The audience must be sick to death of the star-crossed lovers from District 12. I know I am.

They don't know that I'm already asking for the moon.

Oh, Peeta, Don't make me sorry I restarted your heart.

Remembering from last year how Haymitch's gifts are often timed to send a message, I make a note to myself. Be friends with Finnick. You'll get food.

How about you, Mockingjay? You feel totally safe?” “Oh, yeah. Right up until I got shot,” I say.

Maybe everyone is just trying to protect me by lying to me. I don't care. I'm sick of people lying to me for my own good.

Fine. Somebody else can arrange to get the stupid goat knocked up.