- War scars.
- You can't always get what you want.
- Happiness comes, sometimes.
- Peace is tenuous and costly.
- Hold on to those you love.
- Protect your family and your friends.
Not to be a spoiler but this may ruin it for some, so if you're one of those types quit reading now.
Peeta suffers throughout much of the book. His mental breakdown leaves him angry, confused, bitter and resentful. In order to survive and to cope he and Finnick come up with a game of sorts: real or not real. Peeta shares a memory and then asks his companions "real or not real." They answer. The truth begins to rebuild him, but their love starts with this exchange:
"Ally." Peeta says the word slowly tasting it. "Friend. Lover. Vicgor. Enemy. Fiancee. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter .Tribute. Ally. I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out." He weaves the rope in and out of his fingers. "The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up."
The cessation of rhythmic breathing suggests that either people have woken or have never really been asleep at all. I suspect the latter.
Finnick's voice rises from a bundle in the shadows. "Then you should ask, Peeta. That's what Annie does."
"Ask who?" Peeta says. "Who can I trust?"
"Well, us for starters. We're your squad," says Jackson.
"You're my guards," he points out.
"That, too," she says. "But you saved a lot of lives in Thirteen. It's not the kind of thing we forget.
In the quiet that follows, I try to imagine not being able to tell illusion from reality. Not knowing if Prim or my mother loved me. If Snow was my enemy. If the person across the heater saved or sacrificed me...I suddenly want to tell Peeta everything about who he is, and who I am, and how we ended up here. But I don't know how to start. Worthless. I'm worthless.
At a few minutes before four, Peeta turns to me again. "Your favorite color . . . it's green?"
"That's right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange."Thank you, Suzanne Collins.
"Orange?" He seems unconvinced.
"Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset," I say. "At least, that's what you told me once."
"Oh." He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "Thank you." (270-271)