Oh no, I Think. Not Him. Because I recognize this name, although I have never spoken to his owner. Peeta Mellark.

I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage. Medium, height, stocky build, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his blue eyes show the alarm. I’ve seen so often in prey.

Why him? I think. Then I try to convince myself it doesn’t matter. Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. Not even neighbours. We don’t speak. Our only real interaction happened years ago. He’s probably forgotten it. But I haven’t and I know I never will …