the exertion will do to him?

¨What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?〃 I say。 He must know thatˇs not an option。 That the audience would hate me。 And frankly; I would hate myself; too; if I didnˇt even try。

¨I wonˇt die。 I promise。 If you promise not to go;〃 he says。

Weˇre at something of a stalemate。 I know I canˇt argue him out of this one; so I donˇt try。 I pretend; reluctantly; to go along。 ¨Then you have to do what I say。 Drink your water; wake me when I tell you; and eat every bite of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!〃 I snap at him。

¨Agreed。 Is it ready?〃 he asks。

¨Wait here;〃 I say。 The airˇs gone cold even though the sunˇs still up。 Iˇm right about the Gamemakers messing with the temperature。 I wonder if the thing someone needs desperately is a good blanket。 The soup is still nice and warm in its iron pot。 And actually doesnˇt taste too bad。

Peeta eats without plaint; even scraping out the pot to show his enthusiasm。 He rambles on about how delicious it is; which should be encouraging if you donˇt know what fever does to people。 Heˇs like listening to Haymitch before the alcohol has soaked him into incoherence。 I give him another dose of fever medicine before he goes off his head pletely。

As I go down to the stream to wash up; all I can think is that heˇs going to die if I donˇt get to that feast。 Iˇll keep him going for a day or two; and then the infection will reach his heart or his brain or