Most rats read. Our frustration is, we cannot hold a pen to write.

I can see the first apple teetering when I let the third arrow go, catching the torn flap and ripping it from the bag. For a moment, everything seems frozen in time. Then the apples spill to the ground and I'm blown backward into the air.

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.

The only thing worse than fighting a giant scorpion was fighting a giant scorpion who was trying to protect her young.

They hadn’t counted on the highly controlled jabberjay having the brains to adapt to the wild, to pass on its genetic code, to thrive in a new form. They hadn’t anticipated its will to live.

Because something is significantly wrong with a creature that sacrifices its children’s lives to settle its differences.

The cat that Prim got hates me, I think partly because I tried to drown it.