I Don't Know What It

Tomorrow's A Hunting Day," I Say. "i Won't Be Much Of A Help With That," Peeta Says. "i've Never Hunted Before." "i'll Kill And You Cook," I Say. "and You Can Always Gather." "i Wish There Was Some Sort Of Bread Bush Out There," Says Peeta.

As We Trudge Back Through The Woods, We Reach A Boulder, And Both Gale And I Turn Our Heads In The Same Direction, Like A Pair Of Dogs Catching A Scent On The Wind. Cressida Notices And Asks What Lies That Way. We Admit, Without Acknowledging Each Other, It's Our Old Hunting Rendez-vous Place. She Wants To See It, Even After We Tell Her It's Nothing Really. Nothing But A Place Where I Was Happy, I Think.

Tonight. After The Reaping, Everyone Is Supposed To Celebrate. And A A Lot Of People Do, Out Of Relief That Their Children Have Been Spared For Another Year. But At Least Two Families Will Pull Their Shutters, Lock Their Doors, And Try To Figure Out How They Will Survive The Painful Weeks To Come.

Not If We Blow It Up," Gale Says Brusquely. His Intent, His Full Intent, Becomes Clear. Gale Has No Interest In Preserving The Lives Of Those In The Nut. No Interest In Caging The Pray For Later Use. This Is One Of His Death Traps.

There Was No Discussion Between Them; It Was As If The Bugs Had Worked Out This Whole Scenario Long Ago. Temp Put On A Burst Of Speed For The End Of The Bridge, And Tick Turned To Face Down The Army Of Rats Alone.