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tol officials and particularly generous sponsors elbow one
another out of the way as they try to get their picture with us.
Face after beaming face flashes by, becoming increasingly intoxicated
as the evening wears on. Occasionally, I catch a
glimpse of Haymitch, which is reassuring, or President Snow,
which is terrifying, but I keep laughing and thanking people
and smiling as my picture is taken. The one thing I never do is
let go of Peeta’s hand.
The sun is just peeking over the horizon when we straggle
back to the twelfth floor of the Training Center. I think now I’ll
finally get a word alone with Peeta, but Haymitch sends him
off with Portia to get something fitted for the interview and
personally escorts me to my door.
“Why can’t I talk to him?” I ask.
“Plenty of time for talk when we get home,” says Haymitch.
“Go to bed, you’re on air at two.”
Despite Haymitch’s running interference, I’m determined to
see Peeta privately. After I toss and turn for a few hours, I slip
into the hall. My first thought is to check the roof, but it’s empty.
Even the city streets far below are deserted after the celebration
last night. I go back to bed for a while and then decide
to go directly to his room, but when I try to turn the knob, I
find my own bedroom door has been locked from the outside.
I suspect Haymitch initially, but then there’s a more insidious
fear that the Capitol may by monitoring and confining me. I’ve
been unable to escape since the Hunger Games began, but this
feels different, much more personal. This feels like I’ve been
imprisoned for a crime and I’m awaiting sentencing. I quickly
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