The first to appear is the girl from District 3. That means that the Career Tributes from 1 and 2 have all survived. No surprise there. Then the boy from 4. I didn’t expect that one, usually all the Careers make it through the first day. The boy from District 5 . . . I guess the fox-faced girl made it. Both tributes from 6 and 7. The boy from 8. Both from 9. Yes, there’s the boy who I fought for the backpack. I’ve run through my fingers, only one more dead tribute to go. Is it Peeta? No, there’s the girl from District 10. That’s it. The Capitol seal is back with a final musical flourish. Then darkness and the sounds of the forest resume.

I’m relieved Peeta’s alive. I tell myself again that if I get killed, his winning will benefit my mother and Prim the most. This is what I tell myself to explain the conflicting emotions that arise when I think of Peeta. The gratitude that he gave me an edge by professing his love for me in the interview. The anger at his superiority on the roof. The dread that we may come face-to-face at any moment in this arena.

Eleven dead, but none from District 12. I try to work out who is left. Five Career Tributes. Foxface. Thresh and Rue. Rue . . . so she made it through the first day after all. I can’t help feeling glad. That makes ten of us. The other three I’ll figure out tomorrow. Now when it is dark, and I have traveled far, and I am nestled high in this tree, now I must try and rest.

I haven’t really slept in two days, and then there’s been the long day’s journey into the arena. Slowly, I allow my muscles to relax. My eyes to close. The last thing I think is it’s lucky I don’t snore. . . .

Snap! The sound of a breaking branch wakes me. How long have I been asleep? Four hours? Five? The tip of my nose is icy cold. Snap! Snap! What’s going on? This is not the sound of a branch under someone’s foot, but the sharp crack of one coming from a tree. Snap! Snap! I judge it to be several hundred yards to my right. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. For a few minutes, there’s nothing but blackness and some scuffling. Then I see a spark and a small fire begins to bloom. A pair of hands warms over flames, but I can’t make out more than that.

I have to bite my lip not to scream every foul name I know at the fire starter. What are they thinking? A fire I’ll just at nightfall would have been one thing. Those who battled at the Cornucopia, with their superior strength and surplus of supplies, they couldn’t possibly have been near enough to spot the flames then. But now, when they’ve probably been combing the woods for hours looking for victims. You might as well be waving a flag and shouting, “Come and get me!”

And here I am a stone’s throw from the biggest idiot in the Games. Strapped in a tree. Not daring to flee since my general location has just been broadcast to any killer who cares. I mean, I know it’s cold out here and not everybody has a sleeping bag. But then you grit your teeth and stick it out until dawn!

I lay smoldering in my bag for the next couple of hours really thinking that if I can get out of this tree, I won’t have the least problem taking out my new neighbor. My instinct has been to flee, not fight. But obviously this person’s a hazard. Stupid people are dangerous. And this one probably doesn’t have much in the way of weapons while I’ve got this excellent knife.

The sky is still dark, but I can feel the first signs of dawn approaching. I’m beginning to think we — meaning the person whose death I’m now devising and me — we might actually have gone unnoticed. Then I hear it. Several pairs of feet breaking into a run. The fire starter must have dozed off. They’re on her before she can escape. I know it’s a girl now, I can tell by the pleading, the agonized scream that follows. Then there’s laughter and congratulations from several voices. Someone cries out, “Twelve down and eleven to go!” which gets a round of appreciative hoots.

So they’re fighting in a pack. I’m not really surprised. Often alliances are formed in the early stages of the Games. The strong band together to hunt down the weak then, when the tension becomes too great, begin to turn on one another. I don’t have to wonder too hard who has made this alliance. It’ll be the remaining Career Tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4. Two boys and three girls. The ones who lunched together.

For a moment, I hear them checking the girl for supplies. I can tell by their comments they’ve found nothing good. I wonder if the victim is Rue but quickly dismiss the thought. She’s much too bright to be building a fire like that.

“Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking.” I’m almost certain that’s the brutish boy from District 2. There are murmurs of assent and then, to my horror, I hear the pack heading toward me. They do not know I’m here. How could they? And I’m well concealed in the clump of trees. At least while the sun stays down. Then my black sleeping bag will turn from camouflage to trouble. If they just keep moving, they will pass me and be gone in a minute.

But the Careers stop in the clearing about ten yards from my tree. They have flashlights, torches. I can see an arm here, a boot there, through the breaks in the branches. I turn to stone, not even daring to breathe. Have they spotted me? No, not yet. I can tell from their words their minds are elsewhere.

“Shouldn’t we have heard a cannon by now?”

“I’d say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately.”

“Unless she isn’t dead.”

“She’s dead. I stuck her myself.”

“Then where’s the cannon?”

“Someone should go back. Make sure the job’s done.”

“Yeah, we don’t want to have to track her down twice.”

“I said she’s dead!”

An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the others. “We’re wasting time! I’ll go finish her and let’s move on!”

I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Peeta.

Thank goodness, I had the foresight to belt myself in. I’ve rolled sideways off the fork and I’m facing the ground, held in place by the belt, one hand, and my feet straddling the pack inside my sleeping bag, braced against the trunk. There must have been some rustling when I tipped sideways, but the Careers have been too caught up in their own argument to catch it.

“Go on, then, Lover Boy,” says the boy from District 2. “See for yourself.”

I just get a glimpse of Peeta, lit by a torch, heading back to the girl by the fire. His face is swollen with bruises, there’s a bloody bandage on one arm, and from the sound of his gait he’s limping somewhat. I remember him shaking him his head, telling me not to go into the fight for the supplies, when all along, all along he’d planned to throw himself into the thick of things. Just the opposite of what Haymitch had mid him to do.

Okay, I can stomach that. Seeing all those supplies was tempting. But this . . . this other thing. This teaming up with the Career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. No one from District 12 would think of doing such a thing! Career tributes are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed, but only because they’re the Capitol’s lapdogs.

Universally, solidly hated by all but those from their own districts. I can imagine the things they’re saying about him back home now. And Peeta had the gall to talk to me about disgrace?

Obviously, the noble boy on the rooftop was playing just one more game with me. But this will be his last. I will eagerly watch the night skies for signs of his death, if I don’t kill him first myself.

The Career tributes are silent until he gets out of ear shot, then use hushed voices.

“Why don’t we just kill him now and get it over with?”