Peeta looks me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm.

My mother just wanted me to forget it. So, of course, every word was immediately, irrevocably branded into my brain.

But after several hours, I go anyway, walking in silent sock feet, so as not to awaken the ghosts.

Cleaning me up is just a preliminary step to determining my new look. With my acid-damaged hair, sunburned skin, and ugly scars, the prep team has to make me pretty and then damage, burn, and scare me in a more attractive way.

The air's warm with hopeful hints of spring in it. Spring would be a good time for an uprising, I think. Everyone feels less vulnerable once winter passes.

What will break me into a million pieces so that I am beyond repair, beyond usefulness?

Just give him the medicine!" I scream at her. "Give it to him! Who are you, anyway, to decide how much pain he can stand!