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- Сюзанна Коллинз
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- Стр. 219/236
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He
shakes
his
head
.
"
You
?
"
"
Guess
I
'd
be
dead
by
now
if
I
did
,
"
I
say
.
I
can
see
his
lips
moving
in
reply
,
but
I
ca
n't
hear
him
over
the
roar
of
the
crowd
in
the
Capitol
that
they
're
playing
live
over
the
speakers
.
The
hovercraft
materializes
overhead
and
two
ladders
drop
,
only
there
's
no
way
I
'm
letting
go
of
Peeta
.
I
keep
one
arm
around
him
as
I
help
him
up
,
and
we
each
place
a
foot
on
the
first
rung
of
the
ladder
.
The
electric
current
freezes
us
in
place
,
and
this
time
I
'm
glad
because
I
'm
not
really
sure
Peeta
can
hang
on
for
the
whole
ride
.
And
since
my
eyes
were
looking
down
,
I
can
see
that
while
our
muscles
are
immobile
,
nothing
is
preventing
the
blood
from
draining
out
of
Peeta
's
leg
.
Sure
enough
,
the
minute
the
door
closes
behind
us
and
the
current
stops
,
he
slumps
to
the
floor
unconscious
.
My
fingers
are
still
gripping
the
back
of
his
jacket
so
tightly
that
when
they
take
him
away
it
tears
leaving
me
with
a
fistful
of
black
fabric
.
Doctors
in
sterile
white
,
masked
and
gloved
,
already
prepped
to
operate
,
go
into
action
.
Peeta
's
so
pale
and
still
on
a
silver
table
,
tubes
and
wires
springing
out
of
him
every
which
way
,
and
for
a
moment
I
forget
we
're
out
of
the
Games
and
I
see
the
doctors
as
just
one
more
threat
,
one
more
pack
of
mutts
designed
to
kill
him
.
Petrified
,
I
lunge
for
him
,
but
I
'm
caught
and
thrust
back
into
another
room
,
and
a
glass
door
seals
between
us
.
I
pound
on
the
glass
,
screaming
my
head
off
.
Everyone
ignores
me
except
for
some
Capitol
attendant
who
appears
behind
me
and
offers
me
a
beverage
.
I
slump
down
on
the
floor
,
my
face
against
the
door
,
staring
uncomprehendingly
at
the
crystal
glass
in
my
hand
.
Icy
cold
,
filled
with
orange
juice
,
a
straw
with
a
frilly
white
collar
.
How
wrong
it
looks
in
my
bloody
,
filthy
hand
with
its
dirt-caked
nails
and
scars
.
My
mouth
waters
at
the
smell
,
but
I
place
it
carefully
on
the
floor
,
not
trusting
anything
so
clean
and
pretty
.
Through
the
glass
,
I
see
the
doctors
working
feverishly
on
Peeta
,
their
brows
creased
in
concentration
.
I
see
the
flow
of
liquids
,
pumping
through
the
tubes
,
watch
a
wall
of
dials
and
lights
that
mean
nothing
to
me
.
I
'm
not
sure
,
but
I
think
his
heart
stops
twice
.
It
's
like
being
home
again
,
when
they
bring
in
the
hopelessly
mangled
person
from
the
mine
explosion
,
or
the
woman
in
her
third
day
of
labor
,
or
the
famished
child
struggling
against
pneumonia
and
my
mother
and
Prim
,
they
wear
that
same
look
on
their
faces
.
Now
is
the
time
to
run
away
to
the
woods
,
to
hide
in
the
trees
until
the
patient
is
long
gone
and
in
another
part
of
the
Seam
the
hammers
make
the
coffin
.
But
I
'm
held
here
both
by
the
hovercraft
walls
and
the
same
force
that
holds
the
loved
ones
of
the
dying
.
How
often
I
've
seen
them
,
ringed
around
our
kitchen
table
and
I
thought
,
Why
do
n't
they
leave
?
Why
do
they
stay
to
watch
?
And
now
I
know
.
It
's
because
you
have
no
choice
.
