How about you, Mockingjay? You feel totally safe?” “Oh, yeah. Right up until I got shot,” I say.

Gale is mine. I am his. Anything else is unthinkable.

Let the Hunger Games Begin!

I pull the sleeping bag up to his chin and kiss his forehead, not for the audience, but for me. Because I'm so grateful that he's here, not dead by the stream as I'd thought. So glad I don't have to face Cato alone.

Underground. Which I hate. Like mines and tunnels and 13. Underground, where I dread dying, which is stupid because even if I die aboveground, the next thing they'll do is bury me underground anyway.

As coal pressured into pearls by our weighty existence. Beauty that arose out of pain.

Having an eye for beauty isn't the same thing as a weakness...except possibly when it comes to you.