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His ghosts are never quiet. Hardly settled, hardly loud, but never quiet. Sharp hisses of words in his ears, murmured mumbles that catch with the wind, screaming that pierces his ears in the dead of night. Haymitch’s ghosts seem to be intent on reminding him that they’re dead and he’s not, and no amount of sleep syrup rids him of them. If anything, the terrible hallucinations and games of real-or-not-real only make them more tempted to show up in his peripherals. They get louder with each day that passes, though Haymitch hardly has kept track. The days all blur into one big, long stretch of time. Hardly matters these days.
His ghosts never compete for the space they hold with him. All of them dance around his vision, dipping in and out of his sightline, their hands gently wrapping around his throat before they tighten. Maysilee shows up the most—she’s the loudest, the angriest. She’s stark raving mad, and the first time she appeared in the corner of his eye, she had been screaming at him. Silently—the blood pouring out of her throat has removed her ability to make noise, though she still manages to speak to him inside of his head.
Maysilee slaps him, drags him around his room until he’s standing. She demands answers from him, answers he doesn’t have to give. Haymitch tells her the same thing each time she shows up in front of him, snarling and snapping—he doesn’t know what she wants. He lived, he survived. He’s the Victor of the second Quarter Quell. What more does she expect? Is he meant to go on as if nothing happened? Haymitch screams at her back, and while he’s the only one between the two of them that can speak, Maysilee somehow always wins their arguments.
Her hand always feels real against his face. No matter if she’s slapping him, digging her nails into the side of his throat, or resting her palms against his cheeks in a rare display of sorrow and affection. She’s fierce, Haymitch’ll give her that. Seems that even death can hardly stop her from getting herself across. She’s got demands for him—plenty of them—and she’s got no fear in letting him know.
Louella and Lou Lou show up the second most often. The two of them are hardly apart, though rarely they show up on their own. They’re equally hardly together; Louella stands closer to him, while Lou Lou is always off in the distance, head cocked curiously, hand clamped over her bad ear as she listens to whatever it is he has to say. Never much of anything—Haymitch rarely speaks, and if he does, he’s screaming back at his sister who won’t stop yelling at him. Louella seems to have no need for physical vengeance. She’s hardly kind, but she’s more collected. She likes to wander around him, squinting at him all expectantly.
“Hay, you’ve gotten worse,” Louella will say to him. “You’ve gotta stop drinkin’, Hay. You’ve gotta.”
“I know,” Haymitch always says back, the words spilling from his mouth like acid. “I know, sweetheart.”
How many false promises has he made that he never intended on keeping? He abandoned the Newcomers after swearing to protect them. All of his doves were slaughtered, and he sat back and went off on his own like a jackass. Hadn’t even been worthwhile—he achieved nothing. Blowing up the water tank meant nothing. His stunt with the forcefield was barely impressive, nothing worth its salt. Got his whole family and girl slaughtered, all his fault. Each and every Newcomer died terrified, all his fault. Wellie begged him not to leave, all his fault. He’s a liar, it’s all he does these days. False platitudes and broken promises fall from his mouth like nothing else ever has. He assures his ghosts—mainly Louella and Lou Lou—that it’ll be okay, whatever it is. He’ll get better, he’s said. He’ll figure something out. He’ll make sure the Reaping never gets an ounce of sunlight ever again. He’ll make sure to kill the sun before twenty-four more children die.
Lou Lou is silent. She hisses at him sometimes, but she doesn’t say much of anything. Somehow, her ghost has seemed to recognise the fact that the pump against her chest has been ripped free, so she doesn’t shriek and wail anymore. There’s no terrible high-pitched ringing that drones out whenever he says something a little too suspect. Lou Lou repeats nothing he says, anyways. Still, she covers her bad ear like a bad habit, and is careful to listen in, her head tilting as she picks up all the words. Haymitch knows that ghost of his understands him just fine—he catches her with amused looks sometimes, her brows knit tightly together. Whoever she was, her personality had been close to Louella’s. She’s a bit of a spitfire in her own right.
Wyatt speaks the most, his voice murmured gently into Haymitch’s ear. His oddsmaker ghost is always chattering, though his words are rarely audible. He mutters and rambles about things, giving him odds on whatever he’d care to discuss. Haymitch asks him about the odds of him surviving a bullet to the roof of his mouth—Wyatt, quietly amused, murmurs out, “I’d say likely enough.”
