Peeta Alternate Ending

"If Peeta and I were both to die, or they thought we were...
My fingers fumble with the pouch on my belt, freeing it. Peeta sees it and his hand clamps on my wrist. 'No, I won't let you.'
'Trust me.' I whisper. He holds my gaze for a long moment and then lets me go. I loosen the top of the pouch and pour a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm. Then I fill my own. 'On the count of three,' he says.
We stand, our backs pressed together, our empty hands locked tight.
'Hold them out. I want everyone to see,' he says.
I spread out my fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun. I give Peeta's hand one last squeeze as a signal, as a good-bye, and we begin counting. 'One.' Maybe I'm wrong. 'Two.' Maybe they don't care if we both die."

There it was. I heard the soft, barely audible squeak of the third to stop stair. I freeze, every muscle tense, silently going into panic mode. Red lights flashed in my mind, as I slowly clicked off my flashlight. I was completely soaked, as the air conditioning had quit working. This normally wouldn't bother me, but it was July and I was smothering in my warm quilt, my plush blanket, and my flannel sheets. I was red faced and breathing hard, but it was made worthwhile with the promise of finishing the Hunger Games that night. Without these, the bright light of my reading light would be seen from the hall. I could've shut my door, but then I wouldn't here my Mom, creeping up to check on