Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The silence of the night dissolves with the scrape of wooden boxes on the train station platform. The Peacekeepers don't care if the station burns down. District Twelve is a chore to them. If the station caught fire, maybe they’d take it as a reason to stop coming. It’d be better for all of us that way.

The station is one of the oldest structures in Twelve. The Capitol needed it, so it was one of the first things they put up. That’s what Sid told me. He’d know. He soaks everything right up. Sid. Ma. They’re here. Just a walk away. 

Thinking about Sid or Ma in the arena was the signature on the death certificate they make you sign after a mine accident. I knew letting myself remember them would crush whatever chance I had at surviving. The least I could do was give Sid a death with dignity. 

Instead, the Capitol’s turned me into a jackass. The crowd, still cheering at the sight of my angry scar, roars in my ears. Haymitch, the smartass who turned on his allies and used the force field because he couldn’t win the right way. My hands shake down near my pockets. I still feel the weight of the shirt hem on my fingertips. I clench my fists and snub it out. No good comes from thinking about the audience or what they think of me. I didn't care before and I won't care now. Sid’s here. Ma’s here. And my girl. Lenore Dove, my heart and my soul. Maybe they didn’t air the recap at home. Maybe I’ve still got a shot at being Haymitch, and not the jackass that left the others to die. 

There’s another sharp scrape, and pain needles through my scar. I scuff my shoe jumping out of the way of the final coffin. The drugs they had me on make everything fuzzy, but I don’t think the Peacekeeper even tried to warn me. I glare at him anyway, though the dark shadow hides his eyes, just as it did for the Capitol crowd. He turns away first.

His tarnished uniform, yellowed beneath the dim, flickering lantern dangling overhead, cuts through the thick, ashen haze. Pitch black coal dust swarms my vision and settles as a lump in my throat. Only when I realize I can’t draw a breath into my closed throat do I hear her voice, clear as a canary, “What the hell, Haymitch! Where were you?” 

Another scrape happens, farther off this time. The Peacekeeper’s gone, swallowed by the clouds of dust. I whip around toward the voice, trying to find her. She’s here. She must be.

“You’re supposed to be my ally!”

“Maysilee?” My knees buckle, and I collapse quickly onto the nearest wooden box. The ground spins beneath me as I try to catch my breath. In. Out. Again. But nothing comes in. The air is no good. This is it. I made it back to the station just to die right here. They got their Victor just long enough for a crowning ceremony. Maybe now there will be no Victor left after all. 

My lungs beg for air. I clamp my hands over my ears. Eventually, when I manage to get a breath into my searing diaphragm, I lift my head. My vision’s dull, but I can just barely make out the shapes until they come back clearly. The scrape must have been the wheels of the train departing on the track. When I turn to look again, the Peacekeeper’s gone, and so is the train. And her. No, she was never here to begin with. Despite the voice being here, clear as ever, she wasn’t. She was never here. Only her bones. 

I rise up from the splintered coffin I’d landed on. They all look the same. Year after year. Same wood. Same metal plates, only different inscriptions. I should be glad it’s not my box, but I’m not. My eyes won’t focus anymore through my blooming headache, but my fingers catch on the cool metal of a plate, and my curiosity gets the better of me. One of the screws is already loose from the ride here, or maybe they just never thought to screw it in all of the way. I twist it between my fingers. Coal dust already clings to the letters, so I use my wrinkled sleeve to wipe away what I can, and I gather what is left of my strength to read the two-word epitaph. 

Louella McCoy. 

The smallest of all of us. 

I straighten, and the deep breath that follows brings a staunch reminder of just how dead and gone they all are. I can’t put the coal dust back. I can’t put any of this back. They’re gone, and I can’t do anything. I’ve got no power left. I never had power in the first place. I can’t change this. I can’t change anything. Everything was decided for me. Every decision, every life taken, everything I did in the arena. I never had a choice. Never had any power. I can't put them back. All I can do is keep going.

My breathing stops again. The coal dust scrapes my sinuses raw and tears brim in my eyes. I can’t fix them, but someone else can take them from here onward. I can’t bear it any longer. I turn and head off of the platform. I should stay and wait, but lingering would do nothing but make me feel worse. I won’t let the coffins rewrite my memories of them. They deserved more than those Capitol-issued boxes. 

The walk back into town blisters my feet and cakes my shined shoes in a fresh layer of dirt, tarnishing the polish and highlighting the new scuff. I don’t lift my eyes from the road. When my shoes become more of a dusty gray than the shiny black, it makes me wonder if Capitol folks have ever walked a road like this. The kind that kicks up into your lungs when a truck passes. I doubt it. Dust doesn’t belong next to candy-colored buildings, but it looks right next to my Lenore Dove’s rainbow dresses. And suddenly, like always, I can’t stop thinking about her. 

I never thought I’d see her again. Her voice had been so sure, so final on the call we shared in the study. She thought it was the end, or the end in this world as she had put it, and I hadn’t tried hard to convince her otherwise. I couldn’t bring myself to ruin our goodbyes with a hope I knew couldn’t change anything. I didn’t have the heart for it. What would telling her I’ll make it out alive do? It would’ve been a lie at that point. I didn’t want my last words to her to be a lie, even if it ended up being true. 

I was supposed to die. Snow made that clear. I tried. He kept me alive after. I settled my debt by behaving after the Games. I took everything they threw at me. So now, I’m home. I’m home because she’s here and I know now just as I did then, wherever Lenore Dove is, that’s my home. 

Thoughts of her keep me occupied for the rest of the way. The road is quiet this morning, but it’s quiet most days. Only Capitol workers and Peacekeepers use it. I guess I’m not important enough for a car. Too much of a jackass for that, too, I bet. Not that I want one. I’ve had enough of cars for a lifetime. 

By the time I reach the edge of town, the coal dust is thick as honey. Among the teeming lake of overalled miners on their way down to work into the depths of the earth, I spot him. Wyatt Callow. I stumble over to the nearest fence post, and I grip it tight just as my vision tunnels again. I squeeze my eyes shut and pound my fist into my chest. Breathe, dammit. It’s not Wyatt. Wyatt’s gone. 

But he looked just like him. Same hair, same clothes. It couldn’t have been him. 

Footsteps close in on me from behind. I swing without thinking. Whatever I hit cries out, and guilt pierces through me like a thousand quills. I sink to the dirt, fingers digging into the dust. It’s not grass. It’s not the arena. It’s just home.

“Haymitch!”

“Wyatt?” My hands fly over my ears. I’m wrong. It’s not him, just as it wasn’t Maysilee.

“Haymitch, look up.” 

Their voice wheezes with each word. I must’ve hit them hard. I open my eyes. The sunlight fractures through the fog, and the dust still rests heavy in my vision. It’s less of a tunnel and more just blotches, so I rub them clear and squint to focus them.

“Burdie!” I scramble to my feet. Pain rocks through me. He hesitates, but I don't. I pull him into a hug.

“You already knocked the wind out of me, now you’re stealing it again?” he laughs, his arms closing around me just as tightly.

“Shouldn’t have gotten so close,” I mutter. A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. He’s the first to let go. 

“I’ve still got one foot in the arena,” I explain, brushing the dirt off my pants.

“Blair said he thought he heard a train this morning. Went out to check, but it was gone. He’s rounding up folks now to bring everyone back.” Burdock plucks a yellow weed from my shirt.

I brush him off. He tries again, pinching the shirt seam. I swat his hand and sock him in the shoulder. 

“I was gonna stay with them but—” My throat closes, and Burdock cuts me off with a small shake of his head.

“It’s all right. Come on. Let’s get you home.” He rubs his sternum, trying to coax some air back in. “Your brother’s been missing you. Otho said your Ma told his Pa that Sid’s been sleeping in your bed since you left. She did some of the Mellarks’s laundry last week.” He starts off without me like he’s got somewhere to be. I do too. I most certainly do.

The walk to the Seam is a rainstorm to the drought in my bones. When the square gives way to the sun-soaked pines, I feel I can finally breathe again. Real air, fresh air, the kind that fills your lungs once with bounty and stuffs your pockets with seconds to take with you. I catch Burdock’s sideways glance, but he spares me from whatever question pecks at him. I feel alive for the first time since the morning of the reaping. Blair and Burdock are alive. My girl’s alive. My family’s alive. I’m alive. Finally, no more proving. No more conditions. Just breath in my lungs and blood in my veins. I am enjoying my homecoming, Snow. 

Everything I did worked. I left the Games behind. Every scrap in the cage, all those feigned laughs and long nights of shaking hands, it all worked. I’m back on good terms. I’m free again. They can’t take anything from me. Not now. I’m home safe. 

By the time we reach the Seam, the miners have thinned to a trickle. It must be near seven, so anyone left this far out is late. The mine authorities don't take kindly to late comers and stragglers. 

“How about Lenore Dove?” I ask when there are fewer ears around to hear the answer. 

“You’ll see her. But Sid first. Poor kid kept asking for news every time I brought game to your Ma,” he says, even-toned.

I look at him sideways. “Did she get out?” 

The thought of the sunlight in her hair makes my heart thud. She doesn’t belong in a cage. Somewhere between the start and end of my question, the fresh air disappears. I rip my jacket off and gather it in my arms as heat trickles down my neck with sweat.

“She’s free,” he says, hoisting his game bag off his shoulder and rummaging through it. Whatever he finds, he stows it again and latches the bag shut.

I exhale. My girl, free with the sun on her skin just as she should be. Everything’s right in the world.

“Good. She called me in the Capitol, you know.” 

That stops him. “How?” His gray eyes harden. The shadows from the waving pine trees carve deep lines of age into his face like he’s lived as long as Hattie has. 

My chest tightens like the pump when the cistern is getting a little too full. “Are you saying she didn’t?” I ask sharply. “She did. I know my girl’s voice.” My hand flies to my flint striker. I yank it free.

“I’m not saying anything. I’m just asking. Clerk Carmine knows they’ve got phones in there. I’m not calling you a liar.” He lowers his tone and looks away. 

“You are!” I shout, eyes still locked on him. “Why don’t you just believe me? I’m not a jackass!” Neighbors glace out from between their shutters, then pull them shut when I look back. I dig dirt-crusted nails into my palms. “Shit, Burdie. I miss her.” 

Burdock doesn’t move. His gaze holds mine. Under the shadows, I catch an unmistakable drop of sympathy.

“Let’s get you home, Haymitch,” he says gently. “We need to get you home.” 

Something in his voice tells me he knows more than he’s letting on. His pity sinks into my mind like venom from a snakebite. He doesn’t believe that’s all. He knows there’s more than just me missing Lenore Dove. Maybe there is, but I’m home. As long as it doesn’t follow me here, I will manage just fine without his pity.

Chapter Text

His guarded tone plagues me the rest of the dry walk, and the way he keeps a few paces ahead, like I’m a dog on a leash set to follow him wherever, is a bur caught in my shoe. I’m too heated to calm down, and every time I try, my outburst echoes in the hallows of my mind, reigniting my fury. I’m not a jackass! 

Except, Burdie never called me a jackass. I called myself a jackass.

Still, he must know I am one. He must have seen the final reel. I bet they all did. I bet they all know. I want to ask if he watched it, but whatever words I can come up with catch in my throat, just like they did in the arena. There is no point in asking. Everything I’ll ever be is a reflection of what happened in the arena. I'll never escape it. Hell, I was the one yelling anyway, and anyone that close to anger, as Lenore Dove would say, is already closer to the heat below than the world above. 

I decide I am a jackass after all. It’s easier that way.

The snap of a bobbing clothing line that jolts me from my endless spiral. I lunge toward the porch, catching my toe on a stuck-up nail. My scuffed shoe rips right at the thread, and I crash through the swung-open door. 

I catch only a glimpse of Ma, perched at the cistern, before she screams. Her bucket clatters to the ground and before it stops, she rushes to my side. I scramble to my feet, flinging myself into her strong arms. 

“Ma!” I sob. 

She’s here. She’s real. She's alive. Her arms clamp around me like a vice. She could crush me and I wouldn’t care. I'm home. I'm really home. Unlike Burdie, I don’t ask for air. I don’t wriggle free like I used to at Sid’s age. I just hold her back just as tightly. We don’t let go until the creak of my bedroom door pulls us apart.

“Ma? Why’d you scream?” Sid’s voice calls out from behind. 

Ma lets me go, and if I wasn’t a goner in her arms, I become one at the sight of my brother. 

Standing in the small hallway, trembling like a loose railroad tie, is a boy with that same defiant expression who I left a lifetime ago. A heartbeat later, he bowls me right over. I crash to the floor and wrap my arms around him. He’s never getting away from me again. 

“Oh, Sid. My rooster,” I choke, tears slipping freely down my face. Pa would’ve blamed it on the coal dust, but I don’t bother hiding them. My tears soak into his hair, and his soak into my shirt.

“Look at you. Man of the house after all.” I pull him into my lap, both of us sitting on the worn floor. “You took care of Ma just fine. I told you you would.” 

He nods fiercely, his nightshirt, bunched at the collar, twists around his neck. I fix it gently.

“I did. I was brave. Twice as smart and twice as brave. I remember, Haymitch.” 

I force down the lump in my throat, my arms still wound around his shoulders.

“When I heard Ma yell, I thought she was in trouble,” he explains. 

I run my hand over his curls and squeeze him tighter. “And you came out here to help her.”

“Uh-huh. Just like when you ran back for Maysilee.” He smiles triumphantly. 

His words hit me all at once and twice as hard as Panache’s punch. Viewing the games is mandatory. I knew he’d have to watch, but how can they force someone to pay attention? Surely he was at school for some of it. Didn’t they let him get air when he needed to? Did Ma try to shield him? Maybe it was bedtime here when it happened. Time’s weird out west. 

No. Sid always knows. Attention’s his currency. He’s more curious than a bear around a honeycomb. So he knows. He saw. If he didn’t watch it himself, he asked around town for what he missed. He knows everything that happening to me.

My chest tightens. I reach for the flint striker, clenching it in my fist. My knuckles turn white around the bird. Deep breaths, just as the pamphlet said. 

When your parent dies in the mines, you get a month of grief, a pamphlet on coping mechanisms, and a ceremony with the mayor. I skimmed the pamphlet back then in case it had anything that could help Sid before I burned it. Aside from a few nauseatingly optimistic platitudes about new days and happy attitudes, the only part of substance was the section on breathing exercises. I never needed them until now. Now that I do, I’m not even sure if I’m doing it right. My lungs ache. I shouldn’t have burned it.

It must be too long before I speak, because Ma fills the silence instead.

“They gathered us all in the square to watch the film.” Her voice is flat and unreadable. It’s the same tone as Burdock used on the walk here. “We’ve never had a victor here. They wanted to make sure everyone saw.” 

The flint striker digs into my palm. I let it drop and raise my eyes to hers. 

“Ma, we have had a winner,” I say. The lump finally subsides, leaving only the raw feeling behind. “That girl. A long time ago.”

Her mouth tightens. Her eyes are distant and her expression looks like dust blown off a book from the Hob.

“Yes, you’re right,” she says. The words dwell in her hesitant tone a tad too long. “Strange, the mayor didn’t correct the Capitol man when he said you were the first. He said it with so much conviction, I guess it just slipped past everyone.” 

Burdock sits at the table and sets his game bag at his feet. “And now you’re the second.” 

I know there’s more behind those words. He's holding something back. Maybe Lenore Dove told him something about the first victor. Sometimes I think she trusts him with more than she trusts me. Then again, Maysilee knew her secret before I did, so maybe there’s more truth to my theory than I’d like. It stings worse than the butterflies. 

They’re cousins. They’ve known each other longer than I’ve known about the woods. They probably have a hundred secrets I’ll never hear. Even knowing that, it still stokes a fire within me. Why would she hold something from me that she was willing to tell someone else? Doesn’t she trust me too? Doesn't she trust me the way I trust her? I'll have to tell her when I see her. She might want to know I saw the rainbow dress girl. Maybe then she'll tell me those secrets she doesn't think I should know. I'll prove she can trust me. 

I don’t speak to him. I can’t bear it after my outburst. He knows too much and too little at once about how much I have been through. The thought that my girl told him anything I don’t know burns my anger hot. It’s unfair to both of us, but it lights me up anyway.

Truth is, I’m raving mad at everything. Not just Burdock, not even Panache. Not Silka or Maritte. I’m mad at the most powerful people in Panem. But they’re not here, Burdock is, and I’m angry. 

I shift Sid from my lap and stand, brushing the coal dust off of my borrowed clothes. My hands burn on the velvet. I yank them back. The soft fabric sets my throat right back to closing. 

I see Lou Lou and her snake. Panache across from Caesar. Ma’s arms catch me just as I start to go down.

“Haymitch!” she shouts urgently. “Sid, get the chair. Your brother needs to sit.” 

Warm arms wrap around me. A hazy Burdock offers his seat. That makes me angrier at myself for being angry at him.

“I’m fine, Ma,” I insist as she lowers me into the chair. Still, my eyes refuse to focus. “Just need to get out of these clothes.” I limp through my words and shut my eyes tight. My chin hits my chest.

“Sit. Sid will get you some clothes,” she says firmly. 

I grip the sides of the chair like it’s trying to throw me off. Behind me, drawers slam and bare feet scurry across the floor. Sid’s grown. I can feel it in the way his steps are more certain. I can tell from the way he leaps into action. A sharper pain shoots through me. This time not just from my scar.

I have to tell them. I have to tell someone.

“I saw her,” I murmur. “The victor girl. At least, I think it was her.” I swallow, speaking to the wind more than to the people in front of me. Sid returns with the clothes right as a gust of wind brushes a cloud of dust through the open window. My heart drops to my stomach. I shouldn't have told them. I can't take it back. I can't fix anything. Not now. I dart from my chair before anyone can ask any questions. Maybe not knowing anymore will make them forget I ever said anything. 

Burdock yells after me, but I don’t turn back. I shut the bedroom door, tear off the Capitol suit, and fling it as hard as I can under the bed. I want to burn it, but Ma might need the fabric to make something nice for someone, so I compromise by burying it instead. I never want to see it again.

I change into my flour sack shorts and collapse into my rumpled bedding. 

Sid’s ragged stuffed toy rabbit sits waiting for me on the pillow. Ma must have found it for him after I left. He always insisted he was too old for it, but Ma and I both knew he still missed it more than he would ever admit. I guess the Games were the drop that made the bucket spill over. 

I tangle his stuffed rabbit into the quilt with me and hold it close. Within seconds, the tears come back. I shove my face into my pillow, but the walls are thin, and I know they hear me when there is a soft knock at the door. 

I don’t call to tell Ma to come in, but I want her here with me. She must sense it, because she comes in alone. Her feet shuffle over the floor. The bed dips under her weight, but I don’t come up for air from under the quilt. 

“Ma,” I sob, “Ma, they changed so much.” 

I clutch the toy closer. She slowly peels back the quilt like she would when there were storms as a kid, and I would hide from the thunder until she and Pa came to save me. 

“Ma, I didn’t just leave Maysilee. Louella, and Wyatt, and—But I didn’t leave! I’m not, Ma, I’m not the person in that tape. That’s not me. They changed it all.” 

She doesn’t say anything. Her hand finds my hair, and I close my eyes.

“Ma, you have to believe me,” I plead.

“I do.” Her voice is soft and gentle, that same tone she’d use for nightmares. 

She leans down to draw me upright and into a hug. She always told me to never cry flat on your back. It starves your lungs of air and makes you cry longer than you would sitting up. I burrow into her arms, and the rabbit squishes between us. 

“You’re still Haymitch,” she whispers. “Still my son. You’ll always be my sweet son.”

“I couldn’t do anything.” The crashing waves of my sobs subside to a running nose and hiccups. “I wanted to scream on that stage. I wanted to tell everyone that it wasn't me. Ma, tell me you know that’s not me.”

“I know,” she says. “No one’s judging you for what you had to do. You didn’t have a choice. None of you did.”

“No, Ma, I didn’t do that at all! I didn’t do half of the stuff they showed.”

“Haymitch, deep breath.” She strokes my hair, but there’s a strained tension in her tone.

“I didn’t, Ma! You have to believe me. I didn’t, I’m not, Ma, I’m not a jackass!” I beg her to understand. I beg her to know what I am talking about. I need someone, anyone, to believe me.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I know. No one here thinks you’re a jackass.” She winces at the word, but her voice is still soft. Her grip tightens on the back of my shirt, as if it is a new concept to her, what, that I could even be a jackass in the first place. "You made it out, Haymitch. You came back to us. You're a survivor. We'll help you from here on out. We're here for you. You're not alone."

Still, her confirmation is not enough to calm the raging windstorm in my mind. Maybe it will never be enough. Maybe I will be a jackass forever. I must believe it on some level. Some integral, foundational level, like a piece of dinner stuck in someone’s teeth, I have a feeling it will always be there. No matter how many times she tells me I am not a jackass, it will be stuck in my teeth forever.

When her shirt is just as tear-stained as my own, I lift my head from her shoulder and dab my eyes with the waist hem of my top.

She takes the opportunity to kiss the top of my head. "I love you, Haymitch."

“I love you too, Ma," I respond. I'm safe. I'm home. I've got people around me who care, and I can't forget that. "Is Burdie still here?” I ask, a stinging guilt creeping along my bones to starve off the tears. What happened to me is not his fault, and I cannot live any longer without apologizing for yelling at him. I waited too long to apologize to Wyatt, and that, like my new title, will stick with me until I die.

She nods gently and brushes a damp curl out of my eyes. “He’s with Sid.”

Chapter Text

When I re-emerge from my room, Sid and Burdie are next to the stove leaning over a steaming pot. My brother grips the wooden spoon with his whole hand, his tongue peeking from between his lips as he stirs the sweet-smelling mixture bubbling on the flame.

Burdock is the first to speak. “You saw the victor?” he asks, using that same calm tone he had under the morning shade of the pines. He turns from the stove and looks at me with a seriousness I didn’t know he was capable of.

Ma glares at him, but I let go of her arm and settle into a rickety chair at the table.

“I did,” I say with a certainty that my words don’t deserve. “Well, I saw someone who looked like the victor Lenore Dove described.” I don’t add that I recognized the ruffles of the rainbow dress as the same color as my girl’s ribbons, but Burdock’s eyes stay locked on me anyway.

“You saw her there?” He crosses to my side of the table, leaving Sid alone at the crackling stove. His brown boot knocks his game bag as he lowers himself into a seat, but he leaves it scattered.

“No. It was on the television. After the games.” My voice falters. I dry my hands on the seam of my shorts. “She sang a song about betting on the reaping, I think.” I try to retrieve the memory of the girl in the rainbow dress, but it’s slick like a greased rope on an unbalanced pulley. The only thing I can focus on is betting, reaping, and suddenly Wyatt Callow’s face is in front of me again. 

“And I am the one who you let you see weeping, 

I know the soul that you struggle to save. 

Too bad I’m the bet that you lost in the reaping. 

Now what will you do when I go to my grave?” 

Burdock finishes. His voice is steady and clear as ever but his tone shakes like mine, like he’s peeling back a memory and finding it half-missing and faded at the edges.

I hide my head in my arms on the table. Ma must sense I don’t want to come up just yet, so she rests a gentle hand on my back. “Sid’s making you stewed plums,” she says. “He went and found the plums himself.”

“I did!” Sid chimes from the stove. It rouses me from my burrow and I lift my wetted eyes from my cave. 

“You did?” I ask, meeting his beaming face.

“Ma said it would make you feel better when you came home. Burdie and Blair helped me get them in the woods. I cleaned them and cut them up myself.” He spoons some into a bowl and runs it over to me. “Burdie said I did good in the woods. I almost caught a squirrel like him.” 

“He did,” Burdock says. “He got real close to catching that squirrel before it heard him. He’s got a soft tread. Unlike his brother.”

His jab draws a smile from me. I pull the bowl of stewed plums in front of me, breathing in that sweet scent. Sid is about the same age as I was when I first entered the woods. I guess it was due time for him to venture out that way, too. With the money I get from winning, he might not need to know, but if something happens to me, he and Ma will fall right back into the Seam, and I am grateful enough to Burdock to meet his eyes. 

“Thanks, Burdie.” I shove a spoonful of stewed plums into my mouth, groaning as the sweetness floats over my tongue. “Wow, Sid, you’re a real chef,” I compliment him, digging into the bowl for another scoop before I even finish chewing.

Once I clean the bowl, I wipe the corner of my mouth with my thumb and slide it forward. “Burdie, I’m sorry for yelling at you on the way here.” I lean back in my chair and fold my hands over my stomach, forcing myself to look him in the eyes. 

Ma takes my words as a queue to usher Sid outside to help with the laundry, and I am grateful. I have never been good at apologizing to people. I can tell them anything they need to hear, and I got damn good at it in the cage after the Games. Plutarch fed me specific compliments for certain Capitol people. He would point them out by their clothing and tell me what they liked to hear. This is different. This time, I am not lying. 

“I’m dealing with a lot, that's all.”

“A lot? You just took a month-long vacation.” He says without a drop of pity until his stoic facade cracks into a smile. “You don’t have to apologize, Haymitch. I didn’t take it personally. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.” 

He can’t. I know he cannot, but I am grateful that he’s trying. “Thank you.” I swallow the lump reforming in my throat and look down at my dirty, chapped hands. Usually when the moment gets too serious, we start insulting each other. Buck Teeth Burdie is what Blair landed on before the reaping. I don’t have the heart for it now, so instead, after the silence draws on, I break it myself. 

“Is Lenore Dove about?” I ask. “I figured she would visit me as soon as the news spread that I was back. I was going to see her first thing. Her call and her words, that’s what got me through the Games, Burdie. I need to see her.”

Burdock carries the silence like I had never said a word. That same far off look creeps over his face just as it had when I first asked about her. For a full minute, the only sound is Ma directing Sid out in the yard. Then Burdock nods, rises, and starts gathering his spilled game bag. 

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go see Lenore Dove.”

I shoot up from the table so fast the chair clatters to the ground behind me. Ma looks up from the laundry out in the yard. 

“We’re going to see my girl!” I holler through the back door, already heading toward the steps before she can protest. She won’t, but old habits die hard. I return to scoop the chair upright again and clamber back out the front door to catch up to Burdock. 

His dark hair is longer than it was before I left. The mid-afternoon sun’s high enough to catch the red undertones, the same red as my girl has. 

“I can’t wait to tell her about the flint striker,” I say, nearly breathless with hope. “It saved my life so many times. I almost got in trouble with it, but she’d be proud. It was good trouble. Making trouble for powerful people.” I grin, practically jogging behind him. 

Burdock, on the other hand, does not seem as delighted to hear about my trouble making. 

“I’m sure she’ll like to hear all about it,” he says. While the corners of his lips lift, his eyes don’t follow suit. They carry that same undercurrent of sympathy everyone else uses around me. I’ve grown to resent it. 

I look away, figuring talk about the Games unsettles him. Well, it pains me too, but he’s not the one who has to live with it for the rest of his life. Again, it stings me. I shove it down. It’s not his fault. Soon enough, I will have the arms of my love around me, and everything will be right in the world again. None of it will matter.

“I thought she’d be in the meadow with her geese,” I say as we pass through the flowers. It is not nearly as colorful as the field in the Games, but it is worlds more beautiful. If I could paint, I’d capture every petal for her. She deserves every kind of beauty in the world, and I promise myself as we come upon the gap in the fence, that I will find a way to bring it to her. 

Burdock does answer until we pass over a preened goose feather. He stoops to pick it up and tucks it in his bag. 

“Nope,” he says. “She’s in the woods.”

I blink. We’d agreed on the meadow. Still, maybe she went to her apple tree. Maybe she wasn’t expecting me just yet. “Does she know I’m home?”

“I don’t think so,” Burdock replies stiffly. Ever since we passed under the fence, his guard has come up.

“You’ve been to the woods a million times, Burdie, what’s the problem? Why are you so short with me?” I snap, trying to match his pace. He has always been more sure-footed on the forest floor. It would not take much for Sid to have a lighter tread than me. 

Besides, I don’t like the woods anymore. Just like cars, I have had enough of the woods for a lifetime. I would walk through fire for my girl, though, so even as the trees crowd together more, swallowing the meadow behind us, I keep trekking on. I keep my eyes on Burdock, though, just to remind myself these are our woods. Our home. Not the arena. There’s not a single mutt in here. Not like the arena.

Just as I finish my thought, Burdock stops dead in his tracks. His eyes flick skyward and his hand shoots out to halt me. I freeze on instinct, bracing for an attack, and I dig my nails into my palms again. It’s the buzzing again. The drill. Maritte. Maysilee. Silka. 

It all starts flooding back to me. My vision clouds, thick and black like coal dust, as we stand there silently, right up until I hear the first few notes of a whistle. 

“Sorry, Mockingjays are out,” he says with a toothy grin. 

The trees echo his tune back to him like a secret code, and he starts back walking again. Burdock could sing and make the whole forest go quiet if he wanted to. Meanwhile, I sing and the arena comes back to life. Maybe it would have listened to him.

The high pitched notes help clear the fog in my head, but the dust lingers as it settles. A thought as sticky as the stewed plums picks up what dust remains. If I had I sung a little better, would the mutts have listened there, too? 

No. That’s stupid. 

I release my nails from my palms and brush the deep crescent indents on my pants. Those were programmed to kill, not to listen to music. My next words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. 

“Have you ever sung to a porcupine?” It feels like the most important question in the world. 

To his credit, Burdock offers me the same seriousness in return. “Once,” he responds. “We were both going for a patch of wild strawberries. I didn’t see the thing until it was poised to stick me.”

“And your first instinct was to sing?” I tip my head, eyebrows raised. This will be prime material for a new nickname when we meet up with Blair later. Burred up Burdock. Porcupine Pin Cushion. 

“Oh, no. My first instinct was to shoot it,” he laughs. “But I’d stashed my bow for the day. I was on my way out of the woods. I didn’t have anything on me but my voice and my game bag.”

There goes the nickname. I press my lips together and nod. He must be able to tell I am disappointed, though, because he breaks back into the same grin I was wearing earlier. 

“The singing worked for a second. Only a second though. Didn’t you see me picking my teeth with quills that day? I showed up at Asterid’s like a lost kitten. I must’ve looked like a porcupine pin cushion.” He elbows me.

“How’d you know?” I shove him just hard enough for him to lose his footing. 

The thud of his shoulder hitting the tree trunk spurs more laughing from him, and the leaves rattle with laughter, too. Everything in the woods sings with Burdie.

He rejoins me on the path, picking a splinter out of his elbow. “I know half of your nicknames before you say them. Buck Teeth Burdie? Really?” 

“That was Blair’s idea,” I argue. 

“Well, then Blair’s nicknames are just as predictable as yours,” he teases.

“Maybe you’re just good at predicting,” I say, more defensive than I mean to be.

The forest thickens around us. The trees loom taller out here, their limbs arching into the dry blue sky and weaving over our heads like a tunnel. The sun pierces through the canopy, but by the time it reaches the ground, it’s diffused as soft as light green lichen. 

Lenore Dove would love this color, I think. Maybe I am predictable. I only care about a few things in life. If that makes me easy to read, maybe that can work in my favor.

When we reach a clearing, Burdock pulls out his water and offers it to me. I hesitate, too set on a question to work anything down. I need an answer before anything else.

“You saw the porcupine in the footage, didn’t you?” I ask, finally relenting and taking the bottle from him. The metal clinks as I twist off the cap and lift it to my dry lips.

“I saw it,” he confirms. His eyes drift away from me again, though this time he seems to be tracking an animal through the brush.

I lower the bottle and screw the cap back on. “What do you remember about it?” I ask, careful to keep my words concise. I need to know what it looked like to someone on the outside. 

Burdock takes his time, kicking at a half-rotted log and brushing the bugs off with the toe of his boot. He glances down the overgrown path, and for a second I think he is considering brushing off my question and keeping pace to meet Lenore Dove. I want to see her, too, so badly it hurts to wait a second longer, but I need to know. I need to know if I’m a jackass, starting with the porcupine. A stubborn centipede clings on, but he sits anyway, patting the spot beside him. I stay standing. 

“I remember parts of the live feed. Not as much as I thought I would,” he says. “I remember it didn’t sound right. Didn’t sound like a porcupine. Not one from around here. I know that sound well enough, now.” His eyes narrow. “I remember turning to Blair in school and asking if he heard the noise it made, too. He said it sounded like his neighbor’s new baby.”

He winds a loose thread on his pants around his finger. “I remember someone had a long weapon. I think it was a spear, and someone threw an ax, though it was hard to see who. The feed was only focused on the people who didn’t make it. But I remember an ax, somewhere. After one of the tributes passed on, someone started throwing rocks. It left after that. I guess to check out the rocks. I thought it was odd. Porcupines don’t go toward noise. Normally if you throw a rock in the wild, the animal runs the other way, but that porcupine wasn’t from here.”

“They were olives,” I say. I bring my numbing hands up to my sides and rub them over the rough fabric of my shirt, trying to coax some feeling into them. “I threw them. I threw that ax, too.”

When the air turns poisonous in the mines, sometimes the canary will have a few seconds of life left after it stops singing. For a moment or two, it flutters in silence, confused and choking, not knowing it’s already dying. That’s how I feel standing out here. Cold. Alone. Confused. 

“I watched closer in the recap but they didn’t show them. I don’t even remember you being there,” he admits. 

His eyes meet mine like I have said something wrong. Maybe I have. We both know you don’t speak in the square like this, but we aren’t in the square. The trees are the thickest walls we have in District Twelve. 

He studies me. “While the two girls were chasing you?”

“No,” I say, recalling how they explained Maysilee and my absence. “No, they edited that. I mean, yes, Silka and Maritte chased us, but that happened later. That happened,” my eyes flick to the ground as I scramble for my fleeting thoughts. 

His expression has become too intense, and the Lou Lou and Louella figures from the train start to haunt my mind again. I picture Silka and Maritte. The clipped version of me and Maysilee on screen. “Yeah, they chased us, but that happened later. It happened,” I pause, watching the ground blur beneath my feet. Every time I replay the scene in my head, it’s exactly how they showed it in the recap. “Just, not at that time. I can’t remember if it was before or after, but I threw that ax, and I threw those olives.”

“Why would they change it so much?” 

I almost snap. He must know by now how close the line is, because he lifts his hand to stop me. 

“I believe you. I’m just asking, that's all.”

I chew my bottom lip, mirroring the furrow on his brow. 

Above us, the roosting mockingjays begin to swarm. The sound of their wings beating above the canopy pulls Burdock’s attention skyward momentarily. I take the reprieve to answer his question. 

“Maysilee and I outsmarted them.”

When his eyes return to mine, he nods slowly. 

“So it was hungry?” he asks. “Like the one next to the strawberries.” 

“Yeah, like the one and your strawberries.” I cross a few feet over to the log and take a seat beside him.

“So they create the mutts, starve them, and sic them on kids,” he grumbles. “No wonder the jabberjays did so well out here. They had food for the first time in their lives.” 

He plucks a fallen spotted feather from the ground. Another for his collection. The feather twirls between his finger tips. It is all I can look at.

He’s still thinking about the mutts. Can’t he tell that wasn’t my point? Doesn’t he care what I went through? Does he even care that what he thought he knew was false? Doesn’t he believe me? They starved me and forced me to kill. All he cares about are the stupid mutts.

The bark begins to chafe through my shorts, so I push off the log and lean against a tree a few feet away. He keeps spinning that feather. I know he is thinking, and the sweltering forest grows hotter with each creeping second. Sweat trickles down my neck, soaking my shirt collar and causing my clothing to stick to my damp body. 

I dig the toe of my shoe into the floor of the forest. It comes up dusty instead of muddy. I can tell it hasn’t rained here in a long time. Great. Maybe he’s worrying about water for the mutts, too. 

I glance back at him, still twirling that feather, like it’s a riddle he hasn’t solved. I look away. That stupid feather. 

“Let’s just go,” I mutter. 

Burdock startles, meeting my eyes. Great. Too sharp again. Of course it was. Jackass. Right on cue. 

I don’t wait. We’ve been heading in the same direction for long enough. It must be close by now. I push forward through the brush. If I could find my way through the arena, I can find my girl. I don’t need a guide to do that. 

Behind me, I hear the familiar thump of Burdock’s bag against his hip. I know that he has fallen in line with me again. I slow just enough for him to take the lead again. Still, I won’t look at him. When he points out a leaf stuck to my shorts, I brush it off without glancing down.

Neither of us say sorry. 

What would it even do? 

I’m sorry  I snapped, even though I clawed my way back from a nightmare and the only thing you care to talk about is the stupid mutts that tried to kill me?  

I bite my tongue. He bites his too. We walk the rest of the way in silence.

Chapter Text

When we come across a diverging path, Burdock stops walking. 

“Before we go any farther, Lenore Dove wanted you to bring her this.” He pulls his game bag off of his shoulder and fishes out a book. The title has long since worn off, and peeling cracks ripple up the spine of the old leather binding. I turn it over in my calloused hands and leaf through it. Besides a full page at the front and a few words scattered throughout, most of the text has rubbed off too, just like the title.

“A book?” I ask, incredulous. “Why would she want me to bring her this? It’s beyond reading.” I thump it against my palm. My sharp tone cuts off whatever placating gesture he was about to make.

Burdock’s throat constricts, and he drops my gaze. “She wanted you to have it when you came to see her.”

“You’re being weird, Burdie. She never requests books. I just bring them when I find them.” I grumble. “Is she here, or is she not?” I cross my arms, tucking the book under my bicep. 

I’m done playing games. I've had enough of them to last a lifetime. The sticky heat returns, beating down through the leaves. 

"Lenore Dove?" I call out, tired of waiting. Sweat-drenched in the hot, stuffy air of the woods, I won’t let him string me along anymore. I will find my girl.

The wall of trees on either side seems to close in around me. I crash through the brush, snapping twigs and straying from the beaten path. Burdock’s hand flies to my arm, and he begins dragging me down the thinner, denser path. We walk for a while longer until I’m certain he’s just dragging me along until I see it.

Right beyond the treeline lie a cluster of knee-high stones. 

I’ve always been quick. In school, I would doze off and when the teacher called on me, I’d piece together an answer from the board in seconds. She would always get this disapproving look on her face, but she knew just as well as I did that I could keep up. I just chose to spend my time more wisely, sleeping. 

Before Burdock can even spill the apology he’s been holding in, before his hand touches my shoulder, before the tears start to burn and my throat closes like it did the day smoke poured from the mines and took my father, I crumble to the ground, crushing the moss beneath my knees.

I claw toward the mound of freshly overturned earth, my rigid muscles stiff and jerking, wading through overgrown moss like thick syrup. The soft green earth stops abruptly where the shovels started.

Nothing matters but being with her. My hands scratch away the loose dirt, then scoop, then shove. I need to get to her. The dark brown earth flies behind me like coal from a collapsing tunnel, coating my body in the same dirt that covers hers. I must be with her. Let me in. Let me die. I have to be with her. Let me stay with her. I can’t do this without her. I can’t. I can’t do this. I need her. I came back for her. I need her. I can’t.

I would’ve died in the Games. I would have given it all to Silka. I would have blown myself up. I would have drowned myself in the tank. Anything but coming home to this. Not if I had known. Not if I knew. 

No, now there is no more home. The closest I will ever get is six feet down, and I will get there. I will. Madly, rabidly, if I must. I shove the dirt out of the pit with every ounce of strength I have remaining. I will get to my girl. I must be knee-deep by the time I collapse, lungs burning, eyes searing, flames in my chest and all-fire in my veins, but I cannot, I will not, stop. I will get to her.

There’s yelling behind me, but I don’t listen. My hands curl into fists of earth. If that is all I can hold of her, so be it. I’ll hold more. I’ll take it. I’ll hold all of the dirt I can. I’ll dig up the whole earth to reach her. I will get to her. I will save her. 

More yelling. I don’t listen. I can’t. I will get to her. My fingers stiffen around the loose earth, so I switch to the flats of my palms. I rake and shove and push as much dirt as I can. It spills back into the pit. I shove harder. When my body gives out, when my wrists ache and my forearms burn, I know I’ve reached the end.

I curl up in the pit and beg Burdock to bury me. “You have to. You do it or I’ll do it myself!” I scream, raking a blanket of dirt over my body. I pound it flat with my fists. The pain comes rushing in like thunder rolling over the vacant hills, but I will not stop. It is the same pain as Silka’s blade. I will not stop. I pound and pound and pound until Burdock grabs my hands and yanks me from the pit. 

My fist finds his jaw, then his shoulder, then his sternum. We tumble back down into the pit together. Blood flicks through the air like gnats in the summer heat. I don’t know whose it is. Mine, his, both. I don’t care. I keep punching. I don’t care where they land.

“You knew! You knew this whole time you dragged me out here and you knew she was gone! You knew it!”

The trees blur into one shifting mass, bobbing in the watching heat. The sun peeks through the crowd of shifting green to watch, but it just reminds me I am here under it, and she will never be again. The trunks blur like the leaves, and soon enough I can’t see anything but the dirt in front of my face. Everything runs together with tears, with pain, with both. 

He wrestles me onto my back and grabs my wrists, but I keep trying. I muster every last ounce of strength, but it is pouring out of me like water slipping through spread fingers. There is a hole in the cistern of my heart, and as my arms grow heavy like lead, he finally lets go. There’s a thump, and a sniffle, and I’m convinced someone else is here. I whip my head toward the sound to see, but all that is in front of me is her grave marker. The gray stone, speckled with pink and purple, now a foot over my head, emblazoned with her song that exists just to mock me.

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”

          Merely this and nothing more.

I stare up at the words until the green light around the stone blurs into the gray again. I lie still, frozen, with my arms bent over my chest where they fell when Burdock let go. I drag my limp right arm to my face to rub my bleary eyes. It stings. Pink-tinged tears stream down my cheeks. Burdock grabs my hands and wipes them on his shirt. I let him. I have no fight left. He knows it. I’m weak. Too weak. Too weak to fight. Too weak to save her. Too weak to win the Games right. Too weak to live on. 

I won’t move. Never again. I am stuck here in this pit until the end of time. Me, Lenore Dove, and the four feet of dirt left between us. I do not fight Burdock when he keeps trying to stem the bleeding, but I hopelessly beg him to leave it. Let me bleed out. We both know it is not enough of a wound for it to happen. Not deep enough. But I need to bleed. I deserve to bleed. Let me bleed.

He is the first to crawl out of the pit. The ground, as much as I beg it to, will not fold in either. It watches, piled high on the edge of the pit, just as the sun watches between the leaves. I am alone in wit and will, and no matter how much I plead, the universe will not listen. Burdock, the ground, and the trees above all loom over me, but all of them stay unmoving, and I rot alone.

I roll over onto my stomach. My scar hurts. Good. Maybe I hit something up so badly I will bleed out after all. I’ll be with my girl soon. Burdock’s footsteps fade through the trees. I should feel relieved for the privacy, but all I can think about is how cold she must be down there. Alone. 

I allow myself to sink into the earth as much as the dirt will give way. I want it to swallow me. The lower I sink, the cooler the dirt. I close my eyes and whisper her name. My nails find their way back under the dirt, pulling handfuls into my palms. It does not fill my hand like her warm hands did. It does not even come close. 

Mud cools my jaw where my face landed. Good. It is easier to sink into mud than dirt. If I cry enough, maybe I’ll drown. 

“Lenore Dove, oh Lenore Dove.” I murmur, over and over again. “I came home in the wrong world, Lenore Dove.” 

I sob until it hurts to breathe. Dirt speckles my lungs. Coughing brings up thick clumps, but I keep my face buried. 

“Haymitch,” says a voice softly from the edge of the pit. 

“Lenore Dove?” I ask. Here again and always, I have called out to the dead and heard only the echo of their memory back. The dead are the only ones who stay. Everyone else changes. People grow apart, families break, but the dead cannot change, just as they cannot respond, and I am a fool again. Calling the names of those who aren’t here and will never be again. 

“Haymitch, I thought you’d want to give her these.” 

It’s Burdock again. Just leave me alone. Leave me to die. I deserve to die.

He kneels. His hand finds the space between my shoulder blades. I lift my face from the dirt and wipe my eyes clear of mud, but nothing else. I want to be buried with her. The dirt clinging to my damp cheeks is as close as I can get to her.

“It’s flowers and the feathers I’ve been picking up.” He holds out a bouquet of wildflowers. Intertwined in the wild blooms is his collection of goose and mockingjay feathers. She flew free like a bird after all. 

I reach up with chapped hands to gather the flowers. The dirt has returned under my nails. My hands will always be dirty. Always stained. I clasp them around the stems and draw them into the pit with me.

Burdock offers his hand, and every bit of me wants to refuse. I want to rot. I want to stay right here. But I don’t. I know he is right. It is time. With his help, I rise out of the pit and kneel beside the mess I have made. 

Numbly, I nestle the flowers right against the base of the headstone and place a kiss on the lip of the marker. 

“Oh, Lenore Dove, what did I do?” I ask. Because I know this is my fault. Somehow, this is my fault. Everything has become my fault. I should have just died in the Games. Everyone would be safe.

I grab the string of my flint striker and yank it free from my neck. I watch it disappear into the dirt, and pack it down next to the flowers. 

Burdock returns his hand to my shoulder. I don’t shrug it off.

“How?” I ask softly. It feels wrong, like saying it will make the fact she’s gone real. But she is. No matter if I say it aloud or not. She’s gone.

I feel rain on my back, so I look to the sky to see if it has given me the mercy of crying with me. No. The sky is tauntingly blue, so I lower my eyes back to my girl’s grave. I am alone just as I was.

“They didn’t let her go this time.” His voice cracks from above. It is not raining. 

I scoot over to make room beside her. Burdock joins me, knees pulled to his chest. His left eye is nearly swollen shut and a trail of blood drips from his crooked nose. Still, somehow, tears find their way down to his chin.

“Why not?” I drag my fingers over the speckled stone with the same gentleness as I used to brush her hair from her eyes. 

Burdock shakes his head and buries his face in his arms.

He doesn’t have to say it. I know. No matter how much I don’t want it to be true.

I bragged about selling white liquor to the commander in my interview. I don’t know if they aired the interviews live. Maybe they didn’t. Doesn’t matter. Word got back here to Twelve. I mocked the Capitol. I mocked the commander. She paid for my words with her life. 

I should have shut up. I should not have interviewed at all. I gave them a show, and it cost her life. I should’ve died in the Games. I loved her like all-fire, and I burned us both. 

I lean my head on her gravestone and close my eyes. “When you said she was free, I thought you meant out in the meadow.”

“I know. I’m sorry. She wrote to me before it happened. She told me to let her tell you herself. I figured this is what she meant. I’m so sorry, Haymitch.” 

He stays still and silent as the trees themselves, face pressed to his knees.

Silence stretches over the dense forest. The trees rustle overhead, but when nothing responds, they quiet down, too, and I wonder how long this will last. I could make a bed out here. I could lug my quilt to her grave and lay with her forever. I have slept on worse than just a quilt. I can sleep on nothing at all. The ground is enough. I could lie on the cold, dark earth and convince myself the rush of the wind is her gentle breathing. I could just stay here until I see her again. 

When the forest has settled and the last mockingjay has nestled on the bough above, Burdock begins to sing in that clear, sweet voice of his.

You're headed for heaven,

The sweet old hereafter,

And I've got one foot in the door.

But before I can fly up,

I've loose ends to tie up,

Right here in

The old therebefore.

And without a choice, I join in too. 

I'll be along

When I've finished my song,

When I've shut down the band,

When I've played out my hand,

When I've paid all my debts,

When I have no regrets,

Right here in

The old therebefore,

When nothing

Is left anymore.

 

When I'm pure like a dove,

When I've learned how to love,

Right here in

The old therebefore,

When nothing

Is left anymore. 

Once the mockingjays have picked it up, I lay my head back on her stone and close my eyes, trying to picture their notes as her own. My knees curl to my chest, and I wrap my arms around them like I would her shoulders. 

“I wish she were here, Burdie.”

His sniffling preludes his words. He wipes his face with his sleeve. “She heard us. I know she did.” 

As the mockingjays tire of the melody, they begin to flit away, hopping off of the boughs and taking flight into the vast, empty, indifferent blue sky. I catch the glint of the white patch of their wings right as something drops behind me with a soft, heavy thud.

I jump. I hate myself for how easily I spook now. Burdock doesn't mention it. He knows what I am thinking. He lets it pass, leans back, and picks up what has fallen behind us. With a steady hand, he holds it out to me. A bright, ripe, apple nests in his palm. 

I look around for the silver of a parachute, wondering why Mags would send me an apple. Maybe this late in the Games it’s all my sponsors can afford. 

Burdock places it in my hand. I curl my fingers around the glossy skin. An ant scurries across the surface, brushing over the dirt on my knuckles. My heart sinks. 

No. No one sent me this. 

I am not in the arena. Mags isn’t here. Lenore Dove isn’t here. Maysilee. Wyatt. Louella. Lou Lou. Wellie. Ampert. Silka. Panache. Maritte. Hull. Chicory. 

No one got to leave the arena but me. It has become clearer to me every moment since that I, the victor, have died in that arena, too. I will never leave the Games.

Chapter Text

“It’s strange, it's so ripe,” Burdock cuts in, leaning over my shoulder to survey the fruit in my outstretched palm. “They don’t usually turn that color unless it’s closer to harvest season. We haven’t had rain, either, so that’s no excuse.” Normally we wouldn’t stew over the color of an apple. We would break it open and enjoy it no matter how it looked, but with my white-knuckled grip around the fruit, he must see there’s something wrong with me.

“I won’t ever be the same, will I?” I ask numbly, and let the apple fall to the ground with the same dull thud with which it arrived. “I’ll always be a mutt of my own. Never the same.” 

I can’t bear to see her headstone again, so I blur my eyes on a patch of soft green grass beneath Burdie’s boots. I wrap my arms back around my knees.

The silence settles thickly between us. There’s no fluttering of bird wings this time, or rustling of leaves. Just Burdie crossing over her grave and sitting down beside me. 

“No, Haymitch,” he says evenly. “You won’t.” He lets it hang between us. “But people change every day. I’ve known you with long hair, and I remember that cropped cut your Ma gave you two summers ago. I’ve known you with long nails and short nails, and I’ve known you with calluses and without. Blair and I both knew you wouldn’t come back the same. I wasn’t the same after I took down my first squirrel, and my first deer changed me, too. People change, Haymitch. We know that.” 

He digs a rock out of the ground next to his hip and turns it over in his hand. He lowers his voice and continues, “We just wanted you back in whatever form you came to us. I don’t know what all happened in the arena, and you’ve made it clear I know even less than I thought. I know what they showed us. From what you said about the porcupine, I doubt they showed us much at all, but, Haymitch, Blair and I knew you wouldn’t be the same. We never expected you to be. No one is.” 

I have known Burdock since I was a kid. He knows me as well as he knows the woods. The first time he brought me this deep out here, he took me to the lake. I complained a few hours into the journey, but he swore it was worth the hike, so I stuck it out. He was right. 

We spent hours at that lake, swimming, digging up roots, finding snakes, and doing everything else the world would let us do. When it was time to leave, I lagged behind to watch the sunset on the water. Burdock laughed and returned to my side with words I’ll never allow myself to forget, even if the rest of me fades. 

“My Ma always used to say people love sunsets so much because they change every night. I like them because they're orange. She laughs when I say that, but it’s true. There’s always orange.” 

I wonder how long it will take me to forget those words, too, just like everything else that’s already going hazy. 

With my chin on my knees, my words come out quiet. “I remember sitting up on that stage in front of all of those people,” I hesitate. “No. Not people. They didn’t look like people. A crowd. Just one thing. A shadowed, roaring mass. It moved together. Laughed together. Cheered. And I’ve never felt less human in my life.” I brush my hand over my shorts, over the fresh bloodstains and the mud. “Am I still a person, Burdie? I’ve killed people. I’ve killed four people. Anywhere else that makes me a monster. Not a person.”

“Four?” he asks. His eyes flick to the trees. “There were those two careers and that District One girl, but I don’t think they showed the fourth.”

I keep my empty eyes on the grass and pretend he’s not there. It’s easier to talk that way. I never liked being vulnerable. Lenore Dove would try to pry stuff out of me. I’d always tell her whatever it was didn’t matter so long as she was in front of me. She never liked that answer, but it was the truth. She never liked when I pried back, either. And now she’s not in front of me anymore. I couldn’t pry if I wanted to. I’ll never know her secrets. She’ll never know what happened to me. I’ll never see her again.

“Lou Lou,” I say grimly. “The girl who died in the bush. They showed her seizing after smelling the flowers. I killed her.”

Burdock considers my words with a frown. He tosses the rock a foot away. “You killed Louella?”

“No. Lou Lou. Louella died in the parade.” 

And once I’ve said one thing, the rest follows. The door swings open, and I can’t stop myself.

“The night of the parade, something spooked the horses. I don’t remember what it was exactly. It was so long ago. So much has happened. I remember trying to hold on, but they pulled us into a bump, or something. No, it was a spike, yeah, another chariot. Louella flew. She cracked her head. She was gone before the Games even started. I held her. I think I was the first to her. Or maybe Maysilee was, but, no, Wyatt. He was there. Or I—” 

My memory is slipping from my shaking hands again, and the more I start to linger on the details, the faster the rest gets pulled right away. I grapple with the details of the story, trying to sort what is real from what is not, but it all comes up the way it did on stage. 

