Suzanne Collins

Ten minutes from now, who will even still have a heartbeat?

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know me from the Hob, or knew my father, or have encountered Prim, who no one can help loving. So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

I had just turned away from Peeta Mellark’s bruised face when I saw the dandelion and I knew hope wasn’t lost.

North America lies the nation of Panem, a shining Capitol surrounded by twelve outlying districts.

the annual Hunger Games, a fight to the death on live TV.

My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress.

Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her, is the world’s ugliest cat.

He has stopped hissing at me.

I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley.

who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn.