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No way to control the outcome of the reaping or what follows it. So don’t feed the nightmares. Don’t let yourself panic. Don’t give the Capitol that. They’ve taken enough already.
Dove color: Warm gray with a slight purplish or pinkish tint. Her color. Her bird. Her name.
Like all the Covey, music in her blood. But not like them, too. Less interested in pretty melodies, more in dangerous words.
The law demands that we atone When we take things we do not own, But leaves the lords and ladies fine Who take things that are yours and mine.
The poor and wretched don’t escape If they conspire the law to break. This must be so but they endure Those who conspire to make the law.
“And that’s part of our trouble. Thinking things are inevitable. Not believing change is possible.” “I guess. But I can’t really imagine the sun not rising tomorrow.” A crease forms between her eyebrows as she puzzles out a response. “Can you imagine it rising on a world without a reaping?” “Not on my birthday. I’ve never had one that came without a reaping.”
She touches the snake’s head, then the bird’s, in turn. “It takes a lot to break these two. They’re survivors.”
She isn’t crying, so Plutarch won’t get his tearful good-bye. Not from her and not from me. They will not use our tears for their entertainment.
The moment our hearts shattered? It belongs to us.
