Here's Some Advice. Stay Alive.

I Don't Know What It Is With Finnick And Bread, But He Seems Obsessed With Handling It.

Making Knots. Making Knots. No Word. Making Knots. Tick-tock. This Is A Clock. Do Not Think Of Gale. Do Not Think Of Peeta. Making Knots.

They'll Be Granted Immunity!" I Feel Myself Rising From My Chair, My Voice Full Of Resonant. "you Will Personally Pledge This In Front Of The Entire Population Of District Thirteen And The Remainder Of Twelve. Soon. Today. It Will Be Recorded For Future Generations. You Will Hold Yourself And Your Government Responsible For Their Safety, Or You'll Find Yourself Another Mockingjay!

Even Though I Don't Ask, Plutarch Gives Me Cheerful Updates On The Phone Like "good News, Katniss! I Think We've Almost Got Him Convinced You're Not A Mutt!" Or "today He Was Allowed To Feed Himself Pudding!

The Main Thing I Feel Is A Sense Of Relief. That I Can Give Up This Game. That The Question Of Whether I Can Succeed In This Venture Has Been Answered, Even If That Answer Is A Resounding No. That If Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures, I Am Free To Act As Desperately As I Want.