You’re a painter. You’re a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces.
“Sure he can sit here. We’re old friends,” says Johanna, patting the space beside her. The guards nod and Peeta takes a seat. “Peeta and I had adjoining cells in the Capitol. We’re very familiar with each other’s screams.”
"Knowing that it can no way make up for your loss, we’d like to donate one month of our winnings to the families of the tributes, every year, for the rest of our lives."
"What about you? I’ve seen you in the market. You can lift hundred pound bags of flour,” I snap at him. “Tell him that. That’s not nothing.”
“Yes, and I’m sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It’s not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn’t,” he shoots back.
“He can wrestle,” I tell Haymitch. “He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother.”
“What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?” says Peeta in disgust.
“There’s always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you’ll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I’m dead!”
what a shame we all became… such fragile, broken things…
You could live a thousand lifetimes and not deserve him, you know.