But Peeta’s voice stops me. “We better take it slow on that stew. Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn’t even starving then.”“You’re right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!” I say regretfully. But I don’t. We are quite sensible. We each have a roll, half an apple, and an egg-size serving of stew and rice. I make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls—they even sent us silverware and plates—savoring each bite. When we finish, I stare longingly at the dish. “I want more.”“Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another serving,” Peeta says.“Agreed,” I say. “It’s going to be a long hour.”“Maybe not that long,” says Peeta. “What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me…no competition…best thing that ever happened to you…”“I don’t remember that last part,” I say, hoping it’s too dim in here for the cameras to pick up my blush.“Oh, that’s right.
