The Cat That Prim Got Hates Me,

No Wonder I Won The Games. No Decent Person Ever Does.

The Eleventh Plague Hits Disturbingly Close To Home An Excellent, Taut Debut Novel.

"i'm So Sorry," I Whisper. I Lean Forward And Kiss Him. His Eyelashes Flutter And He Looks At Me Through A Haze Of Opiates. "hey, Catnip." "hey, Gale," I Say. "thought You'd Be Gone By Now," He Says. My Choices Are Simple. I Can Die Like A Quarry In The Woods Or I Can Die Here Beside Gale. "i'm Not Going Anywhere. I'm Going To Stay Right Here And Cause All Kinds Of Trouble." "me, Too," Gale Says. He Just Manages A Smile Before The Drugs Pull Him Back Under.

And Random Bits Of Happiness, Like Finnick And Annie's Newborn Boy.

Something Keeps Me Moving Forward, Though. A Lifetime Of Watching The Hunger Games Lets Me Know That Certain Areas Of The Arena Are Rigged For Certain Attacks. And That If I Can Just Get Away From This Section, I Might Be Able To Move Out Of Reach Of The Launchers. I Might Also Then Fall Straight Into A Pit Of Vipers, But I Can't Worry About That Now.