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ing in the arena. There’s usually a lag of a few days between
the end of the competition and the presentation of the victor
so that they can put the starving, wounded, mess of a person
back together again. Somewhere, Cinna and Portia will be
creating our wardrobes for the public appearances. Haymitch
and Effie will be arranging the banquet for our sponsors, reviewing
the questions for our final interviews. Back home,
District 12 is probably in chaos as they try and organize the
homecoming celebrations for Peeta and me, given that the last
one was close to thirty years ago.
Home! Prim and my mother! Gale! Even the thought of
Prim’s scruffy old cat makes me smile. Soon I will be home!
I want to get out of this bed. To see Peeta and Cinna, to find
out more about what’s been going on. And why shouldn’t I? I
feel fine. But as I start to work my way out of the band, I feel a
cold liquid seeping into my vein from one of the tubes and almost
immediately lose consciousness.
This happens on and off for an indeterminate amount of
time. My waking, eating, and, even though I resist the impulse
to try and escape the bed, being knocked out again. I seem to
be in a strange, continual twilight. Only a few things register.
The redheaded Avox girl has not returned since the feeding,
my scars are disappearing, and do I imagine it? Or do I hear a
man’s voice yelling? Not in the Capitol accent, but in the
rougher cadences of home. And I can’t help having a vague,
comforting feeling that someone is looking out for me.
Then finally, the time arrives when I come to and there’s
nothing plugged into my right arm. The restraint around my
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