Sunrise on the Reaping

“Yeah, force them to admit we’re people, too,” says Wyatt. “And they’re the beasts for killing us.”

“So you want to make them end the Hunger Games for good. How?” asks Maysilee.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “I guess, for starters, by reminding the audience that we’re human beings. The way they talk about us . . . piglets . . . beasts. They called my fingernails claws. You saw how those kids outside the gym looked at us. Like they think of us as animals. And they think of themselves as superior. So it’s okay to kill us. But the people in the Capitol aren’t better than us. Or smarter.”

As the train passes, she tilts her head back and wails her loss and rage into the wind. And even though it guts me, even though I smash my fists into the glass until they bruise, I’m grateful for her final gift. That she’s denied Plutarch the chance to broadcast our farewell.
The moment our hearts shattered? It belongs to us.