As soon as I’m in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log.
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Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of District 12.
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Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow.
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But there’s also food if you know how to find it.
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My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion.
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There was nothing even to bury.
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I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.
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Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons.
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But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife.
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My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers.
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My father could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion.
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Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they’re as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is.
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In fact, they’re among our best customers.
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But the idea that someone might be arming the Seam would never have been allowed.
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In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples.
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But always in sight of the Meadow.
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Always close enough to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises.
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"District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety," I mutter.
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Then I glance quickly over my shoulder.
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Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.
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When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things I would blurt out about District 12, about the people who rule our country, Panem, from the far-off city called the Capitol.
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Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble.
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So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts.
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Do my work quietly in school. Make only polite small talk in the public market.
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Discuss little more than trades in the Hob, which is the black market where I make most of my money.
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Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics.
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Like the reaping, or food shortages, or the Hunger Games.
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Prim might begin to repeat my words and then where would we be?
