The Hunger Games

heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Peeta begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again.
    Finally, I hear him whisper that the sun is rising. I open my eyes and find the stars fading in the pale light of dawn. I can see, too, how bloodless Peeta’s face has become. How little time he has left. And I know I have to get him back to the Capitol.
    Still, no cannon has fired. I press my good ear against the horn and can just make out Cato’s voice.
    “I think he’s closer now. Katniss, can you shoot him?” Peeta asks.
    If he’s near the mouth, I may be able to take him out. It would be an act of mercy at this point.
    “My last arrow’s in your tourniquet,” I say.
    “Make it count,” says Peeta, unzipping his jacket, letting me loose.
    So I free the arrow, tying the tourniquet back as tightly as my frozen fingers can manage. I rub my hands together, trying to regain circulation. When I crawl to the lip of the horn and hang over the edge, I feel Peeta’s hands grip me for support.
    It takes a few moments to find Cato in the dim light, in the blood. Then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his mouth is. And I think the word he’s trying to say is please .
    Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into his skull. Peeta pulls me back up, bow in hand, quiver empty.
    “Did you get him?” he whispers.
    The cannon fires in answer.
    “Then we won, Katniss,” he says hollowly.
    “Hurray for us,” I get out, but there’s no joy of victory in my voice.
    A hole opens in the plain and as if on cue, the remaining mutts bound into it, disappearing as the earth closes above them.
    We wait, for the hovercraft to take Cato’s remains, for the trumpets of victory that should follow, but nothing happens.
    “Hey!” I shout into air. “What’s going on?” The only response is the chatter of waking birds.
    “Maybe it’s the body. Maybe we have to move away from it,” says Peeta.
    I try to remember. Do you have to distance yourself from the dead tribute on the final kill? My brain is too muddled to be sure, but what else could be the reason for the delay?
    “Okay. Think you could make it to the lake?” I ask.
    “Think I better try,” says Peeta. We inch down to the tail of the horn and fall to the ground. If the stiffness in my limbs is this bad, how can Peeta even move? I rise first, swinging and bending my arms and legs until I think I can help him up. Somehow, we make it back to the lake. I scoop up a handful of the cold water for Peeta and bring a second to my lips.
    A mockingjay gives the long, low whistle, and tears of relief fill my eyes as the hovercraft appears and takes Cato’s body away. Now they will take us. Now we can go home.
    But again there’s no response.
    “What are they waiting for?” says Peeta weakly. Between the loss of the tourniquet and the effort it took to get to the lake, his wound has opened up again.
    “I don’t know,” I say. Whatever the holdup is, I can’t watch him lose any more blood. I get up to find a stick but almost immediately come across the arrow that bounced off Cato’s body armor. It will do as well as the other arrow. As I stoop to pick it up, Claudius Templesmith’s voice booms into the arena.
    “Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed,” he says. “Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor.”
    There’s a small burst of static and then nothing more. I stare at Peeta in disbelief as the truth sinks in. They never intended to let us both live. This has all been devised by the Gamemakers to guarantee the most dramatic showdown in history. And like a fool, I bought into it.
    “If you think about it, it’s not that surprising,” he says softly. I watch as he painfully makes it to his feet. Then he’s moving toward me, as if in slow motion, his hand is pulling the knife from his belt —
    Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow pointed straight at his heart. Peeta raises his eyebrows and I see the knife has already left his hand on its way to the lake where it splashes in the water. I drop my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame.
    “No,” he says. “Do