Suzanne Collins

Sometimes when I'm alone, I take the pearl from where it lives in my pocket and try to remember the boy with the bread, the strong arms that warded off nightmares on the train, the kisses in the arena.

They will not use our tears for their entertainment.

Katniss....he's still trying to keep you alive.

Katniss. I remember about the bread.

"You're still trying to protect me. Real or not real," he whispers.
"Real," I answer. "Because that's what you and I do, protect each other."

She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

May the odds be ever in your favor!

Closing my eyes doesn't help. Fire burns brighter in the darkness.

I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me.

Katniss, she's running this district. She can't do it if it seems like she's caving in to your will. You mean she can't stand any dissent, even if it's fair.

Luxa and I do not serve food, we are royalty. <br/k> Yeah, well, I'm the warrior and Boots is a princess. And you two are going to get pretty hungry if you're waiting for me to serve you. <br/k> Tell him, boy. Tell him your country fought a war so you wouldn't have to answer to kings and queens.

No. Now, shut up and eat your pears.

"One more time? For the audience?" he says. His voice wasn'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 finally have to let go.

"I'm going to wake Peeta," I say.
"No, wait," says Finnick. "Let's do it together. Put our faces right in front of his."
Well, there's so little opportunity for fun left in my life, I agree. We position ourselves on either side of Peeta, lean over until our faces are inches frim his nose, and give him a shake. "Peeta. Peeta, wake up," I say in a soft, singsong voice.
His eyelids flutter open and then he jumps like we've stabbed him. "Aa!"
Finnick and I fall back in the sand, laughing our heads off. Every time we try to stop, we look at Peeta's attempt to maintain a disdainful expression and it sets us off again.

Buttercup begins to wail as well. He circles me, just out of reach, as wave after wave of sobs racks my body, until eventually I fall unconscious. But he must understand. He must know that the unthinkable has happened and to survive will require previously unthinkable acts. Because hours later, when I come to in my bed, he's there in the moonlight. Crouched beside me, yellow eyes alert, guarding me from the night.