I can still do this

chapter 2

Other than directions, neither of us talk after that, to save our strength. I do my very best not to feel bad for how his steps turn into stumbles. He almost falls once, and I instinctively reach out to catch him. He throws me down the instant my hand touches him, or tries to, and tries to run away, but he falls again, onto his side and lets out a very small whimper. I pull out the knife and press it deeper into his neck, drawing some blood. "Don't try that again," I say coldly. "Or I will kill you."

He says nothing, but he looks at me with fear in his eyes and gives the barest hint of a nod. I don't help him stand back up, waiting the nearly five minutes it takes for him to do it on his own. Then, we set off again, walking for almost an hour until we're beside the river where Cato had almost killed me a few days ago. "So poetic justice?" he asks flatly.

"So sit down and don't talk." I keep one eye on him as I fill my water bottle from the river and drink. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him looking at the bottle desperately,. Reluctantly, I go over to where he's sitting and hold the bottle to his lips. "Go on," I say impatiently when he looks at me, surprised. So he tilts his head back and drinks like he's been in a desert for weeks. When I finally pull the empty bottle away, the rim is smeared with blood. I wipe it off and refill the bottle, then stash it in my bag. "Stand up," I tell him. This time, when I help him up, he doesn't try anything.

"What now?" he says blankly, and at that point, he bares no resemblance to the vicious boy who had entered the arena, or even the one who glared at me on the roof. This is a completely different person, one who's scared and hopeless, and I don't know what to think about that.

So I don't think. I sling the bow over my quiver, safely out of the way, and adjust my grip on the knife. "It's going to get slippery. Be careful," is all I say. I lead him along next to the river, towards the cave I'd stayed in with- towards the cave. Although I keep myself ready to end any escapes he starts, I don't hold the knife to him. Instead, I clench my jaw, steel myself, and wrap my hand around one of his gigantic arms. It isn't out of any stupid ideas of making friends or winning his trust; it's simple practicality. If he falls and cracks open his head, my budding plan will be ruined.

"Where are we going?" he asks after a few minutes of walking.

"Somewhere I can think," I mutter. I feel him slip and brace myself against a big rock to stop him from falling. Accidentally, I yank his arms out behind him, pulling on his hurt shoulder, and he cries out before he can stop himself. I say the first syllable of an apology, then realize what I'm doing and stop.

We get to the cave after a little more walking. I help him down into it first, then order, "Up against the back wall." After I hear him obey, I half-slide, half walk into the cave, holding my knife at the ready. "You can sit down," I say offhand, after a second. I just need everything to stop so I can think, process what's happened in the past few hours. He starts to sit, but down on the side where the floor is lower. "Not there, on this side," I say, pointing to the high ground furthest from me. "If it rains, you'd be sitting in three inches of water."

"Thanks," he says reluctantly.

"Don't. Stay there and don't move. If you want to sleep or whatever, fine. But don't think about leaving or trying to get out of here. I won't sleep. And you'll die."

He nods once, and leans against the cave wall, but he doesn't close his eyes.

I don't care. I sit hunched up, backpack still on, knees to my chest and arms around them, and for the first time, I let myself think about the fact that Peeta is dead. Peeta, who'd been in here, right here, with me. He'd been so sweet, so stupidly self-sacrificing, so terrifyingly right about him not having a chance to survive these games. And now, he's so, so dead.