Unable to accept it, I shine the light from Cressida’s gun down the shaft. Far below, I can just make out Finnick, struggling to hang on as three mutts tear at him. As one yanks back his head to take the death bite, something bizarre happens. It’s as if I’m Finnick, watching images of my life flash by. The mast of a boat, a silver parachute, Mags laughing, a pink sky, Beetee’s trident, Annie in her wedding dress, waves breaking over rocks. Then it’s over.
You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.
"She’s dead." I clutch my middle to dull the pain. Sink down on my heels, rocking the pillow, crying. "She’s dead, you stupid cat. She’s dead.”
Wild animals, with true natures and pure talents. Wild animals with scientific-sounding latin names that mean something about our DNA. Wild animals each with his own strengths and weaknesses due to his or her species.
You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins. Just the two of us against the rest of the world.
What’s so wrong in falling in love?
We need a signal, in case one of us gets held up.
Okay. Like what?