"Peeta." my voice has been unused for so long that it barely scrapes a whisper and forces me to try again. "Peeta, it's me." I'm torn between running and clinging to him as if my life depended on it until my arm brushes his and connects with something solid and warm. This is the old Peeta, before the Capitol got to him. The Peeta who doesn't see me for who I really am, who still believes that I'm wonderful. I'm not sure what to say anymore.

I take deep breaths to stop the tremors, but it hardly helps. "What do you remember?"