I don't write about adolescence. I write about war. For adolescents.

The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can’t suppress my excitement. Cinna has given me a great advantage. No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name. Katniss. The girl who was on fire.

Maybe I'll be like that man in "The Hanging Tree'. Still waiting for an answer.

No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But what then ... what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I'm not really sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some.

I do think you're mad and I'll still go with you.

What happens when we get back? I don't know. I guess we try and forget. I don't want to forget.

I drink in his wholeness, the soudness of his body and mind. It runs through me like the morphling they give me in the hospital, dulling the pain of the last weeks.