Frankly, I Could Use A Little Sugarcoating.

And It’s All My Fault, Gale. Because Of What I Did In The Arena. If I Had Just Killed Myself With Those Berries, None Of This Would’ve Happened. Peeta Could Have Come Home And Lived, And Everyone Else Would Have Been Safe, Too.” “safe To Do What?” He Says In A Gentler Tone. “starve? Work Like Slaves? Send Their Kids To The Reaping? You Haven’t Hurt People – You’ve Given Them An Opportunity. They Just Have To Be Brave Enough To Take It.

I Feel Like I Owe Him Something, And I Hate Owing People. Maybe If I Had Thanked Him At Some Point, I'd Be Feeling Less Conflicted Now. I Thought About It A Couple Of Times, But The Opportunity Never Seemed To Present Itself. And Now It Never Will. Because We're Going To Be Thrown Into An Arena To Fight To The Death. Exactly How Am I Supposed To Work In A Thank-you In There? Somehow It Just Won't Seem Sincere If I'm Trying To Slit His Throat.

Peeta Bakes. I Hunt. Haymitch Drinks Until The Liquor Runs Out.

But I Don't Know What To Him About The Aftermath Of Killing A Person. About How They Never Leave You.

Peeta Smiles And Douses Haymitch's Knife In White Liquor From A Bottle On The Floor. He Wipes The Blade Clean On His Shirt Tail And Slices The Bread. Peeta Keeps All Of Us In Fresh Baked Goods. I Hunt. He Bakes. Haymitch Drinks. We Have Our Own Ways To Stay Busy, To Keep Thought Of Our Time As Contestants In The Hunger Games At Bay.