“No one really needs me,” he says, and there’s no self pity in his voice. It’s true his family doesn’t need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me.

But there are much worse games to play.

‘Not all of it’, I say, holding onto my flowers. ‘Then, how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what’s going to be left when we get home?’ he says. ‘I don’t know. The closer we get to district twelve, the more confused I get’ I say. He waits, for further explanation, but none’s forthcoming. 
‘Well, let me know when you work it out.’ he says, and the pain in his voice is palpable.