Peeta’s just pried open an oyster when I hear him give a laugh. “Hey, look at this!” He holds up a glistening, perfect pearl about the size of a pea. Peeta rinses the pearl off in the water and hands it to me. “For you.” I hold it out on my palm and examine its iridescent surface in the sunlight. Yes, I will keep it. For the few remaining hours of my life I will keep it close. This last gift from Peeta. The only one I can really accept. Perhaps it will give me strength in the final moments. “Thanks,” I say, closing my fist around it.
Sometimes I’m confused by Canadian stereotypes but then I realize that we literally dump maple syrup onto the snow, wait for it to get gooey and then scoop it up with a stick and eat it
you better not be fucking with me canada is this for real
it is all too real
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