“Peeta, how come I never know when you're having a nightmare?” I say.
“I don't know. I don't think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just come to, paralyzed with terror,” he says.
“You should wake me,” I say, thinking about how I can interrupt his sleep two or three times on a bad night. About how long it can take to calm me down.
“It's not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you,” he says. “I'm okay once I realize you're here.”
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