Silka visits him in the dark, particularly when he wakes up drunk and half-naked in the woods, covered in bites and blood. She sits perched against a tree, twirling a wrapper between her fingers, blood pooling from her empty eye socket. She speaks more than most, though she never is keen to start a real conversation. Mostly just sharp jabs and obvious pointers.
“You’re naked and disgusting.”
“Yeah.”
The wrapper’ll crinkle, a mirthless laugh drawn from her lips. “I want you to die.”
“Get it over with, then.”
Silka will peer up at him, her lone eye catching in the light. “I tried.”
Then a canon will ring out, and all that remains is a spatter of blood against the tree, bloodstains dragged across the grass. Haymitch has followed them every time, and they never lead to anything. They cut off suddenly, as if Silka decided to get up and walk away on her own, returning somewhere to District 1, where she’s some sort of hero. Maybe she steps over the barrier between Heaven and Hell. Finds her way through the fiery depths just to sit in front of him and remind him of his crimes. As much as he hates her, Haymitch can’t help but picture her in Heaven. Sat on a pristine throne of gold, his crown tilted down over her head. Missing an eye with an axe neatly settled in her hand, grinning ear to ear.
Panache tries to kill him when Haymitch is in his kitchen. Panache never tries to follow him into his room. He’s brutal and violent when he gets to be, screaming and howling insults, clawing at his throat, desperate to rip out an invisible dart settled right against the pulse point of his neck. Panache says nothing at all, just inhumane howls, guttural cries of rage and agony. Haymitch sees him the least. He can't help but be grateful for that; Panache is one of his least favourite visitors, though Silka is a very close second. Sometimes he thinks she might be in the leading spot. She was worse than Panache.
Wellie, Ampert, Chicory, Ringina, and every last one of his doves show up whenever he leaves the mansion. Haymitch has woken up a dozen times with one of them standing above him, sat tenderly beside him. Wellie always refuses to leave until he goes inside, forcing him to abandon her out in the grass. Ringina laughs at him half the time, her sharp grin following him whenever he goes. She’s cocky, her eyes constantly sparkling with amusement. She’s the most good-natured of his ghosts, intent on just making sure he doesn’t forget her.
Ampert prattles on, twelve and beyond intelligent. Haymitch listens intently, though the words never make sense and start to blur at the ends of the boy’s sentences. Ampert still will talk until he suddenly disappears from existence—not even his bones marking his absence this time. Chicory is mainly silent, though she’s friendly enough. She sits next to him and holds his hand. Haymitch has cried the most in her presence; Chicory offers no sort of attempt to wipe away his tears, but she runs her thumb over his knuckle ‘til his body isn’t nearly as racked with his sobbing.
And Lenore Dove...
She’s hardly ever around. Her ghost is settled deep within the woods, flickering in and out of his sight. Lenore Dove stays perfectly in the edge of his vision, never allowing him to look at her full-on. He feels feather-light touches against his face and his hands, lips pressed to his cheek, arms tenderly looped around his shoulders, draped over his chest. Her voice sings softly into his ear, but the words are never discernible. She dances effortlessly around him, ghosting her fingers under his jaw, disappearing from view each time he tries to look at her.
Haymitch is never able to stop himself from shaking when her ghost settles carefully in the corners she so loves to stick to. He’s learnt to close his eyes, and from his lips spill terrible, desperate prayers:
“Lenore Dove, please. Please, please, please. Please, Lenore Dove. I can’t.”
Gentle touches follow, fingers trail along his jaw, cupping his cheek. He’ll squeeze his eyes shut and shake, dipping his head until she forces it back up.
“Why won’t you let me see you?”
Hands will carefully settle on either side of his face, pulses of warmth up against his cheeks.
“Please, Lenore Dove. I love you.”
She’ll press her thumb up against his lips, and he’ll taste blood. She always cups the back of his head and settles up against him, arms delicately wrapped around his shoulders. Haymitch always grasps onto nothing at all and sobs into the crook of the neck of a dead girl who refuses to allow him to lay eyes on her ever again. She’ll murmur something into his ears that sounds a whole lot like an apology, like she’s trying to tell him that she’s trying. Seems like fate’s never been very kind to them, why start after their death?
Sometimes Haymitch is lucky enough to catch a glimpse of her out in the town. He avoids Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber, who avoid him back. They sometimes meet at the Covey graveyard, where they wordlessly tolerate each other. Lenore Dove whistles from up in a tree, kicking her legs from a branch hardly above the ground. Her face is masked by leaves and foliage, and it’s the closest that Haymitch is allowed to see her.
