I wish she was dead,' he says. 'I wish they were all dead and we were, too. It would be best.

It starts at midnight.

Please feel free to take this personally.

Let me go!” I snarl at him, trying to wrest my arm from his grasp. “I can’t,” he says.

Since Mags seems to have no ill effects from the nuts, Peeta collects bunches of them and fries them by bouncing them off the force field.

I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away.

All the times these arms were my only refuge from the world. Perhaps not fully appreciated then, but so sweet in my memory, and now gone forever.