There's No Going Back. So We Might

But It's Posy, Gale's Five-year-old Sister, Who Helps The Most. She Scoots Along The Bench To Octavia And Touches Her Skin With A Tentative Finger. “you're Green. Are You Sick?” “it's A Fashion Thing, Posy. Like Wearing Lipstick,” I Say. “it's Meant To Be Pretty,” Whispers Octavia, And I Can See The Tears Threatening To Spill Over Her Lashes. Posy Considers This And Says Matter-of-factly, “i Think You'd Be Pretty In Any Color.

I'm More Than Just A Piece In Their Games.

A Furious Peeta Hammers Haymitch With The Atrocity He Could Become Party To, But I Can Feel Haymitch Watching Me. This Is The Moment, Then. When We Find Out Exactly Just How Alike We Are, And How Much He Truly Understands Me. "i'm With The Mockingjay," He Says.

It's As If I'm Finnick, Watching Images Of My Life Flash By. The Mast Of A Boat, A Silver Parachute, Mags Laughing, A Pink Sky, Beetee's Trident, Annie In Her Wedding Dress, Waves Breaking Over Rocks. Then Its Over.

If It's True, Why Do They Leave Us To Live Like This? With The Hunger And The Killings And The Games?" And Suddenly I Hate This Imaginary Underground City Of District 13 And Those Who Sit By, Watching Us Die. They're No Better Than The Capitol.