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approximately12screamingcats · 5 years

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the hunger games re-read part 1

so the first time i read the hunger games i was...10? 11? somewhere in there. the last time i read them (before now) i was probably 13. i decided about a week or two ago i wanted to read them again, because it had been awhile and i knew i would get more and different things out of them now than then.

i just finished the first book, and i wanna share some of my thoughts, contrasting them to old ones and giving new ones

under the cut because it’s gonna be real long

katniss

i’d say the biggest difference in my last times reading these and now is my opinion on katniss. when i was younger i had the easy opinion that she was boring and annoyingly emotionless. but honestly that’s really not true, and i think it was in part influenced by her portrayal in the movies, which i always thought was good enough but could’ve been better, and i’d go so far to say now that her casting wasn’t great. but also, a movie in third person is very different from a book in first.

but really what i found, katniss is not emotionless, and she’s not boring. no, she’s still not what i would consider a favorite character of mine, i don’t love her, she’s not exactly my type of character that i love. but she’s interesting, and already a fascinating example of what hardship can do to a person. emotionless was such a wild impression to have of her, but i know i wasn’t the only one that thought that. i can say i definitely do not think that now.

she clearly says near the beginning of the book that she’s learned and taught herself to appear emotionless, so that she doesn’t betray her true feelings about the capitol and endanger herself or her family. but she isn’t emotionless at all. she feels very deeply, whether it’s ones she can identify like her love for prim, or ones she can’t, like her (growing) love for peeta.

the most marked thing about katniss is how her entire life has been driven by this need to survive. it encompasses everything she does, everything she has always done, and overshadows almost everything else. since she was eleven years old, she’s had to provide daily for her family, constantly watching out for starvation and arrest and death by wild animals. it’s no surprise she has no idea how to feel about things outside of that. she even says after the games she doesn’t know who she is when she doesn’t have to fight for food every day anymore. i haven’t gotten there yet, but i think that same theme comes back in the beginning of catching fire. her identity has been wrapped in this survival mode, and it’s twisted her into this person that has had to suppress any and all wants of things that could interfere with surviving. she’s not emotionless, she just quite literally has not had the time or energy to think about anything else and how to process it.

the romance

there’s a lot of opinions surrounding this romance. frankly, at the simplest levels, it’s part of the plot. the star crossed lovers of district 12. but yeah, of course there’s more than that. this is a little hard for me to evaluate without bringing up the other books, but tbh i’ll say what i think now with this one fresh in my mind and the others more distant, and see if it changes after catching fire and mockingjay.

anyway, since addressing the love triangle is unavoidable, i have always liked peeta and katniss as a couple more than gale and katniss. originally, i think at least 50% of why was simply because i liked peeta and i didn’t like gale. interestingly, that opinion still holds solid, but that’s not really why i like katniss and peeta better anymore.

katniss, already in book one, is not ambivalent to peeta and she certainly does not dislike him. honestly, i used to think it wasn’t until someway through catching fire that she began to really love him (romantically). but this read through made me realize she is already starting to in this book. it’s under the surface, and definitely doesn’t take hold until catching fire, but it’s there. their connection is emphasized and shown multiple times even before they get into the games. so many times it’s made apparent that she at least cares about him, but i’d say there’s beginnings for more than that.

the unfortunate thing is that being pushed into the whole love story thing for survival, and in front of everyone, is a really terrible environment for someone who barely understands her own emotions to be processing new ones. she’s worried about him dying, she’s incredibly hurt when she thinks he betrayed her for the careers (betrayal is a very strong word for her to choose here too, when she’s been pondering this whole time how one of them has to die). she very evidently wants him to live when she finds him by the stream. frankly, he was already dying, if she really didn’t care about him, she could have easily let him die without it even looking suspect to the audience. she’s not great at medical, which is shown a lot.

and i mean, how many times does she say she can’t bear the idea of being without him? of him dying? yes, usually these are either quick thoughts in a tense moment, or fraught with confusion or other musings, or paired in direct contrast with gale, but they’re there. she worries about it a lot. at the very end, when peeta realizes “it was all a sham for the audience” she even says she’s not sure if it was only fake, and that she misses him already.

to an extent, there’s bonding from trauma here, but i don’t think that’s an invalid manner of bonding? and it’s not just in and after the games that this shows either. it’s there a little bit from the start. she just has to get to know him.

