““I can barely hear her whisper. "One of us has to win this thing." My eyes travel up the long stems to the arrow-shaped leaves, the white petals, concealing us from Capitol cameras. "Why's that?" I whisper back. "One of us has to be the worst victor in history. Tear up their scripts, tear down their celebrations, set fire to the Victor's Village. Refuse to play their game." Reminds me of Pa. "Make sure they don't use our blood to paint their posters?" "Exactly. We'll paint our own posters. And I know just where we can get the paint." In a gesture I remember from the schoolyard long ago, she extends her pinkie. "Swear it." I encircle it with my own and our pinkies lock tight. They will never let me be a victor, not after my attempt to break the arena, but I can swear to try to keep her alive. "One of us paints the posters.””
