Exactly How Am I Supposed

Everything Is About Them, Not The Dying Boys And Girls In The Arena.

You Can’t Miss Your Schedule. Every Morning, You’re Supposed To Stick Your Right Arm In This Contraption In The Wall. It Tattoos The Smooth Inside Of Your Forearm With Your Schedule For The Day In A Sickly Purple Ink. 7:00—breakfast. 7:30—kitchen Duties. 8:30—education Center, Room 17. And So On. The Ink Is Indelible Until 22:00—bathing

We Each Get Fifteen Minutes Before The Gamemakers To Amaze Them With Our Skills, But I Don't Know What Any Of Us Might Have To Show Them. There's A Lot Of Kidding About It At Lunch. What We Might Do. Sing, Dance, Strip, Tell Jokes. Mags, Who I Can Understand A Little Better Now, Decides She's Just Going To Take A Nap.

Peeta Rinses The Pearl Off In The Water And Hands It To Me. “for You.” I Hold It Out On My Palm And Examine Its Iridescent Surface In The Sunlight. Yes, I Will Keep It. For The Few Remaining Hours Of My Life I Will Keep It Close. This Last Gift From Peeta. The Only One I Can Really Accept. Perhaps It Will Give Me Strength In The Final Moments.

I Shift On To My Side And Find Myself Looking Directly Into Gale's Eyes. For An Instant The World Recedes And There Is Just His Flushed Face, His Pulse Visible At His Temple, His Lips Slightly Parted As He Tries To Catch His Breath.