i need to restrain myself from diving too deep into what’s coming here, but i’ll say this: as the books go on, obviously a lot more happens, but i really think one massive block in the way of katniss admitting to falling in love with peeta is the fact that it’s so blatant and open in front of the capitol. katniss hates the capitol, as does most everyone in the districts. but having her whole life on display like that, forcing her out of a decision, doesn’t mean she doesn’t love him, but it is very easy to see how that would make someone (especially a private person) want to withdraw away from that relationship. and katniss, having such a difficult time with her own emotions anyway since her live has been all about survival, doesn’t need that extra barrier on everything to muddle up her emotions and make it harder for her to tell what’s real or not real (lmao).

as for gale, cause i know some people think she clearly loves him, i can get into that more as i get back into the other two books. but from this one so far, and what i remember, a lot of the gale vs peeta stuff isn’t so much about a straight up romance love triangle, but more about what katniss’ life is vs what she wishes it could be. katniss presents herself as a cold and hard person, but she really isn’t like that. she loves soft things, she wants to live in peace, she loves rue and prim and got excited about giving a goat to her sister that she splurged on a ribbon for it. she sang with her father and only stopped when he died. she says she could never admit to her mother how much she needs her gentle touch. the life katniss is living, silent and stoic and always fighting in the woods, is not what she wants. gale, her friend that she definitely genuinely loves (platonically), is parallel to her life. the hunter, full of rage against the capitol, symbol to everything she’s known out of necessity, not want. peeta is calmer, gentler, a symbol to the life she wishes she could have. that’s why they eventually settle down in the epilogue. gale was never the romantic partner katniss needed.

but ive gone far past book one and i’ll get back into these analysis later when catching fire and mockingjay and the epilogue are fresher in my mind.

the rebellion

when i first read these books, my favorite parts were the action and peeta. but man. reading this through now, the story of this rebellion and the rising of people for their justice just screams through the page. and im not even to catching fire yet. it hit me when district 12 raised the salute to katniss, but it hit me even harder when rue died and when cato died. i mean...rue’s death. how katniss covers her in flowers. sings for the first time. drawing to light the utter inhumanity of what the capitol puts children through. but this part got to me specifically:

“I can’t stop looking at Rue, smaller than ever, a baby animal curled up in a nest of netting. I can’t bring myself to leave her like this. Past harm, but seeming utterly defenseless. To hate the boy from District 1, who also appears so vulnerable in death, seems inadequate. It’s the Capitol I hate, for doing this to all of us.”

i can almost hear the lament in that line, “it’s the capitol i hate, for doing this to all of us.” because that’s the truth. they throw up this show, driving them to competition, to hatred, but in the end, even the careers are victims of the capitol.

cato’s death too, for so many of the same reasons. i mean, it’s hard to read this and not feel outright repulsion at what hell the capitol is putting on these people. making the mutts, making them look like the tributes, and then the sheer agony of cato being eaten alive. when katniss and peeta decide to kill him, to relieve him of his misery, it again reveals the truth of things, behind the fancy gold curtain the capitol tries to put up in front of the games.

“It takes a few moments to find Cato in the dim light, in the blood. Then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his mouth is. And I think the word he’s trying to say is please.

Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into his skull.”

these parts are the first set up we get for what happens later. the games are awful enough, but seeing them so raw and unhindered, from the first hand account, you can’t look away.

i don’t know. i can’t put it into words yet, but it moves me immensely. just the story of a people oppressed for so long, revealing the horror and setting themselves free.

other small observations

i kinda wish i had read these books again when i was 16. because 16 sounded so old when i was 10-13, but now it seems young. i would have liked to read it knowing i was the same age as katniss, picturing how that really would be.

i also forgot cinna was not literally lenny kravitz.

i have not read a book this fast for recreation in years, and im LIVING.

#m #the hunger games #thg #thg reread #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #gale hawthorne

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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PART I "THE SPARK"

