Mockingjay (The Hunger Games, #3)

by Suzanne Collins

“I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her,” he says. “I thought we could plant them along the side of the house.”

Fire beats roses again.

It is the old Katniss’s favorite kind of day.

We seal the pages with salt water and promises to live well to make their deaths count.

Haymitch drinks until the liquor runs out, and then raises geese until the next train arrives. Fortunately, the geese can take pretty good care of themselves.

But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips.

That what I need to survive is not Gale’s fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that.

So after, when he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real?” I tell him, “Real.”

That’s when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I’ve seen someone do. It’s like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years. But there are much worse games to play.