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Because if he dies, I'll never go home, not really. I'll spend the rest of my life in this arena trying to think my way out.
My mother's hand strokes my cheek and I don't push it away as I would in wakefulness, never wanting her to know how much I crave that gentle touch.
As if the daytime trees and flowers and stones had gone to bed and sent slightly more ominous versions of themselves to take their places.
I rank music somewhere between hair ribbons and rainbows in terms of usefulness.
Pity does not give you aid. Admiration at your refusal to give in does.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. "One more time? For the audience?" he says. His voice isnt angry. It
s hollow. Which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me.
I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.
"Well, what's this" says Haymitch. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"
May the odds be ever in your favour.
Here's some advise. Stay alive.
You don`t forget the face of the person who was your last hope