I spend the rest of the reaping siku 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 au 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 chakula onto my bedside meza, jedwali and run back out. I don't eat much of the samaki au green beans, just pick microscopic pieces of the chakula 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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