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er part of the Seam the hammers make the coffin. But I’m held
here both by the hovercraft walls and the same force that
holds the loved ones of the dying. How often I’ve seen them,
ringed around our kitchen table and I thought, Why don’t they
leave? Why do they stay to watch?
And now I know. It’s because you have no choice.
I startle when I catch someone staring at me from only a
few inches away and then realize it’s my own face reflecting
back in the glass. Wild eyes, hollow cheeks, my hair in a tangled
mat. Rabid. Feral. Mad. No wonder everyone is keeping a
safe distance from me.
The next thing I know we’ve landed back on the roof of the
Training Center and they’re taking Peeta but leaving me behind
the door. I start hurling myself against the glass, shrieking
and I think I just catch a glimpse of pink hair — it must be
Effie, it has to be Effie coming to my rescue — when the
needle jabs me from behind.
When I wake, I’m afraid to move at first. The entire ceiling
glows with a soft yellow light allowing me to see that I’m in a
room containing just my bed. No doors, no windows are visible.
The air smells of something sharp and antiseptic. My right
arm has several tubes that extend into the wall behind me. I’m
naked, but the bedclothes arc soothing against my skin. I tentatively
lift my left hand above the cover. Not only has it been
scrubbed clean, the nails are filed in perfect ovals, the scars
from the burns are less prominent. I touch my cheek, my lips,
the puckered scar above my eyebrow, and am just running my
fingers through my silken hair when I freeze. Apprehensively I
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