"It won't matter," Peeta breaks in. "If he can move, he's coming."
With all the rain, the stream has overrun its banks by several feet on either side. We stop there to replenish our water. I check the snares I set days ago and come up empty. Not surprising with the weather. Besides, I haven't seen many animals or signs of them in this area.
"If we want food, we better head back up to my old hunting grounds," I say.
"Your call. Just tell me what you need me to do," Peeta says.
"Keep an eye out," I say. "Stay on the rocks as much as possible, no sense in leaving him tracks to follow.
And listen for both of us." It's clear, at this point, that the explosion destroyed the hearing in my left ear for good.
I'd walk in the water to cover our tracks completely, but I'm not sure Peeta's leg could take the current.
Although the drugs have erased the infection, he's still pretty weak. My forehead hurts along the knife cut, but after three days the bleeding has stopped. I wear a bandage around my head though, just in case physical exertion should bring it back.
As we head up alongside the stream, we pass the place where I found Peeta camouflaged in the weeds and mud. One good thing, between the downpour and the flooded banks, all signs of his hiding place have been wiped out. That means that, if need be, we can come back to our cave. Otherwise, I wouldn't risk it with Cato after us.
The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to pebbles, and then, to my relief, we're back on pine needles and the gentle incline of the forest floor. For the first time, I realize we have a problem. Navigating the rocky terrain with a bad leg —well, you're naturally going to make some noise. But even on the smooth bed of needles, Peeta is loud. And I meanloudloud, as if he's stomping his feet or something. I turn and look at him.
"What?" he asks.
"You've got to move more quietly," I say. "Forget about Cato, you're chasing off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius."
"Really?" he says. "Sorry, I didn't know." So, we start up again and he's a tiny bit better, but even with only one working ear, he's making me jump.
"Can you take your boots off?" I suggest.
"Here?" he asks in disbelief, as if I'd asked him to walk barefoot on hot coals or something. I have to remind myself that he's still not used to the woods, that it's the scary, forbidden place beyond the fences of District 12. I think of Gale, with his velvet tread.
It's eerie how little sound he makes, even when the leaves have fallen and it's a challenge to move at all without chasing off the game. I feel certain he's laughing back home.
"Yes," I say patiently. "I will, too. That way we'll both be quieter." Like I was making any noise. So we both strip off our boots and socks and, while there's some improvement, I could swear he's making an effort to snap every branch we encounter.
Needless to say, although it takes several hours to reach my old camp with Rue, I've shot nothing. If the stream would settle down, fish might be an option, but the current is still too strong. As we stop to rest and drink water, I try to work out a solution. Ideally, I'd dump Peeta now with some simple root-gathering chore and go hunt, but then he'd be left with only a knife to defend himself against Cato's spears and superior strength. So what I'd really like is to try and conceal him somewhere safe, then go hunt, and come back and collect him. But I have a feeling his ego isn't going to go for that suggestion.
"Katniss," he says. "We need to split up. I know I'm chasing away the game."
"Only because your leg's hurt," I say generously, because really, you can tell that's only a small part of the problem.
"I know," he says. "So, why don't you go on? Show me some plants to gather and that way we'll both be useful."
"Not if Cato comes and kills you." I tried to say it in a nice way, but it still sounds like I think he's a weakling.
Surprisingly, he just laughs. "Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before, didn't I?"
Yeah, and that turned out great. You ended up dying in a mud bank. That's what I want to say, but I can't.
He did save my life by taking on Cato after all. I try another tactic. "What if you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while I hunted?" I say, trying to make it sound like very important work.
"What if you show me what's edible around here and go get us some meat?" he says, mimicking my tone.
"Just don't go far, in case you need help." I sigh and show him some roots to dig. We do need food, no question. One apple, two rolls, and a blob of cheese the size of a plum won't last long. I'll just go a short distance and hope Cato is a long way off.
I teach him a bird whistle — not a melody like Rue's but a simple two-note whistle — which we can use to communicate that we're all right. Fortunately, he's good at this. Leaving him with the pack, I head off.
I feel like I'm eleven again, tethered not to the safety of the fence but to Peeta, allowing myself twenty, maybe thirty yards of hunting space. Away from him though, the woods come alive with animal sounds.
Reassured by his periodic whistles, I allow myself to drift farther away, and soon have two rabbits and a fat squirrel to show for it. I decide it's enough. I can set snares and maybe get some fish. With Peeta's roots, this will be enough for now.