I have found the whistler, a wizened old man in a faded red shirt and overalls. His eyes meet mine. What happens next is not an accident. It is too well executed to be spontaneous, because it happens in complete unison. Every person in the crowd presses the three middle fingers of their left hand against their lips and extends them to me. It’s our sign from District 12, the last good-bye I gave Rue in the arena.
Wizards raising their wands when Dumbledore dies, the people of District 11 raising their three middle fingers when Rue dies. Farewell. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.