Birds are settling down for the night, singing lullabies to their young.

Scores only matter if they’re very good, no one pays much attention to the bad or mediocre ones.

When I ask Plutarch about his absence, he just shakes his head and says, "He couldnt face it." "Haymitch? Not able to face something? Wanted a day off, more likely," I say. "I think his actual words were 'I couldn't face it without a bottle,'" says Plutarch.

I just...I just miss him. And I hate being so alone.

Ladies and gentlemen....." His voice is quiet, but mine rings through the room. "Let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!

Katniss....he's still trying to keep you alive.

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