I spend the rest of the reaping jour locked in my room, huddled in a ball, trying not to think of Peeta and the painful, dreadful days to come. My mother never tries to talk to me ou intrude on me; she must know how I feel, because she loves Peeta too.
When it's suppertime, all she does is crack my door open and slip the plate of nourriture onto my bedside table, tableau and run back out. I don't eat much of the poisson ou green beans, just pick microscopic pieces of the nourriture off and play with it, bored.
When the lights go out and noises cease, I whimper softly into my pillow. Could it really have been this afternoon...
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