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Why
him
?
I
think
.
Then
I
try
to
convince
myself
it
does
n't
matter
.
Peeta
Mellark
and
I
are
not
friends
.
Not
even
neighbors
.
We
do
n't
speak
.
Our
only
real
interaction
happened
years
ago
.
He
's
probably
forgotten
it
.
But
I
have
n't
and
I
know
I
never
will
.
It
was
during
the
worst
time
.
My
father
had
been
killed
in
the
mine
accident
three
months
earlier
in
the
bitterest
January
anyone
could
remember
.
The
numbness
of
his
loss
had
passed
,
and
the
pain
would
hit
me
out
of
nowhere
,
doubling
me
over
,
racking
my
body
with
sobs
.
Where
are
you
?
I
would
cry
out
in
my
mind
.
Where
have
you
gone
?
Of
course
,
there
was
never
any
answer
.
The
district
had
given
us
a
small
amount
of
money
as
compensation
for
his
death
,
enough
to
cover
one
month
of
grieving
at
which
time
my
mother
would
be
expected
to
get
a
job
.
Only
she
did
n't
.
She
did
n't
do
anything
but
sit
propped
up
in
a
chair
or
,
more
often
,
huddled
under
the
blankets
on
her
bed
,
eyes
fixed
on
some
point
in
the
distance
.
Once
in
a
while
,
she
'd
stir
,
get
up
as
if
moved
by
some
urgent
purpose
,
only
to
then
collapse
back
into
stillness
.
No
amount
of
pleading
from
Prim
seemed
to
affect
her
.
I
was
terrified
.
I
suppose
now
that
my
mother
was
locked
in
some
dark
world
of
sadness
,
but
at
the
time
,
all
I
knew
was
that
I
had
lost
not
only
a
father
,
but
a
mother
as
well
.
At
eleven
years
old
,
with
Prim
just
seven
,
I
took
over
as
head
of
the
family
.
There
was
no
choice
.
I
bought
our
food
at
the
market
and
cooked
it
as
best
I
could
and
tried
to
keep
Prim
and
myself
looking
presentable
.
Because
if
it
had
become
known
that
my
mother
could
no
longer
care
for
us
,
the
district
would
have
taken
us
away
from
her
and
placed
us
in
the
community
home
.
I
'd
grown
up
seeing
those
home
kids
at
school
.
The
sadness
,
the
marks
of
angry
hands
on
their
faces
,
the
hopelessness
that
curled
their
shoulders
forward
.
I
could
never
let
that
happen
to
Prim
.
Sweet
,
tiny
Prim
who
cried
when
I
cried
before
she
even
knew
the
reason
,
who
brushed
and
plaited
my
mother
's
hair
before
we
left
for
school
,
who
still
polished
my
father
's
shaving
mirror
each
night
because
he
'd
hated
the
layer
of
coal
dust
that
settled
on
everything
in
the
Seam
.
The
community
home
would
crush
her
like
a
bug
.
So
I
kept
our
predicament
a
secret
.
But
the
money
ran
out
and
we
were
slowly
starving
to
death
.
There
's
no
other
way
to
put
it
.
I
kept
telling
myself
if
I
could
only
hold
out
until
May
,
just
May
8th
,
I
would
turn
twelve
and
be
able
to
sign
up
for
the
tesserae
and
get
that
precious
grain
and
oil
to
feed
us
.
Only
there
were
still
several
weeks
to
go
.
We
could
well
be
dead
by
then
.
Starvation
's
not
an
uncommon
fate
in
District
12
.
Who
has
n't
seen
the
victims
?
Older
people
who
ca
n't
work
.
Children
from
a
family
with
too
many
to
feed
.
Those
injured
in
the
mines
.
Straggling
through
the
streets
.
And
one
day
,
you
come
upon
them
sitting
motionless
against
a
wall
or
lying
in
the
Meadow
,
you
hear
the
wails
from
a
house
,
and
the
Peacekeepers
are
called
in
to
retrieve
the
body
.
Starvation
is
never
the
cause
of
death
officially
.
It
's
always
the
flu
,
or
exposure
,
or
pneumonia
.
But
that
fools
no
one
.
On
the
afternoon
of
my
encounter
with
Peeta
Mellark
,
the
rain
was
falling
in
relentless
icy
sheets
.
I
had
been
in
town
,
trying
to
trade
some
threadbare
old
baby
clothes
of
Prim
's
in
the
public
market
,
but
there
were
no
takers
.
Although
I
had
been
to
the
Hob
on
several
occasions
with
my
father
,
I
was
too
frightened
to
venture
into
that
rough
,
gritty
place
alone
.
The
rain
had
soaked
through
my
father
's
hunting
jacket
,
leaving
me
chilled
to
the
bone
.
For
three
days
,
we
'd
had
nothing
but
boiled
water
with
some
old
dried
mint
leaves
I
'd
found
in
the
back
of
a
cupboard
.
By
the
time
the
market
closed
,
I
was
shaking
so
hard
I
dropped
my
bundle
of
baby
clothes
in
a
mud
puddle
.
I
did
n't
pick
it
up
for
fear
I
would
keel
over
and
be
unable
to
regain
my
feet
.
Besides
,
no
one
wanted
those
clothes
.
I
could
n't
go
home
.
Because
at
home
was
my
mother
with
her
dead
eyes
and
my
little
sister
,
with
her
hollow
cheeks
and
cracked
lips
.
I
could
n't
walk
into
that
room
with
the
smoky
fire
from
the
damp
branches
I
had
scavenged
at
the
edge
of
the
woods
after
the
coal
had
run
out
,
my
bands
empty
of
any
hope
.
