Thinking Like Your Prey. . . That's

It'd Be Better If He Were Easier To Hate.

It’s The Final Word In Camouflage. Forget Chucking Weights Around. Peeta Should Have Gone Into His Private Session With The Gamemakers And Painted Himself Into A Tree. Or A Boulder. Or A Muddy Bank Full Of Weeds.

There Are Much Worse Games To Play.

There's No Point In Comforting Words, In Telling Her She'll Be All Right. She's No Fool. Her Hand Reaches Out And I Clutch It Like A Lifeline. As If It's Me Who's Dying Instead Of Rue.

When I Break Into The Clearing, She's On The Ground, Hopelessly Entangled In A Net. She Just Has The Time To Reach Her Hand Through The Mesh And Say My Name Before The Spear Enters Her Body.