Catching fuego

I spend the rest of the reaping día 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 comida onto my bedside mesa, tabla and run back out. I don't eat much of the pescado o green beans, just pick microscopic pieces of the comida 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...