me。 A rich brown cup of something Iˇve never seen。
¨They call it hot chocolate；〃 says Peeta。 ¨Itˇs good。〃
I take a sip of the hot； sweet； creamy liquid and a shudder runs through me。 Even though the rest of the meal beckons； I ignore it until Iˇve drained my cup。 Then I stuff down every mouthful I can hold； which is a substantial amount； being careful to not overdo it on the richest stuff。 One time； my mother told me that I always eat like Iˇll never see food again。 And I said； ¨I wonˇt unless I bring it home。〃 That shut her up。
When my stomach feels like itˇs about to split open； I lean back and take in my breakfast panions。 Peeta is still eating； breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate。 Haymitch hasnˇt paid much attention to his platter； but heˇs knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning a bottle。 Judging by the fumes； itˇs some kind of spirit。 I donˇt know Haymitch； but Iˇve seen him often enough in the Hob； tossing handfuls of money on the counter of the woman who sells white liquor。 Heˇll be incoherent by the time we reach the Capitol。
I realize I detest Haymitch。 No wonder the District 12 tributes never stand a chance。 It isnˇt just that weˇve been underfed and lack training。 Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it。 But we rarely get sponsors and heˇs a big part of the reason why。 The rich people who back tributes either because theyˇre betting on them or simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner expect someone classier than Haymitch to deal with。
¨So； youˇre supposed to give us advice；〃 I say to Haymitch。
¨Hereˇs some advice。 Stay alive；〃 says Haymitch； and then bursts out laughing。 I exchange a look with Peeta before I remember Iˇm having nothing more to do with him。 Iˇm surprised to see the hardness in his eyes。 He generally seems so mild。
¨Thatˇs very funny；〃 says Peeta。 Suddenly he lashes out at the glass in Haymitchˇs hand。 It shatters on the floor； sending the bloodred liquid running toward the back of the train。 ¨Only not to us。〃
Haymitch considers this a moment； then punches Peeta in the jaw； knocking him from his chair。 When he turns back to reach for the spirits； I drive my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle； barely missing his fingers。 I brace myself to deflect his hit； but it doesnˇt e。 Instead he sits back and squints at us。
¨Well； whatˇs this？〃 says Haymitch。 ¨Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year？〃
Peeta rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice from under the fruit tureen。 He starts to raise it to the red mark on his jaw。
¨No；〃 says Haymitch； stopping him。 ¨Let the bruise show。 The audience will think youˇve mixed it up with another tribute before youˇve even made it to the arena。〃
¨Thatˇs against the rules；〃 says Peeta。
¨Only if they catch you。 That bruise will say you fought； you werenˇt caught； even better；〃 says Haymitch。 He turns to me。 ¨Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table？〃
The bow and arrow is my weapon。 But Iˇve spent a fair amount of time throwing knives as well。 Sometimes； if Iˇve wounded an animal with an arrow； itˇs better to get a knife into it； too； before I approach it。 I realize that if I want Haymitchˇs attention； this is my moment to make an impression。 I yank the knife out of the table； get a grip on the blade； and then throw it into the wall across the room。 I was actually just hoping to get a good solid stick； but it lodges in the seam between two panels； making me look a lot better than I am。
¨Stand over here。 Both of you；〃 says Haymitch； nodding to the middle of the room。 We obey and he circles us； prodding us like animals at times； checking our muscles； examining our faces。 ¨Well； youˇre not entirely hopeless。 Seem fit。 And once the stylists get hold of you； youˇll be attractive enough。〃
Peeta and I donˇt question this。 The Hunger Games arenˇt a beauty contest； but the best…looking tributes always seem to pull more sponsors。
¨All right； Iˇll make a deal with you。 You donˇt interfere with my drinking； and Iˇll stay sober enough to help you；〃 says Haymitch。 ¨But you have to do exactly what I say。〃
Itˇs not much of a deal but still a giant step forward from ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all。
¨Fine；〃 says Peeta。
¨So help us；〃 I say。 ¨When we get to the arena； whatˇs the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone 〃
¨One thing at a time。 In a few minutes； weˇll be pulling into the station。 Youˇll be put in the hands of your stylists。 Youˇre not going to like what they do to you。 But no matter what it is； donˇt resist；〃 says Haymitch。
¨But 〃 I begin。
¨No buts。 Donˇt resist；〃 says Haymitch。 He takes the bottle of spirits from the table and leaves the car。 As the door swings shut behind him； the car goes dark。 There are still a few lights inside； but outside itˇs as if night has fallen again。 I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol。 The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts。 It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels。 This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today。 Since the rebels had to scale the mountains； they were easy targets for the Capitolˇs air forces。
Peeta Mellark and I stand in silence as the train speeds along。 The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of rock separating me from the sky； and my chest tightens。 I hate being encased in stone this way。 It reminds me of the mines and my father； trapped； unable to reach sunlight； buried forever
in the darkness。
The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light floods the partment。 We canˇt help it。 Both Peeta and I run to the window to see what weˇve only seen on television； the Capitol； the ruling city of Panem。 The cameras havenˇt lied about its grandeur。 If anything； they have not quite captured the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air； the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved streets； the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces who have never missed a meal。 All the colors seem artificial； the pinks too deep； the greens too bright； the yellows painful to the eyes； like the flat round disks of hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop in District 12。
The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city。 I step away from the win59 dow； sickened by their excitement； knowing they canˇt wait to watch us die。 But Peeta holds his ground； actually waving and smiling at the gawking crowd。 He only stops when the train pulls into the station； blocking us from their view。
He sees me staring at him and shrugs。 ¨Who knows？〃 he says。 ¨One of them may be rich。〃
I have misjudged him。 I think of his actions since the reaping began。 The friendly squeeze of my hand。 His father showing up with the cookies and promising to feed Prim 。 。 。 did Peeta put him up to that？ His tears at the station。 Volunteering to wash Haymitch but then challenging