When I head to my room； Peeta lingers to talk to Portia。 Iˇm glad。 Whatever strange words of parting we exchange can wait until tomorrow。 My covers are drawn back； but there is no sign of the redheaded Avox girl。 I wish I knew her name。 I should have asked it。 She could write it down maybe。 Or act it out。 But perhaps that would only result in punishment for her。
I take a shower and scrub the gold paint； the makeup； the scent of beauty from my body。 All that remains of the designteamˇs efforts are the flames on my nails。 I decide to keep them as reminder of who I am to the audience。 Katniss； the girl who was on fire。 Perhaps it will give me something to hold on to in the days to e。
I pull on a thick； fleecy nightgown and climb into bed。 It takes me about five seconds to realize Iˇll never fall asleep。 And I need sleep desperately because in the arena every moment I give in to fatigue will be an invitation to death。
Itˇs no good。 One hour； two； three pass； and my eyelids refuse to get heavy。 I canˇt stop trying to imagine exactly what terrain Iˇll be thrown into。 Desert？ Swamp？ A frigid wasteland？ Above all I am hoping for trees； which may afford me some means of concealment and food and shelter； Often there are trees because barren landscapes are dull and the Games resolve too quickly without them。 But what will the climate be like？ What traps have the Gamemakers hid den to liven up the slower moments？ And then there are my fellow tributes 。 。 。
The more anxious I am to find sleep； the more it eludes me。 Finally； I am too restless to even stay in bed。 I pace the floor； heart beating too fast； breathing too short。 My room feels like a prison cell。 If I donˇt get air soon； Iˇm going to start to throw things again。 I run down the hall to t