The Cat That Prim Got Hates Me,

My Little Sister, Prim, Curled Up On Her Side, Cocooned In My Mother’s Body, Their Cheeks Pressed Together. In Sleep, My Mother Looks Younger, Still Worn But Not So Beaten-down. Prim’s Face Is As Fresh As A Raindrop, As Lovely As The Primrose For Which She Was Named. My Mother Was Very Beautiful Once, Too. Or So They Tell Me.

But What Was It Haymitch Said When I Asked If He Had Told Peeta The Situation? That He Had To Pretend To Be Desperately In Love? “don’t Have To. He’s Already There.

Here's Some Advice. Stay Alive.

I Guess This Is A Bad Time To Mention I Hung A Dummy And Painted Seneca Crane's Name On It.

Let The Seventy-forth Hunger Games Begin, Cato, I Think. Let Them Begin For Real.