I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. “No, don’t let go of me,” he says.

Yes, and I’m sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people.

I guess this is a bad time to mention I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane's name on it.

I'm not good at talking about myself.

Time and tragedy have forced her to grow too quickly, at least for my taste, into a young woman who stitches bleeding wounds and knows our mother can hear only so much.

You know, you're kind of squeamish for such a lethal person

Don't want that, do they?” She throws back her head and shouts, “Whole country in rebellion? Wouldn't want anything like that!