1. I clasp the flask between my hands even though the warmth from the tea has long since leached into the frozen air. My muscles are clenched tight against the cold. If a pack of wild dogs were to appear at this moment, the odds of scaling a tree before they attacked are not in my favor. I should get up, move around, and work the stiffness from my limbs. But instead I sit, as motionless as the rock beneath me, while the dawn begins to lighten the woods. I can't fight the sun. I can only watch helplessly as it drags me into a day that I've been dreading for months. By noon they will all be at my new house in the Victor's Village. The reporters, the camera crews, even Effie Trinket, my old escort, will have made their way to District 12 from the Capitol. I wonder if Effie will still be wearing that silly pink wig, or if she'll be sporting some other unnatural color especially for the Victory Tour. There will be others waiting, too. A staff to cater to my every need on the long train trip. A prep team to beautify me for public appearances. My stylist and friend, Cinna, who designed the gorgeous outfits that first made the audience take notice of me in the Hunger Games. If it were up to me, I would try to forget the Hunger Games entirely. Never speak of them. Pretend they were nothing but a bad dream. But the Victory Tour makes that impossible. Strategically placed almost midway between the annual Games, it is the Capitol's way of keeping the horror fresh and immediate. Not only are we in the districts forced to remember the iron grip of the Capitol's power each year, we are forced to celebrate it. And this year, I am one of the stars of the show. I will have to travel from district to district, to stand before the cheering crowds who secretly loathe me, to look down into the faces of the families whose children I have killed... The sun persists in rising, so I make myself stand. All my joints complain and my left leg has been asleep for so long that it takes several minutes of pacing to bring the feeling back into it. I've been in the woods three hours, but as I've made no real attempt at hunting, I have nothing to show for it. It doesn't matter for my mother and little sister, Prim, anymore. They can afford to buy butcher meat in town, although none of us likes it any better than fresh game. But my best friend, Gale Hawthorne, and his family will be depending on today's haul and I can't let them down. I start the hour-and-a-half trek it will take to cover our snare line. Back when we were in school, we had time in the afternoons to check the line and hunt and gather and still get back to trade in town. But now that Gale has gone to work in the coal mines - and I have nothing to do all day - I've taken over the job. By this time Gale will have clocked in at the mines, taken the stomach-churning elevator ride into the depths of the earth, and be pounding away at a coal seam. I know what it's like down there. Every year in school, as part of our training, my class had to tour the mines. When I was little, it was just unpleasant. The claustrophobic tunnels, foul air, suffocating darkness on all sides. But after my father and several other miners were killed in an explosion, I could barely force myself onto the elevator. The annual trip became an enormous source of anxiety. Twice I made myself so sick in anticipation of it that my mother kept me home because she thought I had contracted the flu. I think of Gale, who is only really alive in the woods, with its fresh air and sunlight and clean, flowing water. I don't know how he stands it. Well ... yes, I do. He stands it because it's the way to feed his mother and two younger brothers and sister. And here I am with buckets of money, far more than enough to feed both our families now, and he won't take a single coin. It's even hard for him to let me bring in meat, although he'd surely have kept my mother and Prim supplied if I'd been killed in the Games. I tell him he's doing me a favor, that it drives me nuts to sit around all day. Even so, I never drop off the game while he's at home. Which is easy since he works twelve hours a day. The only time I really get to see Gale now is on Sundays, when we meet up in the woods to hunt together. It's still the best day of the week, but it's not like it used to be before, when we could tell each other anything. The Games have spoiled even that. I keep hoping that as time passes we'll regain the ease between us, but part of me knows it's futile. There's no going back. I get a good haul from the traps - eight rabbits, two squirrels, and a beaver that swam into a wire contraption Gale designed himself. He's something of a whiz with snares, rigging them to bent saplings so they pull the kill out of the reach of predators, balancing logs on delicate stick triggers, weaving inescapable baskets to capture fish. As I go along, carefully resetting each snare, I know I can never quite replicate his eye for balance, his instinct for where the prey will cross the path. It's more than experience. It's a natural gift. Like the way I can shoot at an animal in almost complete darkness and still take it down with one arrow. By the time I make it back to the fence that surrounds District 12, the sun is well up. As always, I listen a moment, but there's no telltale hum of electrical current running through the chain link. There hardly ever is, even though the thing is supposed to be charged full-time. I wriggle through the opening at the bottom of the fence and come up in the Meadow, just a stone's throw from my home. My old