Her name's Prim. She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything.

It's funny, because even though they're rattling on about the Games, it's all about where they were or what they were doing or how they felt when a specific event occurred. . . . Everything is about them, not the dying boys and girls in the arena

So we both strip off our boots and socks and, while there’s some improvement, I could swear he’s making an effort to snap every branch we encounter

I'm not a very fancy person. I've been a writer a long time, and right now 'The Hunger Games' is getting a lot of focus. It'll pass. The focus will be on something else. It'll shift. It always does. And that seems just fine.

Instead, I watch myself get shot on television.

So I thought if I stopped being so, you know, wounded, we could take a shot at just being friends. - Peeta Mellark

My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.