My next words come out rushed and sharp, “I grabbed her. I ran as fast as I could. I stole a chariot. I laid her in front of Snow and— and— and—”

His hand finds my arm, and I pound my fist into the dirt. 

“I can’t remember! Why can’t I remember?” 

The damage is done. Blood seeps from my hand again. I rip the bandage off entirely. “Everything is so cloudy! Nothing is real to me anymore! You could tell me all of it was a nightmare and I’d have to believe you! I’d have to! There’s no one here who can help me! I’m— I’m— I’m—”

I stammer. I’m what? Confused? Crazy? Rabid? A jackass? Making it all up? 

Blood pools on my knuckles just as it did under Louella’s head and it all comes flooding back to me. Except this time, Louella is Lou Lou, the drug box is in my hands, and the snake is around her shoulders. Which is which? It hisses. Which one of us is Louella? Which is which?

I swing. I swing hard at the air. I grab the rock he tossed and hurl it at the tree. 

“You’re not here! You’re not real! None of this is real!” I scream until my lungs lose their air. The trees throw my words back at me, and by the time my throat is raw, the mockingjays have picked it up too and Burdock tackles me to the ground.

“You’re here. You’re back in the woods,” he says, pinning me. “I am real. I’m Burdock Everdeen, and you’re Haymitch Abernathy, and I need you to say it. Right now.” He demands through gritted teeth, sitting heavily on my chest.

I thrash against him, but the years of hunting have made him stronger than me. A diet of milk and bread has worn me down into skin and bones again. “My name is Haymitch Abernathy,” I manage, breathless.

“Good. Again.” He grabs my wrists harder, and I feel a tug on my fingers. 

“My name is Haymitch Abernathy. Yours is Burdock Everdeen.” 

“Good. Now say, ‘I am back home in District Twelve’.” There’s another tug at my fingers. I stare at the vast blue sky. A cloud slips over the sun.

“My name is Haymitch Abernathy, and I am back home in District Twelve.” 

The blue sky disappears. The cloud stays. Everything is humid again.

Burdock lifts my hand in front of my eyes. “That was your blood,” he states, showing off my freshly bandaged hand. “Not anyone else’s. Whatever was happening in your mind, it’s over. This is real.” 

He must have picked up the bandage off the ground where I tore it off. I nod once. My eyes return to the cloud.

He sighs and stands up off of my chest. His hand finds his long hair and he grips it by the roots. I’ve rattled him. I’m too numb to care. He doesn’t have forty-nine ghosts haunting him like I do. I wonder where they buried Woodbine Chance. Did anyone sing him the funeral song? I don’t ask. I don’t speak. Not until he slaps something on my chest. 

“Here. The book,” he says flatly. “Read it. She wanted you to read it here. She had a feeling you’d be like this.” 

He shakes his head and turns away, leaving me with the leather bound book sitting on my ribs. 

I let the book rest on my body until the cloud leaves the sun. The dark gray mass drifts away aimlessly, like a grazing deer moving onto the next meadow. Finally, the heat returns, and I sit up. My body screams in protest. Everything hurts. Another reminder I am the victor. I got to live, and it is a price I will pay until I die.

I crack open the book to the pasted-in letter and begin to read. 

Haymitch, 

If this reaches you, we’ve missed each other. I’ve gone on to another world, and you’ve returned to the one in which we met. Don’t worry about me. I’ve always wanted to know what lies beyond the woods, and tonight, I will finally have that peace. If I don’t see you waiting there for me, I don’t want you to rush to my side. We will see each other again, but not until it is time. Your real time—not a rushed one.

I spent the few years I was gifted trying to memorialize the life of the only victor we had. I wore her ribbons in my hair and sewed them into my dresses. Clerk Carmine told me stories about her, and I think we would have gotten along just fine. If you are reading this, it means we have another victor. 

Tam Amber was much older than Clerk Carmine when the girl came home from the games. He told me stories about how she tried to write her memories into songs so she wouldn’t forget them. He said when she had nightmares, she’d try to ask him if what she dreamt of really happened, but neither of them could say for sure. 

I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to hear all of your stories. I wanted to write a ballad for you, but my time is up now, so instead, I’m giving you mine. The title has rubbed off, but it’s the one my name comes from. There are still some words remaining. Consider them my own. 

Tell me your stories, Haymitch. Everything that happened. We’ll remember together. When the day comes where you return to my arms, I can’t wait to hear them in your voice. Maybe you’ll tell me the story about the last time the sun rose on the Games. I know you can end them. I’ve never known someone more capable. Promise me you’ll try. Don’t come looking until you do. I’ll wait for you, as long as it takes. Promise.

I love you like all-fire. 

Lenore Dove

I stare at the page unblinking, tracing the curve of her handwriting again and again, desparate to hear her voice in the shapes of her letters. The weight of her hand in mine, evident in the indents of the pen, returns to me. 

I pull the book to my chest and embrace it tightly, gripping the spine as much as my bandaged hand will allow and tucking my chin over the top, whispering my promises back to her. 

“I promise. I promise I will end the Games. I promise like all-fire, I promise.” I repeat over and over again, begging her to hear me, just as Burdock had me repeat my name. 

As I rock back and forth, cradling the book, I know this as a fact. I must end the Games. 

I stay curled around the book until the orange of the sun starts to slip under the trees. Burdock emerges from the treeline with bleary, bloodshot eyes. 

“Ready to go home?” he asks softly. 

I look back to her grave, my fingers still clamped tightly around the binding. 

“What if she gets cold?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. I know it is. The pitch of my voice cracks an octave higher than my usual tone, and warm tears spill down my cheeks. I hold the book in my lap, away from the droplets so as to not smudge the ink.

He nods solemnly, as if it is the most important question in Panem. 

“Let’s fix her blanket.” 

Without any hesitation, he kneels next to the pit I dug and begins to push the dirt back into place. I lay the book gently on a bed of grass and crawl to join him. Together, we tuck her in for the last time. 

When the grave is smoothed over, I settle myself on top one last time, whispering softly in the fading light. 

“Goodnight. Sweet dreams, my love. I love you like all-fire.” 

I press one last kiss on the dirt above her. With shaking limbs, I rise from the ground. My fingers clamp around the book like a tourniquet, and Burdock takes my arm to lead me out of the darkened woods. 

At first I think it is the breeze, but when I listen closer, I hear him murmuring under his breath.

 “It’s just her bones. Just her pearly white bones.” 

I press my lips together and brace for more tears, but they don’t come. He’s right. Lenore Dove is gone. All that’s left of her in this world is her bones. My girl is waiting for me somewhere else. All she left behind was her bones.

When Burdock’s grip tightens on my arm in the clearing, I finally see the signs of grief he hid so well on the way in. The dulling golden light of the sun illuminates the deep set shadows under his eyes. His cheeks, flushed and freshly sticky with tears, are thinner than before, and his dark eyelashes clump together. His breathing is shallow and labored, but it can’t be from the walk. He could walk for days and not break a sweat.

Guilt scorches my throat. I now have five kills on my list. Had I taken my own life in the arena, the wet ink would have taken the shape of my own name, and Burdock would have lost someone else close to him. How selfish I have been in my grief.

I try to swallow, but the lump in my throat has closed it entirely, so I let it all pool in my mouth. Still, my tongue is thick and dry as my words. I don’t know what to say. I have spent the day beating him up, yelling at him, and storming ahead, and this whole time it hadn’t occurred to me the grief is not just my own.

I begin to think about everyone who watched me leave on the train that day. Ma. Sid. Blair. Burdock. Hattie. The Chance family. The McCoys. The Donners. The Marches. The Mellarks. The Everdeens. Did they all grieve me, too? 

I came back dragging three bodies in a train car, one in the ground, and a trail of ghosts forever haunting me. I’m sure the Donners wish it were Maysilee who returned instead of me. The McCoys and Louella. The Callows and Wyatt. All of the other families in all of the other districts, all the other names. 

I wish it were them, too. I wish it was anyone but me. 

Standing next to my friend in the quiet darkness of the overcast night, I know Burdock would have survived without me. He would have found a way to live on if I did not come back. He once told me a story about how Asterid taught him how to prune plants. Trimming back the dead leaves makes a plant stronger. Burdock would have grown stronger. He would have found a way. 

But he brought me back. He came to find me, not look for the train. He dragged me out here. Again and again, he has stuck by me.

By the time we step out of the woods, I have made my decision. 

I will stay alive. I will keep Lenore Dove’s promise. I will end the Games. 

Chapter Text

I pick up speed when we cross into the quiet meadow. By nightfall, we step foot back in the Seam together. I owe him countless apologies, but none of them come, and my mouth is as dry as the district’s drought. Instead, I stop short of my house and hug him tightly. 

“Thank you for the book. And being here. Burdock, I owe you my life.” The words scrape across my sore throat, still raw from screaming.

He embraces me just as tightly, but I can feel the corners of his mouth twitch up like they do before he says something smart, and sure enough, he follows my pledge with, “I don’t want it. You keep it.” He pats me on the back, disentangles himself from the hug, and starts towards his own house. 

The threshold back into my house creaks under my feet as I enter the dark kitchen. Ma must have cleaned up the plums from earlier, because the bowls have disappeared from the table, and the chairs are back neatly in their place. Moonlight washes over the dry sink from the broken window. The same silver of the parachutes bathes the piled dishes, dripping from bowl to bowl. It has only been a month since I left, but the house feels emptier. Everything I remember from before the Games is still here, the wobbly kitchen table, the chipped cabinet doors, and the soot of coal dusting as far and deep as anyone can see. Yet, the hallways feel wider, the wood feels stiffer, and the wind is a little too loud. It all gives me the feeling this house isn’t right, that something in the lifeblood is different, or maybe it really is just me who has changed. 

Within a week, I will be in the Victors’ Village anyway. Maybe changing was my only choice, and maybe the Capitol made that choice for me. Maybe it was never my choice to make from the start. I turn my back on the sink and shut myself into my room. 

Sleep never comes. My room becomes a ticket line for everyone I have ever known, dead or alive. Silka visits first, ax in hand, screeching about how she should have won the crown. Then Maysilee, again, asking me why I did not help her. There is orange paint on her fingers, now, too. Lenore Dove joins her tonight, and they flock around me, circling my bed and squawking, begging me to do something. They follow me under my pillow. I shut my eyes tightly and beg the feathers over my face for forgiveness, but what is done cannot be undone. 

The girls sprout coal-colored wings and fly off. When I pull my pillow from my face, Lou Lou leans in as if I am the bee balm bush and begins seizing. Wyatt joins her, falling to his knees next to her. He looks up at me, eyes dark as the tunnels of the mines, and blames me for her death. I cannot tell him he is wrong. He isn’t. I stare him back in the face and nod. When he rises back to his feet, I notice his hand pressed to his abdomen. Why couldn’t my wound have been fatal like his? I should have let go, let my arm fall from my stomach. I should have let it all go. 

Wyatt and Lou Lou crumple to ghastly ashes and fade to nothing. Tomorrow, when we bury them, maybe they will rest. I pull the pillow back over my head and turn toward the wall. The visits never stop. I shut my eyes tightly and pretend I am one of them, too. 

When the sun rises, Ma is the first to visit. I must look deranged, because when she opens the door, she jumps slightly. I pull the pillow back over my face. 

She crosses over to my dresser and sets my breakfast on the surface—eggs and an orange peeled into slices. Normally, she would heavily suggest I eat at the table, but I guess she has changed, too, or maybe there is no more normal. 

I roll over. The bed sags under her weight, and it is yesterday all over again. She places a gentle hand on my back and rubs circles between my shoulders. 

“She loved you more than anything,” she whispers. 

Burdock must have come by in the morning to tell her about last night. It explains the fresh eggs. I pull the quilt over my head for good measure. Ma always thought Lenore Dove was a distraction. I wonder if she still feels that way, but I can’t bear to ask.

I don’t say anything until she leaves. I want to lie in bed all day. Let the dust cover me. Let this bed be my grave. My room is already a cemetery. When the sun is high enough to pierce the curtains, I dig myself free from my quilt and slip my feet onto the cold, hard floor. The summer warmth swaddles me in a sheen of sweat before I even fully stand. Despite the rising temperature, the food has cooled completely. I still cannot stomach it. I leave it where it is. Sid can have it later if he comes by. 

I dig through my drawer for Lenore Dove’s ballad book and rummage underneath my folded clothing for a pen. I never had much use for pens beyond school, but every now and then, a school issued pen would hitch a ride home in my pocket and join the collection at the bottom of my drawer. I lift one free from the pile and shut the drawer again. Today, I will write. If I am asked to speak at the burials, maybe remembering them now will help me later.

I settle back into my bed to write, but I stop at the first page. It is my girl’s page, and it will be hers forever. I run my fingers over her words again. I know you can end them. I’ve never known someone more capable. Promise me you’ll try. I flip to a blank page and begin to write.

Lenore Dove, 

I miss you more than a chick that jumps before it can fly misses its nest. I miss you like all-fire. I am going to try my best to tell you what happened, but I was talking to Burdock yesterday, and everything has already started to get grainy. But I want to remember for you, so I will write what I can. 

Love you like all-fire.

Haymitch Abernathy

Then, I begin with the reaping. I write about how she wouldn’t let the capitol use her tears for their entertainment. I write about Woodbine Chance and how I was reaped. I ponder if it is legal, but I make sure to note that everything is legal, so long as it is the Capitol doing it. 

I write about Ma and Sid, and how Sid begged Ma not to cry for Plutarch. About how her arms felt around me in those last few minutes. I write about the McCoys and how they didn’t get a proper goodbye. I write about how Wyatt took the stage without flinching. I write about how he was months away from not having his name in the bowl at all. I write about everything up until Panache kicks out the window in the Capitol. Then, it starts to get grainy. 

The main ideas are there. I remember we went to the gym and they sprayed us with insecticide. I remember they cut away our clothing. I remember sitting and waiting afterward for our outfits.

Then the parade comes, and I find my hands trembling as I grip the pen. I shut my eyes and think back to that night. I remember the horses. I remember we could barely fit on the chariot. I remember Louella. I remember seeing her, running with her, and I remember Snow’s face, but everything else begins to mold together like ink bleeding in water. The only people who know what really happened are dead or thousands of miles away. I grip the pen more tightly and forge on.

I write about Snow, and how the milk dripped down my chin when I drank it. I write about the parade master and how Snow seemed to be talking about some girl. He knew what the Covey was. I think Lenore Dove would find that interesting, so I tell her in as much detail as I can recall. 

I try to cover the introduction of Lou Lou, but I can’t remember how I knew she was different from Louella. Ever since the train back from the Games, I have been mixing them up. It is hard to keep most details from before the Games straight. I can’t remember if most things happened before or after the interviews, and I know I must be mixing things up, so I make a note at the end of the page saying I can’t remember everything perfectly. 

A note isn’t enough. I should remember everything. I am the only one who knows. I grit my teeth and cracks spread up the shell of the plastic pen.

I continue on to the interviews. I write about how Lou Lou’s snake hissed at the audience. I write about the Newcomers, and Maysilee’s insults. I remember Wyatt’s words about the odds clearly. Inflation grows thirty-eight percent per day. I don’t know why it stuck with me, but I include it anyway.

I leave out the parts about Plutarch, Beetee, Mags, Wiress, and the rebellion. My girl would’ve wanted to hear about it, but it’s too much to write before the funeral, and I want to get the parts I remember the most down first. My friends come first.

I jump to the Games. The more I try to remember about my time in the Capitol, the faster it runs from me. I bear down and begin scratching letters into the pages. I rip holes in the book from the pressure of my hand, but the hazier my memory gets, the more frustrated I grow. 

I start with Wyatt dying to save Lou Lou. I move on to how Lou Lou found me, and immediately died to a bee balm bush. But when I write about how quick it was, my hand aches, and I know I have done something wrong. 

I can’t erase the pen, so I include another note at the bottom. I say I don’t recall how long Lou Lou and I were together before she passed, and I resign myself to not knowing. I cannot stall at this stop any longer. I am already starting to forget the rest of the Games. 

Memory has served me well for most of my life. I remembered to be at Hattie’s on time, I remember how much grain I’ve got to lug and where to collect the bottles from when it is time. I remember birthdays when they come around, and I remember my girl’s favorite songs. Her ballads come naturally to me, even though I can't carry a tune worth a damn. I recall the path to the lake like my own hands now. I remember the things folks have said to me, like the orange in the sunset and people swimming in the flood. 

Today and ever since I left the arena, memory has been that same greased rope. 

People say time is a slippery thing, but I don’t buy that. You have as much time as you have, and one minute is the same amount of time as the next. Memories, they are the slippery things. If you forget one detail, you will remember the whole thing wrong for the rest of your life. Eventually, you will become so sure that you are remembering it correctly that you will begin to argue with people over what’s actually true. I’ve been arguing with myself all morning. There’s more crossed out words than readable ones.

The visits last night poisoned my memories of my friends. I do not recall if Wyatt actually died of a stomach wound, but it sounds right. Am I remembering a memory? Am I making it up, and convincing myself that it’s real? Is that how the truth works? 

No. The truth is now somewhere far down the well, and I have dropped the rope. All that is left is the card-stacked Capitol compilation that condemns me to be a jackass for the rest of my life.

Does the truth matter when it’s so far gone no one else remembers? Would it make a difference? They’re gone. Everything that happened, happened. What does it matter if I don’t remember correctly? It won’t bring them back. What would it even fix?

I finish writing what I can, and I slide the pen into the binding like a bookmark. I crawl from my bed and reach for my flint striker. I want my girl with me at the burials. My hand comes up empty. 

Blood rushes through my heart as I crumple to the ground, searching on my hands and knees, wondering if it somehow fell under the mattress. Half way under the bed, I remember: I buried it with my girl. 

My memory has already lapsed from last night. If I can’t remember something so recent, how can I trust that I am telling the story the right way? 

I slouch against my bedpost and stare into the wall, defeated. 

Ma returns to collect me for the burials. She says I don’t have to go if I can’t handle it, but I assure her I can. I’ve already missed too many of my friends being laid to rest. She takes my cold breakfast with her when she leaves and packs it into the fridge. 

When the door shuts behind her, I gather myself from the floor and change into mourning clothes—a dark set of pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Normally, Ma would preserve these clothes for winter. The more fabric, the more I sweat, and she used to tease me about how in the winter, folks are inside more, so everyone can smell what clothes I wore in summer. 

Burials are the exception. 

I lean into the coal-dusted mirror to check my collar, but my hollow, deep set eyes and bony cheeks conjure visions of Ampert and Wellie’s ghosts to my shoulders, so I look away. Someone will fix it if it’s wrong. 

I step out of my room and join my mother. Sid is at her side, trying for that same determined expression he wore when I left him on the day of the reaping. Together, with my girl’s ballad book in hand, we head down to the graveyard. 

A few hundred people have gathered to watch the ceremony. Normally, the district reserves burials to the families and closest friends of the deceased, so as to not pull too many hands from the mines. This year, the stone dropped in our pond of grief must have sent ripples so wide, the mines shut down entirely. With so many dead, it seems everyone in District Twelve knew at least one of us. 

Most of the miners have gathered around Wyatt’s grave. He was almost nineteen, just a few months away from aging out of the Games entirely, and the only one of us to start working deep in the earth. I guess the darkness brings people together, because he has the largest turnout of us all. Still, the mines will need all able hands back tomorrow. 

I spot a boy about his age kneeling beside a fifth plot, and I turn to Ma to ask, but she was already watching me. She leans down before I can even speak. 

“Jethro Callow took his life when his son came home.” 

She doesn’t have to say why.

I know the shape of shame, maybe a different brand, but shame is shame all the same. I should have died, and he shouldn’t have bet on the Games. We all do things we shouldn’t. I just had the excuse of necessity. But maybe he did too. It’s starving or finding some way to make ends meet in the district. Maybe he needed the money to live just as I needed to kill to survive. If betting kept him alive just as my ax did, then our hands are stained with the same blood.

Still, I figure I‘m giving him too much grace. I look away. 

The McCoys have gathered with a few families from around the Seam. I can’t tell them about Lou Lou. That secret will go to my own grave with me. 

Her Ma stands with her hands on her youngest’s shoulders. She has braided her daughter’s hair the same way. I turn away. 

I spot Maysilee standing at the final grave in her District Twelve black. I can’t believe it. I break away from my mother and charge toward her. 

“Maysilee!” I call out, tripping over the crowd to get to her. 

Someone restrains me. Maysilee bursts into tears and buries her face in a handkerchief. 

No. Not Maysilee. Merrilee. Her twin. Two peas in a pod. 

Strangers pass me back through the crowd, hand to hand, until I’m returned to my mother’s side. Obviously deranged, just like I looked when I woke this morning.

They lower the boxes into the ground, and the families each toss a handful of dirt onto the caskets. I clutch my book to my chest, wishing it was my girl’s warm hand instead. Ma pulls me under her arm, and I close my eyes tightly until a familiar, sweet and clear voice begins to sing again. 

You're headed for heaven,

The sweet old hereafter,

And I've got one foot in the door.

But before I can fly up,

I've loose ends to tie up,

Right here in

The old therebefore.

And just like I did back in the woods, the rest of the mourners join in:

I'll be along

When I've finished my song,

When I've shut down the band,

When I've played out my hand,

When I've paid all my debts,

When I have no regrets,

Right here in

The old therebefore,

When nothing

Is left anymore.

The mockingjays, dressed in black on the boughs above, fall silent, taking in the rest of the song:

When I'm pure like a dove,

When I've learned how to love,

Right here in

The old therebefore,

When nothing

Is left anymore. 

The birds pick it up, echoing the final notes back to each other, until they tire of it and begin to flutter away, too, carrying the last of my friends with them as we raise our fingers to the sky.

Sid buries his face in my shirt, and when I lower my arm back to my side, my hand finds his curly hair. 

When the speeches start, some of the crowd begins to thin. The heat is oppressive, made worse by the dark mourning clothes. I remain, shoes planted in the tangled bed of grass, my fingers around the book, and my family at my side. 

Mrs. McCoy is the first to speak. She doesn’t mince words. She says it is a tragedy her girl is gone, and there will never be a minute in her life she doesn’t think about her. Me too, I want to say. My sweetheart, gone, grieved, and never forgotten. 

Mr. McCoy follows, talking about how Louella was the most courageous thirteen year old he ever knew. He says she’s gone, but he’ll never forget her. A few of her siblings speak after him. They will never know what really happened to her. To them, she died in a field of flowers, and Louella did always love the first blooms of spring. In a sick, almost comforting way, maybe they believe she died doing what she loved, looking at the blossoms. 

I won’t take that from them. Maybe some truths don’t need to be said. Maybe some stories shouldn’t be told.

Next, a man from the mines stands. He shares stories of how Wyatt spent a few weeks getting his pickax just right, but once he did, he was the best, fresh-faced coal miner they had. He said Wyatt would watch everyone during breaks and guess how much coal each person would pull that day, and, sure enough, he was always right. 

No one mentions the way he snored, or the fact that he always used to jump at the mention of odds. No one talks about how he kept his arm around Lou Lou, or how he was always the first to reach for her when she started crying at night. They don’t mention how he was the first one to come up with the idea of tarps collecting rain in the arena. 

They don’t know. 

They couldn’t know. 

Mr. Donner speaks next. He stands with his shoulders back and his chin up, and I hear Maysilee’s voice again. “I want to go out with my head up.” I tighten my grip on Lenore Dove’s ballad book. 

He talks about how when Maysilee and Merrilee were born, they used to cry in tandem. He says, unlike birth, Maysilee faced death alone, and she died with dignity. I feel his eyes on me. I drop mine first. 

He says Maysilee was always creative. She used to come up with all of the candy flavors in the shop, and the names, too. He closes by saying her memory will live on through her sister. 

Maysilee returns to me again. This time, she is silent, standing over her sister’s shoulder. Merrilee stays quiet, too. 

Both father and daughter disappear back into the crowd.

Finally, Mayor Allister steps to the front. Her voice waivers the same as it did at the reaping. I guess she hasn’t been replaced just yet after all. I dab my sleeves to my eyes, blotting away the tears as she begins to speak. 

“We have lost many lives here this year. Wonderful, strong, young people, gone too soon. District Twelve will mourn these three young people forever.” Her voice falters. 

“Louella McCoy, venturing into the woods on her own and finding a flower to remind her of home.” I lift my face from Ma’s side and stare at the mayor from the back of the crowd. Louella wasn’t in the woods alone. She never even made it to the Games. Lou Lou wasn’t in the woods alone, though, I was there. I held her while she died. 

The mayor goes on, her nasally tone flattening the names. The sun beats down on her tied-up hair, and her words seem to deviate from what I remember farther. 

“Wyatt Callow, a whiz with numbers, my, wasn’t he?” She smiles at the miner who spoke earlier. He glares back. She adjusts her blouse and clears her throat, nodding once, then scanning the crowd for a new victim to lock onto. 

“Oh, and beautiful Maysilee Donner.” Her eyes must be on Merrilee, because I see the girl shift behind her father. 

Mayor Allister frees her eyes from the crowd entirely, giving up on speaking to the people, and begins to speak over us. 

The heat of the sun is oppressive. Sweat soaks through my shirt, leaving visible dark patches under my arms and on my back. My hammering heart spreads shaking through my shoulders like wind through the leaves. 

“The heat is unbearable,” she grumbles, fanning herself. “Maysilee died alone, fighting off birds she wandered into. We all come into some rotten luck.”

“No!”

The word tears from my throat. The book tumbles from my hand and the pen clatters onto the dusty ground. I scoop up the book, leaving the crushed pen behind, and shove my way through the crowd. It parts like clouds after a violent spring storm.

“No, she didn’t! They sent those birds after her!” I cry, waiving the book overhead. “You have it all wrong. None of you know what happened! They erased it! All of it! I have it—I have it all right here!” 

The crowd buzzes like a knocked-down hive.

Undeterred, I reach the mayor and begin to thumb through the fluttering pages of my writings. I fan out the page of Maysilee’s death with trembling hands, finding the one I need and beginning to read. 

“The day Maysilee died, I reached the force field for the first time. I wouldn’t have made it without a song she knew from when she was little. It was her who helped me come up with the idea to blowtorch the maze. Without her, I would be dead.” I sweep the faces in the crowd quickly before returning to the page. 

“I owe her my life, just like everyone else who helped me in that arena,” I add as I scan further ahead in the text. 

“She and Maritte, the girl from—” I squint at my scratched-out handwriting. I can’t remember if she was from One or Four. Another blank. Another crack in the mirror. 

“The career girl. They killed three Gamemakers in the arena. They were fixing one of the mutt hatches, and they took their chance—” 

The crowd begins to stir. Under the hot sun, I see a commotion at the back of the group, where the boy from Jethro’s grave is shouting something, and a group is swaying, shoving one another. 

I feel Lenore Dove’s hand on my shoulder and I hear my promise echo in my ears. She would want this. We are back on her stage, together this time. This is how I’ll end the Games.

I shout louder, the words flood out of me as if they are no longer my own. 

“She and I couldn’t decide what to do when we reached the force field! Maysilee wanted to go back toward the Cornucopia, and I wanted to stay at the end. She went back to grab our food so no one could steal it, and that’s when they sent the bird!.” 

Someone grabs me.

I wrench free.

“They sent them! We didn’t split up! They sent those birds on her!" 

Hands yank at both my arms.

"Everyone had a mutt! We all had mutts!” 

There’s a flash of white overhead. A crack of pain erupts from my temple.

“They— They—” 

The book falls to the ground first. Then me.

I crumple beside it, following it down to the hard, dusty earth. My head lulls to my chest. The world starts to narrow. 

More yelling. 

More running. 

Just before the tunnel swallows me whole, someone fires off a gun.

Chapter Text

“He’s delusional.” The words come muffled, like someone’s speaking to me but my head’s stuck under water. Pain sprouts behind my eyes when I try to pry them open, so I lie still and listen. “None of that happened. Do you see the writing in the book? It’s a mad man’s! The notes at the end, talking to a dead girl? None of that was in the recap. You saw the reel. We all did. You think they’re able to just change that much? Listen to yourself!” 

There must be cotton in my ears. I try to lift my hand to check, but everything hurts. 

When my girl told me about her worlds, she said there’s sometimes a judge who decides where folks go. Maybe this is him. Maybe this is the moment. The words from down the hall come to me as if they float across a pulpit. Is this the judgement my girl said folks face why they pass? Has she been here? How do they judge you? 

The blinding light reveals nothing, so I close my eyes again and focus on listening to the squabble of judges. There are a few more tense words exchanged. One of the parties speaks in a low, brutish tone, and I can tell this person wants blood. Maybe he’s the one who sends people to the bad worlds. 

I have done good in my life. I peddled liquor, but only because I had to. I killed, but only to stay alive. I said some things I’m not proud of, but it was all necessary. 

But how do they know that? I did what was asked of me, but how do these judges know what I’ve done? Do they know they asked me to do violence? Does that matter? Have I done enough to see my girl again? No doubt she’s in the good world with those wings she told me about. I bet her wings are orange, like the sunsets she always pointed out, or white, like her geese, if she can choose. Can I choose? I don’t need wings, I just need to get in. Can I give up the wings to excuse all of the bad I have done? I bet she’s soaring all over that new world.

The first judge’s voice returns, more insistent this time. 

“Come on, you and I, we’ve never had to deal with a victor before. Maybe they all come home this deranged. I mean, that one girl forty years ago, she came home and immediately fled off into the woods. You think she was all there? You think she wasn’t crazy? Who does that? What’s a little yelling compared to a district wide search?”

The second judge speaks again. His violent tone overshadows the first judge’s, and my stomach shrivels. Dread pools deeply in my core. I lift my head to plead my case, thinking maybe I still have a chance to explain away all of the bad I have done, but the pain returns splintered this time, so I drop my head and leave my dry mouth closed. 

I can’t pick up most of what they are saying. The words treason and punishable by death are as clear as a cloudless sky. I resent my ears, but my body is as stiff as a dead man’s, so my hands can’t cross the distance to cover them. I figured in the good world your body would work like it did in the therebefore. Maybe it happens after the verdict. Maybe they have doctors that can heal you right up. 

Is there a way to explain my wrongdoings? Even if I had to, I still did what I did. Trading my wings won’t excuse the blood crusted under my nails. Nothing can replace the lives that I have taken, the lights I have seen extinguished. No man is worth a pair of wings, and I am a desperate fool to think trading something against the harm I have caused would do me any favors. 

I have heard more dying words than an executioner. I have thrown stones that landed in graves. Even if Jethro Callow had to make money somehow, he still bet on the reaping, just as I killed people. My hands are stained with blood whether I had good intentions or not. Is there wrong that undermines intention? Would I even have a case to make? Perhaps the justification merits the verdict. Maybe the reason is the further wrong I have done. I killed to save my life. In doing so, I took someone else’s life. I valued my own more than someone else’s. Does that get me turned away from the door? The few purchased seconds of breath, the few I had remaining after the Games, my single day back in District Twelve, was it worth condemnation? Did I win the Games at all?

Every second my girl’s world gets farther from my grasp. I am evil, a monster, a beast. There is no refuting what I have done, that I have done heinous things, even if they were necessary. Would I be given mercy? Or can I? Or is the door to my girl’s world shut to people like me? Will I see her again, or will she wait for me forever? Will they at least tell her where I have gone?

The first voice returns. 

“Treason or not, he’s still a victor, and they can’t have a tour without him. What do you want me to do? Call Mr. Heavensbee back and tell him I’ll have to refund his order because there will be no feast after all? I’ve got a hundred pounds of gumdrops planned in all different colors, and because you all can’t take a little yelling, I have to lose out on one of the biggest checks this district has ever seen?” 

Plutarch! I blink my eyes open and fight against the searing pain of the sun. No, this isn’t judgement. This isn’t her world. The blinding light spills through the barred window. I am still alive. Still in the therebefore. I wonder how long I’ve been gone. The sun doesn’t say. The light is bright and golden. The cotton begins to fade from my ears, giving me both sides of the argument. 

“We cannot have someone capable of such dangerous outbursts on the streets.”

“You’re speaking like he killed someone. Do you think anyone believes what he said?”

“We have reasonable cause to charge him with disturbing the peace.”

“What peace? You want peace? You let the kid go like the Capitol told you to, and then we all treat him with kid gloves. That’s all he is. A deranged kid.”

“He is a dangerous criminal. His profile and conspirators indicate he is likely to offend again.”

“Bullshit! They’re already laughing at him in the square. Ask any of your men who frequent the Hob.”

A loud bang chases a jarring scrape. “That is enough! I can have you charged too. His words have already affected you. Who is to say they won’t get to anyone else?”

“The only way his words have affected me is feeling pity for the kid. He just lost his mind.”

“If we are to release him, it will be at the Capitol’s command, not yours.”

“They have already commanded it. I walked in on your phone call. Don’t play me for an idiot.”

“They have not issued the protocol.”

“They said to release him.”

A phone rings down the hall, which I can only assume means my fate is on the other end of the receiver. The conversation fades to mumbles again. I take the period of quiet to push myself up against the wall. My ribs scream and my head pounds. Light bursts behind my eyes, but I shut them tightly and breathe through it until it recedes. My mouth is dry and I begin to suspect my stomach hurts just as much as my ribs. How long I have been sleeping, I do not know, but golden light continues to stream through the only window in my confinement.

“They are sending a doctor from the Capitol to check him.” A door slams shut, rattling the bars of my cell in the Peacekeeper’s jail.

I grip the bars to pull myself to my feet. By the time I manage to get to my knees, the ground starts to sway, and I lower myself back to the dreary floor. Dreary. The word rattles in my skull. Dreary. I’ve heard it before. Somewhere.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

My fingers find the cool grooves in the tiled floor. Trailing along a crack in the dusty surface, they catch on an apple-red thread. I wind it around my index finger until it matches the color, every atom inside of me pulled toward it instantly. 

Was Lenore Dove in this cell? 

It is much too small for her. She would’ve missed the sun plenty. I roll over to face the window, and realize that, too, must have been planned for my girl. A barred window, a sliver of sunlight in a cage so dark. I push myself into a sitting position and crawl to the sunbeams on the floor. Splaying my hand against them and closing my eyes, I picture those sunny days we used to spend out in the meadow together. 

“I love you like all-fire.” I whisper, “And if it’s not my time, I promise, still, I do.” 

There isn’t enough time in the world to remember Lenore Dove. I see her in everything. The sunbeams on the ground of my cell. The red of her dress on the bloodied bandages on my hands. The orange on her nails in the sunset. 

As spots begin to flood my vision again, someone pounds on my metal cell door. I turn my head slowly to see the white of a Peacekeeper’s uniform. Under the brim of the helmet, I make out an older man with deep wrinkles between his eyebrows, giving the illusion of a permanent frown. 

I pull myself to my feet and clench my muscles to stay upright. 

“Yeah?” I ask. Even that single word rips the raw flesh of my throat to shreds. 

“You’re free,” he says gruffly. He slides the door open and jerks his gun towards the hallway. “Get out. Let’s go.” 

Clearly not pleased  that I, a dangerous criminal, am being released without even so much as a slap on the wrist, he marches me to the end of the complex, shoves me out of the gates, and right into a group of people hanging near the fence like birds on a branch. 

“Haymitch!” A small voice cries first. 

Sid barrels into me with a hug. I wrap my arms around him and elect to ignore the pain shooting through my body.

“Sid. Thanks for waiting. Didn’t think I’d be in there forever, did ya?” I ask, ruffling his hair. 

His bloodshot eyes tell the truth. He did. He thought he lost me again. 

I drop it. I keep my hand on his shoulder for balance and survey the rest of the group. Blair, Burdock, Asterid, and Ma have all come to see me. Behind them stands someone I hadn’t expected—Mr. Donner. 

When we meet eyes, he clears his throat, nods once, and begins speaking in a softer tone than he had at the funeral. 

“Thank you for being there for Maysilee,” he says promptly. 

His eyes flick toward Burdock’s bag, then away. He turns on the heels of his polished shoes and starts back toward town without giving me a second to reply.

What follows is a storm of hugs, flurries of worried words, and gusts of recountings of what everyone saw. 

According to Blair, who was toward the back of the crowd, he said as soon as I started yelling, the Peacekeepers on patrol stormed the graveyard. The miners locked arms and tried to keep them from getting to me, but a few circled the crowd. One grabbed my arm to pull me down and smashed my head with the butt of his rifle. 

Louella’s brother grabbed my other arm to keep me from getting dragged off. That must have been the tug-of-war. 

Burdock said someone fired off a shot, but they don’t know if it was a Peacekeeper, or if someone had gotten their hands on a weapon. 

Either way, the square has a curfew, the stockades are biting, and the mines are closed until further notice. 

Everything hits me at once. The gravity of it all cascades down on me like the volcanic ash, and the disorienting light in my burning eyes grows ever brighter. 

Asterid mentions something about a concussion and orders me to rest. I trust her diagnosis as best as I would any Capitol doctor, so I vow to get to sleep as soon as I get home. That seems to settle her down. 

“Oh, and they wanted you to have this back.” Burdock fishes the book from his game bag and holds it out to me, just as he did in the woods days ago. I take it from him and run my fingers over the cover. I press it to my lips and hug it tightly to my aching chest. 

“How’d you get it back?” I ask. 

Books are not technically banned in the district. Plutarch said reading is not a popular pastime in the Capitol. Here, people pass time by trying to put food on the table. In the Capitol, you get a choice of how you waste it. Both places see reading as a last resort.

Burdock slings his bag back over his shoulder and shrugs. 

“Mr. Donner came back with it when he returned from the base. He said something about it’s all madness on those pages anyway, and the Peacekeepers had no use for it if your case wasn’t gonna go to trial.” 

Blair cuts in, brushing between Burdock and me. 

“Between you and me, I don’t think they could find a peacekeeper who can read.” He grins and elbows my arm.

I stare down at the book like it is the most precious thing in the world, but the story of how it got back to me doesn't sit right. Sure, it might be nonsense. I can’t verify the information in the book against anything but my own memory, but nonsense that contradicts the Capitol’s narrative, surely, that would be prohibited. 

Unless it’s not real after all. 

Unless everything in this book is too far from the truth to matter. Unless I’ve already forgotten more than I thought. Everything in here must be nonsense. The book feels heavier in my hands, just like how strange my house did that first night back. 

“How long was I in there?” I ask, tucking the pages under my arm. 

“Two days,” Blair says. “The mine has been closed for three days now, two plus the funeral.” 

I nod, and it begins to make sense why I woke up feeling like I belonged to another world. 

“Did they say anything about if anyone got hurt?” I ask. 

A lump of coal settles in my empty stomach as I wait for someone to respond, but the silence holds. 

There is a pause, too long of a pause, before Asterid speaks up, “Cayson McCoy, Louella’s older brother. He’s alive, he’s just gotta take some time off from the mines to heal, but everyone’s taking time off.” Her voice is gentle. “He tried to grab the rifle before it hit you, and wherever the bullet came from, well, it caught him.” 

I can tell from her tone there’s something more. Burdock laces his fingers through hers. 

Do I add him to my list of casualties? He is alive, but I caused this, too, didn’t I? Without me, he would be at work. Everything would be normal. I decide to add his name. He could have died because of me. My promise grows heavier day by day. I nod and swallow thickly. 

Asterid pipes up again, “Haymitch, you should know. After they closed the mines, they brought in a lot of Peacekeepers. They’ve done up the square in more banners, and there’s stockades again. Hattie came by to tell me she’s closing down for the season. She knows we use her stuff for our shop sometimes.” She chews on her bottom lip, deciding whether to go on. “And people aren’t happy. With you, I mean. The Peacekeepers are telling everyone you’re the reason all of this is happening. They’ve started telling everyone you’ve gone mad.”

“Why?” I shake my head. “I’m not mad, am I? I told you all what happened in the Games. It wasn’t what they showed.”

I stop and turn to look at everyone around me when the silence greets me again like I’d invited it in. Sid has taken Ma’s hand, and she herself wears a grim expression. 

“You all don’t think I’m mad, do you?” I ask. 

As if I were burning their eyes like the sun itself, too blinding to behold, they all look away at once. 

“I’m not. You know that. Tell me you know that!” 

Silence, just as it was when I called Lenore Dove’s name, is the only answer. Nothing more. 

“You think I’m mad?” I repeat. “Answer me!” 

Asterid ducks behind Burdock, and Blair places a hand on my shoulder. 

“You’ve been through a lot, Haymitch,” he says calmly. “We believe you. We’ve been trying to compare our memories of the live Games, too, but we were worried about you. We didn’t focus on remembering back then. We just wanted to see you home safe, and if anything else were to happen to you, we didn’t want to remember it.”

My nails dig into my palms. Sweat trickles down Blair’s forehead, and his hand on my shoulder might blow away with a breeze. 

“You think I’m mad.” I grit my teeth, eyes wide. The heat of the sun presses against the back of my neck, “All of you! You think I’m mad! You think I’m making it up!” 

Burdock, his eyes still swollen from when I attacked him in the forest, begins to lead Asterid away by her shoulders. Ma tucks Sid further behind her. His hands grip the hem of her skirt, but he still peeks out at me, determined. 

“Haymitch,” he says through a trembling bottom lip, “Ma said you had to change to survive. Just like the mockingjays in the woods. I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re my brother.” 

I uncurl my fingers and look to the sky, vast and blue, always the same. I inhale through my nose and let the sun rays burn my eyes until I can’t bear it anymore.

“I’m telling you all the truth,” I whisper. “As much of my own truth as I can remember.” 

Sid lets go of Ma’s skirt and cautiously approaches me, kicking up little puffs of dust with every footfall. 

“You’re strong and smart, Haymitch, just like me. You said I was. So if I think you’re smart, and I’m smart like you said, then it’s true.” 

He reaches for my open hand. I don’t reach for him, but I let him take it. 

“We only know what they showed us,”  he says.

His small hand curls around my fingers with a grip as soft as Blair’s, and it dawns on me. I am mad in a feral way. 

Everything I have done since I have returned, beating up Burdock, jumping at noises, yelling at the air, forcing my way through the crowd, yelling, kicking, screaming. I am an animal, with claws and teeth and fur, just as the Capitol knew me. I am a beast. No longer a man. A mutt.

My head pounds. Light fractures in my eyes. Every time I cast a rod for a word, it comes up empty, and the bait, the question at hand, disappears, swallowed into the depth with my focus. 

I close my hand around my brother’s and lower my gaze to the ground. “I am,” I say weakly. “I am mad. This is my fault. Everything has been so far.”

Ma reaches out this time and gathers me into her arms. Sid folds himself in between us.

“Everything is going to feel that way at first,” she murmurs into my hair. “But the only thing we’ve got is our thoughts. No one really thinks you’re the reason behind all of this. They’re just listening to the loudest horn with something to say. Eventually, they’ll forget. They’ll move on. And we’ll be just fine. Until then, we’re here to remind you until you don’t need it anymore.”

“Thanks, Ma.” Her shirt smells freshly sun-dried, right off the line. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now, let’s get you home and out of these clothes. You’re sweating up a storm.” She kisses the top of my head, which is getting harder now that I’m taller than her, but I tilt my head so she can. 

A haze sits over the square as we cross through towards the Seam. The thick, coal dust infused air drapes over the freshly erected stockades standing starkly beneath two new banners of President Snow. 

The printed eyes bore into the back of my skull. I lower my eyes, unable to stomach the guilt. He knew this whole time what was waiting for me back here. He knew. 

A few miners jeer at me from the edge of town. 

“Where’s your book now, boy?” they holler. 

A few days of missing wages is enough to sour anyone to a cause. Blair starts toward them, and they fall quiet. Just a few days ago, I walked into town as a victor. Now, I am the most hated man in the district. 

I am the first to cross the threshold of my house. Burdock, Asterid, and Blair decide to head back into town in case any new whippings have occurred, and Ma and Sid follow me inside. 

Ma buckles the shutters over the windows, blocking out the sun, then double-checks the door lock. Darkness seeps into the corners of the house, shrinking the walls, pressing everything inward. In a few days, we will be in the Victors’ Village, and we will never have to worry about darkness again. There, I will keep the lights on until I die. 

I leave Lenore Dove’s ballad book on my dresser and crawl into my waiting bed, swaddling myself into the quilt, and tucking my head beneath the soft blanket. Ma leaves a tin cup of water on the table beside my bed, brushing her fingers across my forehead like I’m still small enough to be soothed.

Sid stays for a while, too, hovering at my doorway. 

“I’ll keep watch,” he whispers, and settles cross-legged beside the bed with a butter knife clutched like a sword. “Just in case those bad guys try to get you. They’ll have to go through me first.”

He glances once toward the shuttered windows, where starlight has begun to drip through the meager cracks. “I wish I could see the stars.”

“Me too,” I whisper. “Tomorrow. You can show me your stars tomorrow.”

When he dozes off, head resting against my bed frame, Ma lifts him into her arms and carries him off to sleep. The knife stays behind on my floor, waiting for him to return. 

No matter how deep I burrow, the visitors find me. 

Maysilee, Wyatt, and Louella arrive first. They hover over me and yell about how I am wrong, that I wasn’t with Lou Lou when she died after all. Maysilee screams that I should’ve helped her kill the Gamemakers, Wyatt’s apparition reaches for my throat, but disappears right before he can touch me. Silka comes next, blade in hand, stalking around my room with slow, deliberate steps, trying to get a final, fatal stab to finish the job. 

My room becomes the District Twelve train station, a terminal for the dead. Ghosts of everyone I’ve ever known pass through the portal of my doorway.

Chapter Text

Sleep swallows me quickly, the first time back in bed after days half-alive—like a low-oil lantern on the prison’s stone floor. The sweltering summer night presses down like a fist on my chest, drenching me in sweat and clinging suffocatingly over the Seam. 

Suddenly, a shrill, urgent ringing rips me from my dreamless sleep from down the long, dark hall. Panic, eyes wide, breath sharp, jerks me from my creaking bed. I leap before I can think. Bare-footed, I dart in the direction of the noise as sooted air escapes into my dry throat. I fly through the pitch-black house, determined to reach Wellie’s bell. This time, I won’t be too late. I will save her. 

I tear free from the quilt wrapped around my foot, trying to drag me back to my slumber, and I bolt to the bedroom door. I burst into the ghastly-lit, stifling kitchen. The air is thick and clings to my skin, shimmering like sun-struck pavement. A low haze curls near the ceiling, warping the edges of cabinets and moonlit windows. 

The sound flees out of the hazy backdoor and into the grid of the Seam, dancing past broken fences and leaping down the way. I charge after it, flying over the tangled web of dry grass cracking beneath my feet like kindling, scarcely allowing the bare soles to touch the ground before pushing off again. I sprint through the Seam and into the gloomy meadow, where I scramble under the warped fence, leaving everything behind without a glance. 

She must be deep in the thick woods. The ringing persists in the trees, jumping from branch to branch like a spooked bird. I race down the trail. My black mourning pants snag on briars and branches, clawing me back with stiff fingers, but I forge on. The tatters of my pants flick around my ankles as I run. 

“Wellie!” I scream. “I’m coming!” 

The noise pierces the dense wall of trees. “Wellie! Hold on!” Destruction follows in my wake. Broken branches litter the ground. Deer leap out of the way. Birds sprout from the tall trees, drenched in shadows and dripping the blackness to the ground. My feet carry me before my eyes know where to go. Dry branches, snapping under my pounding steps, never quell the ever-growing tone of the bell’s cry. 

The silvery fog permeates the dark trees, blinding me from seeing farther than a few feet. I cough it up and pull it back down with every desperate breath. 

Deep into the gray haze, something sways between two arching boughs, like a meadow flower in a spring breeze. I shoulder my way through a bush of aggressive burrs. 

No, not ringing. Not anymore. Not Wellie. Not her bell. 

Humming. Humming, now. Humming my girl’s ballad. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

“Lenore Dove!” I scream. I pump my burning legs faster. I leap over overgrown bushes and hurdle rocks standing in the path. No matter how fast I go, she is always just out of reach. The lake flies by without so much as a yawn. It is gone faster than the fire on a blown out candle. Nothing will stop me. Nothing can. I need to get to her. I need to get to my girl. I have to get to her. I press on. The branches around me crack like thunder through the black sky. 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

“Lenore Dove! Lenore Dove, come back to me!” I shout. My pleas fall on deaf ears. She does not return. She keeps going, running, farther, faster, as light footed as if the wind itself carries her stride. I have to be with her. Let me be with her. I can’t do this without her. I can’t. I can’t do this. I need her. I need her. I can’t.

Suddenly, she stops in a clearing up ahead, as still as flame right before it flickers, held steady as a drawn breath. Her voice spills through the forest, searing through the trees like smoke, drawing in the branches that bend down to the dry earth to hear her sing. Louder now, it radiates through the forest like sunbeams cutting through the haze.

I stumble toward her, my mourning shirt ripped to threads, my bloodied feet wrapped in a fabric of dirt from the dusty forest floor, stitched with bandages from the forest’s ruin. 

“Lenore Dove,” I choke out, “please—please!”

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

I reach for her, but my hand comes up empty. I reach again. “Lenore Dove, it’s me!” I sob, clawing at the mist. She moves with a quiet grace, brushing her hand over the bouquet of once-vibrant flowers, now wilted in the dry summer heat, and kneels to touch the downy edge of one of the goose feathers resting at her headstone. 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

“Lenore Dove, please!” I plead, collapsing to my knees next to her. I claw at the air, desperate to feel the weight of her hand in mine, the warmth of her sunny skin, the tangle of her curls between my fingers, anything that might draw her back to me. “Please!”

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

“Don’t leave me!” The mist dissolves in my hands as I reach for her, grab for my girl, “Lenore Dove, don’t go! Not again!” I lunge forward and wrap my arms around the air. My face slams against her headstone. Blood runs down my chin. I curl up on the bed of moss and tangle my fingers in its hair. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

I cry out her name until the mockingjays sing it back. I slam my hands over my ears. Blood spools down my wrists as I pound the flats of my hands against my skull. 

“Stop it!” The raw, agonized voice that rips from my lungs is not my own. It’s guttural. Ragged. It’s a monster’s. A man shattered. An animal’s.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

“Stop!” I shriek again, but the boulder has already been pushed, and nothing can stop it now. The birds echo her name back and forth to one another, “Lenore Dove, Lenore Dove!” they squawk over and over, taunting me like children in a schoolyard, like the ghosts around my bed every night.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

My fingers close around a stone. I hurl it into the flock. “Stop it!” I scream, scrabbling blindly for another, for anything to silence them. “Stop it! Stop!”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

They burst from the branch like a flock of storm clouds, swirling overhead. 

“Lenore Dove! Lenore Dove!” rains down in a furious torrent, whipping my ragged clothing around my aching body. I close my fingers around another rock and hurl it into the swirling vortex above. 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

It does nothing to deter them. They swoop lower, encasing me in a cloud of coal feathers. I press my arm against my eyes, shielding them from the storm around me. I leap to my feet and plow through the cloud, running blindly back down my path of destruction. 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

Blood flows in my wake like candle wax beneath a controlled flame, this time, pouring from my soles and face. My vision narrows, enshrouding me deeper in blinding darkness. I fall onto my swollen hands and battered knees as the squawking dives at my spinning head. The trees rage on, and the vortex swirls faster, butchering her name into a new word—Nevermore. 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

I curl into myself, holding my head in my shredded hands. Salted tears fall, mingling with the blood seeping from my legs. I slam my forehead into the ground, desperate to stop the spinning. Not real . I tell myself. Not real. She wasn’t there. This isn’t happening. 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

              She shall press, ah, nevermore!

A feather drifts down, landing softly upon the back of my hand. I swat it away and stagger to my feet, moving like a dead man stumbling through the burning hot maze. 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

The haze thickens as I reach the end of the labyrinthine woods. The air turns sour and heavy, tasting bitterly of scorched metal and ash. I yank the collar of my shirt over my nose and cough, the smoke clawing down my throat, burrowing deep into my chest. 

The shrill cries thin into echoes, hanging as dew on the mocking leaves. Then, the squawking hits a wall, strangled and abrupt, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. A flickering, low orange light replaces it, beckoning to me across the Seam. My girl’s orange. She's back. Calling me.

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there— is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

The acrid fog stings my watering eyes. I stumble blindly through the meadow, crashing into the fence and shaking the final remnants of squawking from the air. Ash embeds itself into the cracks of my raw feet, seeping into the wounds and climbing up my legs in dark tendrils.

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

I tumble into the Seam, coughing and retching, met only with the rising black column of smoke curling from down the row. My legs move before my mind can catch up, pounding the dirt beneath me in blind, frantic desperation. The ground quakes beneath me, or maybe it’s my knees, aching and buckling with every step, begging me to stop. But I do not. I cannot. I run toward the flames.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

And collapse at the door of my burning house.

Faces float around me, ghastly, pale, and flickering like visitors I have long forgotten, but their biting jabs reach me, sudden and shrill, like the birds in the forest.

“Why’d you do it, boy?” I hear. It is miles away, teeming with poison and dripping with knives.

“He’s crazy! That’s why!” They float around me, appearing only in sound. 

