I Take Peeta's Face In My Hands.

You're A Painter. You're A Baker. You Like To Sleep With The Windows Open. You Never Take Sugar In Your Tea. And You Always Double-knot Your Shoelaces.

"katniss," Gale Says Softly. I Recognize That Voice. It's The Same One He Uses To Approach Wounded Animals Before He Delivers A Deathblow. I Instinctively Raise My Hand To Block His Words But He Catches It And Holds On Tightly. "don't," I Whisper. But Gale Is Not One To Keep Secrets From Me. "katniss, There Is No District Twelve."

I Have Zero Interest In These Capitol People. They Are Only Distractions From The Food.

If He Goes And Dies On Me Now, I Know I'll Go Completely Insane.

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.