I can hear President Snow's voice in my head. 'On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the capital, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors.

The morphlings from District 6 are in the camouflage station, painting each other's faces with bright pink swirls.

Mostly we just add to the piles of rainbow glass that's been blown off the exteriors of the cany-colored buildings.

I'm not good at talking about myself.

I thought he wanted it, anyway," I say. "Not like this," Haymitch says. "He wanted it to be real.

It'd be better if he were easier to hate.

He became my confidante, someone with whom I could share thoughts I could never voice...In exchange, he trusted me with his.