If You Won't Talk About Yourself, At

Plutarch Rushes To Reassure Me. "oh, No, Katniss. Not Your Wedding. Finnick And Annie's. All You Need To Do Is Show Up And Pretend To Be Happy For Them." "that's One Of The Few Things I Won't Have To Pretend, Plutarch," I Tell Him.

"although Who Knows? Maybe This Will Be It, Katniss." "what?" I Ask. "the Time It Sticks. Maybe We Are Witnessing The Evolution Of The Human Race. Think About That." And Then He Asks Me If I'd Like To Perform On A New Singing Program He's Launching In A Few Weeks. Something Upbeat Would Be Good. He'll Send The Crew To My House.

I Keep Hoping That As Time Passes By, We’ll Regain The Ease Between Us, But Part Of Me Knows It’s Futile. There’s No Going Back.

How About You, Mockingjay? You Feel Totally Safe?” “oh, Yeah. Right Up Until I Got Shot,” I Say.

Peeta Looks Me Right In The Eye And Gives My Hand What I Think Is Meant To Be A Reassuring Squeeze. Maybe It's Just A Nervous Spasm.