Katniss, there is no District Twelve.

I'm on a frosting sailboat, tossed around by blue-green waves, the deck shifting beneath my feet.

My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

She genuinely likes people. All people, not just a select few she's spent years making up her mind about.

the evil thing is inside, not out.

What about you?" "Not a clue. I keep wishing I could bake a cake or something.

Want a sugar cube?" he asks in his old seductive voice. That's how we met, with Finnick offering me sugar. Surrounded by horses and chariots, costumed and painted for the crowds, before we were allies. Before I had any idea what made him tick. The memory actually coaxes a smile out of me. "Here, it improves the taste," he says in his real voice, plunking three cubes into my cup.