It starts at midnight.

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

Making knots. Making knots. No word. Making knots. Tick-tock. This is a clock. Do not think of Gale. Do not think of Peeta. Making knots.

Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying.

But the only thing that distracts me from my current situation is fantasizing about killing President Snow.

I wonder if Effie will still be wearing that silly pink wig, or is she'll be sporting some other unnatural color especially for the Victor Tour.

I just don't want them to change me, if I'm going to die I still want to be me.