“What about Gale?" "He's not a bad kisser either," I say shortly. "And it was okay with both of us? You kissing the other?" He asks. "No. It wasn't okay with either of you. But I wasn't asking your permission," I tell him. Peeta laughs again, coldly, dismissively. "Well, you're a piece of work, aren't you?”
I'm sorry, Peeta, I think. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Save him? More likely I stole his last chance at life, condemned him, by destroying the force field. Maybe, if we had all played by the rules, they might have let him live.
Everyone underestimates Effie. She has the job of picking a child to die. The slightest movement if her hand, if she moved it to the right a little, a different child dies. She knows that in choosing between two slips, they could easily both be the death card for the same kid. If a child is starving and on the verge of death, they’re only further putting themselves at risk of dying. And she carries this burden.
And in catching fire, she knows that she’s drawing the names of two children she really saw hope for, after sentencing their deaths the previous year.
This is what I call pressing writing. Thank you Suzanne Collins.