You're alive," I whisper, pressing my palms against my cheeks, feeling the smile that's so wide it must look like a grimace. Peeta's alive.

No. Now, shut up and eat your pears.

Eyes on the forest, not on the trees.

Then he smiles as if he'd be happy to lie there and gaze at me forever.

The morphlings from District 6 are in the camouflage station, painting each other's faces with bright pink swirls.

Just don't die for me, you won't be doing me any favour !

Let me go!” I snarl at him, trying to wrest my arm from his grasp. “I can’t,” he says.