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

So that's who Finnick loves, I think. Not his string of fancy lovers in the Capitol. But a poor, mad girl back home.

Girl talk. That thing I've always been so bad at.

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

Isn't it strange that I know you'd risk your life to save mine, but I don't even know what your favorite color is?

Even though I don't ask, Plutarch gives me cheerful updates on the phone like "Good news, Katniss! I think we've almost got him convinced you're not a mutt!" Or "Today he was allowed to feed himself pudding!

but it's not safe and I can feel him slipping away, so I just get out one more sentence. "Stay with me." As the tendrils of sleep syrup pull me down, I hear him whisper a word back but I don't catch it.