because I have learned the hard way how deadly these beauties can be.

No one knows what to do with you, girlie.

I know he was desperate. That makes people do all kinds of crazy things.

Whose is it, do you think?" I say finally. "No telling," says Finnick. "Why don't we let Peeta claim it, since he died today?

As long as you can find yourself, you’ll never starve.

She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath, and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me. Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not me. It's Primrose Everdeen.

Peeta crouches down on the other side of her and strokes her hair. When he begins to speak in a soft voice, it seems almost nonsensical, but the words aren’t for me. “With my paint box at home, I can make every color imaginable. Pink. As pale as a baby’s skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water.