“Gone mad! You heard him at the burial!” I never raise my eyes. I never look up. There must be dozens, hundreds of eyes upon me.

“Get out of here, boy!” Pain bursts in my ribs, followed by a scuffling and more shouting. 

I feel my body, but I no longer know where it ends. The ash has bound itself to my skin. The voices fracture and splinter above me. Their words run together like a reaping day crowd. 

“Get back! He set it himself! Left them there to die!”

Before me blooms a bouquet of hungry, dancing flames. They lick at my bruised skin, as red as the coal dust sheen. I am welcomed into the heat. It calls to me so warmly, beckoning with the promise of peace, hand outstretched to receive me. I crawl toward it. 

Nothing is real. Ma. Sid. I will be with them soon. 

It welcomes me into the sterile heat, hands gentle and arms wide. All of my wrongs gone, burned away. All of my bad, gone to the blaze. Unfurled into the lofting curls of smoke, gone into the abyss. 

They will have to accept me into my girl’s world. I will be blank, erased, nothing. 

The fire draws closer to me, stretching over the cavern, bridging, welcoming me. Home.

“Haymitch!” a voice calls from behind. I do not turn. It is not real. 

The fire is loud, calling me closer, warm and wild.

“Haymitch!” I crawl closer. Something yanks on my legs. I pull back. The flames reach out again, desperate to greet me. I take their hand. It is warm, just as it promised. 

My quilt. My Ma’s arms. My girl’s voice. Let me die. 

Something heavy lands on my back. I fight beneath it, but nothing remains. There is no reason to struggle, nothing left. It drags me away from the fire. 

“Ma! Sid!” I scream, hollow, a shadow of what used to be stretched thin. “Ma! Sid!” 

They do not hear me. I know they do not. My voice is an echo of grief. I have nothing left. 

The flames draw back. I scream for them. The flames or my family, I do not know. Both of them. 

For all of my wrongs to be purged and all of my family to return. Everything to return to the day before my birthday. Before everything fell apart. Before I knew what it was like to lose.

The cruel promise of the fire burns wickedly now, the further it recedes. Someone slips something into my open mouth. I let it dribble down my chin. Sweet. Stewed plums. Sauce on the stove.

The fire darkens under my eyelids. Ma. Sid.

The world closes in, and death embraces me again.

Chapter Text

I awake on a stiff cot under a shelf of glass vials, the scent of herbs thick in the air— unable to mask the char clinging to my raw nose and throat. The sharp light pierces my eyelids only to fracture behind my eyes. I turn my head away, trying to wrestle free from the glare. Blackened branches still dangle from my tattered shirt and leaves have knotted themselves in my hair. The forest came back with me. My feet, swaddled in bandages, smear a crust of blood on the edge of the cot. I shut my eyes tighter, as if the reprieve from the light will wake me from this nightmare. The darkness holds no comfort. Only silence. 

No one familiar murmurs my name. The swirling birds in the rafters flew far away from the smoldering ash. I am finally, undeniably, alone. There is no weight of my quilt tucked around me, no longer pulled to my chin as Ma would do nightly. No rattle of pans from the stove, no squeal of the old cistern pump. No wind-carried scent of linens dripping dry in the sun. No crowing of my brother to wake me. 

I wake on my own, now, only to silence and smoke woven into the threadbare ruins of my mourning clothing. Silence keeps its distance. We are alone, the silence as my confidant, yet we sit apart with nothing to share. Everything is known and nothing has to be said. No echo of what I have lost. No visitors to remind me. They are gone. It is my fault.

The sleep syrup left me thick-tongued and hazy. Blisters fester on my hands from where I held the flames. 

Mrs. McCoy is the first to see me. Her face is pinched with her mouth set that tight way people do when they don’t know whether to speak or stand witness. I stare past her. There is no grief in my bones. I am numb. Burned, blistered, and numb. She speaks anyway. She tells me Ma and Sid are to be buried tonight. I nod. She mentions they found some mourning clothes from home in the ash. Something black, but intact. I nod again. 

She lingers at the edge of the cot with her hands folded in front of her. Her fingers tug at one another as if she might reach out and touch me, but she doesn’t. Her hands remain at her waist. She disappears out of the door, footsteps thumping on unfamiliar boards.

Moments pass, then minutes, hours. By then, I am not sure if she was even really here at all. 

I try to sit up, but my scorched body protests. Pain curls up my arms like smoke. I push through it. Pain is not real. Nothing is anymore. I swing my legs off of the cot and press my soles to the smooth wood grain under my soiled bandages. Dark smudges crawl up my shins, diffusing into welts at my knees. I remember the flames. I remember Sid’s words. I remember Ma.

No one returns to check on me. Perhaps Asterid had, or her parents, but the other side of the door rumbles with shouting for the rest of the day. The whipping post is active again. The warm months are the worst, but this time, it’s my fault.

Nothing has ever happened. Nothing is real. Everywhere I look has a strange, soft shimmer, like looking through the bottom of a dried out oil lamp. If I were to reach out, my hand would pass through it. The ash returns, thickening the haze in my mind. The fog from the Games never left. The Games. Nothing is real. 

I try to think back to the Games, but even the void in its place won't meet my eyes. The ash settles into my lungs and digs in its cinders. The visitors have left me. I have no one left to ask, no sponsors to impress, no character to play, no people to see. Nothing is real, no words, no sounds, no thoughts. Nothing has ever happened and everything has occurred at once. I reach for my book, but my fingers close around the air. It burned. It must have burned. My girl. Her book. My memory. She burned. All of it is gone.

All-fire.

Someone enters. I don’t hear them until they’re already beside me, unfolding a dark velvet suit. They dress me like a doll as I retreat into my mind. The void that welcomed me was not death. It was the same winking pool of ink that floated me as they extracted me from the arena. I remember dying. What came before death?

I float between graveyards, a wisp of who I was. They bury them together. Someone whispers they found them that way, Ma’s arms around Sid’s small body. It would be wrong to separate them, someone else says. Ma and Sid, I will not separate them either. 

I scrounge for a picture of my brother. My brave, determined, sweet brother, protecting Ma until the end. My flames. My fire. His grin when he told me the stories of the stars, the proud look in his eye when he would come home from school with higher marks than any other student. I come up with nothing, just impressions, shadows, feelings. My only hope lies in the graveyard of my room. When I return tonight, I will remember him as I do everyone else. He will visit me. 

But there is no room. There is no Sid, no Ma. No laundry line. No house. No quilt. No ballad book. No Lenore Dove. The only thing spared in the fire was the suit from under my bed. My blistered hands soak the coolness of the fibers as I stand limply at the edge of the grave. People speak around me until they don’t. The crowd thins after a speech or two. I stare numbly at the dirt. None of their words reach me, distilled out of my mind in vapors.

I have greeted death twice, and it has rejected me. I stood at the edge, begging to step over, but it refused me. It was not my time. Is it the promise? It must be the promise. That thin, invisible, unseverable thread. I cannot die until the games do. The cruel, unrelenting void turns me around at the portal to the next world and ushers me away from the ones I love. Loved. Can I love someone who is no longer here? The answer flees from my mind with my memory.

When the orange of the sinking sun begins to shade everything around me in deep shadows, the dark lines around the grave sharpen the edges of the patted down dirt. Burdock and Blair come to collect me from the graveyard. They stand next to me, arm’s length without touching. Maybe they’ve been watching me for some time, but I don’t turn to look. 

“They’ve got each other,” Burdock says quietly. 

I nod, wishing his words would come wrapped in the comfort he intended.

His tread, as soft as it is in the woods, slows to the crawl of my limp as he and Blair guide me from the graves. We walk past the charred remains of my house, more dust than ash. The shell of itself, a life without breath. He asks if I want to stay with him. I shake my head. Words have left me. Everything has left me. 

Blair offers too, his voice and eyes too cautious, too worried. I shake my head again. 

I rake the ash of my mind for words, anything, any words. “I need to be alone.” I mutter. I can tell they think it’s a bad idea, but they don’t press me. All I make are bad decisions. Ma and Sid would have been alive if I’d kept my mouth shut. So would Lenore Dove.

We limp into the Victors’ Village. They hover on the lawn of the well-lit house. I don’t wait. I push my way through the door and collapse against it, sealing myself in my tomb. I lock the door and limp through the too-quiet hall and into the too-still kitchen.

I drag myself to the counter, where a gift basket awaits my arrival, wrapped like a birthday present. My blistered skin bubbles into pained hissing as I rip it open. 

Mercy awaits me. A tall bottle of poison peaks at the shoulder of the basket, corked and slim at the neck. A present from Snow himself. An out. An out from my promise. I yank the cork off of the smooth red bottle and drink deeply, desperately, quickly, welcoming it as it coats my throat. I drink the deep red liquid until I need air, and I go back in to finish it off. The bottle slips from my hand with a clink, and I wait for it to take me. 

If it is not my hand, if it is not my doing, maybe it is finally my time. This is mercy. An out, a loophole. Grace given to me. I promised her I wouldn’t come before my time. Someone else has decided for me. That makes it my time. The poison from the arena, a gift on my counter, a lifeline. 

Within minutes, my head starts to spin. Good. Let it happen. The floor tilts under my feet. The walls shift, sliding away from me then closing in, swelling back and forth like lungs. When I reach for them, I find only air. I slam into the counter and wait for the poison to take me. A slow death, I assume, Snow must want a slow death for me after all. So long as it comes, I'll take it how it arrives. The ground starts to tilt under my feet. The walls shift beside me, and when I stumble for them, I slam into something else. I am part ghost already. 

My breath leaves me next, and red follows it. Blood. I lurch forward and vomit in the sink, throwing up everything I drank in a bitter, burning pool. Not thick like the blood from my hands and feet, but thinner, darker. I retch again and again. I throw up until I can’t anymore. I throw up until it’s all liquid, then until it runs clear. There is nothing left. There is nothing but blood. No, not blood. The poison. 

I stagger to the bottle, hoping for something left. Maybe I overdid it. My vision swims as I try to read the label with which my fingers fumble. Wine. Red wine. That’s all it ever was. Of course. 

The bottle explodes against the window pane. I scream like a hunter-trapped animal, raw, rabid and primal. It bounces against the walls, throwing itself back at me as I slam my fist into the counter until it splits open again. The remaining smoke in my lungs vacates in curling, rising rage. I come apart with the curtains in my hands. I grab a chair and hurl it, splintering into the wall. I collapse into the floor, the impact stealing the last of my wind, cold tile chilling my blistered skin. I throw up again, retching until I cough. Choking on my own breath, biled drool dribbling down my chin, my body purges more than I drank.

I curl as I did against the poison from the river. Eventually, sleep suffocates me, like a hand over my face, crushing my skull and sinking me into oblivion. 

I wake the next day to a knock at my door. Thrown up wine had crusted to my face and neck. I stagger blindly to the door, my pounding head begging to return to the flat floor. I yank it open and stare down who awaits on the other side, but there is no one. Just the evening air wafting over my porch, pulling away the faintest scent of a visitor departed, no face to greet the feral man. Another basket with an envelope. I scoop the envelope into my hands and rip it open. Coins clatter across the stoop, rolling to a stop on the edge of the stairs. I scoop them into the basket with stiff fingers and bring them inside. 

Maybe one day, he will release me into the void through poison after all. I slam my door shut and yank open the new bottle. White liquor, this time. Red nowhere to be seen. He knows I got the message. I leave it on the counter and go to wash the vomit down the drain.

The bathroom is large and cold. In the corner sits a deep bathtub, and the lights turn on at the flick of the switch. I leave them off, trying to spare my pounding head from any more light. I draw the curtains shut and go to undress. When my hands find the velvet collar of the charred suit, I freeze. This suit. I remember this suit. The feeling of the velvet, the vest of cocktail glasses beneath. The suit from the interview. I strip it off and launch it at the window with a shout. They have taken everything from me, down to my last stitch of clothing. The suit lands in a head under the window, finding the only sliver of sunlight in the room. 

I collapse on the side of the tub, tucking my head over my hands as I wait for the water to warm. The steam seeps into my pores, and for once, I can feel the tension in my shoulder leaching out into the air. My fingers skim the top of the pooling water until it is warm enough. 

I sink in the tub, staring at the ceiling for hours. Hours pass and I must drift off again, because when I wake, the water is frigid and the sun has disappeared from the window. I pull myself out of the tub, but I do not bother to dry off. A trail of droplets follow behind me as my only company as I walk out of the bathroom and down the hall. 

The carpet muffles my steps, and for a moment, I think about Burdock’s velvet tread. The fresh silver of the moonlight permeates the hall from an open door, and I follow it to the bedroom. I collapse onto the bed, but I know sleep will not find me unless I force it. I claw my way out of the large nest and yank open a dresser drawer. I tug on the first clothing I see- a soft gray pair of cotton pants and a loose fitting t-shirt. 

I don’t bother to replace the bandages on my feet or hands. Instead, I find my way downstairs to the kitchen again and uncork the white liquor from earlier. It burns as it goes down, but sleep won’t come without it. 

Despite the velvet carpet, the hallow halls echo with each clink of the bottle. The walls are bare, no pictures, only the silver light of the moon on the gray Capitol paint. I have no visitors, alive or dead. I stumble outside into the fresh air. The sound echoes less out here. Vines creep around the handrails of the stairs, clutching the iron as they beckon me down the steps. I don’t touch them. I leave the vines as they are, hands tightly wrapped around the neck of the bottle. I start towards the graveyard. I will visit them, keep them the company that they have not returned. 

Dust clings to my slippers as I shuffle toward the square. It is late, but I can hear the Hob bustling with people still finding the bottom of the bottle. I shuffle slower, considering journeying inside, finding company in people who can speak back to me. Maybe seeing someone would scrape the film off my mind. No. Nothing will help. Anyone I know dies. I am a curse of death, a beast with claws, a jackass hated. The reason for the whippings, the reason for the deaths. I leave the voices behind me.

I continue past the Hob and into the squeaking gate of the graveyard, bottle half empty now. It sloshes against the side, but I cover the lip with my thumb. I need every drop. My knees find the ground next to Ma and Sid’s grave, and I tangle my fingers in the grass next to their limestone headstone, but just as the blades of grass, I, too, cannot bring myself to cross the shadowed boundary of the still-freshly turned dirt. The cool ground seeps into my bones, and I lift the bottle to my lips with shaking hands. My fault. All my fault. 

“I figured you’d end up here, or the one in the woods,” a voice calls from the gate.

I don’t lift my head.

“Knew you’d be back. Most arsonists feel bad eventually. We’ve had a few in my time.”

I blink through the fog in my head, “Arsonists?” 

“Don’t play dumb, boy. Those Games fucked with your head.” The night clings to the shifting shadow-figure at the gate. “They fuck with everyone’s head. You set the fire. She ran. And Lenore Dove sang.”

I push myself up, but the ground begins to tilt like last night, and I fall back to my knees. “I didn’t set the fire.” I stammer, “Who ran?” Every word rips at my throat, so I chase it with another swig.

The figure motions to the woods, then reaches for the gate. The emptied bottle lands in the grass. “Everyone’s gone now,” he says. As he steps through the gate, shimmering moonlight catches his face. Clerk Carmine, the man who only ever wanted to protect the girl I got killed. I wouldn’t blame him if he came here to kill me in return. 

I sway on unsteady legs, eyes blurry. “I didn’t set the fire. Who said I set the fire?” I slur, pleading. 

“It's all over the Hob,” he insists, lingering at the gate. Together, he and I, fenced in with the dead.

“It wasn’t me, I was with, I-” I shake my head, “She called me to the woods that night. I didn’t know. I didn’t know my house was on fire until I came back.” The ground rises. I catch myself on a cold headstone. 

Clerk Carmine steps closer, and the sliver of moonlight returns to carve grief into the lines of his face. “I remember what the Games do to people, to their heads.” His softened tone stings like salt.

“But I didn’t. I didn’t do that, I didn’t,” My voice cracks as my stomach presses hard up against my lungs. The ground bubbles beneath my slippers.

“You set it and ran, Haymitch. They’re convinced of it. Everyone knows.” 

“It wasn't me!” I shout, wrenching my frigid fingers from the headstone. I stagger forward, my fist raised beneath his chin. “I didn’t set no fire! I didn’t burn Ma and Sid and run off like some, some, jackass!”

Clerk Carmine doesn’t back down, “We saw what happened in the Games, Haymitch. You set plans up and leave others to die. We watched that booker kid die, thinking you were gonna be allies. We saw that kid from Three. We saw you leave Maysliee. And Lenore Dove-”

“I did not!” I scream. My words rattle the mockingjays awake in the trees above. “I didn’t let her die! They killed her! The Capitol set the fire! It wasn’t me!”

“They were gonna let her out,” he bites, voice tight, “until you opened your damn mouth. Tam Amber and I fought to get her free again. She was so close. Until they found that law about the music. They didn’t care until you started bragging about selling to the commander. Next thing we knew, new charges hit her.” He dips his chin, pushing his tongue against the back of his lips. His throat contracts, swallowing down, “You set things on fire and ran.” 

“No, no I, that’s not,” I stammer. I lower my fist, but my claws still burrow into my palm. His words slice through my drunkenness, burning the fog away like a spark under dry leaves. He’s right. Standing here, above my mother and brother’s grave, with silence as my defense. I set fires and run. 

“I didn’t think about it. I didn’t know. Not until,” my words flee with my memory again. Everything about the Games sifts through my hands like shards that don’t quite fit together. When did I know she was locked up? When did she call me? Before the interviews? Did I know? Did I do it on purpose? No, I would never risk that. I would never risk her. But I did. Whether I meant to or not. Whether I used that force field to kill Silka or not. I did, and these are the seeds I have sewn. 

“Just go. Get out of here. Don’t come to the meadow anymore. You’ve set enough fires.” 

I try to catch his eye, but the shadows have returned, and the alcohol has wafted back in with the wind. I know I should apologize, but I can’t. There’s nothing left, no words, everything and everyone is gone. I have burned everything down to ashes with just my words. 

Rascal. Jackass. Arsonist. Beast.

Flames lap at my burned hands, my own flames, the fires I’ve set and run. I stumble out of the graveyard, Ma and Sid behind me forever. I find my way past the jeering voices of the Hob and into the Village, the ghosts following and blowing on the flame. I collapse on the stoop of my vacant house and crawl inside to burn alone. 

Chapter Text

I am a curse. Death follows those I dared once to love. I swear I will never love again. I drive away anyone who dares to be dear to me.

I drink for days on end, eating only when my body, rebelling against the poison, forces me to, and then, only eating so I can drink again. Days bleed into nights until they melt into one colorless haze. Blair taps at my window some evenings, his voice cracking with grief as he begs to be let in. He yells through the window that he loves me and the waiver in his voice tells me he’s sobbing. He stops coming when I never answer. 

Snow’s message is unmistakable. It is carved into the epitaphs of the hastily buried dead: I will never get to love anyone ever again. Nevermore. He will see to it they end up dying a miserable death. 

I turn to the television as my only company, bound to live by the stupid, foolish promise made with trembling lips. I come to despise that promise. I hate it. I am only one man. I am not a symbol. I am not a hero. I am a jackass. A beast. An arsonist. I cannot end the games. 

Still, I live. Death ever fleeing, taunting me with its open arms. Not yet. Not until I can guarantee no one suffers the way I do.

I drown myself again and again until the greased rope of time slips through my hands and my memory draws back from my mind, like the film skimmed from boiled milk.

Eventually Burdock arrives with Asterid. Word must have gotten to him, because he yells through the door about how he doesn’t believe everyone. That I wouldn’t do such a thing. I don’t answer until he nearly splinters the frame. When I finally yank it open, I smash a bottle against the threshold. The glass explodes, and Asterid, poor, perfect Asterid, gets the worst of it. A shard digs itself in above her eye and blood pours down her face. Burdock never returns.

Each time a memory claws its way upward, I drown it in the bottles I find hidden away in the cupboards, each tagged with my name. The memories, too, stop returning. Nothing real happened in the Games. Any memory burns the way a tree does, leaves and branches first, but never the full stump. I know only that I was there, and even that does not feel real some nights. I crave the quiet the bottle brings.

Every week, a peacekeeper slides an envelope of money under my door as my stipend for winning the games. Every week, I pour the coins into a jar and watch my liquor fund grow. When the hidden bottles finally run dry, I begin to venture to the Hob. I return home with arms full of glass.

One night, in a drunken bout, when the trees had long since shed their leaves, I woke half-naked behind the bakery. Silently, the district slumbered around me. Grass threaded through my hair. Above, the stars scowled down onto the pale scar carved across my bare abdomen.

I turned my face to the sky, warmed with liquor, and tried to pick out the constellations until Sid’s voice rang in my ears, “There’s the water dipper, just like ours in the bucket. That over there’s the bowhunter. He looks like Burdock, don’t you think? That one’s a swan, but Lenore Dove says she calls it a goose.” His bright laughter followed, as prime as if I’d heard it just behind me. “And that’s yours, Ma. See the W? That’s yours.”

I lifted my head to find him. His name tumbled from my lips before I could stop it. I must’ve scared his ghost away, because no one was there. Only the stars stayed, cold and indifferent, shining like fresh coins at the bottom of the jar. I am alone again.

Whenever I run dry, I creep to the Hob again. I toss handfuls of money onto Bascom Pie’s counter and drink until the world blurs. He sends me home with a box of half a dozen more. I repeat this daily. 

My house becomes a war zone. My hands start to shake if I go too long without a bottle. Perhaps this is what Snow wanted. A poison I can’t live without. I drink until I pass out. The television stays on. It flickers on the walls like flames.

I haunt the halls of my house for months. When I appear in the Hob, people still turn away. To them, I am an arsonist, and the drinks only make me more flammable. 

It must be apple season when someone finally dares to speak to me again. The air has cooled and the nights stretch longer, pulling the shadows across the district like drawn shutters. People huddle indoors, in the Hob or their homes. The dirt paths between the meadow and the village lie empty, save for the daily wave of miners. 

He approached me with coal dust above his brow and caked under his nails. I buried my nose in my bottle and gripped the counter. How long has it been since I’ve spoken to anyone? When my heart starts to race, I know the answer is too long. I dull it with another drink. 

“No one’s seen you around anymore,” the man begins.

I don’t answer. I smother my thoughts with another swig. 

“Where are you living now? Up in that Village? Big houses?” He slides onto the stool beside me and waves Bascom Pie over for a bottle. 

I shoot him a glare from the side of my eye, but I hold my tongue. 

“Got all that electricity up there, don’t you?” he mutters, yanking the bottle from Bascom Pie’s hand and tossing it back. “Heat, light, water. Never gotta set a foot in the mines.”

“You wouldn’t last a second in the Games.” The words spill out of me before I can stop them. My mind is boiling and every thought in my head threatens to flood out of me.

He laughs, and I pretend the neck of the bottle is his own. My chapped knuckles pale from my tightening grip. 

“You don’t know a damn thing,” I mutter.

“I know you left those kids. Wyatt didn’t. I knew your father. Worked with him for a while. Until he set that fire and killed most of my crew. Abernathys and their fires, huh?” That same bitter laugh follows. 

Through the haze of the drink and the thicker fog of my memory, under the silver light of the stars I see the same wrinkled eyes from the funeral months ago. Wyatt’s friend. His mentor. Old enough to know my father.

“You don’t know he set that fire.” I bite back. I drown myself in the rest of my bottle and slam another handful of coins on the counter for another.

“Does it matter? Fire’s out, he’s gone. Ain’t been one like it since. He used to talk just like you. Yellin’ all kinds of things. Got him a spot in the ground. Surprised you didn’t follow after what you did.” His stiff, wrinkled fingers wrap around the end of the bottle as he eyes me, waiting, watching for a response. I don’t give him one.

No matter how much I ignore him, he won’t take silence for an answer. 

“I remember the reaping,” he says. “I didn’t bet any money on it, but I know a few folks who did. So I turned up. I watched you and that girl. Saw that Chance kid take off, too.” 

My silence seems to encourage him, because he leaves his bottle on the counter and turns to face me fully, squinting through his wrinkled eyes. 

“Go on, boy, speak. Can tell you want to.”

I rip the cork from the new bottle with my teeth and spit it next to the pile of coins. 

“Weird how you abandoned them kids when you’d’ve laid your life down for someone right here.” 

My blood burns like the liquor, simmering through my veins and pooling in my mind. “I’d’ve died for any one of them. You don’t know me. You don’t know shit about me.” I grumble. Words rush through my blood-pounding head, but none of them make sense. My memories work against me. They have split into fragments, and I can’t find the right ones to prove him wrong. They may no longer exist. Maybe I did leave them. Why did I leave them?

“I know you sold Hattie down the river. She had to shut down for a week after that interview of yours. You know what that does to a district of miners?” He leans closer. His sour breath grazes my face. “I know there’s been more whippings. Less scrip. More starving kids. Bodies.” 

I meet his eyes and set my jaw. “I said what I had to,” I hiss. “You don’t know a thing about me.” 

“I know there’s more peacekeepers now than there’ll be snow this winter. And whose fault is that?” 

What I do next, I’m not proud of, but the only words I have left come in the form of a fist. I slam my fist into his jaw and crack the bottle over his temple. The blood’s what sets me off the most, bright and slick and more real than anything I have seen in months. 

People start closing in around me, shouting all kinds of things, most of all, jackass . I shoulder my way through the mob, push past their cries, and sprint out of the Hob. I set the fire and ran from the blaze again. 

Every phrase flung my direction drags behind me like a rope on the walk home, tied to my belt loop and clanking together like the coins in my pockets. Jackass. Beast. Mad. And I have nothing left but to nod along. Woodbine Chance was a rascal. I’ve gone and outdone him, now. Burned hotter. Fell farther. I’ve landed right into exile. 

I slam the door of my empty house behind me and turn the lights off. I deserve the dark. 

Sleep only comes when I can’t stand up anymore. I collapse into my bed, bottle in hand, and let the fog drape over me as my blanket.

The ghosts return that night, as if they had been waiting for the liquor to loosen the latch of the door. Panache steps from the shadows and returns the punch I gave in the Hob. Silka looms over his shoulder, and I can’t take it. I fling my bottle at her, but it careens into the wall, sailing right through her. She screams about how the crown is hers. I wish I could give it to her and be done. 

My girl visits next, face twisted in scorn. Be smarter about this , she tells me. But her speech is garbled and in the haze, and her hair looks like the snake Lou Lou held. I lie petrified. 

I wake in a cold sweat and fling the covers from my body. I stumble over the wreckage of my furniture, slivers burrow into my soles. I swim through the fog, clawing my way away from the voices screaming from my room. I reach for a new bottle, but the glint of moonlight on the blade of a knife catches my eye. I wrap my stiff fingers around the handle and charge back to my room, slashing at the ghosts lingering around me. The blade finds anything it can. The curtain ends in tatters, the bedding tears in shreds, and the wallpaper peels like bark. I collapse on the fluff of the torn mattress, knife in hand, and bury my head beneath the pile of feathers harvested from the confines of the pillow. The knife stays with me. 

The knife returns night after night, just as the visitors do. I leave the lights off and the television on. I shut myself in my house until the bottles run dry, and I keep my trips to the Hob brief with my hood pulled low. I was already on rough footing when everyone believed I’d burned my home, and after the fight, even Bascom Pie seemed hesitant to serve me. To them, I’m a match about to strike. I pay him double, and it’s enough to calm him down. He even throws in an extra bottle. I walk home with seven. 

When the nights turn cold and the first frost covers the ground, I get my first real visitor. She glides into the room with the gall of someone who has never been told no. The bubbly lady from the Capitol, the first to retrieve me and the last to leave me, narrowly dodges the slashing from my empty hand when she rouses me from my slumber. My knife dangles from her fingertips like a dirty rag. I remember her vaguely, but her greeting hasn’t changed. 

“It’s a big, big, big day!” She chimes, and I have to sit on my hands to stop myself from reaching for her neck. 

She tiptoes over the wasteland I never bothered to clean. “Well, you’ve been busy!” She plasters a too-thick smile to her face. 

The light digs into my eyes, so I pull the covers back over my head without responding. She tears them off like they belong to her. 

“So sorry to hear about all that has happened, but today is the day! The Victory Tour! Oh, how exciting!” 

I burrow deeper beneath the remnants of my pillow. 

“No, this won't do. We have a responsibility, you know. One to honor the Games. We must carry on.” 

Her Capitol accent is thicker after months of being back in Twelve, even if I haven’t spoken to anyone. It grates on my ears and my hangover clings to it like mold. She pulls the pillow from my head and shoves a mug of coffee into my hands. It’s less bitter now after months of rotgut. I sip from the steaming mug and take in the knowledge that this is going to happen whether I want it or not. Today, I will get on the train and begin my tour of all of the districts of the forty-seven dead kids, forty-nine if I include Lou Lou and Woodbine. I do. 

Effie draws a bath. I can see in the way her eyes lose their hope that the state of my bathroom has done something to her. I stare blankly back at her with eyes like stone. I allow her to take me to the tub like I’m being led to a trough.

The heat takes me in slow. I close my eyes and, for the first time in a long time, think about Ma’s arms, a thought I haven’t returned to since she passed. A thought I’d locked outside of this Capitol prison. I don’t know why it comes now, the morning of the Victory Tour. Maybe it’s the water, maybe it’s the silence. Maybe the fact things happen, time passes, and I’ve run out of other things to feel.

The door bursts open. Vitus and Proserpina burst through the bathroom door with a suit on a hanger like it’s a body. The hair on the back of my neck bristles and air rushes from my lungs. I flick my eyes over to the window. There, in the corner, I see the crumpled suit from all of those months ago taunting me like a ghost. I tell myself I’ll burn it. I’ll burn it for good. But I already know I will forget, just like I had for so many months.

They towel me off and scrape me clean. Their tools glitter with gels and chemicals. I don’t ask. By the time they’ve dusted their hands, I’m hairless, the coal dust is gone from my trimmed nails, and a stiff suit decorates me in a paisley pattern. I want to burn it, and me with it.

“That’s about the best we can do here.” Proserpina chews her lip, looking to her sister like she’s hoping for a nod of approval.

Vitus chimes in, holding his hands out as if he’s about to give one of those Capitol apologies that don’t mean anything, “But once we get closer to the Capitol, we’ll be able to find more to help with, um, everything else.”

I look down at my hands and arms. The blisters from the flames all of those months ago faded into nothing. I was convinced they would leave a scar, but it seems the only one I’m allowed to have is the one on my abdomen. I wanted there to be scars. I lower my hands to my sides. 

“When are we going?” I ask. 

“As soon as you say your goodbyes.” Effie smiles like she’s been wound up with a key and opens the door to the bathroom to usher us down the hall and outside. 

“Done. Let’s go.” I grunt. On the way out, I slip a half-empty flask into the inside pocket of my jacket. A souvenir.

“That’s it? No one to say bye to?” Proserpina asks, eyes round like she thinks people in the district throw goodbye parties.

“No.” I brush past her. I know the way to the station, and I don’t care to answer any more questions. I don’t need to explain myself to someone who thinks loss is something you can wear out like a pair of shoes. 

“Oh, Haymitch!” Effie’s voice clatters like wind chimes in a storm, “We have a car!” 

I turn. The car waits behind her, all shine and Capitol chrome. Too new to belong here. I turn on my heels and head back the direction I came without words. I sit beside the two university students, and Effie takes a seat in the front next to an avox driver. 

The ride draws eyes from the miners on the way to work. No one uses the road unless it’s Capitol work, and coming from the Village, they must know it’s for me. I don’t bother to duck my head. They jeer until they forget, and then they continue on toward the mines. I am not yet welcome back at the Hob.  

Meanwhile, the three in the car chatter idly around me. Their words buzz like flies. They speak of the different stops and how excited they are to return to the Capitol for the crudites and seafood-based amuse-bouches, fancy words for wasteful food. I stare through the windshield.

“I can’t believe people live like this,” clucks Proserpina. “Don’t you have people to fix this?”

Vitus nods along. “I haven’t felt safe since the train stopped. Everyone stares at us.”

“I bet you’re glad to leave, Haymitch. This place is depressing.” Effie’s fine metal bracelets clink together with the bumps of the road. From behind, her cheeks look swollen. One bigger than the other. It twitches when she smiles.

“I really don’t like it here. I’ve heard they eat people out here. Is that true, Haymitch?”

“I heard in the war times they ate people in the districts,” Proserpina agrees. “Do you still do it?”

“Where do you get your hair gel?” Vitus peppers me with more questions like a tourist in a graveyard, asking the headstones for directions. Neither the headstones nor I respond. “And your food? Clothing?”

His hands sit on his lap, folded over thick, unmarred pants. Not a scar or a snag in sight. Pale and soft and useless. I wonder if they’d split open if you touched them with coal. Probably bleed roses. Probably never had to drag a dying body or dig a grave. Never had to carry anyone screaming, dying. 

They laugh like people who’ve never been hunted. Every giggle’s another tribute buried. They do nothing, and nothing is how all this happens. They watch. They laugh. They work. The Games exist because of people just like them. They don’t pull the trigger of the gun. They fund the bullets and cheer when it fires. 

“I didn’t see a single fabric store! No wonder Reaping Day is so drab. You’re lucky we prettied you up nicely. Got you sponsors. Oh, that blonde girl, she was so pretty! What was her name again?”

“Macy!”

“No, Mara.”

“No, it was Macy!”

I slam my hands over my ears and squeeze closer to the door. They talk about hunger while they chew their words with perfect teeth, fed by things they’ll never have to earn. Mouths full of cake and teeth as white as Capitol marble. I want to punch them in the mouth just to see something real.

The car jerks to a stop at the train station. Vitus nudges my arm. “Ready?” he asks. 

I slip out of the car without answering. 

This time, the train is different. Instead of the rough one that dropped me back off here, it is shiny and sleek. On the platform stands the last person I want to see, but apparently he wants to see me, because his smile is as wide as his camera lens. 

“I see Effie found you. Drusilla couldn’t make the trip after her tumble down an escalator, and Magno was fired for negligence. I pitched Effie last minute and they jumped on the idea. She was excited.”

I shoulder past him, but he’s never one to take a hint, so I toss a “How are you here. Plutarch?” At him, hoping it will distract him into another one of his overzealous questioning fits. I’ll slip away when he starts asking the meaning of life and why we don’t rebel. Because it doesn’t work , I plan to answer. 

Instead, he shrugs and says, “I’m here to record your victory tour. It’s in my contract.”

I glance at him over my shoulder, and I guess my face has thinned skeletally, because he startles when our eyes meet and hollers to his assistant, “Tibby! Make sandwiches for lunch!”

I don’t know what shocks him more, my face or the fact I’m still alive to wear it.

Luckily, Tibby doesn’t seem to hear him, so he bustles off with his equipment in tow, and I get to explore the rest of the train. 

Left to my own devices, I pry open the next compartment and work my way through every bar cart I can find. They hold fancy bottles with stained glass and labels in cursive I can’t read without squinting. It doesn’t matter. It all burns the same. 

After the third cart, my eyes refuse to focus and my thoughts slow right on down, just the way I like them. I refill my flask with Capitol-rich pours and slide it back into my suit pocket. 

The train is full of dove-gray. Just like the booze, it was made for me. I catch my reflection in the window: slumped, half-buttoned, stubble-grown. Eyes like dried out cisterns. I toast to him.

Effie finds me hours later face down and naked on a dove-colored velvet couch.  

“Get up!” she hisses, as if shame still works on me.

She tries to keep me sober for the rest of the ride to District Eleven. She scowls at me when I take spirits with my dinner, and she orders the avoxes to lock up the bar carts. 

“You’re killing yourself,” she tells me one night. Like that wasn’t the whole point.

When she’s not looking, I slip the avoxes a coin and they unlock the cart. They never keep the coin. Every time I come back to my room, it’s waiting for me. It sits there, smug, like it knows the rules better than I do. 

One time, I whispered, “Keep it.” The next day, it was on my dresser again. Shined.

It doesn’t hit me until I’m face down in a puddle of vomit that accepting bribes could get them killed. Still, I keep slipping coins into their hands. Still, they let me in. Still, the coin returns. Like a token to get into an arena.

Chapter Text

The first stop comes quickly, or maybe slowly, but time means nothing when you’ve got no life ahead of you. Free time is all I have. No laundry, no chores, no job. So I drink my time away until we reach District Eleven. 

Effie, Proserpina, and Vitus wrestle me back into the suit. 

“We got one of our best avoxes to wash the vomit out. If only she could tell us how she does it.” Vitus says, as chatty as ever. 

I clench my fist and remind myself not to deck him, but his comment sets my blood boiling again. I’m not sure why. I’m not an avox. They’re traitors to the Capitol with carved-up tongues. I’m a traitor, too, only I got to keep my tongue. Maybe that’s it. The Capitol didn’t take my tongue, but any time I speak, someone dies. 

Lenore Dove used to say she wanted to grow up and speak her mind no matter what. Now she’ll never grow up, and she died trying to do just that. Maybe that’s why I feel bad for them. I decide to slip them a coin more discreetly. Maybe they know where the cameras are. Maybe I’ll leave one under an empty bottle. I leave enough of those strewn around.

By the time they march me out onto the stage in front of everyone in District Eleven, it becomes clear just how little money would do for an avox. Sweaty and lightheaded in the scratchy suit, I murmur through the cards Effie handed me, reading them as best I can through the haze and the glare of the sun. It never snows in District Eleven, I hear, and the sun this afternoon is a sure sign of it. I’m careful to stick to the cards. The president has made it clear anything I say will be used against me, so I become what they make me: a mouthpiece for the Capitol.

The words they make me say mean nothing. If I could, I would yell about how Snow took everything from me. I have the stage. I have the attention. I have the cameras. But my throat closes up, leaving me no choice but to stick to their carefully written words.

They’ve got nothing left to take from me but my promise, so I cling to it with white-knuckles as I grip the cards in my hand. I comply, even as my eyes sweep the crowd on my last sentence. I comply when my eyes meet Chicory’s siblings, the smallest of whom has Sid’s dimples. I comply as I see Tile’s folks hold each other at the edge of the row. I even comply when Hull’s father stares up at me. He died trying to save his friends . I want to shout. I tried to save him. He deserved to live, too. We all did. But what would it do? So I stay quiet and read my cards.

 I am a victor. A mouthpiece. A puppet. A plaything. 

I find the family of the other girl, Blossom, and I barely remember to check for Lou Lou’s kin before the peacekeepers pull me off stage. I come up empty. 

The party begins once I’m back inside. Eleven is just like Twelve. They don’t have much but a small party in the Justice Building. I drink them dry, and when my head starts to fog, I double down with the flask in my jacket. I hear Effie off to the side protesting about manners, but it only makes me drink faster.

They find more alcohol somewhere and it flows thick until the crowd thins and the building starts to empty. Plutarch sneaks up behind me, and, thinking he’s here to escort me back to the train, I get to my feet and let him take me by the arm. I can’t walk on my own. By now, he’s used to it. 

“Respite and nepenthe,” I grin as he drags me along. I swipe a bottle off of a table, sending dishes crashing to the floor, and start to drink. It all goes down the same now. The labels blur like names in a eulogy. After the second flight of stairs, it hit me.

“The train’s behind us, card-stacker.” I trip over my feet thinking about turning around, but he yanks me up the rest of the steps into a dusty attic. 

He rips the bottle from my hand. I swing at him. He dodges. It surprises me more than it should, and I slump against the wall. 

“Train’s not here.” I mutter, already turning toward the hatch. 

“Listen. Listen to me, are you listening?” 

His tone barely cuts through to me, but his eyes snap me out of it. I’ve only seen that look once before—when I shattered that bottle on the threshold months ago. Burdock’s eyes. Asterid’s scream. I blink. 

“Hm?”

“We don’t have long. This attic is the only place in the Justice Building that isn’t bugged.” He speaks low and fast, and I struggle to keep up. 

I glance around the old dome and come up empty of any cameras. The dust is as close as District Eleven gets to snow, and it’s just as thick as the frozen blanket I left behind days ago. He’s right, no one has been up here in years. Still, the thought of climbing down all of those stairs turns my stomach and I can’t help but wonder why we didn’t just go outside.  

“Are they dead?” I ask. “Mags, Wiress, Beetee? Is that why we’re up here? Are you afraid of ending up like me?” 

The bottle hangs limply in his hand. “They’re alive,” he says. The shadows of the darkened attic crawl across his face. “All of them. Too valuable to kill. Too many eyes.”

“Death’s too quick for Snow.” I chuckle. He doesn’t. I shut up. “Thought Beetee would’ve killed himself.”

“He can’t. His wife’s pregnant.” He responds, and after a moment, follows it grimly with, “And he wouldn’t let Ampert down like that.”

Ampert . The ball in my stomach continues to unravel. I’ve been drowning myself in the bottle every night and forgetting as much as I can. But I can remember Ampert. I can hear his voice. I remember his lopsided smile, one of the last I have ever seen. The hug when we met back up. He believed in me. He had faith in trying to do something. Anything. 

Louella was spunky, but Ampert was determined. I’ve let both of them down.

“So what?” I snap. “He’s gonna overthrow the Capitol? Guess he’s got a new kid for them to throw in. Why not?” 

I hate myself for saying it, but the words spill out of me. Deep down, I know it’s true, too. Beetee, a grieving father, willing to do what it takes to bring down the Capitol. His new kid’s as good as reaped the moment they’re born. Snow might even make an exception. The first newborn tribute ever. My thoughts spiral. 

I lunge for the bottle. 

He yanks it away. 

“Listen to me. Listen again. Focus.” He grips my arm. Months of drinking have weakened me, so I stand trapped, listening. “We failed, alright? We were too hasty. I don’t like admitting it, but you were right. We didn’t forget. We were watching in the control room. Don’t think we weren’t. We remember what happened right after. The flickering, the generator, we saw. But we have to try again. We’re regrouping.” 

He grips my arm tighter when I reach for the bottle again. “We need you, alright? You showed promise in the arena. We let you down. You went farther than anyone ever has. We need people like you.”

“Me?” I squint, still unable to see straight. “No. You don’t want me. I failed. I’ve got a target on my back for the rest of my life. You don’t want me. I tried. I failed. It’s over.” 

I don’t want him. I don’t want anyone from the Capitol. They spun hope out of desperate lies, and I fell for it. I will never trust them. Never again. 

“We do want you. We need you.” He leans closer, lowering his voice again, “Haymitch, you have a target because you made them pay attention. You shook them up.” 

“Yeah, and everyone I love is dead because of it.”

“But don’t you see? That’s why. You did something dangerously powerful. You sank the brain of the arena. We were closer than we’d ever been before.” 

Rage clears the fog. “So they mean nothing to you? My family, burned to ash. My girl, hung in the gallows? Ampert, ripped to pieces. All for what? To fail again and again until we’re no longer important enough to keep alive? Tortured but always alive, just within an inch of our lives?” 

“They mean everything.” He doesn’t flinch. “One day, they’ll be martyrs. We remember them. And we keep going, even if the Capitol doesn’t want us to. Beetee, for his family. Mags and Wiress for the hope that someday, one day, the Games won’t exist. Living is rebellion, Haymitch. Don’t you have something to keep you going?”

My gut says no. I have earned the right to give up. But I’m still here, just as they are. No matter how many nights I lie awake begging for death to close in, it won’t, and I know it’s that damn promise. I say nothing. I wouldn’t tell him, even if he asked again.

“You imagined a future,” he presses, “one without a sunrise on a reaping day. You did. Maybe it feels pointlessly desolate now, but we have to persist. We must prevail. The Games will end. Maybe not in our lifetimes. It might take generations. But we’re all part of a continuum. Does that make it meaningless?” His grip tightens on my wrist, but I leave it in his hand without struggling. 

“Not me. You don’t need me.” I wrench my wrist free and rub the forming bruises. 

“No,” he says, “We need someone just like you. Just better timing.” His eyes fall to my wrist. I hide the blooming bruises with my hand. “Look, we were wrong. Too hasty by far. But someday, we will be right. Someday, we’ll have an army behind us, and we’ll take the Capitol down.” 

“Where are you gonna get an army, Plutarch?” 

“We’ll find one, and if we can’t find one, we’ll build one.” His fingers close around the neck of the bottle as if thinking about taking a sip himself. 

“And then what? We all kill each other until the winner’s the one with the most people left?” I cross my arms to keep myself from lunging for the bottle again. 

“You know how Snow works. He speaks two languages, violence and propaganda. If we drown out one and twist the other, we can start speaking back.” 

I don’t answer. The whole world is already fluent in violence. He holds out the bottle to me. His voice drops to something apologetically brittle.

 “If you think of another way to stop the sun from rising, let me know.”

I take it. I drink like the answer’s hiding at the bottom. There’s no answer. There never will be. 

“Come on.” he exhales. His shoulders are more rounded than I’ve ever seen, “Let’s get you back to the train before someone comes looking.”

I follow his lead. The grain of the wood waivers beneath my feet, so I lift my chin and stare at the ceiling when we pass through the attic’s threshold. Statues line the upper molding of little babies with wings. Angels. Lenore Dove told me about them living in that place she called heaven. I wonder if she’s there now. Wings were the one thing she was missing down here. Maybe Sid’s closer to the stars and flying around with Ma.

I stare too long. My shoe misses the next step. I slide down the staircase, down, down, down, until I reach the bottom. Plutarch brushes me off like it’s nothing. I am as far from the angels as a man can get.

The honest night air washes over me, and I risk a look up to the sky. The clear night gives way to the countless stars. Above my head is the letter ‘M’, or ‘W’, depending on if Ma’s around or not. But she’s not. Not anymore. Still, the stars are hers, and the stars are Sid’s. 

My brother would have loved it here. On top of the high up marble Justice Building steps, the stars are his to see forever. Infinite and ever rolling. Maybe they’re the ones on a continuum. Always out there. Always returning.

The constellations look down upon us as we trek back to the train. When Plutarch drops me off in my compartment for the night, I spend my time at the window with the stars as my company. No matter where I am, I’ve still got my brother’s stars. In the arena, they changed the sun. Here, they can’t change my stars. The hunter follows me until the tracks won’t let him anymore, and a ladle appears in his place. 

I try to recall the names of the stars, but they’ve fled with my memory. I make up the ones I don’t remember. There’s a goose at the far end. I think I remember calling it Sid’s Goose. Lenore Dove would laugh when I’d call it that, and it would always make my face burn hot, but she liked it, so I never asked the right way to say it. I liked hearing her laugh more. I can’t find the goose tonight. I think she said it likes it best when it’s warm, so it comes out in summer. I’ll have to try to remember. I know I won’t.

Every night thereafter I swear off sleeping. The night terrors come frequently enough in the daylight, and at least at night I can watch the stars until they’re blurry. I sleep in the morning when the sun rises, a knife from my last dinner in my hand, and slash at whoever wakes me to take me to a stage. 

I don’t speak to Plutarch. Not even when he asks me questions for the camera. I turn my back and walk off, no matter if it takes me off the train or deeper into the bar cart. The drinks never ask anything of me. They’ve given up on the locks. 

Every district is the same. I see the families of the kids who visit me when sleep entangles me. I see the grief in their faces like the sadness in Ma’s lines. Deep lines. Hollow cheeks. Eyes like bruises. 

Every stop, someone finds me. They pull me upright and parade me through a celebration I don’t remember. I drink myself to oblivion, and someone dumps me back into my compartment on the train like a sack of grain. I spend my nights with my head leaned against the glass, trying to find the stories I used to know, counting stars I no longer bother to name. The sky is quiet company. It is indifferent to me. I can stare for hours and it will not turn away. It asks for nothing, not a smile or a drink. It never asks about how I am or tells me how sorry it is about everything that has happened. The stars are there, and I am here. Every night, I fall asleep when the orange glow of the sun yawns over the horizon. 

District Four is lonelier. When they haul me up on stage, it’s the first time I notice there are no victors behind me. In normal years, the victors would line the platform like fence posts. Have any stood beside me this tour? I don’t remember. I can’t remember much of anything. I stand alone. That’s Snow’s message. I am alone in everything. 

I didn’t know I was hoping to see Mags until she wasn’t present. I fumble the speech with a thick tongue. The children at the front whisper my words under their breath like a game, and it makes me lose my lines on the pre-written cards over and over again. They laugh. Their parents glare. I sweat. My heart races and my vision grows red. Over my head, a banner reads: NO PEACE, NO BREAD in dark, bold letters. The knots at the corners hold fast against the salty wind. It flaps wildly, trying to break free from the ropes. The noise confuses me. I try reading, again and again, until they take the paper away.

Earlier, they dragged me out to the sea. I stood in my shined shoes at the edge where the water bites the shore. The sea went on forever. No edge. No end. Just water and wind and the bitter stink of fish. Nothing like home. Nothing like the lake. It made me sick. It was too vast. I could not see the end. The waves lapped at my feet like a dog that remembered me. It would have been easy to drown here. A choice to make, a few steps out a little too far, just don’t stop walking. 

They cut the tour short when I threw up in the sand. The grains shone in my eyes like shards of glass, speckled with plastic and cigarettes. The sand slid under my weight like it didn’t want me. Snow and ice back home will knock you over. Sand just gives up on you. I walked back inland before anyone proposed it.

The stage is the same as the others. Same rusted lights, same thick crowd, same script just with different names. I barely look at the crowd any more. There are people everywhere. More frowns than smiles. Eyes have not been easy on me for months. I killed some of their friends, some of their sons and daughters. I find no forgiveness in their eyes. I ask for none. 

When they hand me a plaque, I stuff the cards in my pocket and carry it with both hands. It’s a large, brassy rectangle emblazoned with a ship and an anchor. They showed me the long steel barrels of the guns earlier. They pointed them at nothing, just the churning blue ocean, and set them off. I ducked. They laughed. I didn’t. 

The children at the front clap when the adults do. I step down. Someone takes the plaque. I drink. Someone dumps me back in my bed.

The same happens in District Three. They take me through the factory where they make the hardware. The air hums with the sound of steam hissing, belts creaking, and sparks flying. There is no Beetee. No Wiress. On one of the tours, I see a woman swollen with a child, her belly straining under the factory uniform. Her eyes flick to mine, but look away before I can ask if she knows Beetee. If she’s his wife. But they wouldn’t have her working in a place like this. Or maybe they would. Either way, I bring death in a knapsack. Whoever she is, talking to her would only bring consequences. 

I wonder if Lenore Dove will work when we marry. We can live off my winnings. Maybe move out of the Victor’s Village and have a family back in the Seam. I’ve always wanted kids with her. She will make a good mother. 

Would. 

Would’ve. 

I look down. My face burns like I’ve spoken out loud. 

I don’t meet another pair of eyes until the clapping starts at the end of my victory speech. 

I look up for just one second. A banner above my head snaps in the wind: NO CAPITOL, NO PEACE . I can’t hear the clapping over the noise. A new, perfectly ironed flag of Panem hangs stiffly behind me.

In front of me, a boy with no shoes.

A medal finds its way around my neck. 

I drink, and I end up back on the train.

Chapter Text

When we arrive at the Capitol, my prep team seems to perk up. Their arms finally move from their sides, their eyes lift from the floor, and their heads pick up with deep breaths as if the air itself tastes better here. 

“I’m so glad we’re home.” Vitus shakes his arms out like a wet dog. “I’m never leaving the Capitol again.”

Proserpina applauds when the train breaks free of the never-ending tunnel. It spits us out between candy-colored buildings. 

“The only thing that kept me going was knowing there was a shining light at the end of the tunnel,” she squeals, pointing to the bright, pulsing light of a store. 

In the windows, mannequins stand dressed in glittering green pantsuits. The glowing sign reads Capitol Outfitters. It throbs as if falling asleep, then jolting back awake.

“Oh I’ve been meaning to get my hands on one of those long trains of chartreuse!”

“It’s peridot, Prosie.” Effie corrects her, peering through the window. “It’s all the rage after the Games.” She turns to tell me. 

I’m gone before the words hit my ears. I slam the door behind me. I can’t stomach it. Fashion. Nicknames. Banners. Everything’s a joke to these people. Everything’s a trend. Their fun is the color people die in. Their excitement funds funerals.

The train hisses to a stop. Something inside of me hisses back. It bubbles up from my gut and churns into my throat. A Peacekeeper finds me slumped in the bar cart and hauls me by the arm. I don’t fight it. I let myself be dragged. They don’t want me to be human here. From the hands of a Peacekeeper to the cold iron of chains. I know how this works.

I refuse to walk. They will get me wherever they need me to be. I have no choice, so I choose not to move my legs. 

“Haymitch,” Effie calls my name through gritted teeth. “Your company has been requested.” 

I grunt in response. “Who do I owe the honor?”

“The president.” If her eyes could shoot flames, I’d be burnt to a crisp. 

I bark with laughter. “My best friend.”

“Go on, take him.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

The attendant lugs me into a waiting car. I slump across the back seat. 

As the driver pulls deeper into the Capitol, the buildings sprout around us. They stare down at us from much too high up. Back in Districts One and Two, some of the buildings resembled these, but none of them compare to the ones here. These are taller than sense. They spear the sky. They shove clouds out of their way. That high up is for the stars alone, not the people who think they belong among them.

I keep my head on the seat and shut my eyes. The rocking of the car makes me sick. Everything here makes me sick. It’s all too familiar. It has been months, half a year, since I even thought about this place. But every bump in the road, every cloud, every stalking window is more familiar than anything else I remember.

