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?

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.

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

Slowly, with many lost days, I come back to life.

I’m stopped by the sight of Finnick kissing Peeta.

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

This perplexing, good natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly to be hopelessly in love with me ... and I admit it there are moments when he makes me believe it myself.