to peel off. By gently rubbing a handful of

sand up and down my arm, I clean off the rest of the scales, revealing fresh

new skin underneath.

I stop Peeta's practice, on the pretext of showing him how to rid himself

of the itchy scabs, and as we scrub ourselves, I bring up our escape.

“Look, the pool is down to eight. I think it's time we took off,” I say

under my breath, although I doubt any of the tributes can hear me.

Peeta nods, and I can see him considering my proposition. Weighing if

the odds will be in our favor. “Tell you what,” he says. “Let's stick around

until Brutus and Enobaria are dead. I think Beetee's trying to put together

some kind of trap for them now. Then, I promise, we'll go.”

I'm not entirely convinced. But if we leave now, we'll have two sets of

adversaries after us. Maybe three, because who knows what Chaff's up to?

Plus the clock to contend with. And then there's Beetee to think of. Johanna

only brought him for me, and if we leave she'll surely kill him. Then I

remember. I can't protect Beetee, too. There can only be one victor and it

has to be Peeta. I must accept this. I must make decisions based on his

survival only.

“All right,” I say. “We'll stay until the Careers are dead. But that's the

end of it.” I turn and wave to Finnick. “Hey, Finnick, come on in! We

figured out how to make you pretty again!”

The three of us scour all the scabs from our bodies, helping with the

others' backs, and come out the same pink as the sky. We apply another

round of medicine because the skin seems too delicate for the sunlight, but

it doesn't look half as bad on smooth skin and will be good camouflage in

the jungle.

Beetee calls us over, and it turns out that during all those hours of

fiddling with wire, he has indeed come up with a plan. “I think we'll all

agree our next job is to kill Brutus and Enobaria,” he says mildly. “I doubt

they'll attack us openly again, now that they're so outnumbered. We could

track them down, I suppose, but it's dangerous, exhausting work.”

“Do you think they've figured out about the clock?” I ask.

“If they haven't, they'll figure it out soon enough. Perhaps not as

specifically as we have. But they must know that at least some of the zones

are wired for attacks and that they're reoccurring in a circular fashion. Also,

the fact that our last fight was cut off by Gamemaker intervention will not