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e white petals。 I knelt down in the water； my fingers digging into the soft mud； and I pulled up handfuls of the roots。 Small； bluish tubers that donˇt look like much but boiled or baked are as good as any potato。 ¨Katniss；〃 I said aloud。 Itˇs the plant I was named for。 And I heard my fatherˇs voice joking； ¨As long as you can find yourself； youˇll never starve。〃 I spent hours stirring up the pond bed with my toes and a stick； gathering the tubers that floated to the top。 That night； we feasted on fish and katniss roots until we were all； for the first time in months； full。
Slowly； my mother returned to us。 She began to clean and cook and preserve some of the food I brought in for winter。 People traded us or paid money for her medical remedies。 One day； I heard her singing。
Prim was thrilled to have her back； but I kept watching； waiting for her to disappear on us again。 I didnˇt trust her。 And some small gnarled place inside me hated her for her weakness； for her neglect； for the months she had put us through。 Prim forgave her； but I had taken a step back from my mother； put up a wall to protect myself from needing her； and nothing was ever the same between us again。
Now I was going to die without that ever being set right。 I thought of how I had yelled at her today in the Justice Building。 I had told her I loved her； too； though。 So maybe it would all balance out。 For a while I stand staring out the train window； wishing I could open it again； but unsure of what would happen at such high speed。 In the distance； I see the lights of another district。 7？ 10？ I donˇt know。 I think about the people in their houses； settling in for bed。 I imagine my home； with its shutters drawn tight。 What are they doing now； my mother and Prim？ Were they able to eat supper？ The fish stew and the strawberries？ Or did it lay untouched on their plates？ Did they watch the recap of the dayˇs events on the battered old TV that sits on the table against the wall？ Surely； there were more tears。 Is my mother holding up； being strong for Prim？ Or has she already started to slip away； leaving the weight of the world on my sisterˇs fragile shoulders？
Prim will undoubtedly sleep with my mother tonight。 The thought of that scruffy old Buttercup posting himself on the bed to watch over Prim forts me。 If she cries； he will nose his way into her arms and curl up there until she calms down and falls asleep。 Iˇm so glad I didnˇt drown him。
Imagining my home makes me ache with loneliness。 This day has been endless。 Could Gale and I have been eating blackberries only this morning？ It seems like a lifetime ago。 Like a long dream that deteriorated into a nightmare。 Maybe； if I go to sleep； I will wake up back in District 12； where I belong。
Probably the drawers hold any number of nightgowns； but I just strip off my shirt and pants and climb into bed in my underwear。 The sheets are made of soft； silky fabric。 A thick fluffy forter gives immediate warmth。
If Iˇm going to cry； now is the time to do it。 By morning； Iˇll be able to wash the damage done by the tears from my face。 But no tears e。 Iˇm too tired or too numb to cry。 The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else。 So I let the train rock me into oblivion。
Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping rouses me。 I hear Effie Trinketˇs voice； calling me to rise。 ¨Up； up； up！ Itˇs going to be a big； big； big day！〃 I try and imagine； for a moment； what it must be like inside that womanˇs head。 What thoughts fill her waking hours？ What dreams e to her at night？ I have no idea。
I put the green outfit back on since itˇs not really dirty； just slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor。 My fingers trace the circle around the little gold mockingjay and I think of the woods； and of my father； and of my mother and Prim waking up； having to get on with things。
I slept in the elaborate braided hair my mother did for the reaping and it doesnˇt look too bad； so I just leave it up。 It doesnˇt matter。 We canˇt be far from the Capitol now。 And once we reach the city； my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway。 I just hope I get one who doesnˇt think nudity is the last word in fashion。
As I enter the dining car； Effie Trinket brushes by me with a cup of black coffee。 Sheˇs muttering obscenities under her breath。 Haymitch； his face puffy and red from the previous dayˇs indulgences； is chuckling。 Peeta holds a roll and looks somewhat embarrassed。
¨Sit down！ Sit down！〃 says Haymitch； waving me over。 The moment I slide into my chair Iˇm served an enormous platter of food。 Eggs； ham； piles of fried potatoes。 A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled。 The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week。 Thereˇs an elegant glass of orange juice。 At least； I think itˇs orange juice。 Iˇve only even tasted an orange once； at New Yearˇs when my father bought one as a special treat。 A cup of coffee。 My mother adores coffee； which we could almost never afford； but it only tastes bitter and thin to 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 I