The car reeks of floral perfume. My eyes burn and that same churning feeling from the bar car returns, creeping its way down my arms and legs. Snow is going to kill me tonight. That’s how he will end my Victory Tour. 

Wherever the avox driver takes me, we get there in half an hour. Back home, you could drive from one end of the district to the other in that time. Here, we’re so thick in the concrete trees the forest could go on forever. 

I heave myself up from the back seat and a Peacekeeper drags me from the car. I stumble along, dragging my feet behind me. I hope they scuff. I hope the shine rubs right off on the pristine Capitol concrete.

I slide over the slick marble. There will be no stain from my shoes. It does not want to hold me. It knows I don’t belong here. The Peacekeeper drags me along and shoves me into the waiting chair. I sink into it. It swallows me. 

Atop of a shiny mahogany desk stands a pitcher wrapped in a golden staircase. How familiar. He’s chosen a private death. It will mean nothing, just the way he would want it. The Peacekeeper shuts the door behind himself, leaving me with my fate staring back at me through my own narrow-eyed reflection. I watch a drop of condensation trickle down the side. It dribbles onto the desk and pools at the foot of the stairs. Not even offered the dignity of a glass with my poison. 

The second I reach for the pitcher, the door clicks open behind me. 

“Haymitch Abernathy.”

My arm lingers, stretched out toward the pitcher. His voice is worse than whatever is inside it. 

“Snow.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to arrive in the Capitol. I hear you’ve had quite the exciting time back home, haven’t you?” Snow says. He lowers himself into the chair across from me. I draw my arm back onto the arm rest. 

I stare at him from across the desk. It only stretches a few feet, but it feels like a mile. 

“A lot has happened.”

“That tends to happen when we go away for a while.” 

He pulls open the drawer to his right and retrieves two crystal glasses. 

“Have you stayed busy?”

“I’ve been catching up with old friends.” 

I look around the room. It’s not Plutarch’s house. It’s unfamiliar, but still an office. If I were to bolt, I would not know the halls. Not that I would bolt. He would find me. There’s nowhere to go.

“Oh yes, I have heard that too. Those friends seem very interested in what you have to say, don’t they?” 

The glasses thump on the desk in front of me. 

“I’ve got a lot of stories for them.”

“Are they true? I’ve always said the best stories must be true at their core.”

“They’re from the Games.” I cross my arms, “Of course they are.”

“The one you told that friend of yours. The one about the Porcupine. It was such an imaginative piece, wasn’t it? Luring it away with olives.” 

He folds his hands in his lap. The glasses sit indifferently between us. 

“Did you know he told that story around the Hob?”

The air leaves my lungs as if I’ve been punched. I steady the tremble in my jaw by clenching my teeth. The thought he knows about Burdock knocks me right back to wherever I started in this tug-of-war. The rug’s slipped out from under my feet. I scramble for footing.

“I lured it away with food.” I explain. “Whatever he said was the truth. That’s all I told him. The truth.”

“Oh, no, Haymitch. There are memories, and then there are truths.” 

He straightens, staring down at me with tunnel-like eyes.

“That porcupine wandered off after killing that boy from District Eleven. There were no olives. You weren’t even there.”

I plant my feet firmly on the too-plush rug. My shoes sink into the fabric. It tugs at me, as if trying to pull me down. I feel like I’ve returned to the slipping sand of District Four. The ground does not want me on it.

I clench my hands, trying to understand what he’s saying. 

“Perhaps you do not remember. That’s all right. We all need some refreshing from time to time. We’re only human.” 

He slides the drawer on his left open and pulls out a shiny black rectangle. He places it on the desk, slides the glasses aside, and taps the screen.

I have never seen anything with so many buttons, nor have I ever seen anything that responds so easily to a single touch. We have screens in District Twelve, but only our televisions. Even the one in the Victors’ Village crawls with static most nights. This screen is as clear as a window. 

I can barely focus until the audio begins. The sound of a baby crying, the shouting, the sick squelch of the needles meeting the bodies of the tributes. The swelling. And then, just as he said, the porcupine wanders off, right back into the trees, no olives or me to be seen. 

He clicks the screen off and slides it back into the drawer.

“Don’t you see? That porcupine finished its job and left.”

“But that’s not how it happened,” I protest. 

At least, I believe I’m right. But when I try to remember the arena, everything is coated in ash. No matter how many times I replay it, there are no olives. The porcupine just walks away. I can't recall a single thing that didn't happen in that clip. He is right. I could not have been there. I was never there.

I must have watched it for the first time on the stage after being crowned Victor. I must have mixed it up in the months I have been away. I must have told myself I was there to make myself feel better.

“Of course it is,” he says. “Anyone can tell you this is exactly what happened. Why, it’s the same thing everyone in the Hob told your friend.”

“No, I was there.”

“All of Panem has seen it with their own eyes. What makes your memory any more true?”

“I was there.” I repeat, but even now, it feels like a lie. 

“Oh, Haymitch.” Snow clicks his tongue. “We remember things in ways that help us. We seek to soothe ourselves with comfortable lies. I’ve done it too. We all do it. A few little lies just to feel better.” 

His hand snakes toward the glasses.

“We all have a need to fit in, Haymitch. We all have needs. Water?”

I stare at the pitcher. This is it. This is my time. 

I take too long to answer. 

“No? All right.”

He fills both glasses with the clear liquid, leaving one for me. It's not milk after all. It really is just water. He takes a long sip. When he sets the glass back down, the water has taken on a faint pink tint. I stare at it. 

“Have you noticed the fighting, Haymitch?”

“What fighting?”

The stench of iron wafts from his moistened breath. 

“My Peacekeepers report having to put down more fights than usual,” he says. “Do you know why?”

He does not wait for an answer.

“People are starving. The mines are closed. They’re turning on each other. Such is the nature of mankind. When we have nothing, we tear each other apart. Brother on brother. Sister on sister. Your insistence upon your version of events is just prolonging the pain. It's just causing harm.”

My arms are as heavy as lead. I can’t lift my eyes from the pink-tinted glass. 

“When we keep to the stories that keep people content, there’s no fighting. The mines stay open. There’s work. There’s food. There’s peace across Panem. Your district is the only one rioting, Haymitch. The only one.”

He leans forward.

“There is only one difference between yours and the other eleven. You.”

My throat closes. The plush chair keeps me pinned in place.

“The other districts have accepted what they saw. They are content not knowing what you think happened in that arena. They know the truth. Or at least, they know what needs to be true. What they don’t know won’t hurt them."

He sits back.

"The porcupine walked away. That is the story. What good does it do, telling people something else? You only cause confusion. Confusion only brings conflict. The moment you challenge what people believe, they turn on each other. They burn their own homes.”

His eyes meet mine a second too long. 

“Panem is strongest when it is united. And unity requires clarity. Not contradiction.”

He lifts his glass again, his thumbprint pressed against the clear side.

“You see, Haymitch, every time you grapple with your little stories, the mines close. The fists come out. The families go hungry.”

He lifts the brim to his lips, but he does not yet drink.

“You don’t want that, do you?” 

He sips from his glass. I say nothing.

“You don’t like seeing children fight in the streets.”

He sets the glass down, perfectly aligned with the intricate coaster beneath it. He pauses as if waiting for me to respond, but both of us know I won’t.

“It’s easier to believe the right story. It keeps us all together.”

He raises his eyes to mine again.

“Don’t you agree?”

I should speak. My body urges me to do something, say anything, but the words don’t come. They clog in my throat in a tangle of unknown letters. They scrape at my neck like a handful of swallowed sand. I stare at the pink-tinted glass, watching the condensation drip slowly onto the coaster.

I want to say I remember it. I want to say I can still feel how humid the arena was. I remember the glint of the quills in the sun. I want to say I remember the porcupine’s horrid wailing. But even now, I’m not sure if that’s my memory, or just something I saw on the screen. I see it walking into the trees, just as he said. It happens just as it does in the tape. 

No olives, and no me. 

Maybe I wasn’t there after all. Maybe I have been lying. Maybe I lied to Burdock to get him off my back. 

What have I done? I have caused pain to my district, and for what? Nothing but more blood. The blood I’ve used to ink names onto my list. Confusion. Closed mines. Screaming in the streets. Stockades. Whipping posts. That’s what I’ve brought them.

Snow watches me, still and calm as a corpse. One hand on his armrest, the other wrapped around the base of the crystal glass. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to. 

I hear myself speak in a voice that doesn’t feel like mine.

“I agree.”

Snow nods, slow and gracious, as if he’s letting me believe I came to the conclusion on my own.

He slides my own glass closer to me, but I don’t touch it. I can’t lift my arms. If I drink it, if I feel the cool water in my throat, it will dislodge the sand. It will make this real, more real than anything that happened in the arena.

He rises from the desk. Condensation drips from his palm. 

“I’m glad we had this conversation.”

I stay seated, shoes trapped in the clawing fibers of the carpet. 

“I look forward to seeing you at the celebration this evening. It’s set to be quite the extravagant event.”

He leaves the room as empty as it was when I arrived, save for the two glasses sweating on the desk, and me, sunken too deep into the chair to rise.

Time does not pass. It ferments. The thick, floral perfume lingering in the office clouds my head, and becomes stronger the longer I wait.

When the Peacekeeper comes, I don’t see him. I feel the pressure of his grip on my arm and the tug of his muscle as hauls me up like cargo. I go limp. I let him lug me. He doesn’t speak, but I wouldn’t hear him if he did.

The car eats the pavement in silence. The candy-colored buildings smear past in bright streaks. Glass towers shimmer like they’re breathing, despite the pale of the winter sun. The sun rays catch on the chrome and blind me. I close my eyes, but the light follows me behind my eyelids.

Back at the station, they get to work.

They groom me until I shine. They polish me with oils that reek of crushed roses and burnt syrup. They comb my hair until it’s too neat. They pepper me with questions. 

“Where have you been, Haymitch?”

“What did the President want to see you about?”

“Are you excited for the party?”

I say nothing. I will not tell another lie. Everything I say becomes a lie. 

I cannot decipher the truth any more. My voice is not mine. My memory is not mine. The truth has become a greased rope, just as time had all those months ago. Something yanks it out of my hands.

I sit like a statue in my chair as they talk around me. They laugh about the food they anticipate tonight. They giggle about the fizzing wine and having a little too much. They talk about how good it feels not to ration products anymore. They can go out and buy gels and chemicals with fancy names. How they don’t have to scrape by in the deserts of the districts anymore.

They don’t talk about the Games. They don’t talk about hunger. They don’t talk about the bloodstains on the cobblestone square back home. They have returned to their Capitol castle. 

They drop me into a new suit like dressing a doll. Velvet. Just like the one I swore I’d burn. It reeks of wealth and the same perfume they’ve rubbed into my skin. 

I don’t own that suit. I don’t own this one either. It does not belong to me. None of this belongs to me. 

Not this body. Not this voice. Not this memory. Not the truth. None of it was mine in the first place. 

I am a puppet, a plaything, a beast, an arsonist, a jackass, a liar.

All that I own is the memory of the glass sweating on the desk filled with pink-tinted water.

The time comes for the party. They parade me through the crowd like a goat that’s been cleaned up for auction. Their fingers grip my elbow until they find familiar faces. Plutarch is nowhere in sight. Good. He’s been gone all day. The last thing I need is for him to corner me again. I don’t need him trying to remind me of some version of myself I can no longer recognize. 

People ask questions.

“How did you know about the ax?”

“Why did you go back for the blonde girl? Was she your girlfriend?”

“What made you run to the edge of the arena?”

“How’d you figure out everything was poisonous?”

I shrug. 

“It’s all in the tape,” I say. 

That’s all there is. That’s all there will ever be. 

No one asks to dance. I still carry the stench of a mutt, the claws of an animal. It keeps them at bay. Tonight, it works in my favor.

The walls are lined with food I can’t identify. Towers of meats, cheeses, vegetables, all glistening in oil. Fruits cut like jewels. Flowers decorating the cakes. Strange things with names I’ve never learned and will never care to taste. I choke down some crackers I smear with cheese. The salt stings my dry throat. I want nothing to do with their delicacies. I want less to do with their shallow hunger.

When the music fades and the lights dim, a spotlight flares on the balcony above. The doors open to reveal a pristinely dressed President Snow. He steps into the light as if it were always part of him. It clings to every thread of his red suit.

His eyes scan the room, pause on me for the briefest second, then glide past me. That’s all I get. That’s all I’m worth. The least important person in the room. 

He begins his grandiose speech. Every word is cold, silver-platter rhetoric. He speaks of unity and sacrifice. He speaks of the honor of the Games. His voice is compelling and formidable. The brightly dressed people around me quiet down to listen. Some risk sips from their glasses, but no one dares request a refill. You don’t speak when the president is speaking.

“Tonight, we celebrate fifty years of peace in Panem. Never again will we suffer under the tyranny of war. We feast knowing that we are the greatest crop of our nation. Pure, untainted by the cruelty of the districts. We here tonight, held high above the others at this wonderful celebration, recognize the importance of the Games. They keep us at peace. They keep the food on our tables and the joy in our hearts. They keep our children safe and clothed in the finest fabrics in all of Panem. They keep the dangers of the districts subdued, such as in the spirit of the Quarter Quell. We thank those who came before us for a system we shall continue to honor. We are masters of our craft. Creators beyond logic. We are the greatest in Panem. To fifty years of peace, and ever more to come!” 

He raises his glass. The crowd follows suit like trained animals, all erupting in cheers as they all down their drinks in unison. For once, I leave my glass untouched.

It is all nonsense, but it works. By the end of his speech, a hole begins to form around me on the dance floor. People slide their eyes past mine. Their shoes point elsewhere. They want nothing to do with me now.

I don’t mind. The fewer of these glass-eyed followers I have to speak to, the better. Still, when he speaks, I catch his gaze drifting toward the band. Their clothes match the delicate, deceiving flowers from the arena video he’d shown me.

He doesn’t descend from the balcony. After his speech, he disappears back through the doors. I never see him again. 

The music swells, filling the sound vacuum his absence created, and people dance around me, just like before. With their cups full and their minds empty, people seem to forget about how dangerous I am. Maybe drinking makes them forget, or maybe they just don’t think about anything unless it’s right in front of them. I weave my way to the bar and load up on bottles of spirits for the ride home. 

Effie requested Tibby not stock the train with any more alcohol, and apparently my authority as Victor only goes so far. So, I have resorted to scavenging the parties. Tonight I make off with an armload of the richest stuff they’ve got. It’ll last me until we get back to Twelve. 

Plutarch finds me in the mid-celebration, his camera pointed at me like always. The glossy black eye never blinks. It bores straight into my skull. I turn and walk off. He tries to follow, but the crowd is thick with silk and sugar, and I don’t have to worry about a camera, only my glass cargo. The bottles knock together as I shoulder through the grand set of doors, venturing outside and into the garden. 

It’s quiet out here. Fog coils around the stone paths and curls around sculpted topiaries carved like mutts. They loom over me, monstrous even only in their image. Ampert’s squirrel stands shoulder-to-wing with Maysilee’s bird, decked in ridiculous pink ornaments. I veer away and slump beneath a bunny-shaped shrub, cradling my haul.

I set the bottles on the ground first and then collapse beside them, watching water gurgle from the fountainhead. I look up to search for stars, but there are none to greet me. Just the bright lights of the Capitol bleeding up into the sky, drowning out the constellations. Here, even the stories in the sky are untrue.

I balance an empty bottle on the rim of the fountain. It whistles in the chilled gust of wind, and I sit there listening until it topples over and splashes into the fountain. I reach to fish it out, but it floats away. I reach farther, skimming the water with my sleeve. I miss. My hand swipes at the air and my elbow bangs on the lip of the fountain. Pain bites up my arm. 

I curse and draw my arm back. When I lift my sleeve to check the damage, I find a pink stain on the fabric. I must be bleeding. 

I shrug the jacket off, roll up the sleeve, and check my skin. When it comes up clean save for a forming bruise, I pull the jacket into my lap and untuck the sleeve. On the elbow is a distinctly pink scuff. I lean over the lip of the fountain. Water splashes up in my face from the trickling fixture, but just under the lip I catch a faded rim of pink.

I stare.

The Games are just as foggy as they were the day they lifted me out of the arena. When people ask about all that happened, and I just shrug and make up excuses to leave. Some people even ask to see my scar. I never lift my shirt anymore. I just turn and walk off, which cracks them up. Apparently, I’m a rascal now, not a rebel. Some Capitol workers tell them it’s all part of my charm. So when I leave, I do it to a chorus of delighted giggles and the chant of, “He is a rascal!”

Tonight, five different people have had the same reaction. I have no story of my own, no reaction or request that doesn’t come without some Capitol spin. 

I slip the jacket back on and leave the bottle where it lies in the water. My parting gift to Snow, me and an empty bottle against the Capitol. A fair trade. 

I get to work on making more empty bottles to toss into the fountain. I’m deep in it when the hurried click of heels rushes towards me from the grand doors. 

“There he is! I found him!” 

I don’t need to look. I can picture Effie’s face, tight lipped, relieved, and just barely hanging on to composure. 

“It’s nearly midnight, and the train’s departing in a moment. Up we go, come on.” 

She grabs my arm and hauls me up, knowing by now I won’t stand on my own.

“No, no more bottles,” she scolds, reaching for my collection.

I jerk them away and start stumbling down the path towards the edge of the yard. She gives up, as she does every night, and lets me bring my bounty onto the train. As long as I can keep the bottles, I’ll get on the train. That’s the deal we struck in District Nine. 

The sleek train doesn’t care that I’ve arrived. It steams like usual with white curls hissing from the roof. I kick off my shiny shoes once I reach the threshold, sending one sailing against a window. For the first time all night, I get a chuckle out of it when it cracks the pane. 

I dump the bottles onto the bed and strip out of the suit, flinging it onto the floor. Tonight marks one of the last times I will have to wear a suit. I try to bring myself to care. 

The bench under the window creaks as a greeting, and I pull my knees to my chest. I wait until the light from the Capitol fades and I can see my stars again. Only then do I consider sleeping. Still, it doesn’t come easy. I slink off of the bench and roll myself into the thick duvet on the large bed. It starves the chill from my feet, but not from the rest of me. 

It won’t bring sleep. Instead, I hear muffled voices asking about promises I haven’t done my best to keep all night.

Lenore Dove arrives with fire in her eyes.

"All-fire," I mutter, and it just seems to piss her off more. She won’t hear any of the sorry excuses I make about why I haven’t done much. She leaves me feeling worse than I’ve ever felt. 

I can’t remember most of the parties. Not clearly. But I remember Snow’s eyes tracking the Capitol band. I roll over and pull the duvet over my head. The knife on my nightstand comes with me. 

Chapter Text

Day breaks with the crack of the door and the ever-so-chipper, “Big, big, big day!” 

I drive the knife into the headboard. 

I yank the duvet tighter. Doesn’t matter. She’ll pull it off anyway. She thinks the sun decides when we get up. I wonder what goes on in that head of hers, where everything is dictated by something else. I grumble a less than pleasant greeting. 

“We’re back in Twelve! Isn’t that exciting?” she trills, without an ounce of indication that it could, in fact, be anything less than exciting. 

“Delighted.” I mutter, rolling out of bed and scratching at my ribs. “Where’s my drink?” 

I swipe my hand over the nightstand. Empty.

“I had them packed up so you can carry them back home.” The corner of her eye twitches, but that smile stays stapled on.

I grunt, unimpressed, and dig around for a crumpled shirt I’d tossed on the floor some nights ago.

“Plutarch will see you off,” she continues. “He said something about goodbyes, so I came to let you know that I won’t be escorting you back to your home. I know how devastating that might be, so I am thrilled to announce that I am in the running to return next year! I only hope I get a more reputable district.” 

“Me too.” I wave her off. If she comes back to Twelve, I might not keep that promise. I might not be strong enough. 

“Cross your fingers.” I add, tugging on the wrinkled shirt that smells like sweat and booze.

“Yes, well, this is goodbye. But only for now! I will be seeing you at the Games next year. You’ll be a mentor! How exciting. A mentor for Twelve. You all have never had one of your own before.” 

She lights up like one of those Capitol signs. Brighter than ever. Not because of Twelve, but because the Games go on.

I keep my head down and button my shirt. My fingers go stiff. Blood rushes through them, thick and hot. I drop my chin to my chest to starve the dizziness, but it doesn’t feel like the same kind I get from hangovers. 

“Well, you’d best be off. Your bags are already on the platform, and Plutarch has the car waiting.” She chimes when I don’t say anything back.

I tug on a pair of shorts and brush past her. I want nothing to do with the Capitol for as long as I can manage. The fewer words I say to anyone the better.

“Goodbye, Haymitch!” she calls after me. 

I slam the train door behind me.

The winter’s snow lies in blankets around the platform. The meager boxes of my belongings reside under the awning of the station, disappearing one by one into the trunk of the waiting car, fully equipped with a waiting Plutarch. 

He waves to me before I can pretend not to notice, but it wouldn’t matter. I have to get into the car this time. They have my bottles, and where they go, I follow. 

I climb into the car without so much as a word. 

Plutarch joins a moment later. Thankfully he elects to sit in the passenger seat, so I don’t have to feel him beside me. At least he is giving me space. I guess there isn’t much filming he can do in a car. 

He fidgets with his camera, trying to get a shot out of the window, but he grumbles about instability and shuts it off.

“So, Haymitch, how was the ride back?” His question comes with the zip of his camera bag. 

I glare at him in the rear view mirror. No matter how badly I want the Capitol to burn, I will not work with its own people. 

Unlike Wiress’s twitching and Mags’s weakened legs, Plutarch arrived on the Victory Tour untouched. Unscarred. That is enough for me to swear him off for good. 

He will never suffer the way we have. He will never lose a kid to the Games or end up clawing at the ashes of his home with his bare hands. 

No, he’ll sit under the watchful eyes of the precious portraits in his house, ask his silly little questions, mount the golden staircase, and kiss his statues goodnight. 

He’s a rebel inasmuch as I am the rascal the Capitol believes me to be. Only by words. 

The waving grass jerks by as the car hits every rut in the road. At some point, the driver takes a detour, which I didn’t even think was possible in Twelve, as the roads only ever head two ways. Still, we end up in front of the Justice Building instead of the Victors’ Village. 

Plutarch clears his throat, “No, not here. The other road, back there. Just turn around and head that way.” 

The avox driver cocks his head and points to Plutarch, then to his ear, then to the Justice Building. 

I follow his finger toward the stockades the Peacekeepers erected when I was arrested, timber frames carved deeply with slash marks. Right underneath the middle one lies a small piece of metal that shines under the sun. The lock to the stockade, broken. 

I lean closer to the windshield to get a better look when a glint of white catches my eye atop the structure. 

I jerk my eyes up to the motion and catch the blur right as it takes flight. Gallow birds, with their dark feathers, nest on the top of the whipping post. No, Gallow Birds are fully black like jabberjays. These ones have white under their wings. Mockingjays, settled with a full nest high atop the post like a Capitol flag waving on a pole. The flag behind them is lower. They rest above it.

“No, not here,” Plutarch said after a moment. His words come metered, as if he was waiting for something.

“I know I mentioned wanting to get a shot here, but not anymore. Don’t you see those whipping posts? The stockades? We can’t show that!” He continues, rushed now. “Come on, the light’s changing by the minute. Back up. Let’s just go to the Village.”

Wordless as always, the avox continues onward towards the Village, but my mind is left with the picture of the nest. Mockingjays don’t just nest anywhere. Any whip would shake the post. Has it really been quiet long enough for a bird to build a nest?

There were whippings when I was a kid. I used to wait around with Burdock and Blair, and we would help cart the injured off to Asterid and her folks to patch them up. I wanted to stay on good terms with most folks back then. The ones who knew the stocks the best were the same ones who bought from Hattie and I the most. 

Now, I’m on terrible terms with the entire district. Maybe it’s for the best. Hattie didn’t want me to reach out after returning. I hate to think of her name ending up on my list. 

She did try, once, right in those first months back. She didn’t knock, she just left a bottle of her finest on my porch. The note underneath dissolved in the rain before I could read it, but I knew it was hers from the markings on the bottle. 

Every distiller has their own set of symbols. Bascom Pie’s is a dot at the edge of the bottom. Hattie’s is a line. It’s subtle enough that if a Peacekeeper picks one up, they won’t know what to look for. 

Hattie always used to emphasize the importance of names. “They can find you if you sign it, but if it’s just a line, they can’t accuse anyone but the rock that chipped it,” she would say. 

I wish I’d left my name out of the book. It wouldn’t have mattered. I still read it to a crowd of people, and it’s the same as it would have been had I started distilling right in the square. The crime wasn’t the name nor the book, but how I went about it. 

I know tonight I will get a visit from Lenore Dove. On the train, she was furious about how I should’ve been smarter. Used my time better. Maybe she can tell I’ve been idling along, waiting for something. I don’t know what. 

Plutarch says someone luckier than me, but I can’t imagine anyone involved with the Games will ever be lucky, much less anyone who knows me. That’s just begging for bad luck to come up like a stray cat. It never leaves after someone locks eyes. 

My curse trails me like a second a shadow, just like my visitors. Bad luck nips at my heels during my trips beyond the walls of my house, if bad luck is what it can be called.

When the car pulls to a stop in front of my house, I spill out of the door for air. I cross behind the vehicle and paw at the back trying to pry the trunk open, but it’s too fancy, so I step back and cross my arms, waiting for someone else to come and open it. 

Waiting. Always waiting.

Waiting for someone luckier. Waiting for someone better. I’ll spend my life waiting, and here I am, waiting for someone to free my bottles from their riddle of a tomb. 

“Someone get these fucking bottles,” I snap, tired of the windstorm of thoughts in my mind. 

I storm up the path toward my house, figuring someone will collect my bottles. I'm halfway up the steps when Plutarch calls out behind me.

“Hold on, Haymitch, I wanted a shot of you on the grass. A parting shot,” he says. “I have to have something to close out with.” 

I hold steady on the top step of the porch, my hands tightly clamped on the cold stair railing. What does it hurt? They have already taken everything else. This house will never be my own. My house is in ashes a few miles down the road. If he wants a parting shot, he can take it here, or in the cameras they have surely tucked in every corner of every wall inside.

“Make it quick,” I mutter. 

There’s a flurry of movement behind me. First comes the thud of the heavy bag, then the zipper, and moments later, “Okay, turn around and face the camera.” Plutarch commands. 

I don’t. I stay with my back to him, one hand on the railing. 

“You’ll get your bottles as soon as we get this over with,” he tries again. 

“What am I, your puppet?” I snap, “Bottles my strings? Effie first, now you. You think that’s all I’ve got to live for?” 

I wouldn’t stop the words flooding out of me if I could. They flood up my throat like too much rotgut.

“Do this for your bottles, do that for your bottles.” I throw my hands up, “I’ve got nothing left, Plutarch! I’ve got nothing and no one. Not a stitch of clothing of my own.” I yank at the choking collar of my shirt. “All Capitol stuff. Stack your cards and go.” 

He stares at me through the unblinking camera lens. The black, beady eye, trains on me. I stare right back. It’s seen everything I have. It has spun my life around and taught it back to me. There’s nothing left to lose.

Plutarch lowers the camera. He sets it gently atop the bag and waves the avox driver back into the car. He steps over the camera and heads to my side. When he is less than a shoe-length from me, every bit of anger drains from my body like a punctured bottle. The void it leaves is hollow and dull. Numb. 

“I have nothing left.” I mutter, no longer trained in anger or grief, just a statement, a fact. 

“Then you have nothing left to lose,” he answers slowly, “and that puts you in a position of power.” 

Anger floods back in, spilling into the void and sloshing around like fire in my veins. I’d wring his neck, but my hands remain at my sides. I ball my hands into fists and dig crescents into my palms with my nails. 

He thinks power still exists. He thinks Snow isn’t watching everything I do. He thinks I can do anything but rot in this house until I die. 

“You think you’re some kind of hero? You watched forty-nine kids die this year. But it’s fine, right? Because you gave it the old Plutarch twist? Because you stacked the cards, so it all makes up for it? You’re just as bad as the rest of them. You think you’re doing something. You think you’re a good man because you’ve had a single decent thought. Well, how many people are going to die for your big plan? How many until your stupid videos free us all? How many kids? How many more failed bombs? How many names scratched out like bad numbers? You think you’re a hero. You’re just as bad as they are.” 

I spit between us. He watches it soak into the porous stone. When it’s gone, he looks up at me again.

“I’m nobody’s idea of a hero, Haymitch,” he says, “but at least I’m still in the game.”

“You are the Game!” I shout. “Just as much as Snow! You make it watchable. You make it worse. You twist things! You change footage, mess with our heads, play it off like nothing changed! You use people to further your cause with a reckless disregard for how it effects people! You are no different, Plutarch!” 

“I’m doing what I can. What have you done, Haymitch?”

“My whole family is dead! I was your puppet in the arena! I was supposed to die, Plutarch. What have I done?” My voice cracks. “What haven’t I done? You are the reason I was going to die in there. You rigged it.”

Plutarch straightens. His hands grip the hem of his coat. “I told you, we were wrong for that. But you agreed at the time. Some things require sacrifice.”

“And who gets to decide that? You? Is that your job now? Deciding who is worth saving? I wasn’t. Not to you. You wanted me dead, didn’t you?”

His silence answers for us both.

“I’d be worth more dead,” I sneer. “Another tragic face for your rebellion posters. Another kid for the rebels to cry over. You left me. You all left me. I rotted for six months. Six months! No word. No letter. No visit. You know who checked on me? Snow . Every week. A bottle and a letter.”

“He doesn’t want the best for you,” He lowers his voice as if someone’s watching. 

I raise mine. “You didn’t want the best for me! You sent me into the arena to die for your stupid, no good plan. When I won, you all left me. I didn’t even know you were alive! I thought the whole world went quiet. I was alone. You didn’t care about me. I’m only useful to you when my life is on the line. You only care about people when it serves you.”

“All of our lives are on the line.”

“I don’t care.”

“You aren’t seeing the bigger picture!”

“I’m seeing everything I need to see. I’m seeing that you just keep getting more people killed. Year after year. You don’t end the Games, you feed them! I saw Panem with my own eyes. I saw the crowds. I saw the same hunger I’d known for years. I saw children without shoes and women with nothing but a frown to their name. Don’t you tell me I didn’t! Don’t tell me I don’t know what I saw. I do!”

He opens his mouth, but I talk louder. 

“Don’t you tell me I don’t know what I saw because I damn well do! I damn well know exactly what I saw and that porcupine? It walked off because I threw the olives!”

“What? What porcupine?”

“Fuck you.”

“No, Haymitch, what porcupine?”

“The one in the Games! The one you card stacked away!”

“I didn’t— what are you talking about?”

“You did! Snow showed me the footage. I was there. I remember being there. I was stung by the quill. I had to have been there to have been stung. I remember! My nose swelled up.”

“I don’t— Haymitch, listen, I’m not saying you’re wrong. I don’t remember every detail. There are hundreds of cameras, and I was helping run the live stream. I can’t just pay attention to one feed. It’s been months. I’ve run other ops since then. I don’t remember olives. Truthfully, I don’t. But I remember you blowing the tank sky high. That I remember.”

“I’m not doing your bidding anymore, Plutarch. I’m done.” 

I turn and shut myself into my house, the fire in my veins still raging like a second sun. It lights my blood from the inside out, but there’s no warmth to it. It’s all just bitter and dry heat.

Plutarch doesn’t follow. He doesn’t even try. There’s no knock, no call. I hear no footsteps, no voice at all, just the faint whir of his camera powering back on. Eventually, I catch sight of his silhouette pacing outside my frosted windows, framing shots of the wreck in which I live. I can’t imagine he got anything useful. I hope my destruction ruins every take.

My house is a mess inside and out, broken windows stuffed with rags, smashed siding, dirty bricks. No fresh paint. No Capitol marble or chrome. Nothing worth showing. Just rot and water damage and coal dust. 

Still, he lingers out there, filming my cage like it’s B-roll for the next arena plans. Finally, the slam of a car door announces his departure. Tires bite into the gravel, and Plutarch is gone. Hopefully for good. 

I wait, just as I have gotten so good at doing, until I’m sure he’s gone. Then, I push myself to my feet and stagger outside to collect the boxed bottles they left behind. Inside, the bottles rattle like bones in a casket.

I heave the first box into my arms, then return for the others. 

A puppet and his strings. 

Chapter Text

For the rest of the year, I remain confined to my cage, only allowing myself trips to stock up on necessities in the Hob. Capitol bottles begin to litter the roadside of the path I hear Hattie still walks. I leave them like breadcrumbs, hoping she’ll collect them for her stash. I’ve got no use for them now, and the thought of her potentially ending up in the stockades because of me paints me in another coat of guilt I’ll never scrub off. She always needed more bottles.

Turns out I was right about the bird's nest. The whippings had stopped. After they hauled me off to the Victory Tour, Bascom Pie says they pulled half the Peacekeepers with them. We still have the regular crowd of Peacekeepers that were here before everything happened, a few frequenters of his stall and some who venture out into the square on the weekends, but there are noticeably fewer white uniforms stationed around. Still, they leave the post up as a reminder. A monument to what they could do again if they felt like it. What they could do if I started telling stories again.

Luckily, like the whippings, people seem to have forgotten about me, too. That suits me fine. It means I don’t have to haul my bottles home right as I buy them anymore. Saves me the sweat of the journey. Miners and Peacekeepers share the stools at the stall. They keep to themselves. They eye me sideways now and again, but no one dares speak. I’m still an omen. Still the jackass. The arsonist label has faded to a rumor, but some regulars still grab their bottles and go when they see me. People forget. People move on. Time passes without me. I drink. 

Bascom is the closest thing I’ve got to a friend, and he only speaks for coins. I’ve got plenty, and he’s got the time. That’s the exchange. I learn everything I need to know through him. 

“Bascom,” I slur, sliding a fistful of coins across the splintered counter. He pockets them, like always, before I even ask the question. 

“How close are we to the end?” 

His eyebrow twitches. Just one. I try to reel the words back in and see what went wrong. 

“The end of the year,” I clarify. 

Bascom picks up an empty bottle from the stool where a Peacekeeper just sat. He wipes the grease from the glass with the rag slung over his shoulder. 

“Tomorrow’s New Year’s,” he says. “You gonna be here?”

New Year’s. Ma used to spend a whole month preparing for it, and I‘ve let the time rot down to its final few hours. 

“You know how to make a stack cake?” I grunt instead of answering.

I start scraping together a list of ingredients in my head. She always had me bring apples. That much I remember. But the rest of the recipe’s gone, washed away in the same fog that’s blurred out whole months. Cinnamon, I think. Great. Apples, cinnamon, and whatever goes in a cake. Whole lotta good that does me.

The bottle clinks into the bin behind the stall. 

“Not me,” Bascom says. “Bakery does. You could try there.” 

“Yeah,” I mutter.  “Could.” 

I knock back the rest of the drink and slide the bottle to him like an offering.

"Thanks," I burp as I slide off my stool. "Happy New Year."

Then I stumble out of the Hob and make my way down the road toward the Mellark bakery. 

Before I ever stepped foot in the woods, I used to sneak apples off of the tree in the Mellarks' yard. The tree is spindly, the branches barren now that the cold months have moved in, but when the leaves turned crisp, the apples glowed red like burning coals in a hearth. That’s when they tasted the best.

The door swings open lighter than I remember. A bell above my head jingles to announce my arrival. Inside, Otho Mellark sits behind the counter, thick-fingered and covered in frosting the color of rust.

“I need a stack cake,” I say, voice muddied somewhere from the back of my throat to my lips. I shove a bag of coins under his nose without blinking. “Don’t care how much. Apple.” 

“Apple stack cake?” Otho asks, setting the frosting bag down on its side. Orange sugar spills from the tip, curling into a bright smear across the counter. “I don’t know if we have that specifically.” He ambles behind the display case, murmuring to himself. 

I look away and soak in the rest of the bakery. It smells like warm bread and cinnamon.  Flour dusts everything like someone brought armfuls of powdered snow in from outside. Behind the counter, a long wooden table stretches beneath the windowsill, and at its farthest end, a cake cools under the chilly glass pane, preparing to be frosted.

“Oh, yeah. This one.” He lifts a tray from the bottom shelf and slides it across the counter toward me. It’s a stack cake, sure enough, layers pressed down and glued together with sticky filling.

“Why’s it got flowers?” I grumble. Yellow petals sprawl across the round top layer like Capitol pageantry. Their stems stretch down the sides in various shades of green. 

“I was practicing,” he shrugs. “Can’t keep my hands steady for the details.”

“Take them off.” I dig for more coins. It's superficial. Too Capitol-looking. Too much like the arena. Not like how Ma made it.

Otho disappears with the cake behind a swinging door. When he returns, the frosting is gone. He slips the cake into a brown box and sets it on the counter. 

“Let me count your change,” he offers, prying open the bag of coins. 

I leave before he can. 

The bakery door creaks shut behind me and I walk back through the town. I don’t mean to go where I go next. My feet decide for me. I notice a few steps into the journey, but I don’t correct myself. I’ve got time to waste. Nothing but time to waste. 

Instead of heading back to the village, I take the side path. I stumble past the fencing, across the gully of melting snow, through what used to be Sid’s way home from school. The path is still here somehow. It’s overgrown, but beaten back enough to follow. The stump with the heart carved into it has split down the middle. The dip in the trail where the melted ice water always pools collects the drips from the icicles on the trees above. It’s all still here. 

Sid and I used to play here. We’d jump over the puddle and keep score. First one to miss got soaked and had to do the other’s washing for a week. Maybe others still take the path. Jump the puddle. Life goes on. 

I crest the last ridge and the air stays behind me. What’s left of the house isn’t much. It’s a scorched clearing. The bones are still here. Charcoal ribs of the porch beams, melted teeth of the hinges, the empty stomach of the kitchen, now a black square where we used to gather to eat the very cake in my arms.

There’s nothing left of the fence we used to patch each spring. The brush grows tall now, with no one remaining to cut it back. Trees bend over the ruins like crooked fingers. The chimney stones have collapsed into themselves. Shattered glass blinks back at me in the dirt, catching the last light of the setting sun. Moss has already started climbing the debris.

It’s worse than I remember. Worse than it has always been. 

I step through the ash and crouch beside the stones that used to be our hearth. I pick up a shard of porcelain, warped and cracked now. Through the chipping, the outline of a faint blue flower stares back at me. Ma’s serving plate. Gone. I turn it over. The back is scorched. Melted metal clings to the surface. The edge slices my finger. 

“Happy New Year,” I mutter down to the droplets of blood sprinkling the ash. I drop the shard and stand.

I wade deeper through the mounds of ash. This is where I used to sit. Right here. Ma’s rocking chair to one side, Sid across from me, sometimes in her lap. He always snored too loud. Too often. I used to think I’d kill him for it. Now I’d trade every coin I’ve got to hear it again. 

My feet know where my bedroom used to be. I step over charred remains of the foundation and stand where I’d been sleeping when it all happened. My bed is gone. My dresser, all of my clothes. Everything I once owned went up in smoke. 

I stare at the gray. There’s nothing left. Nothing of Sid. Nothing of Ma. Nothing of me. It’s like we were never here at all. I shuffle back toward the foundation when a glint of broken glass catches my eye. I lean down to pick it up, thinking it’s another one of Ma’s nice plates somehow all of the way over here. 

I wrap my fingers around the surface. It’s cool to the touch. I shake it free from the dust and hold it up. A knife. A butter knife. Malformed and crooked. 

Sid’s. Sid’s knife. He said he’d protect me with it. His knife. The one I was teaching him how to throw. The one he used to cut pieces of fruit. He’d hand me the smallest ones. I told him he was a brat. He’d stick his tongue out and point the knife at me like a sword, then he would call himself better than me. He was.

I slip it into my pocket. The ash kicks up into my lungs and burns my eyes with tears. I return to the hearth. I don’t want to be in my room anymore. I sift through the cinders. 

Nothing. Nothing remains.

The hearth, where Ma used to tap the wooden spoon twice against the pot and say dinner wasn’t ready until all of our chores were done, is empty. Sid would race off to clean his room. I hear his steps down the hall. 

I shut my eyes. 

The worst part about death isn’t the grave. It’s the places you expect to see someone being empty. Not the house, that’s gone. Not the land around it, either. The land regrows. The moss takes over. The roots crawl forward. 

It’s the space between things. The route between houses where Ma used to collect laundry. The distance from the front step to the fence. The missing footprints in the mud of the puddle. The time between Sid’s footfalls in the hallway. That’s where grief lives. 

Sid used to tell me stories about how when he got old, he’d build a house on the highest hill and invite everyone he knows over for sleepovers. He’d say the higher the hill the closer he would be to the stars, and he’d build his house so tall he could touch them. Said I’d be able to see his house from the fence line. 

I keep trying to leave it. To drink through it. To sleep around it. But I end up here. On the same ground. Same dirt. Same grief. Same visitors. Same thoughts. Just different boots. 

When I came home from school a few nights after Pa died, Ma used to look at me like I was the only thing that hadn’t broken yet. I don’t know what she saw in me. It hurt me just as much as it hurt her, losing him. 

I see her the same way, sometimes. How she’d sit at the table. Elbow on the wood. Cheek in her hand. Waiting for the tea to cool. 

I think the worst part about it is the place the chair used to be. She’s not here, and neither is the chair. Gone completely, as if they were never here at all.

The breeze picks up. I open my eyes. I look up at the emerging stars. Same sky. Same light. I wonder if she saw them the night she died. I wonder if she looked up and thought of her constellation . I want to believe that. I need to.

The clearing’s just a scar again. 

They’re not here. 

No one remains. 

Just me. 

I kick the ash back flat and gather the box of cake back in my arms. 

I turn and walk back toward the village, the bones of where I once lived behind me.

I elbow open the door to my house and slide the cake box onto the table, pushing aside old, half-eaten plates. When I lift the lid, cinnamon hits the air like a ghost. The scent curls up my nose and settles somewhere deep in my ribs. 

I slide the cake out and pull up the least broken chair. I rest my chin on my hands and stare at it as the light fades, watching the apple filling drip slowly down the side. I try to remember how Ma, Sid and I used to celebrate, but tonight, there’s no one left to remember with.

My fingers close around the handle of the knife. I bring the blade to the top of the cake when the wind picks up outside. Through the window, I watch the clouds pull back like a curtain, revealing a night sky stitched with stars. The clouds drift off to new forests, and a full moon peeks through the darkness back at me. 

I bundle the knife in a dish towel with a plate and fork, then cradle the cardboard under the cake and shoulder the back door open. 

The porch creaks under me. No one has been out back since the house was built. I sit cross-legged under the stars and turn my face to the sky, searching for Sid’s Goose. The wind blows my hair into my face, and I blow it right back away. The goose is nowhere to be found. It’s still too cold. But Ma’s stars are out. Hers never leave. I raise the knife to her stars.

“Here, Ma,” I murmur, slicing into the cake and laying a piece on the plate. “For us.” 

I take the silver fork and lift a bite to my nose first. The spices warm my lungs before the sugar hits my tongue. The filling paints my cheek in a thick smear, and I lick it clean with a crooked smile. It’s not the same, but it is close. Close enough. I think Ma and Sid would have liked it, too. 

I stay out under the stars the rest of the night. I tell Ma everything that happened on the tour. I tell her about how everyone used to think I’m the reason for the fire that took her and Sid from me. I think she believes it wasn’t me. Her stars twinkle brighter right as I finish explaining how I’d tried to get her and Sid free. I think that means she knows. 

No. They’re stars. They don’t know. Still, I keep watching her stars. If I blink, they’ll leave me, and I don’t have anyone left. 

I gorge on the cake, eating as much as I can handle. I try to recall what is real and what is not. I don’t want to lie to Ma—no, Ma’s stars. I don’t want to lie to them. Is a story I think is real a lie if it’s not actually what happened? I don’t mean to lie. I don’t know if I ever meant to lie. Is the truth a lie when everyone else thinks it is? It must be. I don’t even know what the truth is anymore.

Neither does Plutarch. Mags won’t, Beetee won’t, Wiress won’t. Not if Plutarch doesn’t. Nothing happened in that arena. Nothing happened on the Victory Tour. Only that which others already believe exists. I am nothing but a vessel to be told my own history. I don’t experience anything. I am told what happened, and that is the truth. 

There isn’t much left. I don’t have details or times, and the events get mixed up with one another like they would in a brawl. Ma’s stars are patient with me. They listen to me ramble, then correct myself, get frustrated, pull clumps of grass from the ground and fling them away, take deep breaths, and start all over again. And eventually, when the sun comes up in spite of me, her stars fade away to rest. All I have told are lies. Everything I know is lies. Snow was right. I set fires and run. I tell stories I’ve convinced myself of to make myself feel better, and pass them off as if they’re true. None of it was ever true. 

I drag the remaining cake inside with the dishes and shove it into the fridge with a bang. I collapse into my torn-up bed, knife still in hand, and knot myself in the duvet until sleep takes me.

And then the visitors come. They are angry, like always. Some I recognize. Some I don’t anymore. Their faces swirl into distortion, like water in the wash basin. Their words come muddled, too, and I can’t tell what they want anymore. A few yell about the games. Some shout about Snow. Some call me a liar, a jackass, a beast, an arsonist. Some just stare at me from the corner of the room, vanishing when I try to face them. 

I jolt awake to a sharp ringing noise, slashing blindly with the knife until my eyes focus on the brightly lit, mid-afternoon room. I slink out of the bed and pad down the stairs to the kitchen to investigate the noise, knife clenched tightly in my fist. When I peer around the wall, the phone shudders on the hook like it hasn’t known how to ring before. Someone, for the first time, is calling me. 

I set the knife down and flip through a mental list of anyone who could have this number. Phones don’t exist in the Seam. If you need something, you walk. Phones are Capitol things. 

Plutarch? No. He wouldn’t risk a phone call to me. Not after the way we ended. Not after I skipped out on Twelve’s Victory party and locked myself back into my prison.

The ringing grows louder, more shrill and impatient. 

I yank the phone free from the hook and slam it to my ear. “Who’s this?”

“Haymitch?” A soft, hurried voice responds. 

“Lenore Dove?” I nearly drop the phone. My blood turns cold as the snow outside. 

“I’m on the Peacekeeper’s base,” she says quickly. “They arrested me.”

“What? You’re where?” I grip the phone with both hands, pressing it tighter to my ear, and straining to catch every word.

“Last night, for playing music. I guess I went a little crazy when they gave you that one in training.”

“Hold on, Lenore Dove, slow down, talk to me. Tell me what’s happening?” My own breath echoes back through the receiver, heavy and panicked. It makes my heart pound harder.

She barrels forward. “I took my tune box over to the Justice Building. They hadn’t pulled the stage down yet, and I did a few songs.”

“Lenore Dove! Lenore Dove! Hold on.” I cry into the receiver, “Can you hear me? Can you? Lenore Dove, it’s me, it’s Haymitch!” 

“No, just hauled me in. Less about what I played, more about how it drew people.”

Her words come flooding back to me all at once. I know this moment. I’ve lived it. This is a far off call from a long time ago. My last ever words to my girl. 

“Who is this?” I scream. “Who is doing this to me?”

The line cuts. The tone buzzes in my ear like a fly trapped in a jar. 

I launch the phone against the wall. It ricochets against my chest. I grab it again, slamming it over and over into the box until it dangles limply on a sparking wire. 

I become a storm. Whatever remains in my house I reduce to splinters and dust. I launch the last good chair through the window, and it explodes into shards. I rip the drawers from their tracks and whip them across the room, scattering the contents like paper confetti. I tear the cabinet doors off of their hinges and overturn the food-strewn table. I destroy everything I touch. 

I rampage into the living room, rip down the empty shelves and hurl them into the fireplace. I shred the curtains. I tear the rug apart with my bare hands. I gut the couch and the armchairs, dragging out their insides and flinging them like dirt from a grave.

By the time my lungs burn like my blurry eyes, all that remains are the dented walls, the blank Capitol TV, and my bottles. 

I drown myself. I drink until I tremble on the floor in a pool of my own throw up, and then I drink more, until grief whisks me back off to sleep. 

Chapter Text

When I wake in the wasteland, there isn’t even a rumor of sunrise. The window’s pitch black. The phone still dangles from the wall, now no longer sparking. Maybe I just imagined the sparks. I lift my head to get a better look, craning my neck to see around the corner of the door frame. It’s still broken. Everything’s still broken. It was real, all of it.

I place my head back on the carpet and groan. The stench of dried fluid floats around me. I can’t tell them apart. My hand sticks to the carpet when I try to lift it. Blood from my palm caked itself to the fibers. I pull it free. 

Everything happened last night. There’s only one person in Panem who would be able to pull that off. Did I do something wrong? I held my tongue. I said the right things. Was it the visit to the old house? Is this what they’ll take from me now? My peace? My last words to Lenore Dove?

My hand lands back on the carpet. I choke down rotted air and try to think back to what happened. Was it buying the cake? Was it my words with Bascom? Was it something before that? How many things have I done that I’ve forgotten?

Or was it even a punishment at all? Was it supposed to be something good? Plutarch would have access to the call, too, if it was recorded. I took the call at his house, I think. Did he play the recording? Did he call me? Why didn’t he say anything?

Or was it even a recording at all? Was it just someone who sounded like her? I can't remember the words. What if they weren't the exact words. It sounded like her. 

My heart stops beating. I rub at my chest to get it to start again, but the ache remains. 

No. It didn't. Or if it did, I couldn't know. Not anymore. I don't remember what she sounds like. What if it was never actually Lenore Dove on the other side of the phone in the first place? I’d never seen her again after I left on the train six months ago. If they can change the footage of the Games, they can change the audio over a phone. Was it her speaking to me at all? Did I ever even get to say goodbye? 

All of these months. The ballad book. Clerk Carmine. Burdock. I never really got to say goodbye to Lenore Dove. After all of this time. Every promise I made to her. The funeral. The Hob. Every second I spent trying to make a difference. Every story I told, every fight I started, every day the mines were closed. Everyone who starved or froze or ended up in the stockades. 

It was never a real promise. She never asked for me to meet her in the meadow. She never told me about her performance. Not her. She was dead the moment I left Twelve. A promise on a burned book is not a promise at all.

I pick myself up off the floor, but it pulls me back down. I crawl instead. My hands slip in something sour. I wipe the vomit from my face with a rag that isn’t any more clean than my shirt. The bathroom smells like stale blood and bile. I must have thrown up here, too.  

My arms don’t belong to me. They swing limp and useless, flailing for a towel that isn’t close to my fingertips. Or maybe I’m still dreaming. I find a strip of fabric and scrub a face that doesn’t feel like mine. My teeth knock together from the cold. Or rage. Or grief. I can’t tell anymore. Someone else will tell me later. They always do. I can’t trust myself to know. 

It takes everything I have left to lift myself high enough to soak a washcloth. I don’t look in the mirror. There’s barely any of it left. A few shards still remain in the frame. Just enough to see someone staring back. I doubt it’s me. I press the cloth to my face. It burns. No tears come, but I know they’re there. I can feel them inside, pooling under everything. I don’t have anything left to give them. I can’t remember the last time I drank water. 

I duck my head beneath the faucet and drink deeply until I’m full. The water tastes like nothing. I can’t even tell what temperature it is. I shut the tap when I feel an ache in my stomach. When I turn it off, it stops immediately. It doesn’t drip like the cistern pump. Nothing lingers here. It’s on and off, no in between. Everything is here at my fingertips and yet, I've never had less in my life. 

The phone rings from down the hall. I turn the faucet on. It’s not real. Not the ringing. It can’t be. It’s dangling off the hook. Or did I imagine that? I turn the water back on to drown it out. The phone stops ringing. I leave the water running. It doesn’t ring again.

I find a pair of pants crumpled under the shower curtain I ripped down from its rings last night. I stand without falling. When I go to take off my jacket, the pocket knocks against my ribs. 

Coins. I find them everywhere now. I have so much money I can lose piles of coins and not even care. 

I reach in my pocket to toss them aside, but my hand closes around something else. The knife. Still here, even after everything. It’s warm now, warm from staying so close to me overnight. I close my fist around it and pull it into the light. It’s real. It’s here. My hands are mine again. Just for now. I feel the knife. I feel the warped, deformed metal. 

Sid’s knife.

I can’t keep it. He doesn’t belong here. Not in the Capitol wasteland. He needs it back. 

I don’t bother with breakfast. I don’t even know what time it is. The cake’s still in the fridge, unmarred by the devastation around it. Cabinets hang loose, gaping back at me, open-mouthed and door-less. The table’s flipped, cracked straight through the center. The chairs are gone. Everything’s ruined. 

I open the fridge door and grab it with one hand. I refuse to let go of the knife. If I do, it will disappear. I can’t. I can’t let it go. 

The streets are still dark. No lamps lit. No snow falling. Even the wind is quiet, like it knows not to follow me. 

I don’t go through the front gate of the cemetery. I haven’t gone that way since Clerk Carmine chased me out. As if it’s his dirt. As if he owns it. As if he knew them better than I did. Like they needed to be protected from me.

