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Gale would be my first choice, but it’s unlikely I’ll ever see
Gale again. I try to think if telling Peeta could give him any
possible advantage over me, but I don’t see how. Maybe sharing
a confidence will actually make him believe I see him as a
friend.
Besides, the idea of the girl with her maimed tongue frightens
me. She has reminded me why I’m here. Not to model
flashy costumes and eat delicacies. But to die a bloody death
while the crowds urge on my killer.
To tell or not to tell? My brain still feels slow from the wine.
I stare down the empty corridor as if the decision lies there.
Peeta picks up on my hesitation. “Have you been on the
roof yet?” I shake my head. “Cinna showed me. You can practically
see the whole city. The wind’s a bit loud, though.”
I translate this into “No one will overhear us talking” in my
head. You do have the sense that we might be under surveillance
here. “Can we just go up?”
“Sure, come on,” says Peeta. I follow him to a flight of stairs
that lead to the roof. There’s a small dome-shaped room with
a door to the outside. As we step into the cool, windy evening
air, I catch my breath at the view. The Capitol twinkles like a
vast field of fireflies. Electricity in District 12 comes and goes,
usually we only have it a few hours a day. Often the evenings
are spent in candlelight. The only time you can count on it is
when they’re airing the Games or some important government
message on television that it’s mandatory to watch. But
here there would be no shortage. Ever.
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