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.

The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That's how they recognize me; Why I belong to them.

Maybe I'll be like the man in the Hanging Tree still waiting for an answer.' Gale who I have never seen cry has tears in his eyes. To keep them from spilling over. I reach forward and press my lips against his. We taste of heat, ashes and misery.

Rue, who when you ask her what she loves most in the world, replies, of all things, “Music.

You're hideous, you know that, right?

deep in the meadow , under the willow , a bed of grass , a soft green pillow

Sometimes when things are particularly bad, my brain will give me a happy dream.