Peeta?" I creep along the bank. "Well, don't step on me.

I pull the sleeping bag up to his chin and kiss his forehead, not for the audience, but for me. Because I'm so grateful that he's here, not dead by the stream as I'd thought. So glad I don't have to face Cato alone.

Even in war there should be lines you didn't cross.

Let me go!” I snarl at him, trying to wrest my arm from his grasp. “I can’t,” he says.

I killed you. And you. And you.

You’re not leaving me here alone,” I say. Because if he dies, I’ll never go home, not really. I’ll spend the rest of my life in this arena, trying to think my way out.

Doors are for those who lack enemies.