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

I always channel my emotions into my work. That way, I don't hurt anyone but myself.

Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of District 12 as a place that cares about me. But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take Prim's place, and now it seems I have become someone precious. At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.

They recognize me. Of course they recognize me. My face is uncovered and I'm standing here outside of District 12 pointing an arrow at them. Who else would I be?

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

Something small and quiet, like a match being struck, lights up the gloom inside of me.

One of the most memorable things I hear is when someone tells me that my books got a reluctant reader to read.