Birds Are Settling Down For The Night,

Tomorrow's A Hunting Day," I Say. "i Won't Be Much Of A Help With That," Peeta Says. "i've Never Hunted Before." "i'll Kill And You Cook," I Say. "and You Can Always Gather." "i Wish There Was Some Sort Of Bread Bush Out There," Says Peeta.

If You'd Been Taken By The Capital And Hijacked And Then Tried To Kill Peeta, Is This The Way He Would Be Treating You?

Positioned On My Dresser, That White-as-snow Rose Is A Personal Message To Me. It Speaks Of Unfinished Business. It Whispers, I Can Find You. I Can Reach You. Perhaps I Am Watching You Now.

I Send A Silent Thank-you To Dalton For Suggesting I Wash Off The Makeup. How Ridiculous, How Perverse I Would Feel Presenting That Painted Capitol Mask To These People. The Damage, The Fatigue, The Imperfections. That's How They Recognize Me, Why I Belong To Them.

In Really Bad Times, The Hungriest Would Gather At His Door At Nightfall, Vying For The Chance To Earn A Few Coins To Feed Their Families By Selling Their Bodies. Had I Been Older When My Father Died, I Might Have Been Among Them. Instead I Learned To Hunt.