A terrible impulse to feel, to abandon Peeta and save myself, shoots through me. It would be so simple, to run full out, perhaps even to climb a tree above the fog line, which seems to top out at about forty feet. I remember how I did just this when the mutations appeared in the last Games. Took off and only thought of Peeta when I’d reached the Cornucopia. But this time, I trap my terror, push it down, and stay by his side. This time survival isn’t the goal. Peeta’s is.