My Mother Says Healers Are Born, Not

Instead, I Watch Myself Get Shot On Television.

One More Time? For The Audience?" He Says. His Voice Isn't Angry. It's Hollow, Which Is Worse. Already The Boy With The Bread Is Slipping Away From Me. I Take His Hand, Holding On Tightly, Preparing For The Cameras, And Dreading The Moment When I Will Finally Have To Let Go.

The Main Thing I Feel Is A Sense Of Relief. That I Can Give Up This Game. That The Question Of Whether I Can Succeed In This Venture Has Been Answered, Even If That Answer Is A Resounding No. That If Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures, I Am Free To Act As Desperately As I Want.

And Then It Happens. Up And Down The Row, The Victors Begin To Join Hands. Some Right Away, Like The Morphlings, Or Wiress And Beetee. Others Unsure But Caught Up In The Demands Of Those Around Them, Like Brutus And Enobaria. By The Time The Anthem Plays Its Final Strains, All Twenty-four Of Us Stand In One Unbroken Line In What Must Be The First Public Show Of Unity Among The Districts Since The Dark Days. You Can See The Realization Of This As The Screens Begin To Pop Into Blackness. It's Too Late, Though. In The Confusion They Didn't Cut Us Off In Time. Everyone Has Seen.

Just Last Year I Wanted To Kill Him, But Now It Is My Duty To Save Him.