My Lips Are Just Forming His Name

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.

What Will Break Me Into A Million Pieces So That I Am Beyond Repair, Beyond Usefulness?

I Carefully Lay Out The Provisions. One Thin Black Sleeping Bag That Reflects Body Heat. A Pack Of Crackers. A Pack Of Dried Beef Strips. A Bottle Of Iodine. A Box Of Wooden Matches. A Small Coil Of Wire. A Pair Of Sunglasses. And A Half-gallon Plastic Bottle With A Cap For Carrying Water That's Bone Dry. No Water. How Hard Would It Have Been For Them To Fill Up The Bottle?

I Curl Up, Make Myself Smaller, Try To Disappear Entirely. Wrapped In Silence, I Slide My Bracelet That Reads 'mentally Disoriented' Around And Around My Wrist.

Just The Perfect Touch Of Rebellion," Says Haymitch "very Nice." Rebellion?