Day 2: Pitfalls

The slab of ground on which I have just set my foot sinks downward. Instantly my pulse shoots up and I instinctively throw myself backwards, rolling off in the direction I came from. Not a second too late. Heart pounding, I watch as a large hatch opens in the ceiling. In a flash, a row of sharpened metal rods shoots out and crashes against the floor panel, which has since sprung back into its original position. I stare at the spot where I had just almost been turned into a spit. Slowly the bars are pulled back up, then all is silent except for my wildly pounding heart.

Traps. So that, along with orientation and water, is the added difficulty of this year's Hunger Games.

"So much for empty arena ...", I mutter.

But what triggered the rods at this moment of all times? I crawl back toward the plate and gently press my hand on it. Once again the deadly device appears, there is a screeching sound, the crash that could tear my flesh, then the flap closes again. Is it the time of day? Does the enumeration of the dead, and thus the evening, have something to do with the traps? Having wandered the arena for hours, I can hardly imagine not having passed a single one of these treacherous places before. After all, the floor panel directly in front of me looks just like the one I'm safely sitting on. One of the Gamemakers must have operated it manually. Probably because of my comment.

At the thought that Porter is probably banging her head against the wall nearest her right now, I have to grin. Perhaps insulting the Gamemakers' work was indeed imprudent. All that remains is to hope that they won't purposefully try to kill me as I continue on my way, setting traps in my path at every turn.

I press the plate a third time and then wriggle my way between the lowered bars. Then I move on, just as confident and invigorated as before, but a good deal slower. Twice more I trigger a trap with my advancing foot: About twenty minutes after the bars, the metal beneath me turns into a sticky mass that nearly costs me my left sock, and another hour later an entire slab sinks into the ground, revealing a dark hole whose depth I cannot estimate. I audibly expel air, but then I finally recognize part of the arena: a ladder is mounted in the wall just a few steps away from me. I'm at the Cornucopia.

My heart skips a beat and I turn around. I know the way from here, after all I didn't go far yesterday before I found my camp. I dare to walk faster, and soon I'm standing in front of a metal plate with a small notch in the bottom corner and a screw scratched by my knife blade. It is my hiding place, and yet something is missing. The sink that was embedded in the wall just a few steps away this morning is gone. Astonished, I look around, then walk back a few steps around the corner. The sink that I would have burned my own mouth on if I hadn't been interrupted by the girl from District 10 is also no longer there. However, one is now emblazoned directly in front of me, at the intersection of the two corridors. I stare at it, dumbfounded. I may have a poor sense of direction, but I'm sure the thing wasn't here a few hours ago. But how is that possible?

I turn my head and stare at the ceiling above the sink. Now that I'm standing thoughtfully still, I notice the rumbling of my stomach. Despite being hungry, I force myself to stay focused. I reach up as far as I can and trace the edges of the wall plates to the right and left of the sink with my fingers. They are thick metal, as thick as those of my hiding place. At the top, though, on the ceiling I can't touch, there's a groove, barely noticeable. And at the edge – bingo!

I recognize a mechanical clasp like on a jewelry box. Grinning profitably, I stare at the sink, waiting defiantly for something to happen.

But the only thing that occurs are snatches of voices, eerily echoing, ripping the silence apart.

I freeze.

There's a loud voice, mocking.

A deep female voice, more like a growl.

A giggle.

A yowl.

The career tributes. And as little as they care that anyone hears them coming, they seem sure of themselves. What else could they be? They're all there, by all appearances neither dying of thirst nor starvation, probably armed to the teeth.

I quickly wheel around and rush to my hiding place. The voices grow louder and my hands shake as I unscrew the bolts. Come on, come on – now they can only be a few corners away, because I recognize the first words.

"You sure we haven't been here before?" Riva sounds querulous.

"Yeah-ha! Someone put notches in the walls, can't you see?" This statement must have come from Romulus or Saffyr.

My wrist hurts, so fast I turn the knife. Finally, the last screw falls out. I jump up, lift the panel out of the wall, and climb into my hiding place as quickly and as quietly as I can.

"I hope it was 5." Saylor.

"Then she'd be pretty stupid!" Angel's laugh sounds as bright as a bell.

It's a lot harder to turn back the screws in the dark. I start at the top right. The damn thing is stuck. Inside I'm cursing, and my heart is beating so fast by now I'm afraid the career tributes can hear me. Another screw slips from my sweaty fingers and clanks to the floor.

"Did you hear that?"

"No, what?"

The plate is still off; I can see a small gap of light on the floor. If they come over now, I'm screwed. I get down on my knees, pick up the screw and tighten the thing at record speed, then the one next to it, and finally the last one. No sooner am I done than the six career tributes turn into my aisle. I hold my breath and very slowly lower myself down the wall. At the same time I put my right hand to my knife, my left I reach out for my pocket where my second weapon is. Maybe I have a chance against the pack. Not in a real fight, but with surprise effect. Two well-aimed stabs, then I could run away.

My chest nearly bursts as Saylor and Riva continue their discussion outside.

"There was nothing there. You're crazy."

"No, I heard something!" A pause follows, during which she presumably looks around. "There must have been footsteps. Let's go on that way."

They must be right in front of my camp. At that very moment, six tributes who want me dead are standing just a few steps away from me. Saylor's words still echo in my head - "I hope it was 5." How could I be so brainless and leave notches in the walls? My fingers tighten around my knife as I silently hope they move on and miss the last of my marks.

A scratch.

A swipe.

Someone runs their fingers over my plate.

My muscles tense, I apply pressure to the floor.

In a moment, it will count. In a moment. In a moment I'll have to kill and run for my life.

And then ... then they move on, arguing, and the grinding sound across the wall panels also moves away.

I dare to relax.

To breathe in.

To breathe out.

To breathe in.

I stand up and just see a backpack disappear around the corner. At the same moment, the arena releases the sink across from my hiding place and the one at the intersection disappears behind a modular metal plate. I can't take on six tributes alone, let alone six trained killers. But there was one thing Porter hadn't considered in her warning. Yes, I can fight. But most of all, I can think technically, just like the designers of this damn maze. All I need is a plan.