“The pieces of the picture do not quite come together until I see his arm raise the whip.
“No!” I cry, and spring forward. It’s too late to stop the arm from descending, and I instinctively know I won’t have the power to block it. Instead I throw myself directly between the whip and Gale.”
Am I unwittingly the face of the hoped-for rebellion?
Has the mockingjay on my pin become a symbol of resistance?