Sunrise on the Reaping

I didn’t want to let them in, her and Peeta, but the walls of a person’s heart are not impregnable, not if they have ever known love. That’s what Lenore Dove says, anyway.

And so I remain, forever trapped in my chamber.
I am so desperate to forget. To escape the grief, the aching loneliness, the loss of those I love.

I would like to kill him at that moment, but what would be the point? Instead, I say, “You think you’re a good person, don’t you, Plutarch? You think you’re a good guy because you told me about the sun and the berms. When what you really did is help create the Capitol’s propaganda and broadcast it to the country. Forty-nine kids died for it, but you gave it the old Heavensbee spin and, in that propo, you’re some kind of hero.”
Plutarch takes a moment to answer. “I’m nobody’s idea of a hero, Haymitch. But at least I’m still in the game.”