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apples. But always in sight of the Meadow. Always close enough
to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises. “District
Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety,
” I mutter. Then
I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle
of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.
carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if
they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out
with just a knife. 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. 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. 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. In fact, they’re
among our best customers. But the idea that someone might be
arming the Seam would never have been allowed.
arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been
successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of District 12. Inside
the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns like
venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow. But
there’s also food if you know how to find it. My father knew and
he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine
explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then.
Five years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run.