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If
I
'm
going
to
cry
,
now
is
the
time
to
do
it
.
By
morning
,
I
'll
be
able
to
wash
the
damage
done
by
the
tears
from
my
face
.
But
no
tears
come
.
I
'm
too
tired
or
too
numb
to
cry
.
The
only
thing
I
feel
is
a
desire
to
be
somewhere
else
.
So
I
let
the
train
rock
me
into
oblivion
.
Gray
light
is
leaking
through
the
curtains
when
the
rapping
rouses
me
.
I
hear
Effie
Trinket
's
voice
,
calling
me
to
rise
.
"
Up
,
up
,
up
!
It
's
going
to
be
a
big
,
big
,
big
day
!
"
I
try
and
imagine
,
for
a
moment
,
what
it
must
be
like
inside
that
woman
's
head
.
What
thoughts
fill
her
waking
hours
?
What
dreams
come
to
her
at
night
?
I
have
no
idea
.
I
put
the
green
outfit
back
on
since
it
's
not
really
dirty
,
just
slightly
crumpled
from
spending
the
night
on
the
floor
.
My
fingers
trace
the
circle
around
the
little
gold
mockingjay
and
I
think
of
the
woods
,
and
of
my
father
,
and
of
my
mother
and
Prim
waking
up
,
having
to
get
on
with
things
.
I
slept
in
the
elaborate
braided
hair
my
mother
did
for
the
reaping
and
it
does
n't
look
too
bad
,
so
I
just
leave
it
up
.
It
does
n't
matter
.
We
ca
n't
be
far
from
the
Capitol
now
.
And
once
we
reach
the
city
,
my
stylist
will
dictate
my
look
for
the
opening
ceremonies
tonight
anyway
.
I
just
hope
I
get
one
who
does
n't
think
nudity
is
the
last
word
in
fashion
.
As
I
enter
the
dining
car
,
Effie
Trinket
brushes
by
me
with
a
cup
of
black
coffee
.
She
's
muttering
obscenities
under
her
breath
.
Haymitch
,
his
face
puffy
and
red
from
the
previous
day
's
indulgences
,
is
chuckling
.
Peeta
holds
a
roll
and
looks
somewhat
embarrassed
.
"
Sit
down
!
Sit
down
!
"
says
Haymitch
,
waving
me
over
.
The
moment
I
slide
into
my
chair
I
'm
served
an
enormous
platter
of
food
.
Eggs
,
ham
,
piles
of
fried
potatoes
.
A
tureen
of
fruit
sits
in
ice
to
keep
it
chilled
.
The
basket
of
rolls
they
set
before
me
would
keep
my
family
going
for
a
week
.
There
's
an
elegant
glass
of
orange
juice
.
At
least
,
I
think
it
's
orange
juice
.
I
've
only
even
tasted
an
orange
once
,
at
New
Year
's
when
my
father
bought
one
as
a
special
treat
.
A
cup
of
coffee
.
My
mother
adores
coffee
,
which
we
could
almost
never
afford
,
but
it
only
tastes
bitter
and
thin
to
me
.
A
rich
brown
cup
of
something
I
've
never
seen
.
"
They
call
it
hot
chocolate
,
"
says
Peeta
.
"
It
's
good
.
"
I
take
a
sip
of
the
hot
,
sweet
,
creamy
liquid
and
a
shudder
runs
through
me
.
Even
though
the
rest
of
the
meal
beckons
,
I
ignore
it
until
I
've
drained
my
cup
.
Then
I
stuff
down
every
mouthful
I
can
hold
,
which
is
a
substantial
amount
,
being
careful
to
not
overdo
it
on
the
richest
stuff
.
One
time
,
my
mother
told
me
that
I
always
eat
like
I
'll
never
see
food
again
.
And
I
said
,
"
I
wo
n't
unless
I
bring
it
home
.
"
That
shut
her
up
.
When
my
stomach
feels
like
it
's
about
to
split
open
,
I
lean
back
and
take
in
my
breakfast
companions
.
Peeta
is
still
eating
,
breaking
off
bits
of
roll
and
dipping
them
in
hot
chocolate
.
Haymitch
has
n't
paid
much
attention
to
his
platter
,
but
he
's
knocking
back
a
glass
of
red
juice
that
he
keeps
thinning
with
a
clear
liquid
from
a
bottle
.
Judging
by
the
fumes
,
it
's
some
kind
of
spirit
.
