Want A Sugar Cube? [...] They're Supposed

I Carefully Lay Out The Provisions. One Thin Black Sleeping Bag That Reflects Body Heat. A Pack Of Crackers. A Pack Of Dried Beef Strips. A Bottle Of Iodine. A Box Of Wooden Matches. A Small Coil Of Wire. A Pair Of Sunglasses. And A Half-gallon Plastic Bottle With A Cap For Carrying Water That's Bone Dry. No Water. How Hard Would It Have Been For Them To Fill Up The Bottle?

If The Careers Want Me, Let Them Find Me.

Fine. Somebody Else Can Arrange To Get The Stupid Goat Knocked Up.

You’re Not Leaving Me Here Alone,” I Say. Because If He Dies, I’ll Never Go Home, Not Really. I’ll Spend The Rest Of My Life In This Arena, Trying To Think My Way Out.

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.