i'm still betting on queue

8

I step out into the cool evening air as the parachute floats down for the sky. My fingers quickly undo the tie, hoping for some real medicine to treat Peeta’s leg. Instead I find a pot of hot broth. Haymitch couldn’t be sending me a clearer message. One kiss equals a pot of broth, I can almost hear his snarl. “You’re supposed to be in love, sweetheart. The boy’s dying. Give me something to work with!”