Barbarism? That's ironic coming from a woman helping to prepare us for slaughter. And what's she basing our success on? Our table manners?

The morphlings from District 6 are in the camouflage station, painting each other's faces with bright pink swirls.

They more than do their work, they take pride in it. Like Cinna.

District 12. Where you can starve to death in safety," I mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

But after several hours, I go anyway, walking in silent sock feet, so as not to awaken the ghosts.

There's no point in comforting words, in telling her she'll be all right. She's no fool. Her hand reaches out and I clutch it like a lifeline. As if it's me who's dying instead of Rue.

I must still look perplexed because Gale delivers the next line very slowly. “Katniss…he’s still trying to keep you alive.” To keep me alive? And then I understand. The Games are still on.