I see the sparks, feel the axles shredding, and lunge for Louella, hoping to brace her. She’s reaching for me just as the wheel collapses and we’re catapulted into the air. Next thing I know, I’m lying on the ground, my hand in a puddle of blood as the lights of the Capitol flash like fireflies above me. This is better, I tell myself. Better than dying in the arena. Better than weasels and starvation and swords. I’m embracing that when I realize the blood isn’t mine. That fate isn’t mine. And the tribute who’s escaped the arena is Louella.
