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

A light was on in the kitchen. His mother sat at the kitchen table, as still as a statue. Her hands were clasped together, and she stared fixatedly at a small stain on the tablecloth. Gregor remembered seeing her that way so many nights after his dad had disappeared. He didn't know what to say. He didn't want to scare her or shock her or ever give her any more pain. So, he stepped into the light of the kitchen and said the one thing he knew she wanted to hear most in the world. "Hey, Mom. We're home.

He felt around desperately for a weapon. What did he have? Diapers? Cookies? Oh, why hadn't they given him a sword? He was the stupid warrior, wasn't he? His fingers dug in the leather bag and closed around the root beer can. Root beer! He yanked out the can shaking it with all his might. "Attack! Attack!" he yelled.

Sick and disoriented, I'm able to form only one thought: Peeta Mellark just saved my life.

We could do it, you know.

Because something is significantly wrong with a creature that sacrifices its children’s lives to settle its differences.

I merely feel emptyness. A hollow of dead brush where flowers use to bloom.