I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.

The most exciting thing either of us does is nap.

Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me. Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

I'm not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together.

At some point, you have to stop running and turn around and face whoever wants you dead.The hard thing is finding the courage to do it.

Peeta crouches down on the other side of her and strokes her hair. When he begins to speak in a soft voice, it seems almost nonsensical, but the words aren’t for me. “With my paint box at home, I can make every color imaginable. Pink. As pale as a baby’s skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water.

Closing my eyes doesn't help. Fire burns brighter in the darkness.