all too well

chapter seven. . . natural instinct

IT SEEMS THAT ALL I DO IN THE ARENA IS WAKE UP, HUNGER AND GO BACK TO SLEEP. The meagre rations we took are dwindling, the careers will likely be on our tails again and I haven't received other donations despite being forced to sing. I have so much to worry about, I can't help but laugh when I remember how stressed I was about some exam. If someone had told me I'd be reaped two weeks later, I wouldn't have even studied. I also remember how hard I'd seen Dusty working—he wanted to good on it to make up for the fail he'd received for the assignment. Now he was dead.

I've caught Azalea sobbing about her partner twice already now. We don't try to hide our emotions anymore—too exhausted from trying to survive. How many times had we outrun the careers by this point? Speaking of, their absence grows more and more worrisome as the hours pass. My anxiety grows, and thoughts of the careers sneaking up on us begin to overpower my common sense. We'd have to see them coming right? Unless Brooke's a strong current swimmer. . .

"I have to move," I tell Azalea, standing up and scanning the rapids for any dry rocks.

She straps the backpack tightly around her shoulders, standing up behind me quickly. "Why?" she asks, her big brown eyes staring into my soul. I wanted to tell her the truth, but I knew it would freak her out.

I turn to face her again and paint my most reassuring smile, "I'm going to hunt, we need to eat and I can't eat a bite more of just bread," I reply. She nods obediently and smiles back gratefully. My insides feel queasy as I realise that I could be compromising us—do I feel bad? No, not really. I'm sure the careers are in the cornucopia, feasting away and we do need the food.

I'm feeling much better now, however, the bruise from the rock is still there and I can definitely feel it. I had hoped Haymitch would at least send me pain medicine so I could feel better, but I suppose he thinks I'm doing well enough by myself. I lead the way this time, hopping from rock to rock as we scale the rapids. It's not until I notice the sun is directly above us, do I realise we've been jumping for almost an hour now and there's still no vegetation. The only animals I've seen at all are the fast-moving fish and. . . the Capitol mutts that killed Dusty—did those really count as animals?

"We're not going to find anything to eat out here," Azalea calls out, rubbing her stomach as she does. I can barely hear her over the growling of my own stomach. "The game makers have obviously designed it so we rely on the cornucopia. We'll have to face the careers," not if I can help it. I want to ignore her and continue, on the off chance she's wrong, but after I almost slip and fall off a rock—and Azalea lets out a bloodcurdling scream—I decide that we need to rest.

Crammed on a rock that should only really hold one of us, Azalea and I sit in silence and watch the river rush in front of us. Every now and then we try and come up with a plan, but between learning to fish with nothing and begging our mentors for more donations, we're pulling blanks. Finally, I sigh and shake my head, "There's nothing else to do. If Haymitch hasn't sent me anything by now, I don't think he's going to send us anything. . . We have to face them," I state. I hope it came off as nonchalant because I'm freaking out internally. I've never been this scared, not since the night my ma died—somehow, the thought of sneaking past the careers and stealing their food scared me more than being reaped and watching Dusty die. Scares me even more than the thought of winning this, only to die at Snow's hands.

"Okay," Azalea whispers, and I know she's resigned to our fate. We struggled to form a plan, deciding that the only way to go was sneakily. I've never been the most subtle person in District Twelve, but I find Azalea's no better. She's a heavy breather, and she squeals whenever she almost falls off her rocks, but I'm sure everything will be fine once we're off the rapids and on the grassy plain where our games started.