She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath, and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me. Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not me. It's Primrose Everdeen.

What will break me into a million pieces so that I am beyond repair, beyond usefulness?

Knowing it and seeing it are two different things.

If there's a more helpless feeling than trying to reach someone you love who's trapped underground, I don't know it.

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

so people really do tear out their hair and beat the ground with their fists

I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, 'So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?' I turn into him. 'Put you somewhere you can't get hurt.