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.

It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.

And there I am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna’s hands, desirable by Peeta’s confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable.

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

So I only say, "So what should we do with our last few days?" "I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you," Peeta replies.

I have zero interest in these Capitol people. They are only distractions from the food.

Winning means fame and fortune. Losing means certain death. The Hunger Games have begun.