His ghosts are never quiet, never still. They haunt him with each step he takes.
Haymitch downs a bottle of sleeping syrup, and laughs until he passes out when he sees Maysilee at his door.
Right on time, Miss Donner.
Get up.
Get up.
Get the fuck up, Haymitch!
Haymitch winces at the shouting in his head, blinking at the sight of Maysilee sitting at the edge of his bed. Her face is twisted into an awfully mean scowl, anger burning brightly in her eyes as she stares at him. Haymitch holds up a finger, and twists to the side, throwing up into the bucket he's strategically started placing to the left of him.
He props himself up after that, his head pounding with the movement. Bursts of pain flicker through his body, the worst of it exploding behind his eyes. Haymitch clutches his head in his hands, trembling for a few seconds. He eventually lets out a sharp, harsh gasp, coldness seeping through his body, starting at his throat. He’s hardly surprised when he feels fingers around his neck, squeezing until he forces himself to open his eyes.
He swats away Maysilee’s hands, scowling back at her. “Can you fucking quit?” Haymitch demands, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. Maysilee lets out a silent scoff, her eyes narrowing sharply. She stands, stomping around his room as she furiously gestures all around. Points to the empty and broken bottles, points to the full ones, slams her fist off to the side, knocking down a decorative statue that had been in here when he first moved. Haymitch stares at the broken bits of stone, wondering how it looks so real.
“Maysilee—”
Maysilee gives him a terribly angry look, and Haymitch blinks at the sight of her crying. He opens his mouth, but not a single word comes out. He’s never seen her cry.
Haymitch is quiet, staring firmly down at his lap. There’s a bottle at the edge of his bed, and he hardly winces when he watches Maysilee pick it up, slamming it into the wall just behind his head. She missed on purpose—he saw her aim with her darts. Spot-on every time. She’s right to be angry, he knows she is. How is it that he survived? He’s a sorry excuse of a human being, let alone a Victor. Haymitch knows all too well that he’s meant to be doing something. Working towards the end of the Reaping, to killing the sun, to killing the Capitol and putting an axe between Snow’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Haymitch says, looking back up at Maysilee. He steels himself, trying to keep his face impassive. “I’m sorry.”
Maysilee scowls, but it only takes a moment for her face to soften. Her shoulders heave, and Haymitch watches as she twists her head to the side for a moment. Her lips don’t move, but he hears her voice sound off silently in his head—I guess I was right. You are the worst Victor in history.
Haymitch snorts, figuring he’s allowed to laugh at that. “Worse than you could’ve expected,” he says, which nets him a slight smile from Maysilee, her lips tugging up just a bit. “Still no backbone.”
Maysilee scoffs. Not even a little.
“Sorry,” Haymitch offers, wishing that the throbbing in his head was still there. These dreams—hallucinations, whatever they are—hardly allow him to escape. He’s tried drinking his way out of it, but he always wakes up with a full bottle and a half, set neatly out of his grasp. Haymitch hardly knows what’s real and what’s not, so hopped up and out of it. He’s sure that’s part of the reason Maysilee is angry at him; he’s screwed out of his mind, real life and this blurring together. His ghosts haunt him regardless of where he is—makes it hard to know what’s real and what’s not.
There’s silence—more than usual—after that. Maysilee stands at the end of his room, her shoulders drawn up tightly, almost level with her jaw. Haymitch sits upright in bed, listening to the near-silent drips of rotgut pouring down his walls. The sound of glass shattering still echoes through his mind. What’s there to say? They had plenty to talk about back when she was alive.
Maysilee eventually turns to look at him, her eyes rimmed red, though she isn’t crying anymore. She studies him, her eyes flickering back and forth, diligently scanning his face. Then, Haymitch watches as she sighs. Her shoulders deflate, and her eyes soften, though only barely. She carefully makes her way to his bed, looping over the right side. She sits there on the right edge, her hands placed precisely in her lap, folded perfectly over. Manners seem to die hard just like bad habits.
He watches her roll her eyes, her nose crinkling a little. Haymitch smiles at how she tries to smooth it down, forcing her face back into impassiveness. She doesn’t manage all that well—he can still see the anger and hurt lining her face, the brief flicker of amusement showing in the smile lines around her mouth. One corner of her lip curls ever so slightly before dropping back down.
