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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 his lungs and heˇll be gone。 And Iˇll be here all alone。 Again。 Waiting for the others。
Iˇm so lost in thought that I almost miss the parachute； even though it floats right by me。 Then I spring after it； yanking it from the water； tearing off the silver fabric to retrieve the vial。 Haymitch h
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