home. We still get to keep it since officially it's the designated dwelling of my mother and sister. If I should drop dead right now, they would have to return to it. But at present, they're both happily installed in the new house in the Victor's Village, and I'm the only one who uses the squat little place where I was raised. To me, it's my real home. I go there now to switch my clothes. Exchange my father's old leather jacket for a fine wool coat that always seems too tight in the shoulders. Leave my soft, worn hunting boots for a pair of expensive machine-made shoes that my mother thinks are more appropriate for someone of my status. I've already stowed my bow and arrows in a hollow log in the woods. Although time is ticking away, I allow myself a few minutes to sit in the kitchen. It has an abandoned quality with no fire on the hearth, no cloth on the table. I mourn my old life here. We barely scraped by, but I knew where I fit in, I knew what my place was in the tightly interwoven fabric that was our life. I wish I could go back to it because, in retrospect, it seems so secure compared with now, when I am so rich and so famous and so hated by the authorities in the Capitol. A wailing at the back door demands my attention. I open it to find Buttercup, Prim's scruffy old tomcat. He dislikes the new house almost as much as I do and always leaves it when my sister's at school. We've never been particularly fond of each other, but now we have this new bond. I let him in, feed him a chunk of beaver fat, and even rub him between the ears for a bit. "You're hideous, you know that, right?" I ask him. Buttercup nudges my hand for more petting, but we have to go. "Come on, you." I scoop him up with one hand, grab my game bag with the other, and haul them both out onto the street. The cat springs free and disappears under a bush. The shoes pinch my toes as I crunch along the cinder street. Cutting down alleys and through backyards gets me to Gale's house in minutes. His mother, Hazelle, sees me through the window, where she's bent over the kitchen sink. She dries her hands on her apron and disappears to meet me at the door. I like Hazelle. Respect her. The explosion that killed my father took out her husband as well, leaving her with three boys and a baby due any day. Less than a week after she gave birth, she was out hunting the streets for work. The mines weren't an option, what with a baby to look after, but she managed to get laundry from some of the merchants in town. At fourteen, Gale, the eldest of the kids, became the main supporter of the family. He was already signed up for tesserae, which entitled them to a meager supply of grain and oil in exchange for his entering his name extra times in the drawing to become a tribute. On top of that, even back then, he was a skilled trapper. But it wasn't enough to keep a family of five without Hazelle working her fingers to the bone on that washboard. In winter her hands got so red and cracked, they bled at the slightest provocation. Still would if it wasn't for a salve my mother concocted. But they are determined, Hazelle and Gale, that the other boys, twelve-year-old Rory and ten-year-old Vick, and the baby, four-year-old Posy, will never have to sign up for tesserae. Hazelle smiles when she sees the game. She takes the beaver by the tail, feeling its weight. "He's going to make a nice stew." Unlike Gale, she has no problem with our hunting arrangement. "Good pelt, too," I answer. It's comforting here with Hazelle. Weighing the merits of the game, just as we always have. She pours me a mug of herb tea, which I wrap my chilled fingers around gratefully. "You know, when I get back from the tour, I was thinking I might take Rory out with me sometimes. After school. Teach him to shoot." Hazelle nods. "That'd be good. Gale means to, but he's only got his Sundays, and I think he likes saving those for you." I can't stop the redness that floods my cheeks. It's stupid, of course. Hardly anybody knows me better than Hazelle. Knows the bond I share with Gale. I'm sure plenty of people assumed that we'd eventually get married even if I never gave it any thought. But that was before the Games. Before my fellow tribute, Peeta Mellark, announced he was madly in love with me. Our romance became a key strategy for our survival in the arena. Only it wasn't just a strategy for Peeta. I'm not sure what it was for me. But I know now it was nothing but painful for Gale. My chest tightens as I think about how, on the Victory Tour, Peeta and I will have to present ourselves as lovers again. I gulp my tea even though it's too hot and push back from the table. "I better get going. Make myself presentable for the cameras." Hazelle hugs me. "Enjoy the food." "Absolutely," I say. My next stop is the Hob, where I've traditionally done the bulk of my trading. Years ago it was a warehouse to store coal, but when it fell into disuse, it became a meeting place for illegal trades and then blossomed into a full-time black market. If it attracts a somewhat criminal element, then I belong here, I guess. Hunting in the woods surrounding District 12 violates at least a dozen laws and is punishable by death. Although they never mention it, I owe the people who frequent the Hob. Gale told me that Greasy Sae, the old woman who serves up soup, started a collection to sponsor Peeta and me during the Games. It was supposed to be just a Hob thing, but a lot of other people heard about it and chipped in. I don't know exactly how much it was, and the price of any gift in the arena was