Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow pointed straight at his heart. Peeta raises his eyebrows and I see the knife has already left his hand on its way to the lake where it splashes in the water. I drop my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame.
“No,” he says. “Do it.” Peeta limps toward me and thrusts the weapons back in my hands.
“I can’t,” I say. “I won’t.”
“Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don’t want to die like Cato,” he says.