Anyway, even if she's sugarcoating my good points, I appreciate it. Frankly, I could use a little sugarcoating.

I’m in a shallow hole, not filled with the humming orange bubbles of my hallucination but with old, dead leaves.

She's Prim's size in diameter.

It's not easy to find a topic. Talking of home is painful. Talking of the present unbearable.

When I break into the clearing, she's on the ground, hopelessly entangled in a net. She just has the time to reach her hand through the mesh and say my name before the spear enters her body.

If you won't talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush.

The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate. The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.