Stop.
Haymitch laughs, dipping his head a little. “Sorry,” he says again. “Sorry, Miss Donner.”
You should be—Maysilee looks over to him, narrowing her eyes, brows knitting tightly together. She huffs out a sigh at him, puffing out her cheeks a little. Haymitch grins now, letting his head tilt to the side. He taps the side of his face, scrunching up his face at the flick to the cheek he gets. It’s less than a slap, which is almost all he ever gets with her.
“Sorry,” Haymitch says, for the third time. He scoots along his bed until he’s side-by-side with her, resting his hands in his own lap. “It really should’ve been you. You’d have hightailed it back to the Capitol.”
Maysilee silently hums her agreement, nodding along to his words. She sighs, looking ahead of him, off towards the window that he never opens. Light spills in, and Haymitch is sure she did that when he wasn’t paying attention. Quietly, and so slowly that Haymitch doesn’t even realise it’s happening ‘til it’s over, Maysilee rests her head against his shoulder. Her body saddles up against his own, and Haymitch doesn’t hesitate in resting his head atop hers.
He’s quiet for a while, allowing his eyes to shut as he takes in what might be the first sliver of comfort he’s been given in weeks. Weeks? Months, maybe. He supposes he doesn’t know. Haymitch no longer keeps track of the time. Everything passes by in a blur at the bottom of a bottle.
Four months.
“Ah,” Haymitch murmurs, not opening his eyes. He swears to God he feels Maysilee breathing right up against him. Swears that he can hear her chest rising and falling. “Seems a bit lacking.”
Says you.
Haymitch snorts, knocking his head as hard as he can against hers. “You’re dead. You don’t have room to talk.”
Maysilee scoffs, slamming her head back into his, harder than he hit her. It makes his head ache, and Haymitch rolls his eyes. “You really just can’t let anything go, huh?” Haymitch asks, rolling his eyes even harder when she pulls the same stunt. “Is this what it’s like having a sister? You haunt me for the rest of my life and bash your skull right into mine? Thrilling, Miss Donner. Truly.”
A hand is planted on his chest, shoving him away from her. Maysilee gives him a look of total disinterest, her face wholly unimpressed. Haymitch grins back at her, batting his eyelashes.
A dead sister, Maysilee helpfully reminds him.
Haymitch’s lips draw into a thin line as he nods, scrunching up his face. “Yeah. You really can’t let anything go.”
Maysilee shrugs. Haymitch watches as she stands up, placing herself in front of him. She studies him for a few seconds, and then reaches out, smoothing out some of the crinkles in his shirt. Her hands find the collar of it, adjusting that until it looks less terrible. Maysilee reaches out, cupping his cheek with her left hand, eyes flitting back and forth.
“You’re leaving,” Haymitch says, and Maysilee shrugs again, eyes darting away from him, looking down now. “Can’t you take me with?” Haymitch asks, though it’s hardly more than pleading. A horrible, deep sadness settles in his throat. “Please, Maysilee. Sis,” he tries, putting as much desperation into his voice as he can muster—it’s not particularly difficult. “Please. I can’t be here alone.”
Maysilee draws him in close to her, wrapping her arms around him. Haymitch swallows back tears, presses his head into her shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Please, Sis,” Haymitch begs, tightening his grasp around her. “Don’t go. Don’t go without me.”
When he opens his eyes, she’s gone.
Lenore Dove waits for him at her grave. Haymitch is careful to keep his eyes focused ahead of him as he walks, an awfully loud buzzing at the back of his skull, urging him to look to the left, just a little. Haymitch keeps walking, settling down in front of her grave. He digs his nails into the soil, rounding his shoulders as he collapses on top of it now.
He curls in on himself, closing his eyes, willing her touch to come.
It’s one of the few reliefs he’s somehow managed to cling onto. Haymitch breathes out as those feather-light touches trail up his jaw, fingers ghosting over his cheeks. He swears he feels the ground shift beside him. Haymitch squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can manage, focusing on the gentle touches that are so horribly familiar. Lenore Dove’s hands will never be forgotten in his mind. She starts up her song, the words all foreign and false on his ears. She’s never sung him a real song since she died, and he’s never been able to decipher the songs she does sing to him now. Haymitch doesn’t mind—her voice is the same. Soft as ever, carrying all too naturally, drifting out into the forest, likely to find the mockingjays.
Their silence is the only reminder of her absence.