I haven’t seen him since the week of their funeral. Not since I stopped going outside. I haven’t seen him in the six months I shut myself away. He believed them. He believed their stories. Not mine. He blamed me for it all, just like everyone else. 

Maybe he was right. Maybe they were all right. I killed them. I killed all of them. Ma. Sid. Lenore Dove. Everyone I ever loved. 

I caused the fire. I caused the fighting. I caused the starvation, the closed mines, the unrest. I caused the death. All because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. 

I cut through the woods instead. I slide down the embankment behind the bakery, taking a wide path around the bare apple tree, and shove my way through the brambles until I crawl under the fence that borders the Seam. 

Thorns tear at my arms, but I don’t pull them out. I deserve worse.

I cross the Seam, leaving heavy boot prints in my frozen trail, until I come face to face with the west side of the graveyard. The wall is broken here. Stone crumbled and the iron rusted out years ago. No one fixed it. 

I haul myself over it and hit the ground hard. The wind leaves me. Pain springs up my legs. I’m not who I used to be. I don't recognize this body I'm in. I'll learn it just as I did my last.

I count the steps. Three rows over. Six stones in. 

There. There they are. Together. 

In the faint light of the cloud-filtered moon, I stop just short of their grave. Someone added a headstone in the months I’ve been gone. It’s a polished, heavy stone with deep set, chiseled letters. It’s not the Capitol one you can buy from the store. It’s hand-crafted, endowed with both of their full names. Someone made this. Someone was here with them. Someone who wasn’t me.

I step around their plot. The moss has taken root across the dirt. The grass has crept back in. Their grave, like everything else, is being reclaimed by time. There’s no beginning to it. No end. Just grass grown over the once over-turned earth.

I crouch beside the edge of the stone and pull the knife from my pocket. It doesn’t know how to shine anymore, failing to reflect back to me. Just dull metal in the moonlight.

“This is yours,” I whisper. “Thank you for protecting Ma.”

I turn over a handful of the frosty earth. It resists at first, then gives way. I place the knife in the shallow hollow and cover it back up. Just deep enough to let him keep it. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring cake yesterday,” I say. “It’s the New Year. I saved you some.” 

I sit with the box in my lap and my back against their stone. The graveyard is busier than I remember. More vines, more plants, but more graves, lining row after row. 

“It’s not yours, Ma. I didn’t know your recipe. I bought it. I know. Waste of money.”

My fingers tighten on the cardboard edges of the box.

“I’ve got more money than we’ve ever dreamed of. You wouldn’t’ve had to wash everyone’s laundry anymore. I wish I could’ve given you that. I hated seeing you work yourself to the bone. I never told you that. You never stopped. Not for anything. That was you. You’d have kept going even in the big house. I know you did it for us. All of us. It’s just who you are. Who you were.”

My voice breaks.

“I’ve got running water. A machine that does the wash for me. I broke it last night. I broke everything. I’m sorry. You’d be so ashamed, making messes I can’t pick up. I’m glad you can’t see me now. I’m not who I used to be. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

I stare at the grass curling around the stone and swallow the lump in my throat.

“You died knowing someone I don’t even remember. Would you recognize me? If I see you again? Both of you? I don’t remember anything. I’m just what everyone else says I am. They pick up the pieces of everything I break. They put them back in places I've never seen. I never know what I’m doing. Not anymore. I don’t think anything I thought happened, happened. Everything they say about me is true somehow. I never know the truth until someone else tells me after.”

I breathe in. Slow.

“Did I set the fire, Ma?”

“Did I set it?”

There’s no answer. There can’t be. She’s not here. I don’t know what I was hoping to find. I don’t know if I was hoping for anything at all. The wind moves, the grass grows, the morning comes, and I just keep sitting here, feeling nothing. There’s no one to pull me up this time. 

I leave the cake. I climb back over the wall of the graveyard and drop back onto the dirt of the Seam. 

I haunt the district. I wander the Seam, climbing paths I used to frequent, leaving footprints later to be swallowed by the crowds of miners soon to erupt from their houses. The paths feel unfamiliar now. New rocks crop up like weeds. Puddles where there used to be piles of dirt. They don’t recognize my shoes. I don’t recognize the dirt. I weave my way through the houses. Up and down alleys. Through brush and fences. From link to link in the chain. I never look up. 

It is different. It doesn’t remember me. I don’t belong here any more. Every new layer of coal dust, every fresh bank of snow, it all stares back at me as if I’m a Capitol man, a stranger, not someone who used to roll in the mud and throw knives into trees. I never played marbles here. Never rode a bike. None of that happened. The dirt has shifted. It has healed without me. Birds have been born in the rafters of the porches and never heard my voice. The sun has baked the land and not known the shade of my shadow. 

I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere. 

There is a graveyard at my back and one in the woods, and neither want me. I am condemned to live. I cannot leave. 

Do others feel this way?

Later, when the sun gets warm again, will I condemn a tribute to the life I lead? How could I? It is not living. It is no better than death. I spend days sleeping and nights kissing only the lips of a bottle. Is it worse than death? Should I just let them die in the arena? Even if they beg me to help them live?

I’ve spent months hoping to be admitted to another world. The one Lenore Dove was so fond of. I begged and pleaded. I tried to send myself to the judges. 

But, no. 

I don't think I ever actually believed in another world. No. I know I never actually believed in Lenore Dove’s worlds. I know that now. It’s a kind of belief that only crops up when I think it will help me. The one I turn to when there’s nothing left but something I can’t find here. I turn to it when I can use it. Plutarch turns to me to use me. Is there a difference? Is there even a judge? It's not real. It's the promise of good because of the pain. Nothing will ever be worth the pain. 

Hinging something, hinging a whole world on suffering before someone dies, no, I don't want it. No world that's good would make someone suffer to get there. Good is good. Good doesn't come with a punched ticket or an invite from the Capitol. 

I've had nothing but time to think, now that I've spent my days alone. And I think that something that tells you there will be good later is nothing more than a lie. I believed there would be good after the arena. I believed there would be warm arms to receive me. I was deceived. There's no point to a rainstorm just to get to the rainbow. Just give me the rainbow. There's no other world. There's no good that comes from a hand waiting for payment, a scale waiting to be balanced.

I'm here in this world. The only world. 

Everything I’ve done has been because someone else has told me to. Everything I believed, from an afterlife, to the Games ending, has been a lecture. I’ve never thought for myself. Now, I am. Now, I don't know what I don't know. Every time I pick up a new thought and turn it over, it crumbles in my hand. The only thing I know is that I think, now, so I must be. Just me. Just I. That's the only thing I'm certain of. 

It's like trying to stop a fire in the mines. Every cup of water, every gust of wind, nothing stops it. It crawls from one vein of coal to the next. A rafter to a beam. Vein to vein. I'm existing in the flames. I cannot put it out until I think for myself.

I ignored the fire because others believed it wouldn't burn. I listened to them. I believed because others believed. I believed Snow. Beetee. Maysilee. Plutarch. Lenore Dove. I believed everything she told me. I believed it was really her on the other end of the call. Maybe it was. Does it matter? I’ve seen everything I believed shattered before me. Everything everyone told me. I followed the rebel plan, thinking it would work. It would change something. I followed Lenore Dove’s words like a map.

I was a fool. I brought death upon everyone. I was a fool. I know that now.

I listened to everyone. I thought they knew what was best for me. For everyone. No one does. All I did was switch sides. From one story to another. I didn’t stop and think. How could I? I was supposed to die. And now, I’m alive, and no one’s here to tell me what to think.

I wander the Seam aimlessly. Up the hills and down the valleys, letting my feet go where they take me.

I wasn’t thinking. I was just doing what I was told. When will I start working things out on my own? I don’t want to change sides just to be told what to do again. I don’t want to listen to Snow because he says the Games keep everyone from killing one another. I don’t believe that. I’ve starved my whole life. I never would have killed if I hadn’t been put in that arena. I’ve never had enough, but I’ve never thought about killing someone because of it. 

I don’t want to listen to Plutarch, either. How many kids has he gotten killed for his reckless plots? He preyed on my desperation to make my death worth something. Neither he nor Beetee thought farther than Sub-A. I didn’t either. I just trusted. Blindly trusted. Everything in my life has been one story, one fact, one idea to the next. Whatever someone asks of me, running bottles, lugging bags of wheat, blowing up the tank and keeping the peace. Everything has been someone else’s idea. Someone else’s plan.

Everyone everywhere tells me what to think. What to do. I’ve never done anything for myself. Painting the posters was my father’s idea. Silverware, Maysilee. Ending the Games? Everyone else. But now, I know. My death would have been worth nothing in that arena, whether I blew the tank up or not. My death would have meant nothing more than Louella’s.

And now, this, I know: there’s no point in dying. 

I have craved it for months. I have spoken to the stars and they stared back, but they didn't see me. The glint of the silver doesn’t shine for me. It never did. I can watch it. I can observe it. The night my family died, I did not see the stars. I did not look for them. Or maybe I did. They shine above the clouds. They exist only for themselves. They do not care if I watch, as I am now. They stitch holes into the sky and exist without a need to be seen. Here, I am a star. Not in my shine, not in my warmth. I have about as much of that as a block of mid-winter ice. I am a star only in that I go on. I exist. Somehow, I exist. 

I wind down beneath the apple tree behind the bakery. Inside, I can smell the bread proofing above the oven. A dough not yet ready to be baked. I lean my head against the trunk and turn to look at the stars. 

I have not killed myself. It has been months. I have seen death in the form of pink-tinted water and pitchers of milk. I have drunk myself near the edge. I brushed fire with my hand and held my intestines in the other. And yet, I am alive. 

I lived before I knew my girl was dead. I lived to watch my family die. 

It is not a promise that keeps me tethered to life. It is myself. It is not hope, nor is it spite. I exist as the shining silver dripping upon my fingers. I exist not to be seen, but to be. 

I have not killed myself because I have not. 

That’s it.

There is no promise that works as a gatekeeper. There is no person turning me away at the door. No judge presiding over my case. There’s no other world at all. Nowhere to take me, nowhere to go except here, in this body, in myself.

I don’t need another world. I don’t need a promise. I don't need a bigger purpose. I never needed it. Any of it. There is no reason other than the mere fact that I live because I have chosen to. 

I am not condemned to life. I have chosen to live.

What I need is here. Right here. Under this apple tree. What I need is me. 

When dawn finally breaks, I rise to my feet and stagger through the Seam. For the first time, I look up. I meet the eyes of those around me. Some still ignore me. Others look back. 

I’m not a monster. Not anymore. I am alive by my own choice. I am a victor. I have lived, and I will live.

I skirt the edges of the flow of miners heading toward their shift and mount the hill to the village, where I return to my house. 

On my stoop awaits another basket, filled with food and bottles. I scoop it into my arms and nudge my way through my front door. I tip toe over the rubble, but half way through my first step, I stop cold. 

It’s gone. Everything I trashed is gone. 

I set the basket down next to the door and creep through my house. The doors on the cabinets are hung straight. The table is upright and whole again. The chairs, all four, stand around the table as if they’d never been moved. The couch is back in one piece, with not a visible stitch of mending. No fluff decorates the house. No splinters litter the floor. No windows let in a draft. 

I rush down the hall to the bathroom. The shower curtain is hung. The stench of vomit and blood no longer assaults me. And the mirror, complete and shined, stares back at me. 

My eyes are hollow. My face is unshaven. My skin is dusted with coal, and only clear where my tears had bled. I keel over the sink and splash my face with water until it runs clear down my arms. When I lift my head to see myself in the mirror again, I notice a stack of freshly folded towels. 

Someone was here. Someone fixed everything. 

How did they know? How did they know about my rampage? Was it planned? My house has been a mess since the night I moved in. Maybe they planned it, maybe they planned it all. 

I stagger back out into the living room and throw myself onto the couch. The room sits pristine, as if I had never been here at all. 

The room smells like nothing. Not even the scent of the cleaner they use on the floor in the schools. There’s no sign anything has changed beyond the fact everything has been replaced. If someone visits for the first time, they would never know everything was broken just a few hours ago. 

There are no more stains of wine on the rug. No mold in the bathroom. No stench of sweat or crumpled clothing on the floor everywhere. No piles of half-eaten dishes. 

I sit on the couch for a long time just listening for something. Anything. A draft. A ticking clock. A mouse in the walls. Something to prove that this is real. And yet, there’s nothing. 

I cross over the room and press the back of my hand against the corner of the glass window. No draft. No whistle of the cold wind leaking inside. 

I walk over to the couch and sit again, waiting for the squeak of the springs. Nothing. I shift to the other cushion. The one I left puffs up, perfectly fluffed, like I’d never been there at all. These cushions have no history, or I have none for which they care to retain. 

I try again, listening for the creak of the wood.

Nothing. Not even footsteps. 

Not even Sid’s footsteps. 

Right. Because I can’t have anything. Not even the memory of sounds. Because even that will be replaced by a rug so thick you sink into it and cushions so plush they don’t need a person to fluff them. 

From the couch, I eye the basket. Still untouched, wrapped in that shiny plastic it always comes in. I rise and go to it.

My fingers don’t shake anymore. I have come to bear the load of whatever Snow decides for me. I promised myself life, and life I shall have. I undo the bow on the top and pull the contents out of the basket one by one. Loaf of bread. Cheese wrapped in wax paper. A bottle of red. A second, sealed, labeled with my name in Capitol script. A jar of syrup, and a small tin of painkillers. And a note.

I unfold the slip of paper and hold it up to the pale light of dawn. Upon it is a neatly written line of just three words:

“Enjoy your homecoming.”

I crumple it in my fist and shove it deep into the trash. 

I look out the window over the sink. The sun’s risen over the district, sprawling over the rooftops like it always has. Like it always will. Whether I watch it or not.

I sit and wait for the next thing to happen. Because I don’t know how to start anything anymore. I only know how to survive it once it begins. How to listen to what others tell me and do what they ask. Keep my mouth shut. Follow orders. Enjoy my homecoming. 

I thought I could think for myself. Snow’s already ahead.

I’ll be a fool forever.

Chapter Text

Every day is the same until the weather warms again. Sometimes the phone rings, but I drink myself deaf until it stops. I never fix it. I only ever hear it. It never shudders on the hook, just rings in my ears.

Spring drives people out from their houses. The last thing I want to do is to speak to any of them, so I stay in the Village all day until the sun goes down, and only then do I crawl from my prison to buy what I need to survive. Sometimes a gardener comes buy to fix the outside of the house. I never see him.

I try to plan. I try to think for myself, but every thought I manage comes up in someone else's words. I don't know what to think. In District Four, I imagined what it would be like if one of the boats they took me on sank. At the time, I'd hoped one would have. I wanted to drown and take everyone with me. Now, I am drowning. I'm wading from floating plank to plank, grabbing onto them until they sink. I can tread water. I learned in the lake. That's the only thing I've got. 

I try to swim to land by remembering what happened, but it’s gone. All of it. Lost to time. Even the faces of those I’ve lost are scrambled now—blurred, shifting, wrong. Any time I try to think too hard, I end up with another bottle in my hand. I wander through my house speaking aloud to no one. Sometimes I say words that don’t make sense. Sometimes they answer.

The answers come in the gift baskets.

After the first note, I began testing them. Speaking in corners. Trying to find where they listen. The far right of the living room, behind the rotted plant they replaced with an identical plastic one, delivers the most precise responses. That week I rambled about proof and distillation, and they sent five more bottles—exactly what I described. The bathroom listens too. So does the bedroom, the hallway, the kitchen. All of it bugged. I knew from the first note.

They’re watching. They hear everything. Every bottle, every extra pack of food—it’s them.

So I start feeding them lies. False names. Fabricated alliances. Tributes I made up. Games that never happened. I muddy the water until it’s thick enough to drown in.

The cellar doesn’t listen. Maybe they never had time to wire it before I came back from the graveyard. Maybe they didn’t care what happened down there. Or maybe they thought I’d never go.

That’s where I keep the good stuff.

In one of the baskets comes the tape of my Games. I turn it on nightly instead of the Capitol news, picking it apart scene by scene. It doesn't help.

Starting with the reaping, everything is just as I remember it to be. I look dangerous on that stage. Calm. Prepared. I must’ve known they’d call my name. Why else would I stand like that?

Then the interview. I remember that line, everyone was just as stupid as usual. Of course I remember it. I said it. I smirked right after. It was a good line. I meant it. I used to think I was clever. That I could outplay them. I see now I was already a piece in their hands. Plutarch. Beetee. Snow. I walked exactly where they placed me. I lived, and I thought I did it alone. I didn’t. But I did live. I wanted to. They all hate me for it now. I lived. 

And now, all of their words, all of their plans, are mixed into the churning ocean, and I'm grasping for something to hold onto. I don't remember any of them. It's all one big, swirling whirlpool that leads to someone else's plans for my death.

The rest of the tape goes by. I kick a rock off the cliff. Maysilee dies in my arms. I use the force field to kill Silka.

I use the force field to kill Silka. 

That was the plan that did me in. The axe. I remember the heat of the moment. The way she looked right before. The sound. It was fast. It was smart. Strategic. It was mine. It wasn't supposed to be mine. A boy from District 12, outliving them all. That's what it must be. I showed them up. That's what Plutarch meant by the tank. The tank of tributes, scrambling around and killing one another. We were in a tank like rodents. The axe was what did me in. That stunt I pulled with the force field. That's what got everyone I loved killed.

Months pass. I watch the tape so often the ribbon begins to drag. The static starts to speak. The house rots again. I let it. The spiders move back in. They build webs in the corners and watch me work. I let them stay. They don’t ask questions.

When the heat returns, so does the Reaping. And Effie.

She lets herself in. The Capitol must have a key. This place has never been mine. The sound of her heels drives me straight into the cabinet for the strongest stuff I own.

“We have a big, big, big day ahead of us!” she chirps, dressed in fluorescent snot green. She’s carrying a bundle of something. “I brought you some clothing,” she says, like I’m a doll she’s found on the road. No, she'd buy a new one. “Normally it’s rude to assume someone doesn’t have anything to wear, but in your case,” she looks me up and down, “I’m glad I came prepared.”

“Goodie,” I spit.

Her smile flickers when she sees what I’ve done to the place, but she catches herself and fires it back up. That cold Capitol marble. Maybe this year they’ll build the mutts in her image. A white room. Effie Trinket. The worst arena yet.

“It appears I was right to assume you needed some help,” she hums, holding out a garment bag.

I snatch the hanger and shuffle off to my room. The suit’s itchy. Stiff. Tan pants, blue button-up, brown shoes. I ditch the jacket under my bed.

When I come back downstairs, Effie scans me top to bottom. Her lips press into a line, but she doesn’t say a word. The compromise is enough for her. I wore the clothes. That's what matters. She can report that. She got me dressed.

“You will be on camera, so do remember to smile.” She taps the tight corners of her painted lips. “And if you’d like, I strongly suggest doing something with your hair.”

She reaches for one of my curls, and I slap her hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Right.” Her fingers recoil into a fist. She lowers it to her side. “Well, we’d best be off. It’s already almost time. Your first year as a mentor! Can you believe it? Doesn’t time just fly?” She squeaks in that shrill, grating Capitol accent. 

She loads me into the same chrome car as always and chatters the whole ride to the Justice Building. 

“I think it’s quite exciting, you know. I initially asked to be a stylist. Magno’s been terminated, so there’s a vacancy, but President Snow knows best, of course. So when his Gamemakers offered me the position of tribute escort, I couldn’t say no!” She straightens her bright green wig in the rearview mirror. “Do watch the potholes, won’t you?”

The Avox nods, slowing for another break in the road.

“Oh, Haymitch, I should mention, Plutarch isn’t joining us this year. They’ve moved the cameras. They’ll be stationed above the square, on the roof of the Justice Building. That way no one gets hurt if there’s another uprising. Proserpina told me all about how Drusilla stopped one at your Reaping. Very brave of her, don’t you agree?”

I turn to the window. There's no uprising in the tape. No uprising at all. Probably one of those Capitol rumors to make people feel better about themselves and worse about the districts.

"What uprising? The one in the Capitol when they saw how decrepit she looked?"

"Haymitch Abernathy!" Effie gasps. "My word! You must not learn any manners out here."

I don't hold my smirk.

"The one after that tribute tried to run. That's no way to honor the Games on either of your parts. Escorts are to be respected, just like the Games. It's an honor to be chosen, you know."

The bricks of the square begin to gleam behind my eyes, glazed in blood. A boy lies at the edge of the crowd, head scattered like stone dust. He must have ran. 

It’s easier to just let it happen. Everyone knows it. Just mount the stage, head up, no tears. Don’t run. They’ll kill you here or in the arena. Better to not take someone else with you. Easier.

When the car crunches over gravel behind the Justice Building, Effie collects her things. She waits for the Avox to open her door. I spill out of the other side and scuff the toe of a Capitol-issued shoe. I didn’t bring any bags. I just stand there, listening to the commotion in the square. In less than an hour, I’ll have two tributes with me. One might be my age. Maybe older. Seventeen year olds have some of the most slips in the bowls. Eighteen year olds, even more. How can I mentor someone older than me? I’ll have to. I’ll work with whoever I get. 

I won’t let them die. I’ll have someone else on my side. I'll get someone on my side.

The posters have changed, but the slogans haven’t. “NO PEACE, NO BREAD!” has been moved over to the bakery. “NO PEACE, NO SECURITY!” drapes beneath the Peacekeeper nests on the roof. “NO CAPITOL, NO PEACE!” waves back at me beside the flag on the pole.

The stockades and whipping posts are gone. I guess they don’t look good on camera. I never paid much attention to the square before, just passed through on my way from the Village to the Hob. They could’ve taken them down months ago.

Effie corrals me next to the set of stairs off to the side of the stage. 

“Wait here. I must go get camera-ready.” She straightens her lapel. “I’ll collect you right before we begin. You’ll take your seat in the third chair.” She holds up three fingers, counting them off for me. Right. District animal, doesn’t know numbers. “The third. Not the first, that’s the mayor’s. Not the second, that’s mine. Third.” She tugs on her last finger.

My eyes drift past her to the crowd of children, herded into pens. Younger than me. Older. Waiting for slaughter.

"First chair." I nod, holding up four fingers, "Got it."

“No," she huffs. "First the mayor. Then me. Then you. Good. Let’s do great things!” she chirps, and then she’s off, searching for someone to re-pin her wig and fix her makeup.

I stare at the stage and wonder who I’ll kill this year just by trying to keep them alive. Could any of them make it through the life I have? I could be there for them, the way no one showed up for me.

When she’s out of sight, I take the stage alone. I cross to the third chair and sit upright in front of the screen displaying the waving flag of Panem. My eyes drift along the waves of people murmuring rapidly to one another. The kids in the youngest sections are already puffy-eyed and sniffling. The older sections are slower to fill.

In my solitude, I begin to match the faces of those in the crowd with the ones I’ve seen in my nightly visits. In the boys’ pen, Teff Stroud stands shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother Garrison. He’s got two years and a growth spurt on him, so he sticks out above the rest. I catch myself thinking he could have a chance.

I hate myself for it. I have to help one of these kids win. I need someone else with me. But, what side do I even have? I'm alone, here on this stage, and everywhere else.

None of these kids have any more chance than a canary in a rancid mine. Wyatt would know better than I ever could.

On the other side, Daphne Schuster, a pale merchant girl with a toothy smile, locks eyes with me across the square. I look away first. I can’t stomach the thought of getting someone kind.

Daphne works with her family of cobblers in the square. Maybe she’s handy with tools. Could buy her time at the training stations. I must be turning green, because a Capitol attendant mounts the stairs and starts fanning me with a too finely crafted semicircle of wood.

I buck at him, and he scampers off. I will not be pampered by monsters.

I have become a midway point between beast and man. Not Capitol and no longer district, the Games have turned me into a mutt. If I had been luckier, I would be right back in that pen, shoulder to shoulder with my friends. Instead, I sit in my seat on the stage, lofted above everyone, staring in from the other side. 

I have become beast once more. 

I lower my eyes from the pens. I won’t waste time sizing any more of them up. The odds will choose for me, just like they always do. I will have no say, and neither will they. Together we will all stand on the stage and vanish for a month. Inevitably, with at least one burial to attend when we return. 

The July heat casts down upon the sweltering square. With everyone packed in one place, the sun lies heavy over the crowd. There’s not a cloud in the sky. The relentless, vast blue stretches above us, indifferent to the sweat, the fear, the tears. 

There’s nothing I can do. It’s too late. I’ll take a pair of kids with me. I’ll rip them from their families and watch them die. I’m as bad as everyone else on this stage.

The speakers crackle. The anthem begins. Everyone straightens in their nicest clothes, mouthing along. I see the flickering light of the screen mirrored in the faces closest to the stage. It must be the same video they always play.

Mayor Allister is gone. I must have missed the inauguration. Mr. Donner stands at the podium now, preaching about how terrible the war was, and how it’s all our fault everything is the way it is.

He’s right, in a way. If we just sat by, we wouldn’t lose so many lives. Two a year, that’s better than twenty from fighting. Stories cause fighting. Fighting causes the mines to close. Closed mines means starving people. It is our fault. My fault. 

As his speech drones on, I brave another skim of the crowd. I gloss over the pen of boys first, only to find Burdock staring back at me. My heart clenches and my eyes dart away, landing right on Blair next to him. I wonder if they think I enjoy being up here instead of beside them. Blair mouths what can only be Happy Birthday to me, and a lump of coat swells in my throat. I look away. Do not cry on the reaping stage. 

I should’ve looked higher, past the crowd, but I didn’t. My eyes drop into the girls’ pen. I find her. My ally. Light blue dress. Blonde braid. Maysilee. The tears well at the bottom of my eyes, threatening to spill over. Not Maysilee. Merrilee. 

I’ll make that mistake forever. I snap my gaze away, only to land on Asterid March. All the people I left behind, trapped in the same pens I stood in last year. Waiting for slaughter.

This is what being quiet does. We’re all just waiting. The Peacekeepers lurk above us, cameras trained like guns on the crowd. They could light us all up, and we’d all die. Bomb us flat. We’re all here, waiting, watching. Animals in a cage. 

Maybe my stories weren’t so bad. People are harder to pen up when they’re thinking on their own. Maybe waiting saves lives, but two lives a year with no end in sight, that’s forty kids in twenty years. One hundred kids in fifty. How long will I live? How many kids will I watch die? How is the loss of two innocent lives a year any better than making sacrifices trying to end it? People are going to die. 23 kids a year. Two from home. 

My eyes return to Burdock and Blair. They’ve looked away.

I knew this would never be easy, but the idea of one of them getting chosen out of the thousands of names makes my vision tunnel and my lungs seize. I suck in a deep breath and hold it, trying to work air through my body. My head swims. The sun presses in. 

Are two kids worth keeping the rest of us alive? Two’s less than eight thousand. So is 23. How many years until the dead outnumber the living? What’s the point of no return? How long until the graveyard’s full? It’s not just the games. Not just two lives or 23. It's starvation. It's freezing in your home. It’s accidents in the mines. It’s stepping out of line, running, and getting your head blown to pieces on the square’s cobble. 

More than two. We’re all going to die if we stay down. 

But I have to be careful. I’ll have to work on my own. Not with anyone from the Capitol. Never anyone from the Capitol. 

It’s the gasps that drag me back.

Effie holds the first slip between her fingers. One name I’ll carry with me the rest of my life: Cordelia Fletching. 

Cordelia used to sit with the teachers at lunch. She was the first to raise her hand, even if she got the answers wrong. As the crowd parts to let her through, I size her up. I have no other choice. 

What did Wyatt say? What mattered the most? 

She stuck up for the quiet kids. Minded her own until someone needed her. Head down in the books. Maybe that’s something to pitch in the interview. But I can see from the stage that her hands are bony. She’ll have to eat as much as she can just to hold a knife steady. 

Effie helps her onto the stage. Her back is straight like mine. I can’t see her face. That’s probably for the best. I tell myself not to cry.

Beside me, Effie dips her hand into the boys’ bowl and rummages for a slip.

“And now, for our male tribute.”

Not Burdock or Blair, please, anyone but them . I beg silently, and I grip the sides of my chair. 

As she plucks the next slip from the bowl, I barely hear the name over the pounding of my heart. I breathe a sigh of relief, then the overwhelming guilt for feeling it settles into my body. It’s not Burdock or Blair. 

“Come on up, Jett!” Effie chimes into the microphone. The crowd murmurs in dissent, but no one stops it. 

Jett Corvus squares his shoulders and steps forward, weaving through the crowd of boys. He climbs onto the stage, black coal dust under his nails, and stares over the crowd, steady as the stone angels in the District Eleven Justice Building. 

He doesn’t ring a bell. Seam boy. About my age. If he knew me from school, he makes no sign of it. He doesn’t look over. Neither of them, Cordelia or Jett, appeared in my long string of nightly hallucinations. I’ll have to get to know them. Maybe it’s best I don’t. How does a mentor work? It was all so long ago.

Mayor Donner steps back up to the microphone to read the Treaty of Treason. I can't remember if this used to happen at the end or beginning of the ceremony. It feels too long for them to stand there facing the crowd. The order doesn’t matter. The end is always the same. We’ll end up on the train whether they read it now or never.

Both Jett and Cordelia stand rigidly as the mayor drones on. When he finishes, Effie springs back to life, bouncing toward the microphone like she’s been waiting for a curtain call. “Ladies and Gentlemen, join me in welcoming our tributes for the fifty-first Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!” 

She claps. From the stage, I can only see a few others join her. The rest of the sound pours out of the speakers, pre-recorded applause, canned and prepared. One step ahead. 

Confetti rains from above and sticks in Cordelia’s hair like shrapnel.

Burdock and Blair clear out from the square quickly, meeting Asterid and Merrilee at the edge of the crowd under the apothecary’s sign, leaving just me, the Capitol people, and the tributes behind. They’re safe until next year. I doubt I’ll see them until then.

What I assume to be the families of both tributes rush to the edge of the stage, and a Peacekeeper meets them before they can climb up. They will get five minutes to say their goodbyes in the Justice Building, but not any more. Any more would be mercy, and mercy’s beneath the Capitol.

Four Peacekeepers, two for each tribute, usher Jett and Cordelia inside of the Justice Building. Another group escorts the families inside once the kids are sealed away in their separate rooms. The large door shuts behind them, clanging like a cage.

Effie has disappeared somewhere. I linger between the rooms in the hall, trying to draw my mind back together from everything that just happened. Two more kids. One girl I vaguely remember. One boy I don’t. No time to cry. No time to grieve. Just time to plan.

I can’t let them die. One of them has to die. That’s the rule. Do I choose which one? What if I don’t get enough sponsors for them both?

Shouting erupts from Jett’s side of the hall. Moments later, a stocky Peacekeeper drags a man in handcuffs out of the front doors. I catch the resemblance: his jaw, his height. Jett’s father. He’s screaming something, but the sound is drowned by the pounding in my ears. He never finds me. Just shouts into the halls. Grief, bargaining, desperation. It all looks the same.

I collapse into a chair in the hallway, palms pressed to my knees, staring blankly at the floor. I try to think. I try to prepare. But all I can do is sit in the quiet ruin of what’s coming. How do I plan in the flames of it all? It’s burning around me. I can’t get out. It’s too late to put out the fire. It’s burning. Burning. Burning it all down. I have to save them, but how?

A Capitol attendant taps me on the shoulder. 

I slam my hand back, forcing their finger away from me. “What?” I snap.

He winces, rubbing the sting from his fingers. “Your compartment on the train is ready,” he says stiffly. “Please, follow me.”

I rise. Not because I want to. I have to. Someone with a plan might stay right here and refuse, but I don’t have a plan. Anything I do to defy the Capitol will hurt my tributes’ chances. Now, I’m a mentor. Someone has to look out for them.

Chapter Text

I follow the attendant to the car and slide into the waiting passenger seat. He tells me Effie’s already waiting on the train. I grunt, reach for my flask, unscrew the cap, and let the burn settle the knots in my stomach.

When we reach the station, the same plastic train as last year waits with doors wide open. I step into the dining compartment and walk down the corridor to my room, where the Capitol attendant pulls open the door to my quarters. I shoo him off. 

I place my flask on the top of the polished dresser and settle onto the bed. This year, everyone gets their own room. The bunk beds must’ve been a temporary accommodation for last year’s headcount, but I don’t bother checking.

The rumble of a car approaches when I close my eyes. I try to remember the first time I met my mentors, but I can barely picture their faces. Everything has blurred together. All my memories, everyone I know. There’s no one here to ask how to do this.

I untangle myself from my duvet and slide the door to my room open when the train starts to move. Cordelia has her head down on the dining table, and Jett has his back turned to both of us, staring out of the window.

“Have you seen your rooms?” I ask to no response. 

I look between the two. Cordelia’s slight frame disappears behind the table. Thin and short, nothing much to her. A career will pick her up and throw her like a spear. 

Jett’s a different story. The work in the mines has given him more of a competitor’s build. He’s taller, though, not as tall as the man the Peacekeepers escorted from the building, but he shares the same straight dark hair. His shoulders are broad, and if I can get some food into him, he could pull some sponsors without much work. 

I try to place him. I haven’t seen his eyes since his name was called, but they’re the same gray as my own. If I remember him from classes, every desk is a blur by now. Or maybe I saw him in the Hob.

The silence drones on, leaving only Cordelia’s sniffling and the rumble of the tracks beneath us.

“I’m your mentor,” I explain. The title feels foreign to me, heavy on my tongue like it’s stolen, not supposed to be mine. “So it'll do you good to listen to me.” 

I wave over an Avox and order a spread of food. Over the past few months, I’ve gained weight from the baskets the Capitol has been sending to my door. I order the same foods, ones heavy in meats, grains, and cheeses. 

The train moves so quickly everything out of the window is a blur of green and brown, and yet, Jett remains, watching or waiting for something that’s not coming. He needs to bulk less than Cordelia, so I leave him there, but I keep an eye on him. 

The chair across from Cordelia creaks beneath me. “How much do you two know about the Games?” I offer, trying to pry anything out of the pair. 

“Who cares? We’re gonna die,” Jett scoffs from the window. The train car rocks, creaking after his words. “It’s pointless to try and win. Else we’ll end up like you.” 

The train creaks again. His words settle as a chill down my spine. I blink, reeling back slightly. “Yeah, alive.”

“Barely.”

“Real promising, Jett,” I lean an elbow on the table, shifting in the seat to look at him closer. He still hasn’t turned. “I’m here to help you stay breathing. You can take my help, or leave it, but I’m here to try and keep you alive.”

“Least one of us has gotta die,” he grumbles back. “You gonna choose now, or later? Cause I’m not playing into this pageant if I’m not coming out alive.”

“The pageant’s half of the Games. The Capitol people are stupid. They don’t care what you think. They want a show. It’s the only way to get their money.”

“Shouldn’t be like that,” he grumbles, gaze returning to the blurry window.

“Shouldn’t be any of this.” I knock a platter of neatly arranged ham with my elbow. The slices slide across the tray, leaving trails of slime behind them. “None of this should be this way. If I could take you two off of the train and run, I’d go.”

“Why don’t we go, then?” Jett doesn’t look back.

“Because you’ve still got folks at home.”

“They’re gonna hurt our families?” Cordelia lifts her head. Her wet eyes shine in the sun. 

“Not—No. Not if you play the Game.” My grip tightens around the chilled bottle. “That’s the rule. Just play their Game.” I drink deeply to wash the words down. 

“I don’t want to play the Game,” she whispers. Her lip trembles, warping her words like a child asking for the thunder to go away. 

“No one wants to.” My lungs tighten at her widened eyes. I shouldn’t have used the same tone as I had on Jett, but how will she survive if she’s too afraid to even look at what’s in front of her now? I’m doing her a favor, and yet, something tightens in my stomach like I'm not. “Except the careers. We’ll worry about them when we’ve got names. For now, you both need to eat.”

“It shouldn’t be like this.” Jett turns from the window. His eyes lock onto mine, and behind them flashes a dangerous, rageful defiance.

I hold my own, thumbing over the lip of the bottle in my hand. “But it is, and if you do what I say, you’ll have a shot.”

Cordelia lifts her head a little higher. Her bloodshot eyes scan the platters—more food than she’s probably seen in one room her whole life. I nudge a tray of sandwiches toward her.

“Will I have to kill someone?” Her voice cracks. Tears paint lines down her cheeks.

I watch myself through the static of the tape taking out two careers. Something crawls behind my ribs and up into my throat as I feel the wet paste of mud on my knees, hear the screams of pain, and the warmth of their sticky blood splattered on my body. 

It’s gone as soon as it arrived, replaced by the full blown static. I’d replayed that moment over and over, almost as much as I watched the part with the axe on the force field. It’s gone. I can only ever watch myself doing it. I’m never in the eyes of the one doing it. It’s for the best. Sometimes I get glimpses back there, sights, sounds, smells. I hear a scream off in the distance that sounds like the one from the tape, just a little too clear to be from the television speakers. But I don’t remember. I can’t ever watch it through my own eyes. 

“You’ll do what you have to do to stay alive.” I hold my tongue. She’s not ready to face the arena. Any more reality and she’d scurry back off into hiding. 

An Avox arrives with tissues. He sets them on the table and stands at the wall, watching us, waiting for an order. My shoulders stiffen. I review everything I have said so far. Nothing is has been rebellious. I look around at the corners of the rooms. I can’t see the mics in my house, but I know they’re there, and they're here, too. I choose my words carefully. 

“You both will. But it means that you’ll survive long enough to do so. That’s something.” I offer. There really is no bright way to spin this. She disappears right back into her huddled arms. I press my lips together.  

Jett finally joins us at the table. His steps are stiff. I pretend not to notice and push a warm roll toward him.

“When do we have to start to kill?” He drops into his seat, ignoring the bread. “Should we go for the Cornucopia?” 

I lean back in my chair and stare into the grain of the table to think of the tape I’d spend nights studying. I rushed for the Cornucopia, but I got lucky with the arena. Most other tributes were still surveying the arena when the countdown ended. 

“If you think that you can,” I meet his stern eyes. “You won’t know until you’re in the arena.”

“That’s reassuring,” he mutters, grabbing a plate before the Avox can set it on the table. 

“It’s a bloodbath,” I say flatly. “Stay too long and you die. Leave too early and you starve. That’s all I know.”

“So we’ve got a mentor who has no advice to give us other than trust our instincts, and twenty-three people to kill.” He stabs a whole round chocolate cake with his fork and tears off a chunk directly from the top layer. “Looking good, District Twelve.”

I stare back at him, laying out my words carefully. I’m losing him. Instinct isn’t enough to keep anyone alive. It’s only part of it. No one stays alive unless they are willing to do things they’d never do otherwise.

“You don’t have to listen,” I snap. “Whatever you do in that arena is your choice. As soon as that countdown ends, it’s you and whatever you can grab until the bloodbath is over. Get yourself killed, or do what I say. Instincts aren't enough when you've got two careers closing in on either side.” 

The door to the bedroom compartments slides open and Effie trots in, still in her peridot ensemble. 

“What a lively conversation you all are having,” she says, sitting down in the remaining empty chair. “Forgive me for eavesdropping, but it was simply so exciting I could hear it from a compartment away.” 

I shoot her a glare. She's undermining everything I’ve tried to convince them about being a competent mentor. I close my hand around the neck of a new bottle as the Avox next to me fills a glass with ice. I wave him off. Each Avox is another set of ears, and now with Effie here, everything I say will get back to someone in charge.

“Yeah. Sponsors.” Jett grumbles. “Betting on us like booker boys. Except the Callows are the only ones in trouble for it.”

My eyes snap to him before I even register his words. He meets my own for just a second before looking down at his plate, scratching the tips of the fork on the ceramic.

I uncork the bottle with my teeth and drink it straight. Something unravels deep inside of me. I don’t ask how he knows the Callows. I don’t ask if he knew them. Doesn’t matter. Won’t change the speed of the train. Won’t get him back to Twelve. 

“Cordelia, you should eat.” I slide a plate toward her. “At least get something down.” 

I pile an assortment of food on her plate. When she doesn’t come up, I lean back in my chair and resign.

“Just eat, you two.” I rise from my seat. “And get to the TV when they air the playback of the reapings. We’ll know more then.” I distance myself from the table as the grief begins to unravel itself more, now with Wyatt pulling on the string.

The soft duvet rustles beneath me when I toss myself back onto the bed. I’ve killed them. Told them I’d take them off the train and run if I could. Stupid. I put those rebellious thoughts in their heads. 

I’ve got to be smarter about my words. Snow’s going to retaliate. He’s watching. Of course he is. I bet he’s watching me now. There’s no axe to throw this time. No cliff to run to. Was what I said rebellious? I said I wouldn’t do it. 

Think. I have to think before I speak. Even if they’re saying things I believe, too. Everything I say will end up transcribed on Snow’s desk. It’s been months. When will he let me go?

So I have no choice. I will lead these kids to the arena to avoid anyone else dying. Two deaths is better than their families. Zero deaths is better than two, but that is not an option. These two must make it to the arena to save anyone else from getting killed.

We cannot run, we cannot leave. We’re pinned. Checkmate. The Games will outlive us. They’ll rebuild. They’ll reap again. There will be no end. There can be no end. 

I tip back half of the bottle before an Avox comes to collect me from my room. The duvet is dented where I’d thrown myself onto it. I pat it goodbye and get to my feet with a grunt.

When I arrive in the compartment, Effie smells the whiskey on my breath, because she doesn’t attempt her usual smile. She just straightens her blouse and gestures to the sofas. 

I grunt in response and brush right by her.

This year, the couches sit off to the side of the television, leaving room for a short square table in the middle. Cordelia sits on the couch to the right with her hands folded in her lap, knuckles bloodless. Jett slouches on the opposite couch, staring at nothing. 

I drop into the chair against the wall behind Cordelia's couch and set the bottle on the side table. An Avox woman fiddles with the wires behind the screen. The rattling of the train knocks static into the display, but she finds the wire, and when the static clears, the unmistakable steps of the District One Justice Building are on full display. 

I remember arriving there. Cold marble. Plastered smiles. Jewels encrusted into the golden railings. 

By the time I reached District Nine on the Victory Tour, everything had already blended together. Stairs, a crowd of people who didn't want to be there, grieving families, and the same pedantic lines on my cards. It looks the same on the other side of the screen.

There is no crackling in the speakers in District One. The screens around the stage are clear and vivid, unlike our district, which has black lines of coal dust creeping up from the sides like the mold in my bathroom. I lean forward, trying to get a better look of the faces of the reaped tributes. The reapings go district by district, and no matter how hard I try to remember the names of the kids, I can’t seem to keep them around for longer than a few fleeting seconds. 

Instead, I watch the chairs lined up on the back of the stage. The victors. 

A row of chairs separates them, but I spot the lean of Beetee’s shoulder and the slight twitch in Wiress’s fingers on the stage in Three. Then District Four flashes on screen, and my heart drops. Mags isn’t there. I rise from my seat step closer, but a flash of curly brown hair appears behind the man on the far left of the front. Victors sit in chronological order, so Mags, who comes from a career district, has a row of chairs in front of her. I exhale. They’re alive. Mags, Wiress, and Beetee. Still alive.

Jett sends me a glare from the other side of the room. “Relieved that guy’s got a hundred pounds on either of us?” The corner of his mouth lifts. I can't tell if it's from amusement or disgust. “Bet you got some coin on him.”

“What?” I whip my head back to the screen. On the stage stands a pair of careers built like brick walls, destined to soak up the sponsor pool. I swallow. With names and faces, the Games have suddenly gotten a lot closer than nightmares. 

“Whatever.” Jett jabs. I’ve lost him, any trust he had in me dissolved with that exhale. I huddle back in the seat of my chair and try to commit the rest of the reaped tributes to memory, trying to act like I know what the hell I’m doing.

Districts Five, Six, and Seven all come up with average looking tributes. Small, bony, normal height. Forgettable.

“Look at her dress!” Effie startles. The girl from District Eight walks to the stage, stiff with fear.

Jett and Cordelia share a look, but Cordelia, emerging from her shell, is the only one willing to engage. 

“It’s hand woven, right?” 

Effie clasps her hands. “Yes! Oh, dresses like that are going to be all the rage soon! Hand woven, my, those are specialty made. You must order them months before. Look, that weave about her waist, only the most talented seamstresses can manage that. I’ll have to ask her who she commissioned.”

“I don’t think she commissioned anyone, Miss Trinket,” Cordelia replies. “I think she made it herself. Look, she’s weaving something in her fingers.” 

Effie straightens. From the back, I watch Cordelia do the same. Mirroring. Cordelia’s good at that. Too good. She’s so sweet she could charm a bear with cubs. She could steal a watch off a Capitol wife and return it to claim the reward. She’s smart. Quietly smart. Dangerously smart.

I might be able to use that. Maybe there’s an angle to her after all.

“Well, yes, but I don’t think anything that fine could come out of the districts. Only the most talented stylists can manage that kind of drape with woven fabric. I should know! I have tried to replicate it,” she admits. “Only the Capitol’s most talented can get it to lay like that.”

“The girl made her own dress, lady. They make textiles there. What, you think we’re all just mindless? Think mining’s all we do in Twelve? Can’t be good at anything that ain’t swinging a pickaxe?” Jett snarls. 

Effie’s lips tighten, but no wrinkles appear to complete the look around her face. “I am just saying that takes a level of expertise that I haven’t seen anyone replicate, is all.” She tilts her chin up defiantly. 

“Right, I forgot. We’re just miners to you. Bet they’ll shove us into the same old chariot outfits. Coal miners, through and through.” Jett meets my eyes and cocks his eyebrow. “Gonna agree with her? Sit by and take it? They’re gonna bury you in a miner’s uniform, Haymitch. Same way they bury all of us. You think you’re better now that you’re set with your coin. You’re no better. You’ll find that out.”

His question stirs me from my swirling list of names and scatters any progress I made to the wind. “Bigger things to worry about.” I nod to the screen, where the reaping has moved on to District Ten. Words grip my throat. Ideas, responses. I want to tell him he’s wrong, I’m not one of them, but every loose and misplaced word is another for Snow’s script. I can’t prove him wrong, either. To them, I’m a traitor. To the Capitol, I’m a pawn. There’s no home left for me now. I’m between worlds. Still, he’s right. They’ll bury me with the miners.

Jett sneers at me. It’s that defiant flash behind his eyes that places him.

He was one of Wyatt Callow’s friends. A few months from turning eighteen, Jett had started picking up shifts outside of the mines sorting coal into trucks for distribution. It’s not uncommon for families who need a little more to squeeze a few shifts in right before their kid turns eighteen. What difference does a few months make age-wise when the pair of hands is just as capable writing papers as they are sorting coal? The Capitol’s willing to turn a blind eye for some extra sturdy hands. Jett was one of the few old enough to squeak into the group. 

He must have made more friends in the belly of the mines, because I remember where I recognized him, just barely. The funeral. The hot sun, beating down. Book in my hands. Sweat in my eyes. Dry throat. And when I looked up, there he was. Part of the group that tried to hold the Peacekeepers back at Wyatt’s burial. He locked arms with the others right before I passed out. He started the chain.

The recap ends with Jett taking his place on the stage, and we all sit silently until Effie can’t stand it any longer. 

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, it is getting quite late, and we all have a big day tomorrow.” She rises from her seat, leaving her empty glass on the table for the Avoxes to whisk away. “I look forward to seeing all of you tomorrow in the Capitol.” 

Her heels click on the solid flooring as she prattles on about how exciting the Games will be this year. Cordelia stares at her lap. Jett watches the talking heads on the screen. I watch them, and Effie, who continues rambling without a listener, finishes speaking just before slipping through the compartment door towards the bedrooms.

“Jett, Cordelia,” I start before I know where to go with it. I just know I need to fill the silence with something. I need to play the role of a mentor, even if I have no better idea than they do, “Why don’t you get some sleep, too?” I rise from my own seat, but Jett makes no move to follow. 

“Spend a few months in the Capitol, touring the districts, don’t have to work in the mines like your father anymore, and now you let them walk all over us,” Jett drawls, staring down at the toe of his boot he’d dug into the rug.

“It’s not like that, Jett.” I stop in place, swaying with the rocking of the train. 

“It is, ain’t it? Come back every time we see you in some fancy, Capitol-made clothing. Your house is the brightest one in the district. Bet you’ve forgotten everything about living in the Seam. Easy to forget when you don’t gotta live in it no more.” He spits. 

Cordelia shifts in her seat, but her hand looses from the knot of fingers in her lap. “Haymitch, we don’t stand a chance.” 

“Not yet. You're right.” I shake my head. My hands find the top edge of the armchair in front of me and I hold on tight. “I didn’t, either. None of us do. It’s about making the odds better for yourself.” 

They stay quiet, so I figure I’m on some inspirational path, likely toeing the line between a firing squad and a goodnight’s sleep. I keep talking. “You’re gonna have to do a lot of things you won't want to. You’ll have to kill, eventually,” I look to Cordelia, whose somber expression betrays her attempt at keeping her shoulders back, “And you’ll have to say things you don’t want to say.” 

My eyes find Jett right as he gives a small nod. 

“But if you want to have a chance, you’ve got to let yourself do things you don’t want to. Starting as soon as we get off the train tomorrow.” I settle into the seat between them and lean forward, elbows on my knees. 

“I’m going to do my best for you two, I need you two to believe that. You don’t have to trust me. You don’t have to take all of my advice, but I’m your best bet on the outside. You have to want it. I want it for you. Both of you.”

For once, Jett sinks into his seat, shoulders rounded and eyes lowered. “Did you get to know Wyatt?”

The lump of coal rises from my stomach back into my throat, this time heavy and unswallowable. “Yeah.” I swallow it down. Tears are too expensive to spill right now. “Yeah, he was a good guy.” I look over at him. Downtrodden in the shadowed compartment, he looks older. He’s already older than me. Better shape, too. My grip tightens on my knees. “He told me he wanted to go quickly. That's what he wanted.”

“He did.” He says solemnly. 

“He did.”

Jett opens his mouth to say something more, but he shuts it tight, and I can see a sheen swelling in his eyes. 

“Let’s get to bed. We’ll have more time to plan in the Capitol.” I rise from the seat. This time, they do too. I walk them into their rooms and turn away before the ghost of Wyatt can appear in the bottom bunk. 

Chapter Text

I will never have a good birthday again. The visitors arrive before I finish rolling myself up in my duvet. I shut my eyes tightly and focus on the rocking of the train, back and forth, until the visitors seep their way behind my eyelids. 

Wyatt comes first, throwing himself in front of the strike meant to kill Lou Lou. After the second time, his hair pulls down to his shoulders. By the fourth time, he becomes Jett. I toss over, turning my back to the image. I linger between memory and dreams. Maysilee sits across a picnic blanket, cutting into a sandwich. The pink birds flock overhead, dripping blood from their beaks and swirling like a windstorm. “Don’t get up.” I beg, “Don’t get up. Stay here.” but she never listens. Up she gets every time. I reach for the sandwich to stop her, thinking if I change anything, the birds won’t come. If I stop her from taking that bite, maybe it will end the loop. When my fingers brush the bread, I’m back at the train’s dining table. Cordelia sits with her head down, weeping, just as she did this evening. When she lifts her head, her mouth drips the same red foam as Lou Lou’s in the arena. Blood. “You said you would help us!” she sobs. I reach for a napkin to wipe her face, but my hand only finds air. I use my sleeve, but every time I wipe a trickle, more and more slips down her chin. Her blood covers my hands, soaking my palms and drying between my fingers. 

I wake in a cold sweat, hands slick with moisture. I wipe them on the soft bedding and whip the duvet off of my body. Sunlight filters through the starchy gray curtain and sprawls over the bed. I rip myself from the mattress and cross into the adjacent bathroom to wash the sweat from my body. 

Shower water pools on the pouting lip of my angry stomach scar. It never healed right. I scrub myself clean under the warm water and pat myself dry with a towel I toss onto the wet floor.

Outside of my compartment, the large framed windows of the train reveal the walls of a brightly lit tunnel adorned with artificially colored, cheerful Capitol murals. The final stretch. In less than a few hours, Jett and Cordelia will be in the hands of their prep teams, and I will be in the thick of the Games. 

I pull a flask from my pocket and fill it with the closest bottle I can find. It sloshes against the side, but I’ve gotten good at pouring by now. The lid screws back on tightly in place, and I bring the rest of the bottle to the table. First to arrive, I dig into a piece of toast and jam, slathering the bread in the delicacy. 

Effie arrives next. Today’s outfit is just as brightly colored, and still peridot green. 

“I thought you hated that color.” I mutter, lowering my eyes from the offensive shade. 

“This color is what everyone is wearing this year.” 

“Snot green?”

“Do you have an ounce of niceness left in you? What happened to that boy who helped me clean up my makeup bag?” She sits across from me, crossing her legs, and waving an avox over to order a cup of coffee. 

“He died in the arena,” I mutter, placing the jelly covered knife directly on the table. It stains the bright white cloth dark red. 

She doesn’t respond, and I am over caring about offending anyone. An apology won’t change a thing. I gorge myself on toast until Cordelia arrives, her steps soft on the hard floor. A soft tread will help her in the arena. 

