第8部分(第1/8 頁)

me。　A　rich　brown　cup　of　something　Iˇve　never　seen。

¨They　call　it　hot　chocolate；〃　says　Peeta。　¨Itˇs　good。〃

I　take　a　sip　of　the　hot；　sweet；　creamy　liquid　and　a　shudder　runs　through　me。　Even　though　the　rest　of　the　meal　beckons；　I　ignore　it　until　Iˇve　drained　my　cup。　Then　I　stuff　down　every　mouthful　I　can　hold；　which　is　a　substantial　amount；　being　careful　to　not　overdo　it　on　the　richest　stuff。　One　time；　my　mother　told　me　that　I　always　eat　like　Iˇll　never　see　food　again。　And　I　said；　¨I　wonˇt　unless　I　bring　it　home。〃　That　shut　her　up。

When　my　stomach　feels　like　itˇs　about　to　split　open；　I　lean　back　and　take　in　my　breakfast　panions。　Peeta　is　still　eating；　breaking　off　bits　of　roll　and　dipping　them　in　hot　chocolate。　Haymitch　hasnˇt　paid　much　attention　to　his　platter；　but　heˇs　knocking　back　a　glass　of　red　juice　that　he　keeps　thinning a　bottle。　Judging　by　the　fumes；　itˇs　some　kind　of　spirit。　I　donˇt　know　Haymitch；　but　Iˇve　seen　him　often　enough　in　the　Hob；　tossing　handfuls　of　money　on　the　counter　of　the　woman　who　sells　white　liquor。　Heˇll　be　incoherent　by　the　time　we　reach　the　Capitol。

I　realize　I　detest　Haymitch。　No　wonder　the　District　12　tributes　never　stand　a　chance。　It　isnˇt　just　that　weˇve　been　underfed　and　lack　training。　Some　of　our　tributes　have　still　been　strong　enough　to　make　a　go　of　it。　But　we　rarely　get　sponsors　and　heˇs　a　big　part　of　the　reason　why。　The　rich　people　who　back　tributes　�　either　because　theyˇre　betting　on　them　or　simply　for　the