Haymitch tries not to focus on that too much. He feels her fingers twine through his hair, brushing over his forehead, sweeping his too-long bangs out of his eyes. Her other hand settles on his side, dancing over the scar that’s permanently etched all of his crimes across his stomach. Her hand remains above his shirt, thankfully enough. Haymitch breathes quietly as he listens to the soft words, drifting all around him. They travel in the breeze, gently moving with the wind, echoing right out into the forest.
Haymitch scrunches up his face when a mockingjay sings. Not the tune that Lenore Dove is singing, but something different. A song he’s never heard before. He half-opens his eyes, forcing them to stay trained on the ground. Lenore Dove is right beside him, her legs curled up under her.
“Not looking,” Haymitch mutters, carefully drawing his gaze up and off to the side, trembling as he catches a glimpse of his girl out of the corner of his eye. He forces himself to stay on track, makes himself look out towards the forest. The mockingjay chatters and chirps, its song melting seamlessly in with Lenore Dove’s. “Is that you?” Haymitch asks, peering out at the branches, trying to make sense of why the bird has started up. “Lenore Dove?”
She’s right beside him—it can’t be her.
Without giving him a single answer, the mockingjay continues to sing on. The song is a pretty one, haunting, but pretty. Haymitch sits, moving to sit with his back turned to his lover. He shuts his eyes again, carefully leaning back. He swallows past a harsh lump in his throat when he feels Lenore Dove’s hands settling on either side of his head, guiding him down into her lap. Now he really can’t look—his head is tilted right up to hers. He opens his eyes, and she’ll be gone.
Haymitch keeps his eyes shut. He feels her hands thread through his hair, one hand resting against his cheek as she sings. Haymitch quietly tries to murmur the song along with her, though the words never come out right. He shuts up after a minute of attempting, opting to just listen, to feel. It's almost Heaven. Not perfect—can't be, not when she's not really there—but it's about as close as he's allowed to get.
He doubts he’s even out in the hidden graveyard belonging to the Covey. He’s sure he’s settled somewhere in the forest—Lenore Dove only appears fully like this when he’s out. So he managed to get outside, at the very least. Though the chances of him truly being out in the graveyard are slim.
“Heavily improbable,” Wyatt speaks up, and Haymitch snorts. He resists cracking an eye open as the boy’s voice settles in his head. “You’re in the forest—absolutely. But the graveyard?” Wyatt hums, drifting off for a moment. “Ten percent chance.”
“Thanks,” Haymitch says, rolling his closed eyes. “Can you go?”
Silence.
Haymitch almost feels ashamed. “Sorry,” he mutters quietly after a second, swallowing.
Wyatt’s presence is gone, but Lenore Dove still remains. He’ll have to make it up to his oddsmaker some other time. Wyatt is fond of joining him in the Hob, and Haymitch rarely ventures out that far. He’ll go sometime later. Haymitch forces himself to make a promise over it—he’ll go tomorrow. He won’t drink tonight, and he’ll make sure to be there in the morning.
Haymitch blindly reaches his hand out, patting the grass around him. He smiles when he feels a pinky solidly interlock with his own. Seems like he’s being held to it.
Minutes go by, Lenore Dove’s fingers threading through his hair, her gentle voice soothing the terrible demons in his head. Haymitch hears Silka taunting him, but ignoring her for three minutes makes her go away. He makes no promises to her; he’s never been exactly fond of her. She’s one of his few ghosts that he tries to dispel as much as he’s able to.
Haymitch eventually feels the soft press of lips against his forehead, sending a shudder all throughout his body. Without meaning to do it, he opens his eyes, a trembling breath being forced into his lungs when the hands on his face recede immediately. He hadn’t even managed to catch a glimpse of her.
Haymitch doesn’t bother to sit up or move to go back home. He lays there in the dirt, staring up at the sky, though the foliage is so thick that he can barely see more than slits of blue. Still, Haymitch remains still, waiting for something, for nothing at all. He folds his hands over his chest, neatly tucked up just below his collarbones. He’s positioned like a dead body himself, which seems fitting—that’s all he is, really. Snow killed him—what was it Maysilee had said?—four months prior. His body is empty and rotting.
Haymitch doesn’t wince when it starts to rain, the first droplet landing heavily on his nose. It’s almost reminiscent of catching rainwater in the makeshift funnel Maysilee had improved upon. His starting work, her finishing touches. She always had a keener eye for detail than him.