“Come. Eat.” I wave her over and shove an empty plate towards her. “Any and everything you can get down. We’re about to be in the Capitol.” I push a platter of eggs towards her for good measure. “When Jett gets here, we’ll talk about today.”

Cordelia helps herself to some of the fried potatoes. Once her juice arrives, she announces Jett should be out of the bathroom soon. He let her shower first. Effie nibbles on a small portion of chilled fruit, and I mix my spirit into a cup of coffee. 

Jett joins us moments later, wet hair dripping onto the shoulders of his t-shirt, causing Effie to reach for her necklace. “Oh, there is a hair dryer for your use next to the shower,” she starts, but tapers off when Jett burps in response. 

I laugh. I catch the faintest smile on his lips. In any other circumstance, we may have even been friends. 

Jett doesn’t need permission to eat. He digs into the food using his fingers. After the reaping recap yesterday, it seems he finally realized how much he’ll have to compensate for being born in the Seam. Food doesn’t come easily anywhere in Twelve. I move a platter of ham towards him, and he adds a handful of slices to his plate. 

“When we disembark, we’re going to take you to your prep team. Do whatever they ask. It will be awful. Endure it.” I keep my tone stern. Today is one of the last days remaining to convince them to take me seriously. Jett being older than me doesn’t help. “Effie and I will collect you from the chariots after the parade.” 

“You have a new stylist this year!” Effie dabs her mouth with her napkin, clearing her throat. “She is up and coming. Very young! Brand new. I hear she has big plans.”

I bite my tongue. Big plans in stylist talk means changing the batteries in a headlamp. These two need all of the hope and help they can get.

A wet warmth spreads over my hands and up my arms. A deep red flashes in my eyes. A boom. Flashes of light. The wind beats against me. 

I bunch the table cloth into my fists and hold on until it passes.

“Are we going to be naked?” Cordelia asks meekly, looking green at the mere thought. 

“If that happens, find any clothes you can,” I answer grimly. I wish I could offer them more. A promise that I won’t let it happen, a promise that it won’t happen at all, but anything can happen with a stylist with so called big plans.

Cordelia places her head back down on the table, hiding her face in her arms. Jett, half way through his second plate and unbothered, keeps eating. “Can’t be embarrassed if you die quick. Won’t live long enough to care.” 

My eyes flick to his, but his are trained only on Cordelia. He wipes the grease from the ham with his arm and returns his hand to the plate for another slice. Cordelia stares back, eyes wide and mouth open.

The train screeches to a halt at the platform, and a Peacekeeper throws open the door. Bright Capitol light streams through the compartment, burning my eyes. I groan at the pain it shoots through my head and reach for the bottle of painkillers in the middle of the spread. I choke down two, then another for good measure, before shoving the whole bottle in my pocket. Nothing beats the fancy Capitol painkillers.  

“That’s us!” Effie springs from her seat, glad to have an excuse to step away from the dark conversation. “Come along you two, we must be off. We can’t be late.” She lingers by the door, her wringing hands clasped in front of herself.

Jett follows first, and I sneak a tissue into the hand of Cordelia. “I get it.” I whisper, “But whatever happens, no one will remember it any more than you remember a Game from ten years ago. That’s the good thing about being from Twelve. We’re long shots.” The words fall from my mouth easily.

When I stand, the floor of the train shifts under my feet. Cordelia stills herself with a deep breath, dabs her eyes with the tissue, and finishes the rest of her juice. It stains her lips ever so slightly red, which makes the blotchiness from her tears look almost intentional, as if it has come from Effie’s makeup bag. 

I lead her onto the platform and go with the group to drop both of them off at the tribute center. 

“This place is huge,” Jett whistles. 

“It’ll feel smaller when you’re in there. Keep your heads on right. You’ll be fine. Do what they say.” I usher them closer to the doors. “Remember, everything you do is going to be watched. Make it count.”

After they disappear through the doors, Effie and I make our way to the mentors’ plaza. She points me towards a building with armed Peacekeepers stationed rigidly at the door. 

“Mentors have a meeting scheduled before the parade. It’s through those doors. Escorts are not permitted to attend, so I will leave you here. In the meantime, try to smile. Remember, everyone here is a potential sponsor!” She sings songs. 

I scowl.

I pass through the doors of the building and into the cool air of the reception area. Not even the mayor’s house has air conditioning this good in Twelve. I pop open the top button of my buttoned shirt to allow more cool air to wash over me. The heat in Twelve can get thick, but July brings heat no matter where you are. 

“District Twelve, Haymitch Abernathy,” a Peacekeeper with a pristine white uniform and authoritative voice calls. I look up to see a large man join me at my side. “Come with me.” 

It’s about the last thing I ever want to do, but for the sake of mentor-hood, I follow his lead. Neither of us speaks for the rest of the walk down the hall. He pushes the door open to a large room with elevated seating. Some seats rise higher than the ones before them, and the pattern continues all the way to the back wall like a bowl. At the front is a board, much fancier than the ones we have in school. 

Some of the seats are already filled, their occupants chattering amongst themselves in groups. From across the room, I barely catch the eye of someone watching me from one of the larger packs. Mags holds my gaze until the Peacekeeper nudges me with his gun, and I keep walking all of the way to the back where a placard spelling Twelve in bold letters sits on the farthest table. 

I take my seat at the edge, alone, as always, and stare down upon the heads of the mentors below me. I recognize a few. At the head of the District One row sits a man who resembles one of the favored tributes of my year, Panache Barker. Palladium, his older brother, won his Games the first year I was in the reaping. I didn’t kill Panache, at least, not according to the tape, but he stares me down like I did. 

I lean back in my seat. It only buys me a few inches more, but I’d be able to reach the Peacekeeper’s gun faster. 

I break my eyes away from District One and skim over the rest of the mentor groups. Wiress sits next to a woman I don’t recognize, but I can’t find Beetee anywhere. As for the rest of the groups, I can only name a few.

The Peacekeeper stations himself prominently behind me. Beyond a few white uniforms scattered around the border of the bowl, I am the only one with a designated babysitter. My grip stiffens on the edge of the table. Snow’s eyes and ears. He still doesn’t trust me. It’s not like I can do anything anymore anyway. 

“Tough job you’ve got,” I mutter over my shoulder. “Watching a seventeen year old kid.” 

The Peacekeeper shoulders his rifle, but a man in front of me turns to look. 

“Oh yeah. Careful. I taunted one just like that and he bit my arm clean off.” He gnashes his teeth at the Peacekeeper before erupting in echoing laughter at his own joke. 

The dark-skinned man waves the stump of his left arm at me. “I’m Chaff. That’s Seeder,” the lady next to him nods, “and Harrow’s down on the end there. Wave hello, Harrow.” He cups his hand around his mouth and shouts to the end of the row. Harrow pretends not to hear him. “You should see him after a few drinks. He’s the life of the party.” 

“I’m Haymitch.” 

“Oh we know. We were wondering when someone was gonna sit behind us. We were tired of being the back of the class. It’s where the bad kids sit. Suits him fine, doesn’t it? Look at that top button, already undone.” He elbows Seeder with his good arm, and she slides to the far end of her seat. 

I reach up to close it, but I can’t get the button to stay shut. It stays open, and my face stays warm. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Haymitch. It’s not easy being a mentor, especially your first time. We’ve heard a lot about you.” She nods down the way. “It was a fine speech you gave on stage on your tour. Familiar, but you held your own.” 

“Just read the cards.” I shrug and sit on my hands. 

“I remember my tour years ago. Couldn’t memorize the lines right, and can’t exactly flip cards with only one hand. They just let me stand there and make up whatever came to my mind.” He winks. “Had a lot to say. You don’t see reruns of my tour.”

“I don’t remember most of mine.” The corner of my mouth tugs upwards, and for once, I find myself smiling. 

The doors to the hall slam shut, jolting everyone to attention. Someone I know I am supposed to recognize steps in front of the rows of mentors. 

“Welcome, mentors, to the fifty-first games!” A pack of careers from the front start to whoop and applaud, but none of the other districts join. “In a few days, your tributes will enter this year’s arena. It’s like one you’ve never seen before.” The man pauses, lifting his eyebrow as if his words are supposed to mean something. He continues, this time, more red in the face. 

“In a recent development, we moved sponsor networking to the indoor bar rooms. Yes, normally we host it on the plaza, but Notus Aquilon, the king of climate control, has graciously honored the Games with a new climate system indoors. It’s equipped to handle the tastes of even the gems of Panem.” He winks, smirking, like he said something smart. Someone coughs.

“No more sweltering heat of the plaza. From now on, all networking will occur in the modern and well-stocked bar rooms.” He ends his sentences with an up tilt in his phrasing and a twitching smile. 

The man spends the rest of the meeting detailing the schedule. Today is the parade, tomorrow will be a full day of training, then the Gamemaker sessions, and finally, the interviews. Same format as every year. Why this couldn’t just be a brochure, I don’t know.

Chaff leans over to whisper something in Seeder’s ear. She nods, and he sits up straight again. 

“If you have any questions, direct them towards your nearest escort. Their sessions covered more of the nitty-gritty details.” He claps his hands together. “Happy Hunger Games! Let’s get to work!”

The room clears quickly. The District Eleven mentors linger behind until the stairs clear before rising to their feet. “See you at the Games, Haymitch.” Chaff waves and disappears down the steps, leaving me with my Peacekeeper babysitter. 

“Come along, Snow.” I grumble, rising from the swiveling seat, begrudgingly resigning to the fact I will have eyes on me no matter where I go.

When we reach the double doors, the Peacekeeper remains in the cool air of the building, leaving me to wander the plaza until Effie picks me up. She was not lying when she said snot green was the trend this year. Everyone gathered around the plaza is decked out in some variation of the color. I elbow my way through the stragglers at the edges and beeline for a bench to camp out until Effie picks me up. From babysitter to babysitter. 

All of the mentors I recognized have disbursed, leaving me alone in the sea of bright green. I yank my flask free from my pocket and sip until my head is as fuzzy as I like, then I sip a little more until a lady with two dogs dressed in the woven dresses from district Eight approaches. 

“Aren’t you the boy with the force field?” she asks in her high-strung, grating Capitol accent.

I raise my eyes to hers and toss back another sip of my flask. “What?” I grumble.

“The trick you did. With the force field? How did you know it would work?” she asks. “It was so thrilling! So crafty!”

“I didn’t.” I cough into my sleeve, splattering droplets of liquor into my elbow.

“Oh! You’re pulling my leg.” She giggles. It’s an awful, shrill sound. “I’ve heard how much of a rascal you can be! Of course you knew! You were so smart in that interview of yours. I remember your line, oh! What was it? I’m so much smarter than them? Yes! No. Yes!” She blathers until she works herself backward into an inconclusive answer that leaves her just as satisfied as having no answer at all. “So?” She leans closer. “Tell me! How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” I repeat.

“Oh!” she laughs again. “No, you did! We all saw it. My husband and I were just discussing it right over there.” She waggles her finger at a small man waving enthusiastically from the edge of a crowd circled around leaping acrobats. 

“Lady, I told you, I didn’t know,” I snap.

She laughs backward this time, inhaling instead of exhaling, just the same awful, grating noise. “You are so funny!”

Three quarters of the way through my stash, her purple-dyed skin starts to make her look very badly sunburned. 

“I’m telling you the truth.” 

She doubles over now, her fit of laughter drawing attention. Like sheep, the people begin to peel off from the acrobats and graze towards me. 

“Come hear him, everyone! He’s going to reveal how he knew about the force field.” 

One of her dogs swipes at my shoe laces, and I shoo both off with a swing of my foot. People begin to crowd around me, murmuring about the force field. The alcohol chooses the worst time to sink in, because as they close around me, their words start to settle into the wet concrete of my memory, embedding themselves in the only truths I have left. 

“I swear, I didn’t know.” I raise my hands, the flask sloshing about, the dregs spilling on my collar. 

“Look! Did you brew that yourself?” A man with a vaguely familiar vest of cocktail glasses asks. “I bet he brewed that himself.” 

The crowd closes in tighter, “How did you know?” They murmur, “You knew. Tell us!”

My arms start to shake when the air thins between the closing group. “You spent the games running. Did you know from the start? I bet he knew from the start!” 

“Back up!” I yell.

“Rascal!”

“Smartass!”

I pull my feet up onto the bench as the crowd continues to crush inward.

“Go away!”

“You knew! You knew!” The words flit through the crowd like mockingjays. I knew. I knew. I must have known. They know more than I do. I knew. I knew.

I drain the rest of my flask and ball my fist. “I knew! I knew!” I shout, waving my hands in defeat. “I’ll never reveal my secret.” It’s the only thing I have left. I knew. I must have known. I’ve convinced myself I didn’t to make myself feel less guilty of killing Silka. I knew. I’ve always known. It was my trick with the force field. My trick. My fault.

All my fault.

By the time one of the dogs starts sniffing around for a place to relieve itself, the crowd has thinned, their attention drawn back to the fire-wielding acrobats like moths. 

I stare at the back of their heads. Some have red paint down the middle like a target, right where the axe landed in Silka’s skull. I knew. I knew all along. 

Effie appears right as the sun starts to brush the blurred horizon. 

“Effie.” I rasp. I cap my flask and drop it back into my pocket. 

“How in Panem are you going to mentor whilst drunk?” She hisses behind her signature, fury-eyed smile. 

“I’ve been so far.” I belch. 

“Our first years are what set the tone for our whole careers, you know. If this goes poorly, you’ll be known as a terrible mentor for the rest of your life. Is that what you want?” She scolds me. 

I push myself up from the bench and stagger by her, “You sure have a lot to say all of the time, snot green. If I’m a bad mentor, I’m bad. I have to be here. The other one’s choosing to be.”

She totters on her heels, pressing her lips together to hold back whatever venom boiled up out of her mind. “Well, it’s time for the parade, and I will not be late.”

“Go on, then.”

“You have to take this seriously.”

“I am. I’ve got two feet and I learned how to walk 16 years ago. I’ll be there when I’m there.”

I rock forward to rise from the bench, but my legs are solid, glued to the seat. Cotton fills my lungs, and the liquor sloshes in my throat. Sometimes, when Hattie would have me run deliveries, the bottles would clink together in my bag. When the whippings were particularly hot, and Peacekeepers crawled through the square like beetles, I had to be extra careful not to show them what I was carrying. The reapings always brought more Peacekeepers, but there were other times, too. Mine accidents, someone stepping out of line, paintings popping up on the sides of buildings, all of those things brought Peacekeepers like flies to day old bodies. 

Once Hattie handed me a pack of bottles to make stops around the square. The sound of a whipping stopped me cold outside of the Donner’s shop, hugging the pack to my chest. I hadn’t known the feeling dread, that feeling of getting lost when it’s too dark to see out in the middle of the night, the feeling on hearing something meaner than I am out in the woods, I hadn’t known true fear until a Peacekeeper stuck his boot out to trip me right on my face that morning. I’d saved the bottles by landing on my shoulder, but I never ran them back through town, unable to swallow the idea that I could’ve been the next person up in front of that crowd. 

Now, hounded by the dregs of the swarming crowd, the idea of the parade, the halls where I’m sure to be visited, glues me to my seat with the same binding as that Peacekeeper’s boot and the bottles. I cannot, I will not face what awaits. 

“You don’t need me there.” I wave her off, but my thickening tongue and twitching cheeks make it hard to smirk, so I lean back against the cold metal of the bench beneath me, letting my eyes roll back to look at the vast blue above me. 

“You’re a mentor. Behave. As. One,” hisses Effie, pausing on every word like a lashing will change my mind.

“You’re an escort. Go find something better to escort around.” I shove my trembling fingers into my pockets. The volcano of the parade last year lingers in the form of spreading ash over my memory. It circles the arena of my mind in thick storm clouds, snowing itself over my body, staining my heart. My eyes prickle with the burning ash. 

“You are disrespecting the very Games that gave you the privilege of being here.” She squeaks. Her fingers sink into the sides of her small bag, causing the leather to pucker. “We feed you. We clothe you. We built your house. We give you your money. All you do is reap the benefits, and you’re not even working to pay it back.” Her fast words run together, so much so she sounds like a gnat buzzing around in the summer.

Slowly, I lower my eyes back to hers. Instead of the normal painted face, I see dark tunnels where her eyes should be. Ash dusts her brow, and a tingling spreads through my frozen body. I cannot run as my body begs, no, I am frozen under the ash of my memory, stuck forever under the rewinding tape.

“I’ll watch from here.” I grumble and nod toward the large screen behind the acrobats. 

I lose sight of everything more. The ash turns all the shiny gray from the arena until my eyes see no more. I blink it away, but it returns like coal dust on overalls. Inevitable, stained, blinding. My elbows tremble with the spreading of my shaking hands, so I lock them to my sides. 

“I said I won’t be late, so I won’t. I am incredibly insulted that you are treating these Games as a joke, Haymitch Abernathy,” huffs Effie right before she starts clicking off to the nearest waiting car. 

Chapter Text

I lie on the bench until the dust clears. Everyone is long gone by the time it recedes, but I can’t tell time in anything more than the ebb of the fog. It leaves the overly-bright, candy colored Capitol buildings in its wake, staking them into the stone-shrouded earth. They grow from the seeds of the flowers outside of their stoops, brighter than the delicate petals in their pots. 

It’s unnatural, and deep in the pocket of my fragmented memories, Ma’s sunflowers return in scent alone. Her sunflowers were never bright, but their smell was one of my favorites. They must have burned, too. Don’t they bloom in the summer? I missed them. I could have planted my own. Another thing I missed. Another thing I forgot. At least they don't look like these.

Sunflower-yellow saturates the square, too bright and too plastic. Bright pink from flowers I can’t name stripes the corners on neatly trimmed vines, tamed and laid obediently flush with the sun-baked brick. 

I spit on the pavement. My legs tremble as I stand. I shuffle to the nearest idling car and ask the Avox behind the wheel to drive me to the parade’s backstage entrance. The glass pane against my temple does nothing to quell the teeming slosh of nausea inside me. 

When the car slows to a stop outside of the drop-off zone, I thank the Avox with a handful of coins from my pocket and slide out before he can try to hand them back. 

The road to the parade is lined with bar stalls. Some Capitolites are still drinking, still dancing, still pressed far too close together. A woman’s top has fallen to the ground beside her. No one picks it up. She doesn’t seem to notice, but it looks like she wants me to.

As I pass the first bar cart, a few heads turn, like I’m a chariot they’ve been waiting to see. I stand taller and glare at anyone who dares to look too long. The lady with the bedazzled dogs watches me from the bar cart on my right. Her husband stands next to her, holding his stomach, his arm looped right under his stomach, right where my scar is. 

Suddenly, he throws himself forward, glances over his shoulder, and collapses to the ground, shrieking with laughter.

His wife drops the leashes of her dogs, who are too well trained to even think about running, and jerks her head back before crumpling to the ground herself, limbs askew. 

The husband climbs off of the ground to cheers from the drawn eyes. 

I want to burn them. All of them. This is who they are. My death, Silka’s. A comedy. 

I yank a glass from the nearest bar cart and hurl it at their heads. They duck, laughing louder, and it explodes against the next stall in shrapnel that never finds a place to land or blood to draw.

Peacekeepers rush me in a flurry of white. I raise my hands in a shrug.

“He did it! He actually threw something!” the man cheers. The murmur of the crowd swells until it erupts. 

“Again! Again!” They chant.

A woman thrusts a glass statue at me, some creature I don’t recognize. I slap it away just as the Peacekeepers shove me forward. 

My babysitters are back.

Wherever they’ve been told to take me, I don’t go. An arrested Victor won’t look good on Snow’s stage. All these people think I’m set for life now that I’ve won the Games. Besides, everything I do only confirms what they already believe. Or what they want to believe.

I weave through the crowd, ignoring their hissing, side-of-mouth suggestions about slowing down and coming with them quietly. I have somewhere to be. Responsibilities. Not to the Capitol, no. To my tributes. 

The gates to the stands loom over the crowd as high as the mountains that border the city. Long iron bars stretch into the night sky, blending right into the clouds. There is no under and definitely no over. Everyone must go through, funneled right between stationed pairs of brightly dressed attendants. 

I linger at the back of the line, scanning the signs above the gates. None mention the mentors. None tell me where to go to find my tributes.

The line creeps forward. People squeeze in front of me, chattering about which districts will look best tonight. I let a gap open between me and the man ahead in a long green coat.

“Move it, kid. You’re letting everyone cut,” someone snaps behind me. 

I turn. A large man in an unbuttoned shirt glares back. 

“Move, kid!”

“What’s the rush?” I growl. “Think one of the tributes will sign your stupid hat? That you’ll get a better seat? We’re both late. Can it.”

“I’ve got someone waiting up front. Last year some tribute lost his mind and started spitting on people. I’m not missing the circus again. So move!”

His shirt billows wider as he brushes past, revealing a brightly painted crescent across his lower abdomen.

“Watch it,” I grumble, glaring back at him. 

“Whatever, kid. I got places to be.” He breaks from the line and fishes a ticket stub from his pocket, waving it in my face. “You’re keeping important people waiting.” He yells over his shoulder. “I’ll have you fired!”

I laugh. Fired. I wish. I lose track of him right as he slips back into the front of the line. The rest of the crowd jostles past me. I stay stuck in place, my soles glued to the pavement. I look left, then right, but the mass swarms around me, buzzing with anticipation. I am a statue, parting the sea of the crowd, frozen. No one remains to help me. No one to ask. 

The crowd begins to dwindle, the gates swallow them all like the last pour from a bottle, leaving only droplets behind. I stay where I am, the beat of the chanting thumping in my ears. The gates clang shut before me. 

The trumpets blare to call forth the first chariot, and I remain outside, locked out from the in.

I drift to a nearby brick wall and press my shoulder against it, trying to listen. The roar of the crowd is deafening. A crown flashes before my eyes. The cheering. Show it. Show it. Where is it coming from? What happened? 

I can’t place it. The memory cuts off in sound like a piece of bark ripped from a dying tree. I can’t place it. Too many places it could go, too decayed to try. Show it. Show it. 

I wind the hem of my shirt around my fingers and pull to draw myself back out of the memory, but it leaves behind an ache not even a drink could soothe. Still, I try. I stagger over to an orange bar cart and throw down some coins. 

The bartender scoops the coins from the counter and flips them over.  “We don’t take these here, sir.” He rattles them together into his palm and tries to drop them back into my own. 

“It’s money,” I say. “What, do I need to put a coin in your head to get your brain to work? Give me a fuckin’ bottle.” I lunge for the one on the edge of the cart and rip it from its ice bucket. 

“Stop!” He reaches for the bottle, but I’m already gone, vanishing into the edges of the crowd.

And they laugh. 

Again, they laugh. 

They always laugh. 

Every time I do something bad, they laugh. No one takes me seriously here. 

No one takes me seriously. 

That’s it.

Nothing I do has consequences.

I could do anything, and Snow can’t touch me, not if they think it’s all part of the show. Not if they think this is just who I am.

I pop the bottle cap on the edge of a bench and collapse onto the slats, leaning back. I could start yelling, but no one would hear me over the parade. The speakers from the televisions dangling from the corners of the carts blast the crowd noise louder than the stadium itself. Besides, yelling’s what got me into this mess. I need to be smarter. I need to think.

As long as I keep playing the Haymitch they think they know, I can get away with anything.

But, who do they think that is? A rascal. A jackass. A smartass. That’s it. Maybe that’s all I’ve ever been. It feels natural. I threw the bottle without thinking. I stole the one in my hand. I ducked for the axe.

That’s it. 

I ducked for the axe. 

That’s why this all started. It was smart. Strategic. It was mine. It wasn't supposed to be mine, but I made it mine. My crown. My axe. My ideas. 

All this time, I kept worrying about whether I am a jackass or not. Maybe it wasn’t a show at all. Maybe it was never an act. I am a jackass. I’m selfish. Strategic. A mutt. And I’m better. I’ve chosen not to die. And now, he can’t get me. Not when there’s nothing left he can get.

So I’m not a cog, not anymore. He can’t get me, and Snow knew it the moment I ducked. A step ahead. All I have to do is figure out how to get ahead here. That’s all I need.

I lift my head when I hear the murmur of the crowd growing closer and watch the beginnings of the masses trickling back through the gates. The big idea ended up being washing the overalls. Instead of black like last year, they cleaned up to a navy blue. Great. Clean overalls. Coal miners who haven’t mined a day in their lives. 

As I watch the doors to the stables close behind my tributes’ chariot, it dawns on me. I’ve missed the parade. 

Shit.

I spring to my feet, bottle shattering next to my shoes. 

I’ve fallen behind again. How am I supposed to get ahead when I keep pulling myself behind? I’m doing this to myself. I bolt to the nearest Peacekeeper, standing next to the bar cart I robbed earlier. “Where are the tributes?”

He glances between the scowling bar tender and me, then nods down the path toward stables, where tributes of all sizes waft through the doors, followed by their stylists and mentors. Cars line the pick up zone like a snake, red lights staring back at me as the scales. Everyone seems to have a car this year. No more vans. Maybe they were only for the exorbitant number of tributes. Effie, Jett, and Cordelia step through the back doors last. 

I break into a run. The drink sloshes against the sides of my empty stomach, threatening to come right up and out again, but I keep pushing. Red-faced and panting, I stumble over to them, keeping one hand on the brick wall for balance. I try to say something encouraging. It must not come out right. Cordelia blinks, Jett frowns, and Effie turns away to arrange the car. They look at me like I’m one of the bedazzled dogs from the square. 

I try again, then buckle forward and hurl into a bush just as the car pulls up.

No one mentions how I wasn’t there, but I can feel the searing glares burning the back of my head. I’ve messed up. I’d already lost Jett’s trust, and Cordelia won’t meet my eyes anymore. 

“You two will love it!” chirps Effie. “We’ll be in the same apartment your very own mentor was in for his Games.” She’s already bounced back from our earlier argument. Or maybe the parade reminded her that the Capitol wins in the end, no matter how I perform. She’ll get her praise no matter how I do. I’m just here because I have to be.

“Great. I’ve always wanted my last memory to be concrete,” Jett mutters. 

Oblivious, Effie beams. “They are beautiful, aren’t they? So much history!” 

I turn to the window to hide my laugh.

When we pull up to the curb, I spill out of the car and throw up all over my shoes. 

Jett and Cordelia climb out behind me, hopping over the spreading puddle. As normal, Effie waits for the Avox to open her door for her. 

Hunched over, I wipe the throw up from my mouth and flick the mess off of my heavy hand. 

“Are you alright, Haymitch?” Cordelia asks, crouching to make sure I’m not going to keel over and leave them without a mentor after all. 

“Give me a minute,” I groan, beginning to regret those last few rounds of bar carts. 

Effie corrals the tributes inside without a glance back.

I stagger over to a flowering bush and let the rest of it go. I retch until nothing comes up, leaning one hand on the corner of the building. When I rise back upright, the light post in front of me sways back and forth, and air leaves my lungs faster than it arrives.

I was naïve. I thought a year or drinking would be enough time away to clear any attachment I had to this place, but Snow’s second message is just as clear as the first: You will not escape me. He’s the step ahead. 

These apartments are planned. The Quell would’ve brought in more money than ever. More sponsors, more gifts. I was getting something every day on the tape. They could have put us somewhere new, but they didn’t. Not the District Twelve team.

I barely remember anything, just tatters, but the feelings still hit, same as they did in the plaza. I slump against the stoop, my vision tunneling into pinholes, and sink to my knees on the top step, hunched into a trembling ball as my lungs tighten. I claw at the buttons on my shirt, the fabric restricting my breaths until I yank it open, causing the round plastic to clatter across the porous stone stoop. 

The car rolls away, abandoning me to die in front of my former prison. I smash my hands to my temples and tuck my elbows towards my ribs. Nausea comes in waves, forcing anything remaining onto the thighs of my slacks. Desperately, I suck in a deep breath, trying to fill my shrunken lungs. 

I gasp. I try again. I gasp again. Try again.

“Keep going.” A voice comes from behind me, followed by quick footsteps. “Deep breaths.”

Each inhale fills my lungs with shards of glass, ripping into my chest and tearing more liquid from my throat. Suffocating snot and tears run down my chin. 

“That’s right. Keep at it.” The voice is closer now, clearer.

I pull my hands free from my ears and wipe the mucus off of my face with my sleeve. After a few more jagged breaths, I uncurl and fall back into a sitting position. The iron stair rail digs into my spine. My shirt dangles open, a breeze creeps across my chest. I tip my head back and the sun looks down at me, bathing me in warmth. 

When my eyes drain of their tears, I squint through the bright, setting sun to make out the person across from me.

“Ma?” I choke instinctively. The turn of my head makes everything spin again, so I clamp my eyes shut and breathe through my nose.

“Wiress.” She crosses over the rest of the sidewalk and climbs up the steps. “I have attacks like that, too. Every now and then, something reflects back to me and it makes my heart stop. It’s all about knowing how to breathe and control it. Like a machine.” 

I open my eyes just in time to catch her smile, coy, as if I should know what she’s talking about. As if I’m missing a joke I should return. I say nothing.

She crouches beside me. “Water helps. When you go inside, there will be some in the fridge.”

“I don’t want to look in the fridge.” I slur pathetically. “I don't want to open it again. I don’t want to see the milk.” I dig my nails into my palms to ground myself. 

“It will be okay, Haymitch. I know what they made you do. I heard about the week after the Games. Mags and I tried to reach you, but they had Peacekeepers watching us the whole time.” She grimaces, her own nails digging into her cuticles.

“I’m trying so hard to be a good mentor,” I sniffle, wiping the back of my hands against my bleary eyes. “I can’t do anything right. I can’t think straight. I couldn’t find where to go for the parade.”

“Your escort didn’t escort you?”

“She left.”

“Oh, no, they’re not ever supposed to leave.” She glances around before leaning in ever so slightly and lowering her voice. “They’re the best ears the Capitol has.”

When she straightens back out, I feel the crush of a boulder upon my body. Of course, escorts would report back to their superiors. That’s what their meeting must have been about. And why it was separate.

“The first year is always difficult. Mags was a great benefit to us.” She uses the hem of her sleeve to dab away a tear on my cheek, and I let her. 

“Will I get Mags this year?” My voice doesn’t sound the way I want it to. It’s creaky and weak, but I can’t find it in me to fix it.

Wiress swallows thickly, her shoulders rising with her own deep breath. “No, Haymitch. This year you will be alone.” 

“What do you mean alone?” I question with trembling lips. 

“It will be you as the sole mentor for Twelve, but you cannot doubt yourself. You know what to do. You have lived through it.”

“Barely. If I hadn’t ducked, I’d be dead.”

“But you did duck.” She crouches beside me again. “There are no deserving winners, Haymitch. Only survivors.” She sits back on her heels and folds her sleeve, aligning the seam carefully.

“What about Beetee? Can I work with him?”

Wiress shakes her head, causing her hair to fall back over her shoulders. “His wife is due any day now. He was told to stay in Three.” 

The orange marigolds I threw up in rustle as a breeze shakes its way through the buds. 

“I thought he was being punished.” 

“He is,” she says mournfully. “He’s going to get to spend every minute with his new child.”

It hits me as quickly as the wind left my lungs. 

They even gave me a booth in training, which mentors don’t traditionally attend, so I wouldn’t miss a minute. If I wasn’t here to witness it, there would be no point. 

Beetee won’t miss a moment with his new child. How does anyone love unconditionally knowing their child will suffer the same fate as their last? How could he risk it? How could he have another child, knowing Snow’s waiting?

How could he so selfishly have another child knowing they’re going to die? How could he give Snow another person to take from him? He knows he will. How could he feed the Games so willingly? How can he love without feeling guilty? He took the life of his own child just by having them. 

I think back to District Three. The factories were grimy as our mines are, graphite, grease, and colors of dust I’d never seen before strewn around the machinery. That woman who met my eye for only a moment. Is it her? Was that his wife, working in the factory after all? Why can he have a wife, but I can’t have my girl?

No. I’d never do that. As long as Snow is alive, I can’t love. Not again. Not ever. Everyone I loved ended up the same. Dead, broken, or punished.

I’d never do what Beetee did. Never give Snow more to take. Victors shouldn’t have children. They’re not parents. They’re stock. Canon fodder for the next Games, just like the canons they shot in District Four. Just like the canon when a tribute dies. They enter this world just to hear the final boom.

The lump swells in my throat, but I breathe it down and nod. 

“We’ll talk more tomorrow, once training starts.” She pats my shoulder and rises.

“How are you even here?”

“The car drove by right as you collapsed. I left my tributes with my partner and slipped away.” She twists the bracelet around her wrist. “Mags wanted to check on you earlier, but she’s being watched. They’ve separated us all. They’ve placed her back with Four, and I’m with Three for the first time. They don’t want any of us speaking.” 

“They’ve seen you here. There are cameras everywhere.”

“Probably.” She shrugs. “But, I’m doing their job for them. The Games need mentors. I’m just making sure Twelve still has one.”

She starts down the sidewalk before I can answer. I would never find a way to say what I need to, anyway. 

Chapter Text

My head feels thick, stuffed full of dense cotton. I rise on shaking legs and stagger inside, slipping through the agonizingly creaky doors and traveling up in the humming elevator. When the doors part, I walk past the living room, where Effie sits on a burnt orange sofa watching a news anchor recap the parade, and force my way through the threshold of the kitchen.

The smell of food assaults me, but I feel no hunger, rather, repulsion, the same feeling I get when I’ve taken to an extra bottle instead of an extra serving. My fingers brush the handle of the refrigerator then jerk back from the surface. I am not burned— there was no heat — and yet, I have never touched anything more scalding. It falls limply to my side, knocking a small glass statue of a poodle off of the counter. 

“Goodness, is everything okay?” Effie calls from the living room. I don’t respond, which sends her teetering over to witness the mess I’ve become. “I heard a crash.” When she sees me in front of the fridge, her lips thin with concern. “Oh, the poodle. It was very out of style.” 

I stand frozen in front of the fridge, staring at the latched door. 

“Are you looking for dinner? We were just about to sit as a group. Jett and Cordelia have gone to clean themselves off before we eat. It seems you could use some help sobering up.”

I shove my bottom lip under my teeth to keep it from trembling. “Water?” I rasp.

“Oh, yes, that will help too. Right here.” She yanks the fridge open like it hadn’t just incinerated any hope I had at survival and fishes a bottle free from the bottom shelf. “Here you are.” She holds it out to me like a microphone waiting for an answer. 

I wrap my rigid fingers around the bottle and force myself to down a few chilled sips. It thaws the residue of vomit off my teeth and sends it all down my throat. I keep drinking until it hurts. 

“Looking more alive already!” she chimes. “I remember being here a year ago. You have changed so much. Somewhere deep down, I know you have those same qualities. I hope you can find them for the sake of your status,” she says.

I glare at her from the side of my eye. There is no deep down. Deep down's the same as high up. Just a puppet trying to cut his own strings, but the handler’s dead set on making me dance. Dance, Haymitch, dance.

I slip past her without a word to put distance between myself and the kitchen, too weak to hold any semblance of a conversation. Pressing further on down the hall, I let myself into one of the bedrooms designated for the mentors. It’s just me, but I still choose the smaller one. Less room for visitors. 

My fingers explore the burnt orange bedspread, leeching the coolness from the fabric. I press my cheek to it, nuzzling against the previously unborrowed cold. I inhale slowly and exhale the same way before working a few more sips of water down.

When the sun disappears from the crack beneath the curtain, I rise from the bed and brush my teeth, loosening the rest of the acid coating and spitting it into the sink. Cold water dulls the redness under my eyes.

I shuffle out of my room to the dinner table, where Jett, Cordelia, and Effie await, plates half empty. Wordlessly, I take my seat and clumsily load poultry and steamed potatoes onto my plate. 

“They were just telling me all about their prep team. They’re students again.” Effie begins, trying to draw me into the conversation. 

I cut into the poultry leg and spear a piece with my fork. “They leave you with any nails?” I crane my neck to check their hands. “Good. Can fight with those.”

The poultry is bland, and a mouthful of steamed potatoes doesn’t give off any flavor, either. I reach for a scoop of gravy and drench my plate as Cordelia tucks her nails into her palms and hides them beneath the table. 

Jett tips back the rest of his water and helps himself to dessert. “I thought you said we were getting something new this year,” he grumbles. “Back in the same old uniforms. I think I even found one of Haymitch’s hairs in the collar.” He jabs the cake with his fork. 

“I was disappointed too.” Effie admits, then straightens her shoulders as she dabs her mouth with a napkin. “You know, you can do so much with coal. That girl’s dress from Eight had me inspired, but I’m not a stylist.” She places her napkin back over her lap, the orange clashing with the fluorescent green of her skirt like a neon carrot.

“I don’t think I had seen blue miner’s overalls until tonight.” Cordelia speaks down into her dish. 

“No miner’s gonna proudly wear blue overalls. Means you haven’t been working hard enough.” Jett grumbles through a mouthful of half chewed cake. 

“I heard stories about the hierarchy in the mines. Mr. Trunner told me about how the overseers crackdown the hardest on miners with blue uniforms. He said it makes them stick out, so unless they’re producing more than their quota, all the attention is on them. They have to produce more to make up for standing out. They're held to a different standard. Which isn't fair. Most blues are new guys. They're already just trying to learn the ropes.”

Mr. Trunner. I had his class just last year. He’s a grumpy old man who spent his life in the mines until his body gave out. He hasn’t taken a day off of work in his life, though, The moment he stepped foot back above ground, he went straight to the schoolhouse to teach the trade. He must still be teaching mining methods. At this rate we'll retire at the same time. 

Jett nods and strains to swallow the lump of dessert, “Yeah. Except down in the mines, sometimes it’s hard to tell the colors apart. It’s just all dark down there.”

“I thought you worked above ground. Sorting.” I look up from the platter of delicately folded meats, the maze-like pattern of folds making me dizzy.

Jett cracks a grin and winks, “That’s what the stamp on my work papers says.”

“They let you down in the mines? I thought you had to be eighteen.” I press, shoving my fork under the serving of potatoes. 

“Don’t I look it? Money’s better down there, and they could use the hands. Gotta fill an opening. Been down there for a year now.” He meets my eyes stolidly. They always need hands down in the mines, but to open a position for someone under eighteen is risky. They only do it when there’s an opening they need filled quickly. There hasn’t been any news of accidents that made it up to the Village. I meet his eye, but he looks away.

Cordelia pipes up again, her hands back on the table. “I heard tomorrow is training. What is it? What should we do?”

My eyes are still on Jett, who hasn’t looked up since. “Yeah. We’ll take you over to the training center. There’s stations. Try to pick up clues. The arena.”

“What?” Cordelia’s brows twitch as she leans in closer.

I can’t think, not with Jett imploding in front of me. Not here, not in front of the Capitol ears. Don’t give them ideas. 

I rip my eyes from him and let out a sigh, leaning back against the stiff-backed chair and locking my fingers behind my head in thought, all in the hopes of buying him time. “If you see a pattern, think about what it could mean.” I try, scrambling for words to string together. Come on, Jett. Not yet. Don’t give up yet.

“So, patterns?” Cordelia asks, squinting at me slightly. “Patterns of what?”

Jett’s fork scrapes on his plate, scarring the dish with a gray mark. His throat constricts with a swallow again. “Like, if there’s a lot of one color, maybe the arena’s all that color.” 

He looks up, and I stare back at him with the same expression. I can't tell him I know what he meant. Not here. I’ll never be able to, not in the Capitol. No where is safe here. I know about Wyatt, about how you two were friends. How they made you take his job. How there’s never anytime to grieve in District Twelve. 

His eyes narrow, and I realize I’ve forgotten to speak. “Yeah, yes. Yeah. Think about what the color could mean. I bet the arena with the darkness and weasels had a lot of ways to make light.” 

“Well, what did yours have?” Cordelia scoots her chair in closer, pressing her ribs to the side of the table. “Yours is more recent. We could learn more about how they are thinking through that.”

This time, I buy myself thinking room through a sip of an open bottle of rum. When it drains from my mouth, I still have nothing. “I think there were forageable things.” 

“You think?” Jett scoffs. “Your whole arena was poison, and you think that the hint was a station of forageable things?”

My face burns under the flush of the rum. “I don’t remember. Just look for patterns.”

Cordelia sets her fork down, and her lips thin with disappointment. Slowly, she begins to speak, “Don’t we get a second mentor?” She asks as diplomatically as possible, but the disappointment still bleeds from her tone. “Two heads are often better than one, right?”

Her offered smile drips with undeserved apology. It offends me more than her words do. I’m a bad mentor. I’ve missed the parade. I have no advice, just a handful of loose memories. I have more coins in my pocket than I do thoughts of my own. I don’t deserve an apology, even if it’s just in the form of a smile.

I set the rum on the table and lean forward, placing my head in my hands, “No. Just me.”

Jett’s fork clatters to the table, “The rest of the districts have two. Why not us, too? They don't care about the longshots?” 

Of course he'd know that word. I stare down at the wood grain of the table, shaking my head, “No, it’s not you two. They’re punishing me.”

The tips of Cordelia's strands of hair swing beneath my vision as she leans closer. “What do you mean punishing you?” she asks. 

The rum was a bad idea. My mind is back to fogging over, and my speech must be slurring, because Cordelia leans even closer to hear better. I claw for details, trying to recollect anything from my mind, but the only thing I know to be true is the crushing crowd’s chanting in the plaza. Nothing else remains.

“Snow is punishing me for what I did in the arena.”

“What, win? Is that why the cameras are here?” Jett implores, jabbing his finger at the camera watching us in the corner of the room. 

“No, those cameras have always been there." I meet the beady eye of the camera Snow's likely watching right at this very moment. Watch away. I'll be your puppet. I'll keep them in line. That's what he wants. I suck my teeth and open my mouth with a click. "It’s a punishment for what I did with the force field. And what I did after I got back home. Now, because they think I’ll try something again, they’re making me do this on my own, so, I’m your only mentor.”

“The ax?” The girl asks, gathering her hair to one side and pulling her fingers through it nervously. 

"The funeral," Jett says so quietly I'm sure I'm the only one who heard it. 

Effie takes over, clearing her throat for attention, “I am here, too, and I know plenty of people. I may not have experience in the arena, but we all fight our own battles, and I have fought just as hard to get where I am today.” 

I sink to placing my face directly on the table, arms wrapped around my head. I've done his bidding, and yet, I've still said too much. 

“So, while you do not have another mentor, I will try my best to pitch you both to the best of my ability. Tell me about yourselves. Let’s learn about each other.”

“Great, so we get a pariah and a Capitol drone.” Jett’s chair scrapes back from the table. He spikes his napkin onto his plate and stomps down the hall, slamming his door shut. 

Cordelia remains frozen at the table. Her small hands wrap around the bottom of her water glass. “Jett has a bad temper, Miss Trinket, please don’t take what he said to heart.” 

Effie, who chuffed sharply at his insult, composes herself again. “That was very rude of him.”

“Yes, ma’am, it was.” Cordelia agrees, laying it on thick, ever the teacher’s pet. “But you have already been so useful. He is just upset, that’s all.”

“I suppose I can forgive him. You two are under a lot of pressure.” She lifts her chin again, though disdain still colors her expression. “Now, Cordelia, let’s focus on you. Earlier you told me you were top of your class?”

Cordelia’s eyes drop to the plate in front of her again, “No, ma’am. Front of the class, not top of the class.”

I shut my eyes and try to picture her sitting in class, but anything beyond the plaza has dissolved completely. I can picture her sitting at the front, the back of her head in front of Mr. Trunner’s board, but no matter how many scraps I piece together, it is only a picture, never a memory. 

The escort hums in thought, “Yes, that’s right. So you stood at the front.” 

“No, ma’am, sat at the front. By the teachers.” 

“Why don’t you just tell me about yourself.” Effie subsidies. She draws a sip from her wine glass and settles it back on the table when Cordelia starts to speak.

“I have two brothers, both younger than me. I know a lot about my teachers, and I spend most of my time in the school tidying up. I like little things, like tokens and toys. I collect them.” She dangles her token, a collection of little trinkets screwed together on a chain. 

“Where do you get your trinkets ?” Effie asks, certainly flattered to use her own name. 

Cordelia shifts in her seat, “I find them.” She mumbles. 

In District Twelve, finding something means scavenging the Hob or taking it off of someone. Straight edge, polite Cordelia has never been to the Hob. I lift my head from my huddle and squint at her token. An assortment of objects dangles from the chain. A small, plastic star, a roughly carved doll, a pair of crudely painted dice, all little things.

“You stole them.” I glean. 

Her face flushes red as she quickly tucks her collection back into her pocket. “No.” She insists. 

“No, you did. That’s good. How?” I ask, leaning toward her. 

“I didn’t take them.” Her fingers tremble as she reaches for her glass again, trying to give herself something sturdy to grip. 

“You know how to roll a coin over your fingers?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. 

“No?” She questions. 

“Then tell me how you found all of those. You’re not gonna be in trouble. You’ve got a skill, and it’s about the only pitchable thing about you. Teachers at school liking you isn’t memorable. Scandal is. Now tell me, how’d you do it?”

She drops her glass on the table with a thud. “My Pa taught me. When the money was too tight, he’d take me to the square where the merchants were and he taught me how to take without them knowing. Pickpocketing, he called it. I only took what I had to.” She looks to be on the verge of tears.

“Ever pickpocketed a guy in a twinkling suit?” I ask. 

Her eyes widen and she gives me a slight nod when she realizes what I’m suggesting. “I don’t want to be remembered for my pickpocketing, though.”

The names from the plaza shoot through me. Rascal. Smartass. I copy Cordelia and wrap my hand around the bottle of rum. Jackass. Beast. Arsonist. I tip the bottle back, knowing I’ll like the burn more than what I’m about to say: “It’s the only shot you have.”

That night back in my compartment, sleep never comes, and the blinding Capitol lights have once again smothered the stars outside of my window. I pace my room, kicking aside the clothing I’ve discarded, until my legs give out from the steps and the rug flattens into a trail beneath my feet. 

Wearily, I wrap myself into my duvet and click the television on with the nightstand’s remote. It spurs to life without static like the one in the Village. The image is crystal clear from the jump— a sprawling field of flowers, the golden cornucopia, and the back of my head. I watch the entire airing of my Games, grasping for any training details that I might remember. The tape back in District Twelve had worn too thin to watch a month ago. It's more static than scenery. 

Ideas flood back to me, but I know most of them can’t be true. I’m trying to fill the gaps with my own ideas, and none of them fit right. Still, I hold tight to any that might be true and claw my way deep into the debris of my alcohol-addled mind. I should have asked Wiress tonight when she found those brief moments to spare, because I’m certain I will never have another moment without a Peacekeeper babysitter at my side. 

Some things are gone entirely, or maybe they were never there at all. In the tape, I spend time drinking from the river. I know this. I remember the pain from when I was trying to soak up the poison with the charcoal tablets, and yet, on the Capitol television, I don’t even stop at the river. I must have. I remember the pain in my stomach. The cramping of the poison working its way through me. I must have drank from the river, but it’s gone. There’s nothing. 

When the Games end with Silka lobbing the ax over my head, I click the screen off, yank the blanket over my head, and curl into a ball beneath the duvet. The pain wasn’t from the poison. I never drank from the river at all. I made that up. Maybe Maysilee did, or another tribute, but not me. The pain I know was from Silka’s weapon slicing me open. They played the battle in full. In the final moments, the look on my face as the ax sails over me proves exactly why I become the puppet. Irrefutably, irrevocably, I knew. It was my trick with the force field. 

When the morning comes, all memories of the game have fled with the dizziness. I peel the duvet back and change into a new set of Capitol supplied clothing. Today is a full day of training, so that means a full day of networking. After last night, I finally have a workable angle with Cordelia, and Jett came in with height on his side. He won’t be a hard sell no matter who I’m trying to pull funding from. 

Effie collects me from my room with the word that everyone is gathering for breakfast. I rub the light into my eyes and work down the best hangover cure I know, another sip from whatever is on my nightstand. 

When I join her at the table, Jett and Cordelia have already begun eating. 

“Jett and I were trying to come up with angles for the interviews. I know you said you want me to play the pickpocket angle, but Haymitch, I don’t want people to know me like that.” Cordelia pulls on the end of her hair again, tugging gently with each of her words. I fixate on the strands wound around her fingertips, blooming a bright red. 

“So what else do you have?” I ask gruffly.

“I want to be known for how nice I am, not for the bad things I had to do to get by.” She chews her bottom lip. 

“Is that your dying wish?” I blow over the rim of my coffee mug before downing a sip. 

Her shoulders start to shiver and she unwinds her fingers from her hair, tucking her hands hidden beneath the table, “Dying wish? I’m trying to live.” She answers meekly. 

“Sounds like a dying wish to me.” I reply. Through the pounding headache of my hangover, my sympathy is running as dry as my mouth. 

“I think you’re a very nice girl, Cordelia. You know just how to speak to people.” Effie offers her a soft smile, but Cordelia must be stuck on my words, because she doesn’t offer her a thankful reply. 

I press my lips together and lean back in my chair. “Cordelia. No one’s gonna sponsor anyone because they’re nice. Nice doesn’t get you gifts. Nice gets you a ticket back to Twelve in a box.”

Jett sets stabs his knife into chunk of ham, “If she wants to be known for being nice, let her be nice.” He grumbles through chews, chunks of ham flying from his mouth and landing back on the platter of meats.

I suck my bottom teeth, breathing a heavy sigh through my nose. “Fine,” I mutter, “be nice.” 

Cordelia ducks her head and spends the rest of her meal staring at her plate, “I’m still going to try to win, you know.”

Embers of remorse begin to light themselves in my bones, and I lift my hand to place it on her shoulder, but I stop it at the fruit tray instead. I pluck a berry from the top and pop it in my mouth. I suck the juice dry from the berry and swallow down the flesh. I’ve just given her permission to get herself killed.

Jett clears his throat. “I was thinking of using my time in the mines.” He offers, pushing around a helping of shredded potatoes. 

I lift my head from my hands to meet his eyes, “What about your time in the mines?”

“Well, they’re dark and dangerous, and you’ve gotta be a good listener, because if the bird stops singing, you’ve only got a few seconds to run, so I’m quick, and I’m good with a pickax.” It’s the most I’ve heard him speak, so I let him continue, “Plus, I’m not supposed to be there.” 

A rascal. A near spitting combination of Wyatt and I. It’s true Jett having spent time in the mines is abnormal for a tribute from Twelve. The majority of tributes die before reaching eighteen, and for those who are Jett’s age, where he’s close enough to eighteen to squeak into the paperwork, it’s a highly special case. I draw a deep breath and slosh the contents of my mug around my cup. “A mine worker is never going to win over the Capitol audience. They hate Twelve. That’s all we are to them.”

“I know, I said that the other day, but I was thinking because they think that’s all I am, it could work.” He presses.

“No.” I veto, shaking my head, “We need something else. You’re more than a miner. You nearly tore Effie’s wig off two days ago over it. You can’t keep telling them what they already know. They’ll be bored before you open your mouth. Give me something memorable.”

Jett’s mouth twists to the side, and we lose him to his thoughts. He mulls over my words, the silence lying over the table and freezing us all in time. “I don’t think they deserve to know anything else about me.”

Effie looks between my hostile glare and Jett’s gray eyes before chipping in, “I’d quite like to know more about you,” she pauses to let someone else speak, but when no one does she continues, “What do you do outside of the mines?”

“I don’t have time outside of the mines.” His eyes flick to Effie’s for a moment before locking right back on to mine, “Don’t have time for much of anything. Up the elevator, down the elevator.”

“That’s good. Anger is good.” I cross my arms over my chest, “Shoulders back, let me see something.” 

Jett considers my request without moving. He waits so long I just about ask again, but he pulls his shoulders back and sets his jaw. 

“Loner.” The word hangs over the table like the fog over mornings in the Seam. “You’re angry, aloof, and your time in the mines has given you time with handling a pickax. People here haven't worked underground a day in their lives. You’re right. So use it. Say you can swing a fifty pound pickax all day without breaking a sweat, and you’d swing one as many times as it takes to get out of that arena. But that’s it. No pandering.”

The escort beside me claps her hands together, “Yes! Hard like rocks, deep like a mine. Mysterious.” 

Jett’s posture rounds out again as he returns to hunching over his plate. “Don’t have to tell them about myself that way.” He nods, “I can try that.”

His words end with a honk from outside, rousing Effie from her seat, “Well, you’ll have all day to work on your personalities in training today.”

Jett pulls Cordelia to her feet, and she slouches behind him, attention sweeping the ground beneath her feet. I don’t correct her stance. Any hope I had of pitching her as a contender is gone with her dying wish. I follow everyone out and pile into the waiting car. 

Once we are all seated, Cordelia to my immediate left and Jett to the leftmost window, the Avox driver pulls away from the curb and starts towards the tribute center. 

“Listen, you two. Keep your eyes out for anything that might clue you into the arena today. Size up your allies, and learn something useful.” I scratch at the outer seam of my pants as if the thread will give me something more useful to say. 

“Patterns. Yeah. I remember.” Jett replies absently, watching the colorful blur of the buildings swim past the car window.

The car rolls to a stop outside of the training center. As usual, I climb out first and the pair follow behind me. Peacekeepers arrive to escort them into the training area, leaving Effie and I alone with the car. 

