My fingertips make small swirling patterns in the cool； slippery earth。 I love mud； I think。 How many times Iˇve 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 of plants into a pond。 Floating on the top； yellow flowers in bloom； are my beautiful lilies。
Itˇs all I can do not to plunge my face into the water and gulp down as much as I can hold。 But I have jus enough sense left to abstain。 With trembling hands； I get out my flask and fill it with water。 I add what I remember to be the right number of drops of iodine for purifying it。 The half an hour of waiting is agony； but I do it。 At least；
I think itˇs a half an hour； but itˇs 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； eating rabbit； and even indulge in one of my precious crackers。 By the time the anthem plays； I feel remarkably better。 There are no faces tonight； no tributes died today。 Tomorrow Iˇll stay here； resting； camouflaging my backpack with mud； catching some of those little fish I saw as I sipped； 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。 I look around in bewilderment。 Itˇs not yet dawn； but my stinging eyes can see it。
It would be hard to miss the wall of fire descending on me。
13
My first impulse is to scramble from the tree； but Iˇm belted in。 Somehow my fumbling fingers release the buckle and I fall to the ground in a heap； still snarled in my sleeping bag。 Thereˇs no time for any kind of packing。 Fortunately； my backpack and water bottle are already in the bag。 I shove in the belt； hoist the bag over my shoulder； and flee。
The world has transformed to flame and smoke。 Burning branches crack from trees and fall in showers of sparks at my feet。 All I can do is follow the others； the rabbits and deer and I even spot a wild dog pack shooting through the woods。 I trust their sense of direction because their instincts are sharper than mine。 But they are much faster； flying through the underbrush so gracefully as my boots catch on roots and fallen tree limbs； that thereˇs no way I can keep apace with them。
The heat is horrible； but worse than the heat is the smoke； which threatens to suffocate me at any moment。 I pull the top of my shirt up over my nose； grateful to find it soaked in sweat； and it offers a thin veil of protection。 And I run； choking； my bag banging against my back； my face cut with branches that materialize from the gray haze without warning； because I know I am supposed to run。
This was no tributeˇs campfire gone out of control； no accidental occurrence。 The flames that bear down on me have an unnatural height； a uniformity that marks them as humanmade； machine…made； Gamemaker…made。 Things have been too quiet today。 No deaths； perhaps no fights at all。 The audience in the Capitol will be getting bored； claiming that these Games are verging on dullness。 This is the one thing the Games must not do。
Itˇs not hard to follow the Gamemakersˇ motivation。 There is the Career pack and then there are the rest of us； probably spread far and thin across the arena。 This fire is designed to flush us out； to drive us together。 It may not be the most original device Iˇve seen； but itˇs very； very effective。
I hurdle over a burning log。 Not high enough。 The tail end of my jacket catches on fire and I have to stop to rip it from my body and stamp out the flames。 But I donˇt dare leave the jacket； scorched and smoldering as it is； I take the risk of shoving it in my sleeping bag； hoping the lack of air will quell what I havenˇt extinguished。 This is all I have； what I carry on my back； and itˇs little enough to survive with。
In a matter of minutes； my throat and nose are burning。 The coughing begins soon after and my lungs begin to feel as if they are actually being cooked。 Disfort turns to distress until each breath sends a searing pain through my chest。 I manage to take cover under a stone outcropping just as the vomiting begins； and I lose my meager supper and whatever water has remained in my stomach。 Crouching on my hands and knees； I retch until thereˇs nothing left to e up。
I know I need to keep moving； but Iˇm trembling and lightheaded now； gasping for air。 I allow myself about a spoonful of water to rinse my mouth and spit then take a few swallows from my bottle。 You get one minute； I tell myself。 One minute to rest。 I take the time to reorder my supplies； wad up the sleeping bag； and messily stuff everything into the backpack。 My minuteˇs up。 I know itˇs time to move on； but the smoke has clouded my thoughts。 The swift…footed animals that were my pass have left me behind。 I know I havenˇt been in this part of the woods before； there were no sizable rocks like the one Iˇm sheltering against on my earlier travels。 Where are the Gamemakers driving me？ Back to the lake？ To a whole new terrain filled with new dangers？ I had just found a few hours of peace at the pond when this attack began。 Would there be any way I could travel parallel to the fire and work my way back there； to a source of water at least？ The wall of fire must have an end and it wonˇt burn indefinitely。 Not because the Gamemakers couldnˇt keep it fueled but because； again； that would invite accusations of boredom from the audience。 If I could get back behind the fire line； I could avoid meeting up with the Careers。 Iˇve just decided to try and loop back around； although it iles of travel away from the inferno and then a very circuitous route back； when the first fireball blasts into the rock about two feet from my head。 I spring out from under my ledge； energized by renewed fear。
The game has taken a twist。 The fire was just to get us moving； now the audience will get to see some real fun。 When I hear the next hiss； I flatten on the ground； not taking time to look。 The fireball hits a tree off to my left； engulfing it in flames。 To remain still is death。 Iˇm barely on my feet before the third ball hits the ground where I was lying； sending a pillar of fire up behind me。 Time loses meaning now as I frantically try to dodge the attacks。 I canˇt see where theyˇre being launched from； but itˇs not a hovercraft。 The angles are not extreme enough。 Probably this whole segment of the woods has been armed with precision launchers that are concealed in trees or rocks。 Somewhere； in a cool and spotless room； a Gamemaker sits at a set of controls； fingers on the triggers that could end my life in a second。 All that is needed is a direct hit。
Whatever vague plan I had conceived regarding returning to my pond is wiped from my mind as I zigzag and dive and leap to a