As if being summoned at the mere mention of her name, Maysilee stands above him. Unimpressed, one eyebrow raised up. Her hand is thrust out, hovering right over his chest.
“No,” Haymitch says, staring up past her. “No. I’m not going.”
He chokes on the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, swatting away Maysilee’s hands from his throat. She grabs him by the collar of his shirt, slamming him down into the earth. The smell of sardines drifts into the back of his head—the only time he saw her horribly angry with him when she was alive.
I’ll leave, Maysilee threatens, her voice shaking. I’ll leave, and you’ll never see me again.
Haymitch wordlessly sticks up his hand. Maysilee’s own hand wraps around his, fingers interlocking as she tugs him unsteadily onto his feet. Haymitch wobbles as he stands, reaching out for some kind of support. Maysilee rests her hands on his shoulders, steadying him well enough. The meanest girl in town, he was right. Somehow she’s managed to be even worse than that.
“You’re the worst sister ever,” Haymitch spits, cold anger drawing on him. Maysilee starts walking, looking over her shoulder, waiting for him to follow. “Did you hear me?” Haymitch snarls now, his voice pitching up. “You’re the worst sister ever!” Haymitch screams, clenching his hands into fists.
Maysilee stares at him, her face unwavering, unreadable. Haymitch picks up a rock, the weight of it painfully familiar in his hands. He surges as he throws it at her, his heart immediately stuttering in his chest when it goes right through her.
Maysilee takes three steps back towards him, locking their hands together. She wordlessly starts to tug him back through the forest.
Haymitch chokes on his own tears, shuddering with each terrible sob that runs through him. He grips tightly onto her hand, allowing her to move him. “I’m sorry,” Haymitch breathes out, the words burning his tongue as he speaks them. “I’m sorry.”
Maysilee pauses her walking, looking back over at him. Her head tilts to the side a bit, her face softening.
I know. You’re the worst brother ever, too.
Haymitch snorts, a harsh gasp ripping out of his throat. “Yeah, I am. You mean it. That’s real.”
Maysilee shrugs, runs her thumb over his knuckles. So’s what you said. We’re the worst Victors ever. The worst siblings ever.
“Guess so,” Haymitch says, swallowing back his tears. He allows her to keep trudging him along through the forest, not offering up anymore protests.
When they’re at the edge of the treeline that turns into the meadow, Maysilee stops walking, settling beside him. She tilts her head, jutting her thumb out towards where the Seam is, just over the hill a bit. Haymitch sighs, dipping his head, staring at the grass under his feet. It’s all dead, hardly alive. Four months have gone by—has to be November. It’s been getting colder out. No snow yet, but he’s certain that it’ll start up soon.
“We going our separate ways, Miss Donner?” Haymitch asks, keeping his voice light. Remnants of Lenore Dove’s gentle kisses remain in his head, buzzing along his skin.
Maysilee snorts, patting the side of his face far harder than she needs to. Don’t worry too much about it. I’m already dead.
Haymitch rolls his eyes, taking the first step into the meadow. “Yeah, I guess so, huh? Not a lot of bubblegum-coloured birds here.”
Maysilee dips her head, smiling a little. Astute observation. You’re usually misinformed.
“Well,” Haymitch offers, stalking further into the meadow. He’s confident Maysilee will be in his mansion when he gets there. He raises his hands, twisting his head back over his shoulder, looking to where she still stands—arms crossed against her chest, one eyebrow arched up. “The Arena was different. How could I have predicted a porcupine-bear?”
Hm, Maysilee hums, her eyes narrowing almost playfully. Get away from me, Mr. Abernathy.
Haymitch laughs, dipping his head as he turns back around on his heels. He spares one last look over his shoulder, finding that Maysilee is gone. Feather-light fingertips still buzz against his jaw, and his promise to Wyatt weighs heavily on him. Thirty-one ghosts travel alongside him, silently right with him.
Haymitch keeps walking through the meadow, slipping easily back into the Seam. If he’s actually come from the Covey graveyard is yet to be determined in his head, but he knows he’s real when he catches the sharp eye of Burdock, who quickly looks away from him.
Haymitch bears it. It’s what he wanted.
Even with Burdock’s rejection, Haymitch stays mostly unshaken.
He knows that when he goes back to his mansion, his sister will be waiting for him. Angry, he’s sure. Over what, he’s yet to find out.
But he knows she’ll be there. All of his ghosts will be.