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When I open my door, the redheaded girl is collecting my<br />

unitard and boots from where I left them on the floor before<br />

my shower. I want to apologize for possibly getting her in<br />

trouble earlier. But I remember I’m not supposed to speak to<br />

her unless I’m giving her an order.<br />

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I was supposed to get those back to Cinna.<br />

I’m sorry. Can you take them to him?”<br />

She avoids my eyes, gives a small nod, and heads out the<br />

door.<br />

I’d set out to tell her I was sorry about dinner. But I know<br />

that my apology runs much deeper. That I’m ashamed I never<br />

tried to help her in the woods. That I let the Capitol kill the<br />

boy and mutilate her without lifting a finger.<br />

Just like I was watching the Games.<br />

I kick off my shoes and climb under the covers in my<br />

clothes. The shivering hasn’t stopped. Perhaps the girl doesn’t<br />

even remember me. But I know she does. You don’t forget the<br />

face of the person who was your last hope. I pull the covers up<br />

over my head as if this will protect me from the redheaded girl<br />

who can’t speak. But I can feel her eyes staring at me, piercing<br />

through walls and doors and bedding.<br />

I wonder if she’ll enjoy watching me die.<br />

85

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