I look down from the branch I'm perched on. The Careers look murderous. Now I smile.'How have things been with you?' I ask sweetly.

Go to sleep," he says softly. His hand brushes the lose strands of my hair off my forehead. Unlike the staged kisses and caresses so far, this gesture seems natural and comforting. I don't want him to stop and he doesn't. He's still stroking my hair when I fall asleep.

What? My head doctor says I'm not supposed to censor my thoughts. It's part of my therapy.

I thought he wanted it, anyway," I say. "Not like this," Haymitch says. "He wanted it to be real.

How are you managing? And don't say you're fine." It's true. Whatever the opposite of fine is, that's what I am.

It's not easy to find a topic. Talking of home is painful. Talking of the present unbearable.

turn and turn and turn again you see the what, but not the when remedy and wrong entwine and so they form a single vine