All I Can Think Of Is The

My Guess Is That Fearful Events Are The Hardest To Root Out. They're The Ones We Naturally Remember The Best, After All.

Peeta Smiles And Douses Haymitch's Knife In White Liquor From A Bottle On The Floor. He Wipes The Blade Clean On His Shirt Tail And Slices The Bread. Peeta Keeps All Of Us In Fresh Baked Goods. I Hunt. He Bakes. Haymitch Drinks. We Have Our Own Ways To Stay Busy, To Keep Thought Of Our Time As Contestants In The Hunger Games At Bay.

To The Everlasting Credit Of The People Of District 12, Not One Person Claps. Not Even The Ones Holding Betting Slips, The Ones Who Are Usually Beyond Caring. Possibly Because They Know Me From The Hob, Or Knew My Father, Or Have Encountered Prim, Who No One Could Help Loving. So Instead Of Acknowledging Applause, I Stand There Unmoving While They Take Part In The Boldest Form Of Dissent They Can Manage. Silence. Which Says We Do Not Agree. We Do Not Condone. All Of This Is Wrong.

Telling A Story In A Futuristic World Gives You This Freedom To Explore Things That Bother You In Contemporary Times.

Cato Kneels Beside Clove, Spear In Hand, Begging Her To Stay With Him. In A Moment, He Will Realize It's Futile, She Can't Be Saved.