There is water on my face when I wake up; the sun has been up for at least an hour and my woollen blanket has left me dripping with sweat. Furthermore there is condensation dripping from the plastic roof of my shelter and it leaves a lukewarm trail across my forehead.
I resist the urge to just push upwards and free myself from this sticky trench and keep enough sense to crawl out of my shelter and glance around the landscape for potential attackers. The desert morning is bright and hot but there doesn't seem to be anyone around; I emerge and stretch, wiping the sweat from the small of my back. My fingers rub over raised bumps on my skin, I can't see what they are but they itch like crazy so I assume something in the sand was biting me. Tonight I'll put something down on the floor. I drink my last bottle of water and rub some barrier cream into my skin, I rub it into my rash and it quells some of the itching for a while. For a moment I wonder how I look, only a couple of days ago I was an ethereal beauty, now my pale skin is a light pink from the sun.
The trek to the spring is uneventful and, though my back aches and I feel disgustingly greasy from sweat, I feel better for having slept and I have enough plastic wrapping to re-create my trench each night for at least a week. I fill, purify and immediately drink all three bottles of water then I refill and purify them again and store them in my bag. My stomach growls and I eat a piece of fruit; they aren't in short supply but I wish I had something else to really fill me and I'm worried that an all-fruit diet will start to give me other problems. Perhaps I'd naively hoped that a sponsor would think my little shelter was worth another gift. My stomach churns for something to fill it but I'm not hungry enough to be tempted away from my spring; I decide to have one more day here, hydrating myself, then I'll follow the path of the water for a couple of hours and see where I end up. I hike towards another clump of trees and begin cutting down more fruit; I eat a couple but I wish I had something salty or dense to satisfy me. The long, green tree leaves intrigue me and I cut a few down; they're fibrous but very stiff and I decide they'll be a useful addition to my shelter so I begin the laborious task of dragging them back to the spring. I stop for a moment and cut one leaf slightly smaller than my head and thread it through my hair until the end shades my eyes from the noonday sun without obscuring my view ahead. At the spring I drink and refill my water again; I wonder if my family are watching me now. I think they feel hopeful that I've found a source of water, food and a way to stay warm overnight.
I build my shelter in the afternoon, taking care to lay some long leaves down on the floor and to camouflage the plastic so that it blocks out much of the sunshine. I take care to choose a spot between two large sand dunes which should provide additional shade and camouflage. When the Capitol seal appears in the sky (no deaths today) I am hungry, sandy and aching but, with my hand gripping my machete firmly, I feel safe enough to sleep.
The quake happens sometime before dawn and, when I jump upright, I wrap myself in the shelter's plastic roof and almost suffocate. Tearing at the plastic wrapping, I throw my backpack over my shoulders and look behind me where the sand is being sucked into a widening hole in the ground. I stumble backwards, not quite frozen in fear but unable to move quickly, as I try to process what's happening. A sucking sound to my left indicates a new hole and I feel a tremor at my feet that causes me to break into a run; the sucking noise seems to follow me and more holes open up, some inches from my feet. This is beginning to feel less than natural and I suspect I am being forced out of my comfort zone before I become too boring for the Capitol to watch. A sucking hiss surprises me and I trip over, rolling forwards and landing on my front, at my heel a hole opens up and I am left scrabbling at the pouring sand, desperate to avoid being drawn underground. My fingers can't get a grip on the soft ground and I can feel cold air from whatever abyss I am being pulled into; finally, my fingertips find a clump of long grass which is rooted outside of the hole, and I use it to clamber back up onto the ground. My chest burns from fear but I can't give myself a moment to rest and I sprint, westwards, dodging the pits opening up around my feet. Eventually, the holes stop appearing but the hissing noise continues; I see the pits are sealing themselves, and the warm wind blows enough sand to conceal the entrances so that I could pretend they were never there at all.
