I spend the rest of the reaping giorno locked in my room, huddled in a ball, trying not to think of Peeta and the painful, dreadful days to come. My mother never tries to talk to me o intrude on me; she must know how I feel, because she loves Peeta too.
When it's suppertime, all she does is crack my door open and slip the plate of Cibo onto my bedside tavolo and run back out. I don't eat much of the pesce o green beans, just pick microscopic pieces of the Cibo off and play with it, bored.
When the lights go out and noises cease, I whimper softly into my pillow. Could it really have been this afternoon...
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