exorbitant. But for all I know, it made the difference between my life and death. It's still odd to drag open the front door with an empty game bag, with nothing to trade, and instead feel the heavy pocket of coins against my hip. I try to hit as many stalls as possible, spreading out my purchases of coffee, buns, eggs, yarn, and oil. As an afterthought, I buy three bottles of white liquor from a one-armed woman named Ripper, a victim of a mine accident who was smart enough to find a way to stay alive. The liquor isn't for my family. It's for Haymitch, who acted as mentor for Peeta and me in the Games. He's surly, violent, and drunk most of the time. But he did his job - more than his job - because for the first time in history, two tributes were allowed to win. So no matter who Haymitch is, I owe him, too. And that's for always. I'm getting the white liquor because a few weeks ago he ran out and there was none for sale and he had a withdrawal, shaking and screaming at terrifying things only he could see. He scared Prim to death and, frankly, it wasn't much fun for me to see him like that, either. Ever since then I've been sort of stockpiling the stuff just in case there's a shortage again. Cray, our Head Peacekeeper, frowns when he sees me with the bottles. He's an older man with a few strands of silver hair combed sideways above his bright red face. "That stuff's too strong for you, girl." He should know. Next to Haymitch, Cray drinks more than anyone I've ever met. "Aw, my mother uses it in medicines," I say indifferently. "Well, it'd kill just about anything," he says, and slaps down a coin for a bottle. When I reach Greasy Sae's stall, I boost myself up to sit on the counter and order some soup, which looks to be some kind of gourd and bean mixture. A Peacekeeper named Darius comes up and buys a bowl while I'm eating. As law enforcers go, he's one of my favorites. Never really throwing his weight around, usually good for a joke. He's probably in his twenties, but he doesn't seem much older than I do. Something about his smile, his red hair that sticks out every which way, gives him a boyish quality. "Aren't you supposed to be on a train?" he asks me. "They're collecting me at noon," I answer. "Shouldn't you look better?" he asks in a loud whisper. I can't help smiling at his teasing, in spite of my mood. "Maybe a ribbon in your hair or something?" He flicks my braid with his hand and I brush him away. "Don't worry. By the time they get through with me I'll be unrecognizable," I say. "Good," he says. "Let's show a little district pride for a change, Miss Everdeen. Hm?" He shakes his head at Greasy Sae in mock disapproval and walks off to join his friends. "I'll want that bowl back," Greasy Sae calls after him, but since she's laughing, she doesn't sound particularly stern. "Gale going to see you off?" she asks me. "No, he wasn't on the list," I say. "I saw him Sunday, though." "Think he'd have made the list. Him being your cousin and all," she says wryly. It's just one more part of the lie the Capitol has concocted. When Peeta and I made it into the final eight in the Hunger Games, they sent reporters to do personal stories about us. When they asked about my friends, everyone directed them to Gale. But it wouldn't do, what with the romance I was playing out in the arena, to have my best friend be Gale. He was too handsome, too male, and not the least bit willing to smile and play nice for the cameras. We do resemble each other, though, quite a bit. We have that Seam look. Dark straight hair, olive skin, gray eyes. So some genius made him my cousin. I didn't know about it until we were already home, on the platform at the train station, and my mother said, "Your cousins can hardly wait to see you!" Then I turned and saw Gale and Hazelle and all the kids waiting for me, so what could I do but go along? Greasy Sae knows we're not related, but even some of the people who have known us for years seem to have forgotten. "I just can't wait for the whole thing to be over," I whisper. "I know," says Greasy Sae. "But you've got to go through it to get to the end of it. Better not be late." A light snow starts to fall as I make my way to the Victor's Village. It's about a half-mile walk from the square in the center of town, but it seems like another world entirely. It's a separate community built around a beautiful green, dotted with flowering bushes. There are twelve houses, each large enough to hold ten of the one I was raised in. Nine stand empty, as they always have. The three in use belong to Haymitch, Peeta, and me. The houses inhabited by my family and Peeta give off a warm glow of life. Lit windows, smoke from the chimneys, bunches of brightly colored corn affixed to the front doors as decoration for the upcoming Harvest Festival. However, Haymitch's house, despite the care taken by the grounds-keeper, exudes an air of abandonment and neglect. I brace myself at his front door, knowing it will be foul, then push inside. My nose immediately wrinkles in disgust. Haymitch refuses to let anyone in to clean and does a poor job himself. Over the years the odors of liquor and vomit, boiled cabbage and burned meat, unwashed clothes and mouse droppings have intermingled into a stench that brings tears to my eyes. I wade through a litter of discarded wrappings, broken glass, and bones to where I know I will find Haymitch. He sits at the kitchen table, his arms sprawled across the wood, his face in a puddle of liquor, snoring his head off. I nudge his shoulder. "Get up!" I say loudly, because I've learned