Once I'm On My Feet I Realize

To The Everlasting Credit Of The People Of District 12, Not One Person Claps. Not Even The Ones Holding Betting Slips, The Ones Who Are Usually Beyond Caring. Possibly Because They Know Me From The Hob, Or Knew My Father, Or Have Encountered Prim, Who No One Could Help Loving. So Instead Of Acknowledging Applause, I Stand There Unmoving While They Take Part In The Boldest Form Of Dissent They Can Manage. Silence. Which Says We Do Not Agree. We Do Not Condone. All Of This Is Wrong.

To Be Honest, I'm Not Much Of A Drinker. It Makes Me Sick, And I Hate That.

I Wonder If Effie Will Still Be Wearing That Silly Pink Wig, Or Is She'll Be Sporting Some Other Unnatural Color Especially For The Victor Tour.

I Poke Around In The Pile, About To Settle On Some Cod Chowder, When Peeta Holds Out A Can To Me. “here.” I Take It, Not Knowing What To Expect. The Label Reads Lamb Stew.

Great. Now I Have To Go Back And Tell Haymitch I Want An Eighty-year-old And Nuts And Volts For My Allies. He'll Love That.