“That girl, she’s got a head on her shoulders.” She mutters through the side of her mouth as she adjusts the hem of her skirt, wrinkled from the car.

“Nice gets you killed first.” I grumble back, “She’ll be lucky if people forget her interview. No one’s gonna sponsor her.”

“It’s not our place to choose for her. You can tell Caesar of her antics, but he can’t draw it out of her unless she admits to it.” 

“I know, I know.” I sigh, “I could spread the rumor today. Set the fire.” 

Effie’s gaze lingers on the locked-tight doors of the training center as her smile twitches downwards at the corner. “Haymitch, you should spend the day trying to be a little more likeable. You'll never secure sponsors with that frown. To be involved with the Games is an honor."

My gut twists, wriggling like it had when I was dying in the arena as my shoulders tense beneath my starchy white button-up. “Don’t tell me how to mentor my tributes.” I snap. 

A Capitolite, a brightly colored, snot green wearing Capitolite, who never had to fear stepping foot into the arena. Who never had to check in at the reaping day table, who never had to consider dying to a fire or explosion hundreds of feet below the earth, who has not starved a day in her life, telling me how to win the same Games I’ve been sucked back into. No. I won. Not her.

I leave her behind and march off towards the plaza of swarming neon, weaving like windy meadow grass. Rage seeps through my veins like the liquor they call fireball here as I squeeze my way through the crowd of overdressed Capitol elite and slip through the exclusive doors of the shiny new networking bar. 

Chapter Text

I stomp to the bartender and order the first thing I see, glancing over the pulsing mob wound into tight knots of overlapping conversation. The noise of their words meshes into a buzzing sound. Every word, every syllable, becomes a language that I can’t decipher. The bartender returns with a floral-rimmed glass. I rip the garnish from the lip and toss it back onto the bar before skirting the edge of the crowd and trying to find my way in. 

Any opportunity I find is no more than a closing door. If a conversation towards the end of the group fades, another returns to fill the void, and it leaves me staring at the waves of surgically altered people speaking in the same shrill Capitol accent. My knuckles turn white around the glass as my mind begins to wander, leaving me desolate at the wall of the bar. 

I don’t go drinking to speak. Bascom Pie and I never talk until I’ve got a coin on the counter. Here, where everyone knows each other, where snot green and bright pink form a locked together, impenetrable crowd, I place my back to the wall and stare blankly as the realization sets in. I’m no mentor. I’ll never be a mentor. Just a kid roped into something for the rest of my life, escorting other kids to their deaths. It's all a ruse. I have no more power here than I did in the pens.

I’ve killed a man. I’ve killed a few, but staring at the mob in front of me, which is bound to be filled with some of the same people who cheered to see my scar on the ceremony stage, the same people who fed me scraps in the cage, I have failed again. 

I set my glass on the closest table and begin to slip through the dregs of the crowd with my eyes shamefully glued to the floor.

“There you are!” 

I raise my eyes to the man in front of me. “Plutarch.” 

All hope I had at thinking on my own is gone. Here he is to re-tie my strings. 

I resent him for involving me in this. I despise him for seeking me out. I hate him for letting this go on and preserving it through that stupid camera of his, but after hearing Beetee is away this year, Mags is under surveillance, and Wiress put herself on the line to see me for even a few minutes, I want even less to do with him. He’ll never know suffering the way the dam has shattered upon my life. Snow would have him killed. Lucky him. 

“A little birdie told me you were here.” He grins. The corner of his eye twitches.

“Not for long.”

“Why? Networking not going well? You don’t want to talk to the richest people on earth about how you almost died for their entertainment and were imprisoned in a golden cage dangling off the floor?” he scoffs, “Why ever not?”

I curl my hand into a fist, but it stays in my pocket. I chuff out a single bland laugh to humor him and shoulder past him,  “Let me through.”

“Alright, come on. I’m actually here to capture some footage for the new bar areas, and having a new victor, especially one who’s known for a little drinking, would be good for this. Good for me. You let me get a few shots, and I’ll help you break the ice with some of these,” he trails off, metering his words, “people.”

“No.” I bite back starkly. “Fuck your Games.” I pull my hand from my pocket and cross my arms over my chest. 

“Alright. No footage.” He sighs, lowering the camera from his shoulder, “I’ll see if Chaff is up for it later. He’s drained a few liquor carts before,” he mumbles, clicking a few buttons on the back of his equipment. “Haymitch, let me help you,” he implores more softly. “I know how to get on the good side of these people. I’ve been doing it my whole life. It’s something I can actually help you with.”

“I don’t want your help,” I snap. “I’ve got it handled.”

“But your tributes need it.” He lowers his voice. “I’m not there to help paint them as stronger this year, and the Career kids are getting all of the coverage. The guy from Two is one of the biggest tributes we have had in years. I think Palladium is getting annoyed by all of the coverage comparing the two of them,” he explains. “Point is, you can’t win without the people here. You need their money, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

I grind my teeth and press my lips into a thin line. He is right, but working with any of the people in this room is the last thing I want to do. I open my mouth to reject him again, when Cordelia’s words come out instead, surprising even me. “I’m still going to try to win.”

“I know.” Plutarch says without missing a beat. “And I know you have a knack for interviews. You’ve got a compelling angle yourself here. I’ve been keeping up with public opinion, and people love a rascal. They’re big fans. So if you’d reconsider, I’d like to get a few shots of you here.” 

“Fuck no,” I snap again. “I told you, I want nothing to do with your Games.”

“They’re yours now, too. They can’t run without you, just like they can’t run without me.”

“Bullshit!” His words set my blood on fire again. “I could stop showing up and everyone would go on just fine. You’re the one with the camera in my face.”

Plutarch’s eyes fly wide and he shoots a smile over his shoulder. I follow his gaze to a now-watching gaggle of capitolites right as he mouths the word rascal and jabs a thumb my way, rolling his eyes and dropping his jaw in semi-feigned exasperation. They break open into laughter and turn away. 

“I sure am!" He says, suddenly all the more chipper. "That’s why I’m trying to show off this incredible new bar. It really is great, isn’t it folks?” He shoots another grin at the crowd, who all seem more interested in each other now. Attention is fleeting here, never more than a few seconds. Must make it easy for them to believe whatever they’re told. 

He shifts his camera back onto his shoulder, “I can’t get this thing to turn on. Can you try?”

Before I can move my hands, he shifts to my side and shoves the camera into them. “Listen,” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth, “I’m not expecting you to bend a knee. I’m just trying to give your kids a shot. I know you don’t want to be here. You’ve made it clear by protesting the parade last night. But you have to try. Not for entertainment. For them.”

“You don’t think I know that?” I hiss back, tapping on buttons I have no idea what they do. This screen doesn't light up the way Snow's did, but it's just as foreign.

“People already think you’re a rascal. Own it.”

“It’s not an angle, Plutarch. There’s nothing to own.”

“Then be mean. They’re eating it up. Make fun of them. It doesn’t have to come easily. You don’t have to like it, but you have to do it. You’re a mentor.”

“You’re trying to get me to do something, Plutarch. You always come with a price.”

“Consider this a donation. Lean into your drinking. People say things all of the time when they’re drunk, remember? The sun?” 

No. I don’t remember, but I nod along.

He holds down the top button and the camera whirs to life. “Oh! Loose battery pack. I’ve got to go hunt down Chaff. The offer from Eleven still stands. Thanks, Haymitch. Maybe next time. Give me a call if you change your mind.”

I bite my tongue. He painted the rascal poster. He’s why they called me a jackass when I came home after my Games. He’s part of the reason all of my family’s gone. As much as I don’t want to follow his lead, even I know he’s right. And I’ve been doing it, as much as I don’t want to admit that either. Leaving conversations mid-thought, drinking the days and nights away, yelling, throwing things. I’m the asshole from the arena. 

The angle is the only thing allowing me a leash instead of a chain. I have to embrace it. I’ll bite my words. I’ll make jokes at my own expense then laugh at the people in front of me. 

And yet, though my fingers know the shape of a bottle better than my own mother’s hand, I find myself grieving the person she knew. I must not have always been like this— someone with which violence shares a bed. But it comes so easily. So naturally. Maybe I was this way all along. 

Oh, Cordelia, you were right. I don’t want to be known like this, a jackass, a rebel, a monster. What proof do I have otherwise? I’ve spent the past year drinking and running. I’ve killed and gotten people killed. I’ve shut down the mines and driven away everyone I’ve ever loved. Plutarch is more right than he knows. I don’t have to embody anything. I am exactly what the Capitol knows me to be.

But, I can’t trust him. Plutarch comes with a price. Everything he does is paid for in something that can benefit him. That will. He came to re-tie my puppet strings. He must have. 

I cool myself down with another drink from the bar and try my best to harness the words of a smartass. After a few dull conversations, I realize I can be as mean as I want to these people, and they always laugh it off like I have said something hilarious. The drinks help, and eventually, it comes naturally. Easy. Just as it always has.

And yet, Plutarch’s words still nag at me. Offer from Eleven? To shoot footage in the bar? But he said he was going to ask if Chaff would do it, not that he offered. What offer from Eleven?

By the time I’m fully settled into my jackassery, the bar clears out to watch the tributes file out of the training center. 

Just as the bartender clears away the last glass, I see my own bottle dangling loosely from Plutarch’s fingers in the dome of District Eleven. We need someone exactly like you. Tossing that offer back at me, throwing it right in my face in the sea of people is so incredibly dangerous it enrages me all over again. Advice in exchange for my puppet strings. That’s what it was. Of course it was. And here I was dancing all night just to tie my own strings back up.

I fall into a drunken step next to a pair of identically dressed men with gold rings decorating their wrinkled fingers. In the Capitol, everyone gets surgery to get younger. The giveaway is their hands. Most of them have never lifted a finger for work in their lives, so they forget how aged their knuckles look. These two have rings that could buy up the entirety of District Twelve.

I collect Jett and Cordelia from the Peacekeepers who remain stationed nearby until Effie arrives with the Avox driver. Effie climbs right back into the car with a scowl and silently awaits us joining her. I slide in last. 

“Well, Haymitch, I suppose you stayed busy.” She tries to scrunch her face, but whatever they did to her surgically makes it so her mouth just twitches a few times before giving up. 

“Wouldn’t you know it?” I quip back, resting my head against the cool window. 

Jett and Cordelia remain silent until we pass through the threshold of the apartment. They claim their seats at the table, and I stagger off to go change out of this fancy shirt. 

The mirror shows me a man with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and crooked yellowed teeth that peek out from under his stubble. Dribble drips from his mouth down his jaw and onto his shirt like icicles in the winter. A man frozen. 

I rub my red eyes and yank my shirt over my head, not giving any care to unbutton it neatly. I fling it across the room and turn away before I can see the scar on my abdomen appear on the man across from me. So it is me after all. 

I tug on an undershirt and pad my way back out to the dining table, where Jett stands across the room, staring right into the lens of the camera.

“Didn’t you say the cameras have always been here?” He asks, leaning closer as if trying to stare down the barrel. 

“Think it’s gonna blink first?” I cock an eyebrow, lingering behind my seat. 

“Just wonderin' if they’re watching. Is there a light or something?” He taps on the outer edge of the lens. 

“Just assume they always are.” I lower myself into the chair. 

“If they’re always watching, they could be never watching.” Cordelia offers. “Kind of like a paradox.” 

“Paradox? What’s that like an Avox?” Jett questions, blowing on the lens to fog it over. The fog creeps away as quickly as it appeared. 

“No, it’s kinda like, two things that shouldn’t go together but do. They shouldn’t work together, but it makes sense if you think about it.” The girl rises from the table and starts towards Jett, but stops half way. 

“Like a Seam girl and a Peacekeeper.” Jett smirks.

“Kinda.” Cordelia backs off, her ears darker at the tips. “It’s like, if they’re always watching, it doesn’t really matter what we do. They’re going to watch, or they won’t, and we’ll never know. It’s best to assume they are.” She turns her back to the lens and looks at me, "Right?"

I nod.

“So eventually, everyone keeps their thoughts in their head, thinking they’re watching. Eventually, they won’t have a need to watch, and no one will see the point in thinking anymore.” 

“They’re probably watching,” I remark, settling into my chair. “No need to spend time wondering.”

“Well, maybe,” she concedes, returning to her seat next to me. “But we’ll never know unless they say so somehow.”

Jett spends a few more seconds tapping at the camera before he joins us for the meal. We eat in peace for the first time since the train, until Effie starts to make conversation. Silence is about the worst thing in the world to her, behind my drinking. 

“What did you two learn today?” she asks, settling her pale fingers around the stem of her wine glass. 

Jett sighs and leans back against his chair, “Cordelia got real good at the foraging station.” 

“You said it had some information last year, so I figured we might find something there this year,” she mumbles into her bowl of lamb stew. 

“The guy at the station said it’s the same mushrooms as every year. We wasted all day learning about something that’s there every. single. year.” 

“You two stayed together?” Effie asks, setting her wine glass down. 

Cordelia and Jett share a look, but neither of them speak.

“Two peas in a pod,” I sigh, knowing I won’t get anywhere with these two. Whatever they make their minds up about is theirs to keep. Dying wishes.

Jett shrugs and places his elbows back on the table. “Knot tying, too. Learned how to make a snare. We split up after lunch. I learned how to throw a pickax farther. Well, an ax, cause they didn’t have a pickax at the station.” He plucks a cherry out of a glass and pops it in his mouth. 

“Is that what you’re going to show the gamemakers? Mushrooms and ax throwing?” I set my fork on the table and cross my arms. 

“I’m hoping they have a pickax in the private sessions.” The boy adds. “So yeah, pickax throwing, not ax throwing.” 

“And you, Cordelia?” 

“I could make a few knots,” she suggests. “Pretty quickly.” 

“She’s got fast fingers. She’d be real good at sorting the minecarts.” Jett grins across the table. 

Blood rushes to Cordelia’s cheeks and she hides behind a sip of her water, the rim of the glass covering most of her face.

“Why don’t you show off the skill we discussed yesterday? It seems impressive.” Effie asks. 

I lean closer to the edge of the table and help myself to a serving of the stew. “The Gamemaker sessions are private. Whatever happens in there, stays in there.” I lift the spoon from the serving bowl and ladle a portion into my dish. 

“So no one would know?” Cordelia asks softly, “It won’t impact what Caesar asks me?” 

I shake my head and set my full bowl back onto the table. “Not unless it gets back to him.”

Effie nods along, “They’re not allowed to ask you anything. It’s strictly prohibited. It preserves the sanctimony of the games.”

“Alright.” She pushes the stew around in her bowl. “But how do I take their stuff? They’re not going to be next to me, are they?”

“No, no they won’t.” I flick my eyes to the ceiling, chasing my thoughts. 

“You could do sleight of hand.” Jett pulls his chair closer to the table. “Could do some of that disappearing stuff. Wyatt showed me some. You probably know.” 

Cordelia plucks a grape from the pile of chilled fruit and begins to practice. After a few rusty attempts, she makes the grape disappear without any indication it was ever there. Effie applauds, and Jett joins in, bobbing his head with a smile. “There we go!”

“Sell it. How big of an object can you hide? Small knife?” I pick up a dinner knife and hold it out to her. She tries, nearly taking off a finger in the process, but just like the grape, she makes it disappear. 

“Good. They’ll have dummies in the room. Hide the knife, sneak up, and take it out.” 

Cordelia slides the knife from her sleeve and sets it on the table. “Okay.” She breathes. “I’ll do my best.”

“You’re wonderful at that!” Effie beams, “You should do magic on the stage. It’s simply all anyone who is anyone has been obsessed with this year. They’ve been featuring a pair of fire-twirling acrobats in the plaza this week, you’d make a fine act to follow.” 

I raise an eyebrow toward Cordelia, and she nods as if she knows what I’m thinking, “As long as it’s called magic and not pickpocketing, I can do it for Caesar, too.”

“Good. Magic’s better than just playing nice.” I stand up from the table and brush off droplets of stew from my shirt. “Get some sleep if you can. Private sessions will be after lunch tomorrow.” 

Effie lingers at the table, waiting for the two to head to their rooms before gathering the napkin from her lap and placing it onto the table. “A magician and a mystery. Very compelling.” She rises from her chair and pushes it in neatly. 

“They’re gonna have to be good fighters.” I shake my head, “Aloof and gimmicky. Neither makes them contenders."

“You were very similar in your interview. I remember that line you had, oh, what was it?” She hums as she tries to come up with the words, “Oh, yes. They’re just as stupid as always. Everyone agreed with you, you know? It’s not your fault, of course. The districts just don’t have the same minds as we do. Our schools are better, of course, but they’re not wasted on us.”

“Think so?” I jab back, “You all do very profound thinking.” I turn heel and shut myself in my room before she has a chance to unpack my words.

The burnt orange duvet catches my body when I fling myself head first onto the bed. I grip the fabric beneath my fingers until it draws me half way to sleep. I never get past the halfway point. I spend all night in and out of consciousness. The light from passing cars draws dancing shadows beneath the curtain. I watch them until I drift off and jerk back awake. An infinite cycle. 

I roll over and click the television on. My old friend, Capitol news, flashes onto the screen. I curl up against my pillows and let it take me into numbness. As the talking head drones on about the Games, I thumb over the soft threads of the pillowcase. 

“Did you see this?” The anchor with the red hair asks the other anchor, “Look at this trick, Suetona, look at this one.” The segment cuts to an acrobat leaping from one person to another, “He’s flying! Look at that flip.” 

Suetona, the woman next to him, breaks out in delighted laughter, “I was too deep into the bar cart. The new Bee Balm Booze has got my head buzzing. That little girl knew what she was doing. I want to rub my face right into the drink every time I order one.”

Both break out into ear splitting laughter. I launch my remote into the screen, shattering it into a million slivers of glass. By morning, the rest of my room suffers the same fate. I flip the mattress, bash the windows out, and throw furniture until something in my arm rips. I collapse on the floor in rage, sobbing into the fibers of the carpet beneath my palms.

Lou Lou, who died to those flowers, the tortured girl without a name, who exists solely in my fleeting memories, shrinking by the day, is the joke behind the drink of the Games this year. Louella, lost before the Games, loved her flowers just the same. How many kids have died with their only legacy being a drink the next year?

I wear myself down, my throat raw with my heaving. The carpet dampens under my head. I sob until I can’t, until my tears have dried and my chest burns. Until my head aches and my eyes throb. This has to end. 

I stay on the floor for the rest of the night under the leaning mattress, huddled in my cave where nothing can reach me. Where sound dies at the entrance. I shelter beneath the padding, curling up into a ball and watching the sun drag itself over the red horizon.

I don’t come out of my cave for the tapping at my chamber door. I don’t come when they call my name. I don’t come when they knock harder. I watch the sun rise higher. The car comes and goes. I lie still in my grave for hours until the sun burns through the broken window. Only when the wind brushes through the shattered pain do I emerge. 

My head pounds worse than normal. Daggers pierce the back of my dry eyes and the light fractures in the wounds. I stagger over to the sink and suck down handfuls of water until the headache starts to subside. 

I stagger to the empty kitchen with matted hair and unbrushed teeth and tear open every cabinet until I find a bottle of painkillers. I choke down two, and when the pain persists, I take another, this time with a glass of water that moistens my quickly drying throat. Like laundry on a clothesline in the middle of the reaping month.

When the sun reaches the peak of its path, I clamber to the shower and rake a comb through my hair. With any luck, Plutarch will be back at the bar, which means seeing potential sponsors. I’ll force him to do something. Today. This ends today. 

I tug on another dress-shirt and yank the laces of the least-scuffed pair of shoes into a tight knot. When I rise to my feet, I massage my stiff fingers and take the elevator down to the waiting car. Effie must have sent it back when she took the tributes to the training center. 

I climb into the silent vehicle and lean my head against the window again, soaking in the cool glass to combat the sweaty heat of the sun. With no tributes present, the car drops me directly outside of the bar this time. I thank the Avox driver before spilling out onto the bricks beneath me. 

The oppressive sun beats down on the back of my neck, sprouting droplets of sweat across my brow. I wipe my sleeve over my face and squint in the bright rays casting down upon the bright colors of the swarming plaza. I slip through the doors of the bar I found Plutarch in last and scout the crowd from the wall, but he’s not here. 

The men with the golden rings wave to me from across the crowd, and I nod back. The one on the left raises his glass to me, and my temperature rises to match outdoors. In his wrinkly hand exists the Bee Balm drink. I elbow my way through the crowd and throw myself through the doors of the room, shoving my way into the plaza and into an alley beside the bar to catch my breath. 

Rage, red hot rage, boils through my veins and sears through my heart. I grab a flowerpot by the stems and fling it down the way, listening to the crash. I bash my head into the brick wall until I’m too dizzy to stand, then I press myself to a sitting position against the same wall. Blood trickles down my forehead and drips onto my shirt, falling over my vision like rain over the mouth of the mines. First in drops, then in sheets, until my vision starts spotting. 

I shut my eyes against the current and tilt my head back against the brick behind me. With my face to the sun, I realize I have failed again. What rebel takes himself out on a brick wall? I will die here having failed everyone. I’ve done nothing but get myself killed. Not even made the slightest dent in the Games.

No, not yet. I haven’t lived yet. Please. Not yet. I haven’t gotten ahead. At least let me get ahead. But it’s too late. Death comes to collect me as footsteps on pavement and a sweet, low voice. 

Chapter Text

“Oh, Haymitch, what happened?” The voice asks. I can barely make out the Seam woman across from me. Someone from my home has come to collect me. Maybe Ma sent her. I try to respond, but blood pools in my mouth, so I shut it tight instead.

The lady dabs a napkin to my head, “Hold this here,” she commands. 

My hand finds hers and takes hold of the napkin. “Chaff said he heard a crash over here. He wanted me to see if some Capitol folks were fighting. He likes to watch.” She shakes her head in disapproval. “Boy, what have you done?” She sighs, dabbing another napkin to my shirt. “Stay here, I’ll get you some water to rinse your mouth.”

I keep the napkin pressed to my face. With the bleeding stemmed, my eyes begin to adjust to the light again. Not dead. Not yet. Good. I still have time.

The woman returns with Chaff at her side, and next to him, I can finally place her as the woman from the meeting on the first day. Seeder. I try to rise to my feet, but Chaff rushes over to my side and keeps me down, “There’s more blood on you than there is in you, Haymitch. Stay down.” 

“I’ve gotta find Plutarch.” I grumble, blood from earlier leaking from my mouth. I spit it onto the sidewalk and Seeder wraps my fingers around a cold bottle of water. 

“Drink.” She commands, so I do. I take a small sip and swish it around my teeth. I spit the pink water into a bush and drink down a real sip after. “Think you can get this down?” She asks, holding out a bar of sweet-looking grain mixed with raisins. “We’ll have to get you something more substantial, but you need something immediately.” 

I take the bar in my other hand and nibble off a corner. It’s sweet and sticks to my teeth like honey. I swallow that down, too, and stuff the wrapper into my pocket. 

Chaff sits next to me, checking over my hands for cuts. He won’t find any. Everything that hurts is shoulders up. Still, he seems intent on checking, so I let him look me over.

“You did a number on that wall,” he remarks, and I raise my head to see the damage. "Looks better with the red paint. Got an eye for design, Mitch.” He cracks a bright grin, and if my head wasn’t swimming, I’d probably return it. 

“I don’t want to be here.” I lean my head back against the wall and shut my burning eyes. 

“We noticed you were missing from the parade.” Seeder settles on the stoop next to us, draping her legs down the stairs. “You can’t do that, Haymitch. Boycotting the parade isn’t going to change anything.”

“I didn’t boycott it. Why is everyone saying that? I couldn’t find my way in.”

“What do you mean couldn’t find your way in? Your escort was telling everyone you didn’t see the point in going.”

“She’s could use a little something to loosen up.” Chaff tries to elbow me, but Seeder shoots him a glare. He holds his hand up in mock surrender. “She’s new, ain’t she?”

“Seems like that’s the theme with Twelve this year,” I grumble. 

“New’s not bad. Plenty of mentors have had tributes win their first year. It’s about what you make of it.” 

“It’s true. My first year was terrible. That’s when I started drinking.” Chaff sets my hand back in my lap and scoots to face Seeder and I, closing us into a circle in the middle of the alley. “Made it easier. Made people want to talk to me more, too.” 

Seeder pinches the bridge of her nose. “Yes. Most of the first year winners come from the Training districts, that’s true. It’s tough, Haymitch. I won’t get your hopes up about bringing home a winner this year. You have to try. Not for you, but for them.”

“I’m trying. No one thinks I’m trying. I’ve got ideas. Every time I try, something else happens. I spent all day yesterday shaking hands. I learned names. I haven’t learned a name in months. I shook hands, took pledges. I’ve been trying.”

“It’s harder without a partner. Trust us, we advocated for you. It was Palladium who was the loudest in the Victory Tour meetings. That’s back when they made the decision.”

“That dog can bark.” Chaff laughs. 

The corner of Seeder’s mouth twitches, smiling at a joke I’ll never be let in on. “He wanted you to have a mentor partner. Harrow was the same. Snow’s council insisted you were alone this year. Said it builds fortitude and character.” She rolls her eyes.

“I said you were more of a character than half of the shows they got on in the bars here. They’re all terrible. I’m trying to convince Beetee to wire me one of those fancy remotes to be able to change the channel myself, but he’s got his own projects.” 

“The point is, it’s tough, Haymitch. Your escort is supposed to be of more help, but we can’t ever count on them. They have a different way of doing things out here. I don’t know how you all work in Twelve. I’ve only been there once, but I know it’s not the way they work here.” She nods to the bustling square. “You will get better at this. Don’t count yourself out.”

I pull the napkin from my head and fold it over, the bright red of the fresh blood making me dizzy. “I’m trying. I’m doing my best.”

Seeder nods her head, “It’s tough work. It’s not something anyone should have to do.” Her words are rebellious on their own. The notion that anyone would be against the Games is incredibly dangerous. 

I tilt my head towards her, but I don’t open my eyes, unable to bear the pain.

“Seeder,” I ask evenly, knowing every word I say, every motion I make, is being watched somewhere, “Plutarch asked me to film something in the bar,” I rack my brain for how I can allude to the rebellion without giving it away entirely, “I was thinking about joining him.”

There’s a moment before she speaks that I feel as if I have done something wrong. The silence stretches between us as if she’s considering turning me in right then and there, but her words come with a shuffle to her feet. 

“I was hoping you would. Those bar promotional videos have been tying Chaff up. It’d be nice to have another star.” She offers a hand to Chaff, who uses it to pull himself up with a dramatic groan. 

“Plutarch is filming in the training center today. He’s gathering footage for promotional segments. I think he said something about liking the looks of Jett and Cordelia.” 

My eyes spring open. A shattering pain comes in with the light. “He’s with Jett and Cordelia?” 

Chaff and Seeder share a look, then Seeder nods slowly, “Yes, he’s been filming them a good bit. He says Twelve hasn’t gotten much coverage. The boy from two is overshadowing most other districts, and a few districts have fallen through the cracks.” 

“But I was the victor last year,” I groan. “They always cover the victor’s district by default.” 

“Not when someone looks the way that boy does. Everyone is swept up in him.” She purses her lips as a shadow crosses her face. 

I don’t know Seeder outside of the meeting and this alley. Maybe she means nothing by her words. Perhaps Plutarch really is just filming Twelve because he feels guilty for what he did to me. He should feel guilty.

No. He has a price. Not even the consolation in the bar came without knots in my strings. Plutarch must be trying to recruit Jett and Cordelia into a new plot. No, not my kids. My tributes are not his puppets. I will not let him use my kids. They still have a chance at winning this thing, as small as it might be. I didn’t. Not them. No one I mentor will die a plaything for some half-baked plot.

Adrenaline screams for me to surge to my feet, but everything I do will cause an alarm in the Peacekeeper inevitably assigned to watch me in some dark room somewhere. Lightheaded, my head rolls back against the wall instead. 

Seeder hooks her arm under mine and helps me to my feet and begins to guide me toward the plaza. “You’re going to need stitches,” she says when I pull the napkin away from my forehead. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

Seeder helps me onto a bench and waves over a Capitol attendant, who seems less than pleased to have a bloodied victor in the middle of the festivities. He waves down one of the stationed medics, who comes to prod at my wound. 

Seeder excuses herself to find something better for me to eat while Chaff lowers himself onto the bench next to me. “You’re gonna be real pretty when they do mentor interview segments,” he jokes. “A line of stitches right over your eyebrow. Just what everyone in the Capitol fawns over. Mysterious. Scrappy.”

“It’ll be the next trend,” I say flatly, wincing as the medic stitches my head wound closed. He rinses the blood from my forehead with a spare bottle of water and pats me down with an antiseptic. 

Despite his steady work, he keeps looking over his shoulder. “Don’t agree with Chaff?” I ask the medic. “Am I not pretty to look at?” 

He tucks the equipment back into his bag and zips it shut. “Just worried about those acrobats. Seems they’ve got more fire today than yesterday. You’re lucky you’re not concussed. Just take it easy, get rest, fluids, you know the rest,” he mumbles, shaking his head in disapproval as he slips a package of gauze into my hand. I tuck it into my pocket. 

“Haymitch and I were planning an act just like it. Get on my shoulders, Haymitch, come on, let’s show him.” Chaff scoots closer to me, patting his shoulder. 

The medic scoffs and cleans his hands with a little rectangular wipe he pulled from a packet. “Well it’s just me today. They refuse to schedule any more of us until it actually kicks off. Please, just don’t die. It’s so much paperwork.” He scoops his bag onto his shoulder and jerks his head back when someone calls from across the plaza, taking off running without looking back. 

“I’m not getting on your shoulders, Chaff.” I lean back against the curved wooden slats of the bench. 

“You’d be too heavy anyways.” He huffs, “I’ll get on your shoulders instead.” 

Seeder, who reappeared just as the medic took off running, looks at us both with raised eyebrows, “I’m not getting on either of your shoulders, before you ask.” She lowers herself onto the bench on the other side of me, and she wraps my fingers around a wrapped sandwich. “Here. Roast beef. It’s from one of the carts in the food quarter of the plaza. Should help you feel better.”

I immediately rip open the paper and dive into the sandwich. The sooner I get this down, the faster I can stop Plutarch.

“Seeder you’d be the top.” Chaff continues, speaking over the silence while I eat. “Haymitch, then me, then you.”

“I’ll be on the ground watching when you two tip each other over.” She crosses her arms. “I’m not falling off of your shoulders.”

“You’ve fallen out of trees before haven’t you? You know how to fall.” 

“As a kid. I’m not a kid anymore. If I break a bone on this brick plaza, it’ll never heal.” Seeder stretches her legs out in front of her and crosses them at the ankles. 

“You’re not that old,” Chaff groans. “You’re speaking like you’ve got gray hair.”

“You’re not that stable.” 

“I’ve got all my screws tightened.” Chaff stretches out his own legs and copies Seeder’s posture.

“The mechanic lied. You lost your screws years ago.” Seeder swipes his hand away when he reaches over me to wave it in her face. 

I crinkle the wrapper of my sandwich into a ball, “Chaff get on your own shoulders.”

“Like upside down?” He strokes his chin with his hand, “Yeah, I’ll work on that tonight.” 

“You’ve got a few minutes before we have to collect the tributes.” Seeder prompts, a small smirk at the corner of her mouth. 

“Is it almost time?” I crane my neck to look around Seeder toward the Peacekeeper-guarded double doors of the training center. 

Seeder nods, “Usually takes a few hours. I’d say we’re about thirty minutes from the time to collect ours. Yours should filter out after. Each session only takes a few minutes, but they reset them in between.”

“Jams up the whole process. Keeps us in the sun and the kids all nervous.” Chaff tsks, “They don’t tell you that when you’re waiting. Just leave you in the dark.”

“I remember. We waited a long time.” I press my lips together, “So is Plutarch filming their sessions? Or why is he there?” 

“No, that’s not allowed. He’s probably filming the waiting room, or their reactions after they leave. He mentioned something about getting filler shots of the tributes.” She shakes her head, “I wish he’d get out of those poor kids’ faces.”

I dust the crumbs off of my pants and scoot to the edge of the bench to rise. Every moment I waste is a moment I’m letting my tributes down, “I should probably go network. I haven’t done any today.” 

“No drinking. It’ll mess up your stitches.” Seeder rises with me, concern clear in the lines around her frowning lips.

“We’re in the best place in Panem to mess up stitches. I’m drinking.” I reply.

Chaff barks out a laugh and claps me on the back. “I like you more every minute, Haymitch. Come on Seeder, no need to chase the kid. You’ll scare off all of the Panem's finest with that frown of yours. Let’s go see how close our tributes are to being done.” He nudges her towards the training center. Seeder spares a last look at me before walking off with him, leaving me alone again at the edge of the plaza. 

While the food and water helped, my vision still swings like laundry in the wind. I land back on the bench and shut my eyes until the spell passes. As the dizziness ebbs, I start to collect my thoughts. Plutarch is planning something. Again. He’s been speaking with my tributes during their training sessions. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s drawing them into a plot. Maybe he’s assigned to Twelve again after all. No, Effie would have mentioned it. The Capitol’s social scene is her hunting ground. She would know. 

Still, maybe he is just trying to help. Maybe he has taken an interest in them to try to help me. He could try to stack the cards in their favor, just like last year, even if he isn’t specifically aligned.

No, Plutarch always has something going on behind the scenes. Would he try something without Beetee here? He has Wiress, still, but with the eyes on everyone, he would know better. It doesn’t make sense. I’m being too hasty. I need to be smarter about this.

By the time I can stand, the orange of the sunset has painted the sky in a warning of the approaching night. I wasted a whole day. Jett and Cordelia will be long gone, back to the apartment under Effie’s wings, and I have been slacking all day. 

I press onward, determined to show face somewhere just to hold on to whatever strings dangle in front of me. The plaza brings a promise of some donations towards my pair. A few recognize me as the victor, which causes swarms of unfamiliar Capitol people around me. The night crowd is different from the folks I saw yesterday. They are drunker, for starters, but they’re rowdier, too. Drinking and partying so publicly in Twelve would get the mines shut down for a week. I plan to take full advantage.

I shake hands, toss people’s words back to them, roll my eyes and play the part of a jackass until my throat burns from shouting over the live music. I replenish my words with a drink from the bar and come up with a story about my stitches being from some skirmish with the boy from Two. 

One lady, clad in a shade of purple I didn’t know existed until she turned around and shoved her duck-bill shaped lips towards my ear, “Isn’t that forbidden?” 

“Has that stopped me before?” I respond, beating my chest. She bursts into a cackle, and her husband, a man in a clashing shade of red joins her.

“You sure it was the boy from Two?” He leans in just as far.

“The kid who’s head and shoulders taller than me? Yeah, he tripped over his own feet. Meat paws couldn’t swat a dodgeball out of the way.” I smirk, rolling my eyes, “The pair I got could take him down in seconds. Just watch.” 

The man breaks into the same laugh as his wife. Do they alter laughs here, too? If they do, they need a new laugh surgeon. “You’re from Twelve, right? I’ll keep an eye on your pair. Gamemakers didn't think much of them. You seem to know something they don't.”

When the moon reaches its peak, people start calling me by my name instead of just Victor boy. It’s something. It’s a start. I network until the waves of crowds trickle. When the last Capitolite staggers home, I climb into the last waiting car and curl against the door until it spits me out on the curb in front of the apartment building. I scale the stairs, having to stop half way for a rest. Seeder was right, drinking was the wrong idea. My head aches worse than a hangover. I want to claw my scalp open and put ice directly on my brain. I hold my head in my hands and wait for the pain to ebb before crawling to the elevator and taking it the rest of the way to my burnt orange prison. 

Chapter Text

“Interviews. Get up.” 

I wake to Effie looming above me, my knife dangling between her fingertips. 

I scoff, “What happened to the cheery lady?”

“You are letting these kids face the arena without any help. At least I’m trying to make Twelve look good.” She paces around my room, hopping over the debris of furniture in her too high heels. 

“You’re trying to make yourself look good." I roll my eyes. "I didn’t realize I was the one running the Games.” I pull a pillow over my head.

“The Games gave you a better life!” She flings her hands towards the stained ceiling, knife still pinched between her thumb and forefinger like she’s ready to cut into a steak not a vein. It couldn’t possibly be a weapon to her.

“When does that kick in?” I grumble back, rolling over completely. 

She pulls in a deep breath and chases it with, “You are a terrible guest, you know that?”

“So forward. Something foul wake you up? Find another cockroach under your pillow?”

“Haymitch Abernathy,” She sucks my name through her teeth, “The stylist will arrive for your tributes this afternoon. We only have a few hours to coach some etiquette into them. It’ll be a wonder if I can manage to get them to even sit up straight with the way you all conduct yourselves in Twelve.”

I roll back over to glare at her, but the light splinters in my eyes. I have got to start mixing in some water. There’s so much variety to choose from here, though.

“You need to get up, get dressed, and meet us at the table in ten minutes. That is final.” Her voice pitches up at the end, squeaky. She punctuates her sentence with a slam of my bedroom door, and I heave the duvet back over my body.

The click of her heels fades down the hall. I roll out of the bed and tip some of the pain medication from the nightstand into my palm, dry swallowing two pills. They settle into my bloodstream as I shower and get dressed. Last year, Mags and Wiress were allowed backstage. If Plutarch is anywhere, he’ll be there. 

I squeeze into some nice clothing from the room’s dresser and fasten a belt around my waist. My stitches are the first thing I see in the mirror. It’s no longer the dark circles under my eyes, or the weird yellowing I’ve noticed in the whites of them. It’s the line of black centipede looking threads protruding above my eyebrow. They’re raw and red. I hadn’t taken care to bandage them before I slept, and the pillow got the better of me.

I rinse them with cold water and find some antiseptic in the medical kit under the bathroom sink. The pocket of yesterday’s pants still holds the packet of gauze the medic slipped to me. I yank them from the floor and tear the paper open and have to grit my teeth to get through the agony of mashing the gauze to the threads. They must save the good pain medication for the capitolites. 

Chaff was right, I look terrible, even with the bandage. I’m not at all camera ready. 

The dining room holds the trio it always seems to have. I settle at the end of the table and help myself to a large slice of toast. 

Jett glares at me from my left as I tear into the bread. 

“How’d the sessions go?” I ask, ignoring his look.

He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, “You’d know if you showed up to watch the scores.” 

My stomach hollows out. I failed again. I got so swept up in shaking hands I left the only two that mattered untouched. I missed the airing. I missed the scores. I wasn’t there for them. 

The bread turns to sand in my mouth. I set it on the plate in front of me and drop my hands limply into my lap.  “I was tied up in the plaza.” The excuse pours out of me, only half formed in truth, as the color drains from the world around me. The orange sinks into a muted, ugly shade of peach. Everything dampens, the lines blurring into an indistinguishable mob of color. 

“All day?” Jett snaps, “Cause we didn’t see you none in the morning. I pounded on your door until it cracked, you know.” Jett bites back, jolting towards the table. His stare burns into my eyes, cutting through the blur. 

I can’t hold his stare. I look at my hands instead, raw and cracked. “I should’ve been here,” I mutter. “I got wrapped up in the plaza. I thought— I thought the sponsors—”

“That’s your pattern, isn’t it?” His voice rises, bitter as the stubborn crumbs of toast still in my mouth. “Always some excuse. Always too busy.”

Effie doesn’t come to my rescue. Cordelia stares at me with the same contempt as Jett. What I have done is unforgivable. I’m unforgivable. I ruined anything I had established. Nothing’s left. Just the interviews, but with everything else I’ve missed, I’d be better off giving up now instead of making things worse.

The truth has never been clearer. I’m a terrible mentor. Everything I tried has fallen through my fingers. Everything that comes so easily to the rest of the mentors, all of the navigating the Capitol, getting the tributes where they need to be, coordinating with the stylists, being there for the tributes, I have failed at all of it. 

I duck my head, wringing my cracked hands in my lap. “We’ve still got the interviews. I won’t leave either of your sides all day.” 

“I don’t need your help,” Jett scoffs, “Everything you’ve told us’s been useless. Patterns, foraging, colors. We’d be better off without a mentor. Don’t bother.” Jett shoves back from the table so hard the chair clatters to the ground. He snatches up his plate of food and storms down the hall, leaving us behind a slammed door. 

None of us speak. I hunch over, trying to make myself as small as possible, and Cordelia stares mournfully at the chair lying strewn on the floor. At last, she rises to her feet quietly and trails after Jett’s stormy path, leaving Effie and I alone at the table.

“Cordelia got a five and Jett got a seven.” She tells me in a low voice. “Neither are stellar scores, but I explained to them that you got a one, so scores really are what you make of them.”

Middle of the pack. Forgettable. “And the rest?” 

“Well, the Careers all scored mostly eights, the highest being the girl from Four.” Effie’s hand tightens on the edge of the table. She doesn’t want to say the rest.

“Not the boy from Two?” I raise my eyes from the table to meet hers. 

“No. He scored a nine.” 

“She scored a ten?” 

She nods, lips pressed thinly together. “You know, it could be worse. There are still two numbers higher.” 

“Effie.”

“I know.” She takes an interest in the pattern on the napkin before her, tracing it with her nail. 

“What am I going to do?”

“We are going to get these kids ready for their interviews. That’s our duty.” She releases the edge of the table and somehow finds her composure.

“They don’t like me.” I place my cheek on the table, laying my head on the surface. 

“That may be true, but they do need you. We are all under a lot of pressure, but respect for the Games comes first. Now, up we get.” She stands behind me, expecting me to rise. “These tributes aren’t going to coach themselves.” 

“They aren’t going to listen to me.” My shoulders sag beneath the added weight, sending me deeper into the chair. 

“Maybe not. But your interview was memorable last year, and this is your last chance before the arena. So stand up straight and act like a mentor.” She brushes herself off and clicks down the hall.

When she turns the corner, I place my palms flat on the table and lean forward over my elbows. My curls fall into a curtain between the room and I. Somehow, I have to get these two to like me. No, not like me. No one from Twelve likes me, it’s too high of a bar. I have to get them to trust that I have their best interest in mind. They may not like me, they may not even trust me, but they can trust that I will keep their best interest in mind. They need me, even if none of us want it to be the case.

When she returns, she murmurs something low across the room before disappearing again. I raise my eyes to where she spoke to see Cordelia fidgeting her token. 

“They approved it?” I ask, wincing at my own tone. 

She nods and slips it in her pocket, “We got them back right before breakfast.”

“Jett get his, too?” I ask. As the question leaves my lips, I realize I never asked about his piece of home. 

“Yes, his too.” She nods again. “What do I need to know for the interview?” She crosses back to her chair at the table and delicately perches on the edge, like a branched bird ready to take flight at any second. 

I pull my palms from the table and straighten my back, “You’re first. Girls before boys. You set the tone for the district.” I pace across the room, ending at the edge of the bar cart decorated in cocktail glasses. “You’re good at getting adults to speak. Just think of Caesar as a teacher.”

“Should I still do the magic?” Her gaze follows me across the room, slow, like the sprawl of a camera.

“Anything you can do to stand out is important. I’ve got sponsors’ eyes on you both tonight. ” I settle into a plush armchair. 

“But do you really think sleight of hand is enough? No offense, Haymitch, but I agree with Jett. Your advice hasn’t been the most informative.” She doesn’t drop my gaze, but she tempers her words with, “No offense.” Again. 

“I know. I’m trying. I can’t ask you to believe that I am, because I know how it looks. But I can tell you I’ve got gold-decorated Capitol folks waiting to see what they’re investing in tonight. The parade didn’t do you two any favors, and middle of the pack scores don’t give you anything remarkable either. This is our last chance to make them melt down their gold for you.”

“What about the arena?” Cordelia rises from her seat but keeps her knee in the seat of the chair, watching me intently. She fishes her chain of charms back out of her pocket and fiddles with the yellow plastic star. 

“If you live past the bloodbath, then yes.”

“You say that like you don’t think that I can get that far.” She cocks her head, eyebrows knitting together in a dark line across her forehead. 

“It’s the Games,” I answer, too blunt. “Half die at the Cornucopia. Your odds are no better than anyone else’s.”

“Odds again. You and Jett both. I’m just a number now. Twelve. A five. Height. Weight. Odds. Sponsor money.” She twists the chain around her fingers until bright pink blood wells under her nails.

“You are a number until you give them a reason to remember you.” I press my fingers to my temples. “Not to me, Cordelia, not to Jett, either, but the odds play a part in the sponsors’ recollection of you. Until you give them something other than a five from your private session, you’re just going to be the District Twelve girl.” 

“Was Maysilee the District Twelve girl? Louella? The girls before that? It’s an inherited title.”

“It’s how it is. You have to play the Games to win them.” 

Cordelia only releases the chain when her fingers fade from scarlet to purple. The charms swing and clink against one another. “You sound like one of them.”

“I’m trying to bring one of you home alive.” I snap, drawing my hand off of my temples. “If you just want to sit there and smile for them, then fine. But don’t expect it to save you. I’m trying to give them a reason to remember your name.”

Her jaw sets. The dark in her eyes fixes on me, hard as the barrel of a peacekeeper’s gun. Then she exhales and drops the chain on the table. “I just want to be Cordelia.”

“I am trying to help you stay Cordelia,” I plead. My tone surprises even myself. I chase it with a swig and lean back in my chair as I consider what to say next. “You want to be remembered as the nice girl everyone knows. I’m trying to make it so they don’t have to remember you. No in memoriam. Just you. Alive. I’m trying to get you home.”

“You don’t think I’m coming home, though.”

My arms sag against the leather. My fingers lose their hold on the glass. I try to swallow, but my tongue is thick, my chest hollow.

“I’m not giving up on you.”

“I think I’ve given up on me.”

The knocking of her shoes as she curls her legs beneath the chair resounds like a gunshot. All I can hear is my breathing. 

“I gave up on myself, too,” I whisper. “It was hell. Still is. Every second I’m back here, I’m in it again.” My hand trembles toward the glass. The liquor sits steady as if it’s listening too. Snow is. The cameras are. None of it matters. 

The stillness stretches on. She needs me to say more, so I speak every word that comes to me. “And I’ve failed you. Both of you. Over and over. I’ve been back in the Games instead of out here with you. I’m trying now. Where it counts. I will.”

For the first time, I’ve set my cards on the table, and the choice to pick them back up isn’t mine.

She studies the plastic star pinched between her fingers. “I don’t believe in a lot of things, Haymitch. Don’t believe half the stuff they teach us in school.” She glances at the camera. Her grip deepens, blood blooming red around the edges of the star. “But I believe you.”

The floor opens beneath me into a bottomless cavern. My chair teeters on the edge, and I know I’m supposed to fall. 

No one can believe me. That’s what got them all killed. I can hear my heart in my ears until it becomes the sound of the void. Thump. Thump. Thump. 

She’s still speaking. Saying something amongst the beating and yet the darkness has drawn me in completely. I can’t break away. I can’t tell her not to believe me. All I’ve done is asked her to believe me. I’ve killed her. I’m going to watch her burn in my house. I’m going to watch her die. Because of me. Don’t believe me. Don’t believe me. 

Cotton fills my chest. I claw for breath, clutch at the warm leather to anchor myself. Something spills over my shoes. I drag myself back.

When the color returns, it’s still not vibrant. Nothing looks quite right. Lines fade into the others. Shadows recede then bleed out in pools again, but then, I find her. She’s staring at me. Waiting. Watching me. Believing me. 

I set my hands on my lap and lean back in my chair, “You’re not alone, Cordelia.” 

To myself, I sound far away, but she nods. 

“Tonight, they’ll have a reason to remember your name.” 

She doesn’t respond anymore, retreating into her hunched shell in thought, so I try out a few steps. The void has sealed itself back up, but I walk the grain of the floor like a tightrope over to her side. 

“Here’s how this is going to work.” My breathing sounds like the hiss of a train’s engine. The ground moves beneath my feet as it does when the train lurches to a roll. I grip the back of her chair and try again.

“You’ll walk out there, shake Caesar’s hand. Then take something off him. Wallet, watch, doesn’t matter. Capitol types always carry something shiny. Caesar’s no different.”

She doesn’t move, eyes now locked on the shiny chain lying on the table. I continue, unsure if she can even hear me. 

“Take it. Whatever it is. Start polite. Use your ‘sirs’ and ‘pleases’ like you do. When he starts to ask his questions, pull the wallet out and flip through it. Make him the joke. Do you understand?”

Her head tilts, a faint nod. Her eyes stay distant. Maybe hers are, maybe mine.

I’ve gone too far inside myself. A room behind my eyes. I’m looking through them without seeing, like cameras stuck on record. I check my hand. Fingers cracked, skin split. I have to be real. Those, no, these, these are my hands. It’s still me, even here, this far back in my mind.

I lower my voice, “You can do this. Call it magic, not stealing. Sell it right, they’ll eat it up.” I crouch to her level, searching her faraway gaze for my own reflection. “The acrobats have been drawing crowds all week. This is no different. Perform.”

“I will,” she whispers. “Maybe Jett will lend me his coin.” She wipes at her eyes with her sleeve, and I push a napkin toward her.

“Your prep team will be here soon. Real clothes this time. No miner’s rags.”

Her voice is slight, no louder than the chirp of a newly hatched bird. “A real chance?”

“A real chance.”

She folds the napkin neatly and lays it on the table. “I’ll try my best.”

“Good. When you ask Jett for his coin, tell him to come see me. I need to speak with him now.”

She stands up from the chair and smooths her clothing, “I don’t know if he’ll want to see you. He’s taking all of this really hard. I’ll try to get him to see you.”

“That’s all I can ask.” I take a deep breath, pressing my lips together to keep myself from saying more. 

“Thanks, Haymitch.”

“I’m on your side, Cordelia.”

“I know.” Her voice is small. Timidly, she starts toward the hall. 

“Will you be at the interviews?” she calls back, not turning to face me.

“Every second.” I swallow, speaking to the back of her hair. She continues without another word, knocking softly on Jett’s door before disappearing into his room. 

The silence of the room lies like the hush of a snowbank. Before the Victory Tour, right at the first snow, I’d haunted the Hob for a few more bottles. Ended up with too many. I drank them down and wandered off into the woods. Didn’t make it far. My lungs felt like they were bleeding then, just as they do now. 

On the way back, I collapsed under the bakery’s apple tree. Leaves still clinging. Snow falling slow. It patched itself over my skin, soaked into the cardboard of my bottle box. I lay there and let it. Let the cold crawl into me. Bury me deep.

Here, the fire-colored walls do nothing to heat me. I’m back in the drift waiting to be buried again.

I wave a hand in front of my face, then forget I did it. I do it again, trying to pay attention, to notice each finger, but as soon as its gone, I’ve forgotten it again, convinced myself it didn’t happen. It never happened. 

I stagger to the door of the fridge a room over and swipe for the handle, but miss. Or my hand passed through it. I’m nothing. Wind that never makes it to the trees. I claw at the door until my fingers finally find the handle and yank.

The cold, real cold, draws me back. I stick my head into the fridge and allow myself to feel. 

I shove my head inside, shivering hard enough to rattle my teeth. My knuckles hit the frame, the sting hauling me closer to here.

Water. That’s what I came for. 

I dig through leftovers, cartons, plastic, and cardboard only to find a kid-sized bottle. I down it in one go, and immediately, it comes right back up into the sink.

I wipe my mouth on my sleeve then try again. Slower. I have to drink it slower. I fish for another and come up with the last bottle. This time, I crack it open and allow myself a few sips, just enough to feel the coldness in my stomach, then I wait. 

The light in the fridge flickers, the bulb giving up on me too, but it doesn’t yet go out. 

I read the cartons to keep steady. Pomegranate. Cranberry. Duran. Don’t know what half of them even are. Is it too much to put a picture on the box? They did for the milk.

I yank my hand back. The snake in the weeds lies waiting for me, staring at me from behind the cartons. The milk.

I shove the juice aside. Red spills across the shelves, drips from my fingertips. Doesn’t matter. My eyes are locked on the carton at the back just waiting for me.

The carton stands at the back of the fridge, sealed. I wrap my fingers around it, allowing it to burn, and drag it into the light. The cow on the label stares back at me wide eyed, a heavy bell around its neck like a noose. She and I both.

I pull the carton from the cold and place it on the counter. It’s heavy. Untouched. Perhaps new, or planted there before I even moved in. It’s here for me. It must be. 

The milk. I can taste it. Feel it against the sides of my stomach. Taste it sliding down my throat. The same kind that found its way into the first few gift baskets, then a few here and there, just so I couldn’t predict when it would return. It was always up to Snow. 

This time I knew it would be here. I still came unprepared. 

The fridge blasts me with cool air, the fan kicking on to warn me the door’s been open too long. I make no move to close it. 

It stares back at me, or, rather, looks past me, or doesn’t look at all. The cow does. Beads sweat down the side of the carton, leaking a damp ring into the cardboard. My stomach turns at the thought of having to clean it up. Having to touch it.

I try to raise my hand to pour it down the sink, but all I can manage it a twitch of my fingers. How stupid I must look— locked in a standoff with a cow like it’s the final tribute in the Games. It’s me or it, the sweating box put here to send me right back to a year ago. 

