I'm relieved Peeta's alive. I tell myself again that if I get killed, his winnings will benefit my mother and Prim the most. This is what I tell myself to explain the conflicting emotions that arise when I think of Peeta. The gratitude that he game an edge by professing his love for me in the interview. The anger at his superiority on the roof. The dread that we may come face-to-face at any moment in this arena.

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 stand there, feeling broken and small, thousands of eyes trained on me.

Peeta: You be nice to her, Finnick. Or I might try and take her away from you. Finnick: Oh, Peeta. Don't make me sorry I restarted your heart.

No. Now, shut up and eat your pears.

A verbal promise behind closed doors, even a statement written on paper-these could easily evaporate . . . .

That if desperate times call for desperate measures, then I'm free to act as desperately as I wish.