I rest with my back to a tree and get myself ready for the day, drink half a bottle of water, rub on my barrier cream, cut another green leaf into a hat and thread it through my hair. The sun is rising behind me and I look around, confused, I've been this far west before but something about the landscape is different. With growing horror I kick the muddy ground and realise that my spring, my lifeline, has disappeared. The panic makes me want to vomit and I taste bile in the back of my throat. I'm going to die; they've done this to kill me. I suddenly feel incredibly thirsty, as if I haven't had a drink my whole time in the arena, and I put my head in my hands…I wonder if the cameras are watching me now.
Last year, tributes were put through their paces with wild animals, storms and trees that fired arrows; each time the presenters would discuss the emotional reaction of the tributes- told us who was weakest or strongest. If there are cameras on me now then I won't let them see the panic I feel. I had sponsors before so I can get them again; I just need to show them I'm worth betting on. Fixing my face into what I hope is a neutral expression; I get to my feet, grip my machete tightly and think for a moment. Dehydration would've killed a lot more tributes by now if there was no more water in the arena. So where have they got their water from? There was probably water in the cornucopia but I don't know if I can get back there before my water runs out, plus I'd rather not run into Ebb and his friends. I decided to carry on walking westwards and hope to find another watercourse similar to the spring.
I have to move my bowels and my face burns with shame at the thought of this intimate moment being transmitted across Panem; this is compounded by the pain in my stomach from the amount of fruit I have eaten over the last two days. I want to show my determination but I feel so despondent that I pull my leaf hat further over my eyes and keep my head low; I'm looking for signs of water but I also don't dare show my face in case the audience sees my dejection.
After two hours I allow myself to drink half a bottle of water; the landscape still looks bare but the ground is getting rockier and the cliffs each side of me change colour and become streaked with horizontal orange and beige lines. I can see more and more greenery; trees and grasses become thicker and more vivid in colour and then I hear the sound of rushing water. It's louder than a spring and, despite the noon heat, I break into a jog until the flowing river comes into view. I crawl the last few feet towards it on my hands and knees and I flop my arms into the water; it looks about waist high and I want to wade straight in. Then I hear the voices; they're quiet at first but they get louder and I jump to my feet just as I see the boy from District Seven crash through the sparse trees, closely followed by Ebb and the tributes from One and Two.
I curse under my breath and look for some kind of hiding place; the landscape is so flat that I have little hope of finding somewhere to cover me. A scream and a cannon indicates that the District Seven boy is dead and then I see Dane, the District One boy, point at me and shout to the others.
Instinctively I dive into the water, the current is fast and my backpack is heavy, but my swimming stroke is confident and I pull myself to the other side of the water quickly. I know Ebb will be able to follow me just as fast but I hope the water slows the others down. I run along the rocky embankment and throw a quick glance over my shoulder; Ebb is swimming steadily across the river but the others are wading out slowly. I dart across the rocky embankment; I can't keep running forever, the landscape is too flat and offers little concealment. I need somewhere to hide while they're occupied by the water. A gap between boulders in the cliff face looks promising and I remove my backpack to ease myself into the space; I shuffle until I end up in a three foot wide space encircled by rock.
"She's here!" Loi, the District One girl, shouts; she runs past my hiding place, followed by the others, no one sees me but they know I can't have gone far. I hold the machete outstretched, trembling a little. I see the back of the District Two boy, "maybe she crossed back over the river," he says as he shades his eyes to look over the opposite embankment.
Dane's sandy-haired head comes into view; his blue eye peers into my hiding gap and I don't even think about it, I just stab. He screams and holds his head as blood pours through his fingers, alerting the others to my presence. The District Two girl stabs her spear into the gap, I try to knock it away with my machete but she catches me a nasty cut on my wrist and pushes forwards through the space. I back up and look for another escape path; there's another crack in the cliff face and I can feel fresh, cold air through it. The District Two girl is almost upon me so I decide to risk it and throw my back pack through the crack, then I dive through it and pull myself into the space. Pain shoots through my left leg and feel hands on me but I kick out and my boot makes contact with, what I hope, is the face of my attacker. The push sends me falling through a hole and I hit what feels like water with an icy, stinging slap to my face. The dark is terrifying and I can't tell if I'm swimming up or down, the current is strong and my face scrapes along rough stone; then something hits my head and there is only blackness.