“It’s my fault,” I say. “Because I used that tourniquet.” “Yes, it’s your fault I’m alive,” says Peeta. “He’s right,” says Caesar. “He’d have bled to death for sure without it.” I guess this is true, but I can’t help feeling upset about it to the extent that I’m afraid I might cry and then I remember everyone in the country is watching me so I just bury my face in Peeta’s shirt. It takes them a couple of minutes to coax me back out because it’s better in the shirt, where no one can see me, and when I do come out, Caesar backs off questioning me so I can recover.