there's no subtle way to wake him. His snoring stops for a moment, questioningly, and then resumes. I push him harder. "Get up, Haymitch. It's tour day!" I force the window up, inhaling deep breaths of the clean air outside. My feet shift through the garbage on the floor, and I unearth a tin coffeepot and fill it at the sink. The stove isn't completely out and I manage to coax the few live coals into a flame. I pour some ground coffee into the pot, enough to make sure the resulting brew will be good and strong, and set it on the stove to boil. Haymitch is still dead to the world. Since nothing else has worked, I fill a basin with icy cold water, dump it on his head, and spring out of the way. A guttural animal sound comes from his throat. He jumps up, kicking his chair ten feet behind him and wielding a knife. I forgot he always sleeps with one clutched in his hand. I should have pried it from his fingers, but I've had a lot on my mind. Spewing profanity, he slashes the air a few moments before coming to his senses. He wipes his face on his shirtsleeve and turns to the windowsill where I perch, just in case I need to make a quick exit. "What are you doing?" he sputters. "You told me to wake you an hour before the cameras come," I say. "What?" he says. "Your idea," I insist. He seems to remember. "Why am I all wet?" "I couldn't shake you awake," I say. "Look, if you wanted to be babied, you should have asked Peeta." "Asked me what?" Just the sound of his voice twists my stomach into a knot of unpleasant emotions like guilt, sadness, and fear. And longing. I might as well admit there's some of that, too. Only it has too much competition to ever win out. I watch as Peeta crosses to the table, the sunlight from the window picking up the glint of fresh snow in his blond hair. He looks strong and healthy, so different from the sick, starving boy I knew in the arena, and you can barely even notice his limp now. He sets a loaf of fresh-baked bread on the table and holds out his hand to Haymitch. "Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia," says Haymitch, passing over his knife. He pulls off his filthy shirt, revealing an equally soiled undershirt, and rubs himself down with the dry part. Peeta smiles and douses Haymitch's knife in white liquor from a bottle on the floor. He wipes the blade clean on his shirttail and slices the bread. Peeta keeps all of us in fresh baked goods. I hunt. He bakes. Haymitch drinks. We have our own ways to stay busy, to keep thoughts of our time as contestants in the Hunger Games at bay. It's not until he's handed Haymitch the heel that he even looks at me for the first time. "Would you like a piece?" "No, I ate at the Hob," I say. "But thank you." My voice doesn't sound like my own, it's so formal. Just as it's been every time I've spoken to Peeta since the cameras finished filming our happy homecoming and we returned to our real lives. "You're welcome," he says back stiffly. Haymitch tosses his shirt somewhere into the mess. "Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime." He's right, of course. The audience will be expecting the pair of lovebirds who won the Hunger Games. Not two people who can barely look each other in the eye. But all I say is, "Take a bath, Haymitch." Then I swing out the window, drop to the ground, and head across the green to my house. The snow has begun to stick and I leave a trail of footprints behind me. At the front door, I pause to knock the wet stuff from my shoes before I go in. My mother's been working day and night to make everything perfect for the cameras, so it's no time to be tracking up her shiny floors. I've barely stepped inside when she's there, holding my arm as if to stop me. "Don't worry, I'm taking them off here," I say, leaving my shoes on the mat. My mother gives an odd, breathy laugh and removes the game bag loaded with supplies from my shoulder. "It's just snow. Did you have a nice walk?" "Walk?" She knows I've been in the woods half the night. Then I see the man standing behind her in the kitchen doorway. One look at his tailored suit and surgically perfected features and I know he's from the Capitol. Something is wrong. "It was more like skating. It's really getting slippery out there." "Someone's here to see you," says my mother. Her face is too pale and I can hear the anxiety she's trying to hide. "I thought they weren't due until noon." I pretend not to notice her state. "Did Cinna come early to help me get ready?" "No, Katniss, it's - " my mother begins. "This way, please, Miss Everdeen," says the man. He gestures down the hallway. It's weird to be ushered around your own home, but I know better than to comment on it. As I go, I give my mother a reassuring smile over my shoulder. "Probably more instructions for the tour." They've been sending me all kinds of stuff about my itinerary and what protocol will be observed in each district. But as I walk toward the door of the study, a door I have never even seen closed until this moment, I can feel my mind begin to race. Who is here? What do they want? Why is my mother so pale? "Go right in," says the Capitol man, who has followed me down the hallway. I twist the polished brass knob and step inside. My nose registers the conflicting scents of roses and blood. A small, white-haired man who seems vaguely familiar is reading a book. He holds up a finger as if to say, "Give me a moment." Then he turns and my heart skips a beat. I'm staring into the snakelike eyes of President Snow.

#CatchingFire

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