Snow’s laughing somewhere, I know it. I’ve killed and gotten even more killed, and here I am, held at gunpoint by a carton of milk.

The fan drones. The cow blinks. They shift, watching me breathe, glassy and wet, crying the same tears that leak down the side of the carton. Her bell clanks, though the carton stays still on the counter. I stagger back. The lip of the sink digs into my spine. A hoof twitches, brushing at the cartoonish grass beneath her foot. She doesn’t come. Not yet. She waits, ordered by Snow. Watching like Snow. Laughing. 

The fridge hums on. I’ve lost track of time. Track of Jett. My legs shake like they might give out, though the sink’s still at my back, keeping me upright and pinned. I tell myself to close the door, to walk away, but my body doesn’t listen. It never listens when I need it to.

Her eyes don’t blink again, but I swear I see it. A twitch. A flicker. Enough to keep me waiting, braced for the next one. That’s the trick. Snow never needs to move the piece. He only needs me watching the board, waiting for the strike that might never come. 

I’m stuck. Paralyzed, watching him watch me. Anticipating. Reacting and never acting. I’ll never be free. Everything is run by Snow’s fantasies. Up in the Capitol or down in Twelve, everything I do bends back toward him. Whether I’m strong enough to take what he dishes out or whether I collapse crying under the bakery’s apple tree, it’s still him at the source. His ideas. His image. His plan.

I pretend I don’t notice it. Convince myself I don’t build my life around him. Every sip isn’t his choice, but my own. Every joke, every second I’m back in this place. I’m here. I’m here. But I’m not. I’m here for him, because he will take something else from me. Every thought I have runs through his filter.

There is no rebellion when everything I think is just a reaction to him. His doing. His unspoken yet well known threats. I cannot rebel. I cannot think on my own. Everything I do is to oppose him, not a thought or action of my own volition.

I try to seize the stories he’s spread, make them mine, but I’m only using his material. I’m walking the carpet he rolled out for me, and even if I dance on it, I’m still following the path he planned.

Even pretending I don’t think about how he will react is a fantasy. Every time I look in the mirror, I think of what he has done to me. The bags under my eyes. The stitches above them. The lines carved into my forehead. I have become what he has made, in thought and in body. 

I see not myself, but the battered damage of his doing. I’ve sculpted myself into the figure he wants to see, carved from the clay of the river of agony. Formed from the dust of my burned house and breathed into his life. His plan. An alcoholic, bloodied, beaten, erratic, untrustworthy, and irresponsible. I cannot be anything more than his creation if everything I do starts with him at the source. 

My hands shake against the counter. Sweat runs cold, the kind that feels like snowmelt soaking through a shirt. Even my body’s rebellion is borrowed from him.

That is not rebellion. That is making myself in his image. 

He is watching, every day, every moment, every second, through my walls, through my windows, through the keyhole in the door he had hung himself when he built the house in which I rot. 

I am Snow’s monster, his creation. I have no thoughts of my own, and here, across from his cow, I’ve never known it more.

The bell is heavier now. I can hear the weight of it in my head, the clang echoing down the years, down the tunnels, into the caverns where I bled. My ears ring with it. My teeth ache. If I close my eyes, the sound is a whip-crack, a cannon blast, the horn that sent me running. Her nostrils flare. Steam fogs the fridge light. I smell hay, blood, and gunpowder, though the carton hasn’t moved an inch.

I open my eyes. Still the cow. Still the milk. Still me, waiting.

And damn it, I’m tired of waiting. My hand twitches toward the carton, toward the cow’s wide eyes, though I don’t yet know if I’ll lift it or smash it to the floor.

The choice is mine, or at least it should be. Mine, not his. But I can feel Snow’s hand on the back of my neck, guiding me forward, pressing my palm into the damp cardboard. It’s warm. Too warm. Like blood.

My fingers curl. I squeeze until the carton dents. A drop slides over my knuckle, cool against my burning skin. It could just as easily be sweat. It could just as easily be the trickle of someone else’s life leaking out beneath my hands as it did. As it has.

The cow blinks again. I swear she does. This time I don’t stagger back. I lean forward, daring her, daring Snow, daring whatever game this is. Whatever Game I’ve been playing for a year straight.

“Come on, then,” I mutter, voice cracking in the cold hum of the fridge. “Come on.”

But nothing moves. Nothing breathes but me. I’m left clutching a carton of milk like it’s a weapon, like it’s proof I can still choose something in this house, in this body.

The fan drones. The sweat beads. My chest heaves as though I’ve run a mile, though all I’ve done is stand here waiting for a cow that never comes.

He wants me to dump it out. Or drink it. Or stand here like this, frozen, staring back at his smiling cow until I can’t tell whose eyes I’m meeting anymore.

So I choose. My fingers tear at the corner. I rip the carton open. But I don’t lift it. Don’t tilt it. I only stare at the white liquid sloshing in its dented walls, then pinch the folds shut and put it back in the fridge.

Let him watch. Let him wonder. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me pour it out. I can’t turn off the cameras, can’t stop the Games, but I can live. I will live. My way, even if it’s nothing more than keeping the milk.

I shove the carton onto the shelf, slam the door, and stumble back into the living room to wait for Jett.

The cushions sag under me, swallowing me whole, but the silence won’t settle. I hear the bell in every tick of the clock, see her wet eyes in the shine of the window. Even with the fridge shut, Snow’s still in here. Watching. Waiting.

But so am I.

Chapter Text

I never lift my eyes from the door of Jett’s room, hoping he’ll join me one last time before the interview. Ever so faintly, sounds of a conversation drift down the hall. The glue on my seat and my cinder block shoes keep me stuck in the chair. Going to see him won’t change him. If he wants to talk, he’ll come.

The chair holds me until the prep teams arrive. Effie scurries to meet them, ushering them into the tributes’ rooms before I can form two words to say. I stay put, losing myself in a glass of liquor until she calls for the car. Only then do I push to my feet and retreat to my own room, locking the door behind me.

I dress how I promised. Suit jacket, curls combed back. The comb snags the bandage on my forehead and peels it up. I curse, tear it off, and replace it before dragging the curls down again to cover the stitches. If Plutarch corners me for an interview tonight, I’ll hope he doesn’t ask where the wound came from. A rumor whispered in a plaza is one thing. A lie on Capitol cameras is something else entirely. Still, I know the truth won’t air. Not if it makes their darlings look bad. The coverage of the District Two tributes has been making Caesar fight for air time back. District Twelve doesn’t get airtime unless we’re bleeding.

I’ve worked myself into a stalemate. I should’ve drilled them harder, rehearsed their hands to move faster, taught Cordelia to lift from my pocket just to prove she could before her private session. I didn’t. Now they’ll face tributes twice their size with twice their scores, and I’ve been staring at the District Four ocean instead of the ship slipping out from under me. I’ve been playing the show horse again, stumbling through doors, spilling liquor down my shirt all for Snow’s amusement. A piece on the board when I thought I was the hand.

I haven’t made waves. I’ve barely convinced the Capitol people to learn Jett and Cordelia’s names. I should have thought about them, the two about to die, not the Games.

And all for what? To fatten the Games. To feed the Capitol’s pockets. No one here wants to see a bone-thin girl and a boy who won’t speak. They want green in their hands. Coins to throw. Bets to place. They want winners. Bragging rights. They want the valor of having sponsored the ones who gave them something to boast about, not burning money on someone bound to lose.

I’ve got nothing to give them except tonight. One last chance to make them believe. So I’ll start by looking like I do.

When I step out, the hall is already in motion. Effie, Cordelia, Jett and their stylists are all in a flurry of fabric and chatter. I barely catch sight of Cordelia’s long stone-gray gown with draping sleeves to match. The headpiece of dark black jewels woven into the crown of her thick brown hair is the last thing I see before the elevator swallows her whole.

Jett’s pinstriped suit drapes behind him like a cloak, wide shoulders built to make him look larger than he is. For once, it works. He looks intimidating. 

“Seems your stylist’s making up for the parade,” I mutter as I step in beside them. “You two look memorable.” My eyes flick to Jett, who’s staring at something in his palm. A small coin catches the light before he notices me watching. He shoves it into his pocket with a glare, though he never meets my eye.

“I’ll say! Don’t they look like movie stars?” Effie beams, fussing with Jett’s collar. “And we’d best be off. Twelve may go last, but we can’t be late.”

Stylists scatter ahead of us. Effie leads the way, and I bring up the rear, silent as the elevator hums down the chain. Another car carries us to the stage’s back doors, where Peacekeepers usher us into the greenroom. Half the crowd of last year, twice the noise. Cordelia hovers close to me, Jett a step behind.

“Alright, you two,” I step off towards an empty wall and angle my back to the crowd, “When you’re out there, keep your eyes on Caesar. If the crowd feels like too much, ” I spare a glance towards the growing, buzzing crowd, and my throat dries. “Just look at him. Jett, whatever you’ve got worked up, I believe in you, same as I told Cordelia.”

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything in return. I pat Cordelia on the shoulder and step back, “This is your chance to make them remember you. Make it count.”

Effie folds her hands in front of herself, “I’ve done what I can.” She purses her lips, her eyes lingering on Cordelia’s posture a second too long before she excuses herself to go speak with other Capitol people. 

“Jett, can I borrow your coin?” Cordelia whispers when she’s gone. “Just for the interview.”

His hand shoots to his pocket. For a moment, I think he’ll refuse. Then his fingers curl, unclench, and he brings it out. He holds it between them like it’s worth more than gold. “Don’t lose it,” he mutters, passing it into her palm.

She holds her hand flat for him to drop it into her possession. “I just need it for the interview. Not a second longer. I’ll even leave it in the chair if you’d like.”

“No. Keep it on you. I don’t trust Caesar. I don’t trust anyone else.” He grumbles poignantly. Then, softer, half-swallowed, “Just you.” 

Somehow it strikes me I’m part of anyone else, and I dig my nails into my palms to keep myself grounded. Look past it. Over it. I can’t be his friend if he doesn’t want me to be. Can’t save everyone. He’s smart. He’ll find a way to win without me. He doesn’t have to trust me to win this thing. 

Cordelia takes it with both hands, like it’s heavier than a slip of tin should be. She tucks it into her palm, folds her fingers tight, and breathes out like she’s bracing herself for the cannon.

“I won’t lose it. Promise.” She slips the coin into her sleeve, a slight red flush climbing the back of her neck, right under the end of the headpiece.

Grief unravels in my stomach, sprawling through my arms and legs, making them heavier with every passing second. I need to get him to speak to me. At least once more before he goes out there. “Why’d you bring a scrip coin?”

Jett glares at me. At least he looked me in the eye this time. 

I don’t drop his eyes. This might be all I have left. I see my own gray eyes staring back at me.

“I brought it ‘cause it’s from home,” he mutters, fixing the hem of his pocket so it lies flat against his hip. 

“It was Wyatt’s.” Cordelia blurts, red-faced and blushing a heavy scarlet now. “Sorry.”

Jett throws up his hands and storms off to the buffet table. Even under the cloak I can see his shoulders tight with anger. I let him go. Better he burn it off over cold cuts than carry it with him onstage. A simmer plays better than an inferno. Too much and the Capitol will see him as nothing more than the barbarian they already think we are. Keep it palatable. Keep it pacified. 

“I thought so.” My voice comes quieter than I mean it to be, but she nods to confirm she heard me over the commotion.

Cordelia checks over her shoulder before leaning in, whispering fast, “He said he wanted to remember Wyatt. How wrong it all is. The coin makes him angry.” She presses it into my hand when she’s sure Jett’s distracted with the cheese tray.

The coin is warm from her sleeve. I turn it over and feel the grooves cut into its face rest upon my palm. It can’t be Wyatt’s. Not the one from the arena. Would the Capitol have sent it home? They stamp these things out by the thousands. Easy to replace. Easier to keep questions from ever being asked.

I hand it back to Cordelia without a word. If Jett believes it is, then it is. Maybe Wyatt’s the tether he needs instead of me.

“Don’t tell him I let you hold it.”

“I won’t say a word.” I stuff my hands in my pockets. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, turning the coin over in her hand. “I wish Wyatt lived.”

It should hurt. Maybe it does, somewhere, but no where I can find. I stay quiet to search for it even, but nothing comes up. 

“Me too.”

Music erupts from the speakers, jolting the room to life. A plate slips from a stylist’s hands, jam splattering across shoes, Jett’s included. A swarm of attendants swoop like carrion, swiping, apologizing, bowing. One kneels to clean his shoes, but before I can blink, the attendant’s flat on the floor, nose pouring red to match the preserves. Jett doesn’t even glance back as he stalks away, too fast for the Peacekeepers to clock him.

The rest of the crowd rushes toward the wings behind me, cheering as Caesar descends in his glittering moon, pale lips and blue hair making him look like he clawed his way out of a snowdrift. The roar of the crowd rises sharp in my skull, and nausea burns up my throat.

I stumble to the nearest trash can, gripping the rim until my knuckles blanch, and vomit up what little I managed to eat today. The noise folds in on itself, blurring into a ringing of cheers, chants, cannon blasts. The smell sears into my already burning throat.

By the time District Three takes the stage, I’m upright again. The first eyes I meet are theirs, Cordelia and Jett, staring at me, wide and horrified. I swipe my mouth, grab a bottle off the table, and force a sip. “Too much to drink,” I lie.

Jett arches a brow. Cordelia looks queasy herself. Neither of them push. Good. They can’t know what I saw. The same cat-eared woman in the front row, right where she was last year. The mug of Bee Balm Booze at her elbow. The chant for my scar echoing through my skull. Show us. Show us.

None of us should be here. But they need hope to last even a day in that arena, so I bite my tongue. Everyone believes the drunk when he points to the bottle, so I point.

“Your shoes,” I start, but Jett kicks his right leg out before I can say more. The red stain shines ugly in the lights, brighter than it looked before. It’ll look worse on the stage.

“I won’t say anything about them.” He tips his toe toward me. His lace dangles untied, the aglet flattened under his heel.

“Is that what you’re still going with? Mysterious loner?” My voice comes out sharper than I mean. He doesn’t scare easy, but he listens, and I can already see the bristle in his shoulders. We both know he should have talked it over with me. No point in bringing it up now.

He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t look at Cordelia either. His eyes lock on the floorboards like they’ll give him the script we should’ve pieced together hours ago when I sat waiting for him. 

“Mystery’s fine. Folks don’t need the whole story.” His words are unusually thin, pared down to the bone, like he’s thinking hard before he speaks. 

“Think that’s enough to keep you alive?” I lean closer and smell the polish on the buffet table behind him and the too-sweet Capitol perfumes wafting over the noise. It makes me dizzier than the bottle in my hand.

He shrugs. One corner of his mouth twitches, half a smirk, half a tic up from the other side. “Better than letting them pick me clean. They don’t get all of me. Just enough.” His thumb works the ridge of his knuckle, rubbing small circles where the bone picks up on his finger.

“Your goal’s to get them to see you. Doesn’t mean you have to be likable, just memorable. A contender. You have to give them something.”

“My goal’s to get them to melt their gold. Maybe then they’ll start to know what starving feels like.” The heel of his shoe hits the leg of the table, causing the too-full punch bowl to slosh over the sides.

Cordelia shifts beside him, but he doesn’t so much as breathe her way. I can feel her watching me, waiting for me to answer for him. My jaw aches.

“You can’t just sit there and brood onstage,” I say. “They’ll eat you alive if you don’t give them something.”

“I’ll give ’em what I want to give them.” He mutters it low, like he’s talking to himself. “That’s all.”

“And if Caesar pushes?” I let my eyes fall to his ruined shoes again.

He doesn’t flinch. His mouth pulls into a smirk, a cockiness drawing up the corners of his lips. “Then I push back.”

Cordelia clears her throat, but her voice is still thin. She leans toward him like she’s afraid he might shatter if she presses too hard. “You don’t have to say much. That could work. You could imply you’re above them. Like the careers bragging, you could—”

“The careers?” I glance over my shoulder. The District Five girl’s already heading to the wings. The careers are finished and probably listening close by.

“No, the Games,” Cordelia says quickly. “Like you did, but less cocky. Be indifferent. You could say you’re just looking forward to going home, like the Games are already over. Like you’ve already won. Maybe yawn. Be bored.”

Her voice is hopeful. She doesn’t see the storm brewing in his jaw, or she maybe she's ignoring it. Jett stares at her hard with his lips pressed into a tight line.

“Because you can win,” she adds in a voice that shatters everything in my chest. “Because I know you can.”

It’s desperation dripping in her tears and catching on her lashes. I snag a punch-stained napkin from the table and hand it over. She grips it in her fist and presses it to the corner of her eyes, smudging the Capitol powder into streaks.

Jett’s eyes soften for a heartbeat but no longer. His hand dives into his pocket and comes up empty. The swagger’s gone, swallowed by that cape draped over him, the same one that made him look so dangerous before. Now it drowns him.

“I know how I wanna go,” he says finally. “I know how I’ll carry myself.”

Cordelia shrinks back, words cracking as she battles the tears darkened by her mascara. “I’m just trying to help.”

“She’s right,” I cut in. They’re shrinking. Both of them. This can’t happen. Not now, not right before they’re set to go on. “Play it like you’ve already won. You’re the last one out there. They’ll remember that.” My throat feels raw, too many ghosts behind the words, too many people who sat in that very same chair. Too many last to go, and yet first gone at the bloodbath. How many are remembered now? Inherited titles. Inherited roles. Numbers. 

“I don’t need your coaching.” His head jerks toward me. “You’ve only made this harder. Stop complicating everything and let me work.”

The noise from the stage spikes again. Caesar’s voice carries over the crowd, bright and hungry for the next victim. District Eight’s girl skips out. Her skirt sways at her mid-thigh while the lights flash too close, bleeding in from out on the stage, bright white and blinding. I bury my shaking hands in my pockets and try to steady my breathing.

He doesn’t trust me. Fine. He doesn’t have to. But if he goes out there with nothing but mystery and a coin, the Capitol will strip him down faster than any mutt could.

“Look at her dress,” Cordelia whispers, tugging at my sleeve.

“Must’ve been what she’d been working on during training.” Jett says. 

The dress catches the light when she twirls for Caesar, a gold-threaded braided rope drapes across her shoulders and winds like snakes down her arms. 

“Those are climbing ropes,” Cordelia breathes. “How’d she get them down?”

“She must have cut them down somehow. Must be why they closed off the station yesterday.” Jett leans closer to get a better look, nudging the curtain out of his way. “Thought it was because District One was complaining about how they’re in the way of the spear throwing.” 

“Watch out for her in the arena. She’s crafty.”

“Anything else to watch out for?” Jett scoffs. “Was thinking about holding hands with District Nine. Since you haven’t warned us, they must be safe, right?” 

My face burns, whether with shame or anger I don’t know. I can’t hide it, but I hope the dim lighting backstage does. “If she can weave a dress in a day, she can weave a net in an hour.”

Cordelia shakes her head. “Might not be rope in the arena. She only worked with what was available to her. District fabric. Rope. She might not be as resourceful as she looks.”

“Or the whole arena’s rope,” I snap back. “Won’t know until you’re in it.”

The District Eight girl bows offstage to weak applause. I sweep my tributes from the wings, shepherding them away from the glare of the soon-again flashing stage lights.

“Maybe she didn’t sneak it out of the training center at all,” Cordelia says. “That rope looked too shiny.”

“Doesn’t matter. She was working on something the whole time.” Jett’s jaw clenches. “Didn’t you say that weave’s near impossible to learn?”

Cordelia meets his eyes, a small smile sprouting in her own, then falling to her lips. “Not impossible, but difficult. It’s one my neighbor was teaching me once. I couldn’t pick it up.”

“The knitter lady?”

“She does more than knitting, but yes, Mrs. Trask.”

“I know her daughter. She just started in the mines.” Jett’s voice is gravely. Again, he reaches for his pocket. Again, he comes up empty.

“Fraulein?” 

“Yeah, Franny. She’s the first one I met down there. She moves fast.” 

“She’s real sweet. I remember her from English class. She’s got a way with words. Mrs. Trask says she’s got a guy now. She doesn’t like him very much. She’s never around when I’m there now.”

As they speak, I sweep the crowd backstage. He must be here, watching me with that camera pointed my way, but I don’t see him anywhere. Plutarch is hiding, or busy, and I can’t tell which one bothers me more. He must know I’m here. I can’t leave my tributes to go find him, either. I’m stuck in place, hunted, just waiting for him to strike. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for District Eleven's Tiller Bran!” Caesar shouts to the crowd, hopping about and drawing attention to the male tribute. 

“Come on.” I wave the pair in front of me back to the wings of the stage, “Cordelia, you’re first. Remember what I said.” 

She nods slightly, chewing on her bottom lip until it blooms blood. Behind us, the crowd roars with laughter. I tighten my grip on her trembling shoulder. 

“You’ve got this,” I assure her. “They’re going to remember you.”

Applause erupts from behind us, cutting through the air like a cannon. I catch Tiller’s dismount in the corner of my eye. He’s smaller than I remember, younger, fragile. That’s good for us. He should be easier to take down.

“That’s you,” I whisper to Cordelia, nudging her toward the stage. 

“I’m excited for this next tribute. Aren’t we? Aren’t we all excited?” Caesar calls, bobbing his head and pulling back his lips to reveal those unnaturally white teeth. “Come on out, Cordelia!”

Cordelia leaves my grasp with trembling steps. She smears a smile on her face, but it twitches at the corners, like she’s fighting to keep it bright. I cross my fingers as I quietly slip them into my pocket.

“Cordelia, oh! You’re a hugger! We’ve got a hugger, folks!” Caesar’s microphone swings over the glint of her headpiece. From the wings, I can’t see her hand, but the slight flick of her sleeve tells me everything. She has the wallet.

“Cordelia, we haven’t heard much about you. Tell the audience a little about yourself.” My stomach tightens, remembering how she fumbled this question during practice. I bite my lip, forcing myself to stay calm while Jett murmurs something under his breath, head bowed.

“I’m a top notch student. Front of the class.” She quips. My eyes jerk to the girl sitting across from the interviewer. Somewhere between the wings and that seat, she picked up a well-worn spark of confidence. Jett pumps his fist at his waist. 

“You could never find me at the front of the class.” Caesar leans forward, amusement flashing in his eyes. “So you must be sharp.”

“I’ve got more than a brain,” she teases, leaning toward him. “I think you’ve got one, too, Caesar. Can I check?”

“Check? Well, I suppose.” He humors her, staying still as she leans closer.

“Just your ear, please. You can always tell by how well people listen. Oh, yep!” She flicks the coin out from her sleeve and catches the stage lights, holding it aloft just long enough for the audience to notice. “See? The size of a coin.” She smirks, pocketing the coin as quickly as it arrived and letting her hand rest atop the pocket a second longer than necessary.

Jett’s shoulders relax as he exhales. 

“Did you find any more back there? I could use a few. I’ll be hitting the plaza after this, and it drains my pocket faster than I can drain my cup. Isn’t that right, folks? That new Bee Balm drink just buzzed right through my money!” He waves his hand in the air like the flight path of a bee.

“Hold on now, Mr. Caesar.” Cordelia squints and leans in again, this time producing his wallet from her sleeve. She doesn’t hold it up, instead, she pulls it into her lap, settling it on her tight-together knees, and sorts through it. “Will this cover your plaza trip?” She holds out a stack of money larger than my weekly winnings from the Games. I’ve never seen so much money in one place. The thought of anyone carrying it around so carelessly nearly sends me storming out on stage. Jett’s thinking the same thing, the way he straightens up just enough in disbelief.

The host's eyes widen, and his hand reaches out. “Where did you get that?”

“A magician never reveals her secrets,” she quips, waving his wallet into the bright lighting. The crowd bursts into a mix of applause and laughter like the roar of a beast. Cordelia has done it. She has won them over. 

Jett beams from the side of the stage and murmurs, almost a whisper, “Atta girl. Take their gold.”

“My wallet!” Caesar lunges for it, but she yanks it away at the last moment, drawing even more laughter from the crowd. He's a fool under her heel.

Finally, Cordelia relents, dropping the wallet on top of the stack of money in his palms. 

“Cordelia Fletching, District Twelve!”

She rises to resounding applause, waiving to the crowd as she climbs off of the stage and down into the far wing. 

Caesar Flickerman fusses with his wallet, stuffing it back and pretending to check the rest of his pockets, stretching the moment to give the crowd time to quiet down.

“Jett, you’ve got this,” I whisper. 

For once, he nods. “Thanks.” A start.

He walks onto the stage just as Caesar reclaims his microphone.

“How did she do it?” Caesar bounces, pointing at random faces in the audience. “You don’t know? You don’t know? Me neither! Let’s see if we can learn more from her district partner, shall we? Welcome, Jett Corvus!”

Jett steps forward, eyes fixed on Caesar, heading straight to the chair. He slides into it without offering a hand, keeping his gaze scrutinizing but detached. Caesar wipes his hand on his suit, pretending he isn’t ignored, while Jett studies him with bored precision, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Jett!” Caesar lowers himself into his own chair, “Did you know Cordelia could do that?” 

Jett tilts his head slightly, brushing his ear against the raised shoulder of his jacket. “She’s good. Sneaky,” he says flatly. His tone is calm, measured and tempered just enough to pull the crowd’s attention back into uneasy silence. I hold my focus on the side of his face I can see, careful not to look too long.

“You’re not going to take anything from me, are you?” Caesar pats himself down again, a hint of forced humor in the charade.

“You got enough to spare some change,” Jett replies, crossing his arms. His voice carries a sharp edge, a subtle accusation masked in indifference. I feel the tension coil in the room, my stomach tightening, and I freeze, waiting for the next push in the tug-of-war, when someone taps my shoulder.

I jump, instinctively swinging the side of my fist back before I even know who’s there. 

“Whoa! Watch the lens,” Plutarch gasps, stepping back with quick, skittish movements. Shiny crystals of sweat line his forehead, which he dabs away with the sleeve of his free hand.

“Go away,” I snap, turning back to look at Jett. “I need to watch Jett’s interview.” I squint, trying to catch his words over the roar of the crowd. He must have said something interesting, but I’ve missed it. 

Plutarch doesn’t take the hint. “Kid’s fine. I’ve been coaching him.”

“You what?” I spin, turning to face the pasty man, my words slathering him in a sheen of spit. 

“We’ve been talking during training. They still have me filming the tributes. Did you think I was relieved of my duties? I’m their best editor,” he says, smirking as if he’s entitled to some private joke or an accolade.

“I wish they had.” I cross my arms. “Stay away from my tributes.”

“Come on, Haymitch, you don’t think I’m messing them up, do you?” Plutarch wipes at his camera lens with a cloth, smearing it more than cleaning it.

“I think you’re planting ideas,” I hiss.

An attendant hisses back a warning, and I glare at him, but he’s right. Plutarch and I already look too cozy. I don’t need a scene, or worse, getting picked up on some hot mic somewhere.

“I’m just seeing where their heads are at. Makes the between-event time slots easier to manage,” he says, working the rag over the lens again, this time more careful to polish it.

“Well knock it off,” I grit my teeth. “They aren’t your puppets.” 

“Everyone’s everyone’s puppet.” He shrugs, “You. Me. That attendant over there. I just know which strings to pull to get something started.”

“You think that makes people like you?” I narrow my eyes. The crowd erupts behind me again. I turn to see why, but I’m too late again. 

“People like what I tell them,” he replies, fogging the glass with a breath and rubbing the rag in slow circles.

“But not you.” 

“What’s the difference?” He folds the rag with one hand, flipping it over his fingers and slipping it back into his pocket.

“You and your stupid questions.” I roll my eyes and turn back to the stage, where Jett and Caesar appear to be wrapping up. 

“I heard you were thinking about joining me to film some segments at the new bar,” he remarks, setting the camera back on his shoulder.

“I’ve changed my mind.” I turn away completely, icing him out. 

“We could really use you,” he prods, spinning the lens of the camera, causing the eye beneath the glass to open and close. 

I stay silent, staring at my tribute from the wings. He stands, nods to the crowd once, and starts towards the wing to rambunctious applause. Whatever he did worked, but I missed it all. 

“Go away, Plutarch. I’d better not see you anywhere near them.” I push past him as the mentors start to swarm the passage backstage towards the wing with the waiting tributes. 

“I’ll be around! We could use a star!” He hollers behind me as I walk away, leaving him and his camera behind.

Jett drops Cordelia’s hand as I approach, causing me to trip over the toe of my shoe.

“Thanks for the coin back,” Jett mutters under his breath. Cordelia offers a timid smile, eyes flicking back down to her high heels.

“Great job, you two,” I say, brushing my hair from my face. A few strands had fallen loose during my lurch forward. “You’ve got the crowd eating out of your hands. They’re on their way to melt their gold right now.”

“You really think so, Haymitch?” Cordelia asks, glancing up from her shoes. “We practiced the segues together. The ideas were all Jett’s.”

“I know so,” I say with a faint smile, trying to steady my own nerves. “Though now I realize I have no idea where Effie wandered off to. We might be stuck here for a while.” I drop my shoulders. Tonight is the last real night before the Games—their last chance at a proper meal and proper sleep, and every wasted second is a missed moment for preparation.

“She’ll turn up. Can’t seem to get rid of her,” Jett murmurs from the corner of his mouth, arms crossed as he peers over my shoulder.

As if on cue, Effie appears, teetering toward us on her high heels, another woman at her side. The newcomer’s fuchsia hair bounces in exaggerated puffs, matching Caesar’s over-the-top showmanship.

We exchange a glance before they speak. “Vitus and I were hoping to see you!” Proserpina Trinket chirps, brushing past Effie. “Oh, how are you?”

I start to answer, but she makes it clear she isn’t listening, rushing on without pause. “Vitus and I were moved to a better district! They adored the prep we did on you four. Even better tributes to work with now!”

“Been practicing on yourself?” I sneer, eyeing her patchy dye job. “Going for a mature look?”

Proserpina jerks upright, recoiling from my words, “What?” She looks to her sister, who reassures her she does not look a day older than the youngest tribute. 

“Come on, you two.” I wave for Jett and Cordelia to follow me. I start walking to the exit doors before they make their decisions.

Careless words from both women, Effie, who has spent more time with the tributes than I have, and Proserpina, who saw me in some of my most vulnerable moments the day I arrived in the Capitol for my Games, use the kids they steal as a benchmark for beauty. Had I not thrown up everything I ate earlier, it would have been all over both of their too-high shoes. 

I shove open the backstage door and step onto the quiet side street, raising a hand to flag one of the few avox drivers left. I dive into the back seat, sliding over to make room. Cordelia slips in first, Jett takes the far seat, and the door shuts behind us.

The driver pulls off, leaving Effie and Proserpina behind, swallowed by the roar of the crowd. The Capitol’s lights flicker off in the rear view, and for the first time in hours, I let my body slump into the seat, letting the tension bleed out of me as we drive into the night.

Chapter Text

The apartment doesn’t care that we’re back. I flip the switch and light spills down the walls, but it doesn’t change the air, doesn’t put life back where it’s been sucked out. The silence feels heavier than the light, pressing against the rug that swallows up our footsteps. Tomorrow, we’ll walk out for the last time. Tomorrow, the Games take them.

“Get some sleep if you can,” I mutter, my throat rough and my eyes fixed on the table’s polished edge. Looking at them feels like cutting myself open. “Rest’s better than nothing.”

Their costumes have already swallowed them. They’re not the kids who rode the train here with me. They’re caricatures of themselves. Cordelia the magician. Jett the aloof. Yet, they’re so much more. They’re good kids. Good friends. But I can see the stitches of the Capitol’s needle. The thread wound around them, binding them to the parade forever.

“Okay, Haymitch,” Cordelia whispers back. Her voice isn’t any stronger than it was on the train that first night. Her eyes carry that same glassy glaze, but I can’t tell if it’s tears, exhaustion, or some mixture of both that rots deeper. They look like the ones that stare back at me in the mirror. Can’t tell what’s in those, either.

Jett lays a hand on her arm, steady, as if that’ll stop tomorrow, and the two vanish down the hall. I don’t follow. If the Capitol wants them pried apart, they’ll send their Peacekeepers. I won’t be the one to separate them. Maybe that makes me a bad mentor. 

The kitchen hums with nothing, no sense of life, no unwashed pot in the sink, no moonlight dripping down the dishes. I linger there like a ghost too stubborn to leave, haunted by rooms I wrecked months ago. When I hear the far door close, I peel myself away, drag a bottle from the cabinet, and shut myself in my chamber.

I strip layer by layer until only skin and underwear remain and sink into the tattered remains of the mattress I ruined in my rage. The Capitol didn’t bother fixing it. Not worth the effort, I guess. Or maybe they left it broken to remind me that I’m just wreckage that keeps coming back. They repaired my house in Twelve in hours, scrubbed it clean of dust and hunger, but here, in this room, in this bed, they leave the rot. A message written in splinters and sagging fabric, loud and clear.

I drink. The liquor burns, and the thought of next year burns hotter. Next year I’d still be in the reaping pool, eighteen like Wyatt. A year after, aged out. Safe. At least in the shallow way that word means anything here. But until then, the wheel grinds on. They’ll keep parading children into the pens, and I’ll stand ringside, measuring which ones might make it three days longer than the rest like I’m at the goat man’s livestock auction. 

And I’ll do nothing. That’s the cruelest truth of all. I beg sponsors, polish their acts, and feed more coin into the fire. What difference does it make if I know it’s wrong? The machine needs grease, and I’m the one they’ve harnessed to provide it. I’ve become the funnel, the open pocket, the face that lets them pretend this is something more than slaughter.

Am I just like them? The thought rakes me raw. To win, you have to play. To play, you need money. To get money, you bend, smile, and ask for coins you’ll slip right back into the Capitol’s hand while they gut the districts. Around and around it spins. Another year, another pair. The wheel that never stops.

I tip the bottle, watch it empty, and let it roll from the nightstand. Glass shatters against the floor. I know I’ll bleed for it tomorrow when I stumble barefoot, but right now I don’t care.

And Snow says it’s for safety. No. It has never been about safety. Even when I sat across from him, when the glass on the desk in front of me cried with dripping condensation, I knew it then. I know it now, too, watching Jett take Cordelia’s arm. 

There’s no safety in Panem, not when we have our guns trained on each other. There’s no safety in a finger on a trigger waiting to be pulled, just waiting for the other person to flinch. No safety in the nests of Peacekeepers watching above us all. No safety in the boots falling up and down again. No safety in Panem. 

What am I if not a cog in the machine of the Games? And here I am, telling myself this is the way I can make a difference. I can join the alliance. I can join Plutarch, and somehow, all of this will be fixed. We’ll all get to go home, back to Twelve, and act like none of this happened. 

But it did happen. It’s happening now and tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, someone will die. 

And here I am. In bed. A puppet. That’s what we all are. What I have become. What I have always been. A puppet. A jackass. A smartass. A rascal. A rebel. I’m none and all at once.

There are no winners in the Games. Victory is a myth we choke down with the grain and oil tesserae we paid for with our lives. We stay there, in the lines to pick up the grain with our broken-wheel wagons, with hopes that we’ll live to see another reaping. It’s only enough to keep us alive until then. That’s all they need. Cattle for their Games. Show horses for their victors. They only keep us alive to be able to stack the bodies up at the end of the Games and convince people they’re so much safer now that these barbarians are dead.

Here, as a victor, everything I can do is nothing more than a counterpoint. Nothing can be illuminated outside of the shadow of Snow’s thumb. And yet, I keep struggling, thinking that maybe something will change if I try something else. Something new. Something more.

But nothing has.

I crack open a new bottle, tucked away from the depths of my nightstand, then place it where the other bottle was supposed to be. 

How many kids have died since I climbed out of that arena? How many more will? Even Chaff, bright-eyed with his booming laugh, drinks himself bloody, picks fights with Capitol people, carries his missing arm like a curse. None of us walk away whole.

Why do the mentors keep coming back? Year after year they bring a pair of kids to face their deaths. Mentors, thrust into a life of living train to train, return every year. If not them, then who? Someone must. They will find new mentors. They will find more tributes. The Games need us, just as they need children. The machine turns, and if a cog breaks, another slips in.

I drink again, the liquor’s burn dragging the lump of coal in my throat down into my gut. My thoughts knot around the same rope: I once promised. To my mother. To Lenore Dove. To someone—maybe myself. If I could only remember who. I promised I’d find a way to end this. To cut the reaping off at the root. How stupid I was. How naive.

Every year I’ll have every kid’s blood on my hands. I’m not even the one holding the knife. And yet, I’m standing by. Helping, even, funding these— these—

That’s the cruelty of it—standing off to the side while they carve one another apart, while I grease the gears with sponsor coin and call it help. 

I lie back, roll the bottle across my chest, watching the liquor slosh against glass walls as though it wants out.

Jett, barely older than me, and Cordelia, no older than I was in the arena. They should’ve been friends, not tributes. We all could have been. Jett, Wyatt, Maysilee, Louella, Ampert, Hull, Wellie, Lou Lou—names that might’ve been carved into desks or strung together in gossip, not etched into graves. Another time, another world, maybe we’d have all sat around a table, argued over cards, shared bread, passed the same bottle. Instead, I drink alone.

Droplets cling to the glass, trying to scrape their way out. It does not matter if it’s seconds or a whole minute, the droplets will always return back to the pool at the bottom. 

I put my thumb over the lip of the bottle and tip it on its side. The liquid kisses my thumb, lapping the scarred skin before recessing, sliding away to join the rest. I tilt the bottle back upright, and it all flows right back to the bottom like it never even tried to escape.

I watch the liquid slosh up and down, tilting the bottle until moonlight streams into my room through the broken window. 

Next year I’ll be here again. That much I know. Maybe I’ll stumble back drunk, maybe crawl, maybe drag myself by the teeth. But I’ll be here. That’s my choice.

I set the bottle down, wipe my damp thumb against the tattered duvet, and reach for the knife instead. 

That’s the point. Not the death he wants from me. Not the open rebellion. Not the boycotting of the parade or the throwing bottles at laughing people. Not the anger or the frustration from wading up the rushing river, thinking it will take me anywhere closer to the peak. No. That’s not it. The purpose, my purpose, is to exist for me. Not for him, not to rebel, not to fight back tooth and nail.

And yet. And yet. Everything I have done has been a reaction. A consequence of his actions. I am a follower just as much as the crowd at the parade.

But how many times can I choose to live while I watch the others die? How long until the ledger of their names outweighs the one choice I get to keep making?

The moonlight catches the edge of the knife. 

I can’t keep folding my arms while the wheel grinds them down. If this is only the first year, how many more will I shoulder? Who else will I bury in memory where no one else looks? Who will remember that Jett passed Cordelia his coin without a word, or that she had a way of seeing straight through to the root of things? No one but me. The train doors shut, and the rest of the world forgets.

I push myself upright, clumsy. The bottle slips, rolls from my chest, and I fumble after it, batting uselessly at the glass. It tumbles, collides with the shattered one below, and bursts into shards too.

I curse, yank the drawer open and dig through the dark. The wood complains, the hinges bite, but I keep rummaging until I come up with a pad of paper.

A pen. I need a pen. I yank back the covers. The blur immediately makes me nauseous, but I push through it. I dangle my feet over the side of the bed and lean over the drawer. At the very bottom, I see a navy blue pen tucked beneath a pair of ear plugs and a stupid 51st Games branded night mask that smells like someone’s perfume. I pinch the pen from the drawer and uncap it between my teeth. 

The first mark is a hole through the pad of the paper. The pen won’t spill its ink, so I scribble harder, carving blank lines into the paper. I shift toward the moonlight to see better, but still, no ink comes. 

Warmth rushes around me, so I peel the covers off of my legs entirely and chew on the cap of the pen. I scribble harder, then lift it to the light. There’s ink, buried within the vault of the pen, but it is there. I try again, this time, it bleeds upon the bright white paper. 

For a moment I’m back in the woods running, my bare feet catching on the branches and burrs strewn across the ground, the sting of dirt and tears in my eyes. The raw of my throat bleeding down from the smoke that filled the room, not knowing any way but out, not turning to check what it all meant.

I press the pen to the paper and the line jaggedly answers me. J. The J bleeds into a blotch. My hand blurs beneath my eyes. I try again. E. The E wants to be a B. T.  It tilts like it’s leaning away from something hot. Hot. Something hot. It’s hot. So hot in here.

I yank the pillow off the bed behind me and hurl it across the room. My letters pile up on each other like bodies. The pad rattles under my knuckles. I breathe hot and shallow, like I’ve been running. Running. Running again. Turn around. Turn around this time go back. Go back.

I don’t understand why I can smell it here, in this safe, cheap room, with the broken window and the train ticket in the drawer and two tributes breathing down the hall. The smoke that was the only thing remaining of my life before. It shouldn’t have a right to be in my bones. But it is, and I can’t move past it.

The pen squeaks on the page like a wheeze after a cough. The lights of the Capitol outside the pane wink and become stars and then sparks. A laugh arcs up from the street below, and it’s suddenly not a laugh. It’s a crack and a pop, a curtain catching flame, someone yelling my name in a voice that could have been mine.

I remember reading. I remember the bright flames, the way the words tasted in my mouth the day before, metallic, brave, stupid. I remember thinking the book was a thing to be proud of, a thing that lived separate from me. I remember thinking that if the truth was said out loud it would make things clearer. That was the plan. Say it, file it, fix it. Fix it all. I said the names. I told the story. I let the people hear everything.

I kept their stories. How stupid. How stupid.

Then the memory shoves me. Heat slams into my face like a fist. The room tilts. Ash falls in my hair though I’m still under the apartment ceiling. I can’t tell where the present stops and the night starts. Sid’s laugh folds into a sound like breaking glass. Ma’s spoon clacks on the pot and becomes the rhythm of the flames. I can smell char. I can hear somebody crying for water. I can feel splinters against my palm as I reach for something to beat at the fire with and my hand comes away black. I taste copper.

I don’t know how long I’m on the floor. The pen clatters somewhere, a small, ridiculous sound like a dropped coin. My chest is a locked drum. Tears come, the kind that make your vision double and the world go shallow. My mouth opens and a laugh I don’t recognize barks out of me. It’s a dry, angry thing, half an apology, half a thing I’ve been storing like a stone in my chest. No one’s around to hear it. No one’s around anymore at all.

I try to comb the edges of the memory flashes for a reason, only to find the shredded center: me standing in front of people who wanted stories, telling them what I had, hoping the telling would change something. Hoping that making it true out loud would make it more real. That someone else would remember. Tell me I’m right. Someone, anyone, would tell me I was right.

I force my hands to work. My fingers feel like someone else’s. I find the pen in the shards, plant the nib, and this time I breathe slow enough to count. I push the ink into the paper like it’s a wound I can dress, each mark like a suture of stitches.

I write his name as if I can pin him to the page, as if letters could keep a boy from being blown apart on a field of grass or a lava plain or whatever the Gamemakers have decided for them this year. I write Cordelia too, the letters smaller, careful like I’m laying a child down to sleep.

I stop and read it back. The words look wrong. I’m not supposed to have them. To keep them. My throat thickens, but the sadness that should come with it is a dull pain like a bruise. I know the sound of my own guilt well; it’s what wakes me at night. It curls up in my chest and makes me stand guard until the sun rises.

I close the pad and hold it to my ribs. Paper is thin. It doesn’t stop the heat. But it’s something. It’s a mark I made when everything else tried to erase the two in my care. I fold my hands over it and wait for the next flash of a memory. Waiting, always waiting, for the past to decide to come back and finish what it started.

Nothing more. Nothing more tonight. I can’t write anymore. Never anymore.

No. This is dangerous. I can’t.

I rip up the sheet and slide out of the bed. Through the cracked window, I slip the paper out of the room and watch it fall upon the cobbled Capitol streets like bright, driven snow. 

The scraps flutter to the ground. Some catch on the gutter, others fall into the flower pot below, but the lucky ones catch the wind right as it picks up and wafts down to the far off river. I watch them vanish until my throat goes raw and the small relief curdles into something worse. 

Someone will find it. Someone always does. Either way, it’s out of my hands now, and that terrifies me more than keeping it ever did. It’s in shreds, but if they find them and piece them together, they’ll know it was me. 

My fingers are still sticky with ink. I curl them into a fist until my knuckles pop. The ink is all over my hands. I’ll get us all burned. I bolt to the sink, but the ink wont come off. I’ve stained myself as the culprit. No. No. I have to wake them. Get them out of here. 

I burst through the door of my room and sprint down the hall. Adrenaline pumps through me, starving away the burning in my lungs. The burning. The burning. Smoke. Haze curls up against the roof like clouds. I can’t see more than a foot in front of me. I yank a dish rag from the kitchen and cover my nose with the cloth. Don’t breathe it in. Grab them. I have to get them out of here. 

I try to yell, but nothing comes out. The towel, wet from my washed hands, does nothing to dampen the smell. I drop to my hands and knees as I crawl down the hall. The first set of doors is open. No one is in the bathroom, no one is in the guest room. I keep going, all of the way down the never ending hall, until it’s there, right there in front of me, their door. 

My hands hang dead at my side. Tears turn the door into a smudge of a shadow. I don’t move. I can’t. I am frozen in place, watching it all happen again. I’ve burned us all. 

Nevermore. The thought bounces around my head like a swallowed coin. Nevermore. It’s a promise I don’t trust, and the honesty of it makes my skin crawl. I know what those scraps do once they’re loose in the world. They become fuel. They become matches. They become a history somebody else can twist.

No. I won’t let that happen. Not this time.

I press my back against the wall across from their door. The grain disappears in the shimmering of the heat. I can’t save them. Not tonight, from the flames, or tomorrow, from the sword. I can’t save them, just as I couldn’t save anyone else.

And here I am again, sitting by as I watch the world burn around me.

I crawl my way back to my room, not trusting the shaking of my legs to support my walk back to my bed, and ignore the glass shards that bury themselves into my palms as I claw my way onto the mattress. 

The heat drops out of me with a breath. The smoke blinks away from behind my eyes. What’s left is not burning fire or smoldering ashes, but the wreckage by my own hands and the shame of what I’ve done. Maybe I could have done more. I should have. But what? What?

No. I should have been there for them. But I won’t remember. Not if I don’t write something down. I’ve forgotten everything these past few months, forgotten what I’ve forgotten. I need a record. Proof. Something physical. And yet, I can't. It will be read. If not tonight, then tomorrow when they're out on their own. Someone will find it. Someone will read it. Someone will burn them.

The floor doesn’t feet right under my feet, but I force myself out of the bed. I grab the pad of paper and the pen again. It’s still warm from when I’d pressed it against my ribs. I set it atop the dresser and use the wall to find my way back to the kitchen, where I find the cigarettes I’d noticed an Avox restocking the first night. I pull a carton from the drawer. A few are missing, but I shut the door tightly as if no one had disturbed it. 

When I return to my room, it’s darker than it was before. A cloud must have made its way over the moon. Still, I don’t chance the light. The cameras will see better in the light. I shove the cigarette carton between my torso and my arm, collect the pad and pen, and pull the covers over my head. 

I tear the pad’s remaining pages into thin strips and stack them like cigarette paper. My hands are steadier than they feel. The cigarette pack drops beside me onto the mattress.

If words are going to stay alive, they’re not going to fly loose like reaping confetti. Not now. Not ever. I’ll be smarter, because stupid killed Sid and Ma, because a stupid reading set the rest of the house alight. 

I take the strips and write in a code so ingrained in my mind I can remember it without thinking. A circle for A, a slash for E. Jett Corvus— owed no one, still gave coin. Cordelia Fletching— quick hands, quicker smile.

It’s not elegant, but it’s a hide-and-seek that will keep the wrong eyes from reading. 

Back when I was running moonshine down Hattie’s hills, she taught me how to roll the mayor’s cigarettes before he was replaced. I pull one cigarette from the box and tear at the seam with my nail. It comes up in pieces, but I’m able to keep most of the contents in the box’s lid. 

It takes a few tries, but eventually, I come up with a cigarette-shaped rolled code, stuffed with the tobacco from the other one. I roll it up tightly, but I have nothing to seal it with. I stuff it into the box, pressing the seam against the side, and hope it’s good enough to stay wound up until I can get home.  

Maybe I’m being ridiculous. Maybe I’m being safe. I won’t know until I wake up alive.

The page will be safe there until I can get it home to the cellar, hopefully still not rigged with webs of cameras and microphones. The one place I’m safe to store whatever I need. 

By the time I’ve finished, the room has shrunk around me. My heart ticks like a small watch in a dead man's coat, not serving any more purpose than to remind me it meant something once. The panic still traces its way through me the same way a hangover does. I’ll wait until it’s gone. I am not finished yet. I am not done remembering. I am not letting him make me forget by force.

I slip the box of cigarettes into the jacket pocket someone will squeeze me into tomorrow. If it’s my last day here, I can’t risk leaving it behind. All I can hope is that it isn’t.

Chapter Text

I can’t bring myself to care when Effie arrives, still outwardly vexed from last night, and lingers in my doorway, waiting but not asking for an apology. I don’t have one to give, nor would I say it if I had one prepared. She leaves before I can pull myself from the bed, departing after an over-the-shoulder jab about dressing the part. 

Message received. I roll out from beneath the covers and pinch the stuffing from the ruined mattress off of my thigh, letting it fall to the floor. Last night was my last in this room. Good riddance. 

Mentors sleep in the rooms above the command center. It gives all of us easy access to the bars in the plaza. We don’t have to take a car back and forth. Not having to account for travel time makes it easier to funnel more sponsor money into the Games too.

I tug on the suit jacket over a dark shirt and fasten it shut around my stomach. The outline of the cigarette box protrudes from the pocket when I move my arms. I unbutton the jacket.

It’s just cigarettes. No one would think anything of it. A drunkard with cigarettes, it’s like a bar and liquor. It would be odd for me not to have a pack somewhere. Even still, I can’t chance it. I’ve already gambled with someone else’s life by writing something down. They need all of the luck they can get.

I lace my shoes tightly, double-knotting the strings, and leave my room to greet everyone for breakfast. 

The kitchen is quiet and empty of Avoxes. All of the hot pans are scrubbed to sparkling and stored back hanging on the wall. The food has been moved to the table, where three people sit, none of them speaking and none of them eating.

I lower myself into my chair and begin loading Jett and Cordelia’s plates with piles of food. I scoop a mountain of eggs onto Cordelia’s and fork the entire platter of ham onto Jett’s. For each of them, I place a square of toast atop their food and fill their glasses with cold water. 

“You need to eat.” I slide the plates closer to them both. “Anything you can get down.”

Cordelia stares at the pile of yellow scrambled eggs with a disgust we’re not permitted to have in the Seam. All the food is good food there. You don’t have a choice. Here, with eggs prepared with all of the flavors and choices of whatever you want to eat whenever, it’s harder to choke down. Not because of the food itself, but what is looming right after you finish eating. Jett looks the same, but to his credit, he begins chewing on the corner of a piece of ham.

Cordelia sips from her water. Her fingers are still bony. You can’t undo fifteen years of starvation in a matter of days. Seam habits stick with you. Rationing, cutting yourself off. The plate becomes a budget itself. Affording calories like they’re grams of gold. I know it all too well. 

Their training uniforms don’t do them any favors. At least they won’t be trying to impress sponsors until they’re dressed in whatever uniform they dish out this year. Hopefully it’s fireproof. 

I reach for my own water to starve off the ache in my head when I catch Cordelia’s eyes for a fleeting second. She still has smudges of makeup around her eyes. She looks more dangerous that way, so I don’t mention it. It might help with the cameras.

Both Effie and I let them eat in silence. I, to allow them to get as much food down, and Effie, who seems to be giving everyone the silent treatment until one of us apologizes.

When the time comes to part, I rise, and Cordelia wraps her arms around me without a word. I hug her just as tightly and pull Jett in with my other arm. Together, we stand there holding each other until tears collect on the rims of my eyes. I blink them away and let go.

“Listen to me.” I manage to swallow the cracking in my voice and straighten my shoulders to mimic the authority I should have but don't feel. “You don’t have to trust me, just know I’m on your side. Don’t try for the Cornucopia. Find water then food. Shelter if you can.” 

My eyes find the corner of the room, the red light on the camera blinking back at me. Has that always been there? I stare back, my tongue now thick and dry in my mouth.

“We’ll try our best.” Cordelia brushes a tear from her own eyes, and Jett fishes his coin from his pocket with steady fingers, as if he has already accepted what is going to happen. 

“Get this to my pa.” He slips it into my hand.  

“I thought you didn’t trust anyone else with it.” I keep my palm open in case he wants to reclaim it. “Don’t you want to keep it in the arena?”

He shakes his head and closes my fingers around the token, “I won’t need it.”

I nod and slip it into my breast pocket, “I’ll keep it safe.” I pat it to make sure it is still there, as if Cordelia’s magic has made me its next target. It overshot, though, her magic. It missed my pocket and burrowed deep into my chest, dragging Jett along with it. Taking a piece of me that makes it all the more clear every tribute for as long as I live will reach in to take another coin from the pocket in my heart.

“Goodbye, Haymitch.” Cordelia takes Jett’s arm again, but he wraps it around her shoulders instead. 

“Goodbye, Haymitch,” Jett repeats, nodding to me. 

“Stay alive.” I press my lips together to hold back a sob, swallowing it down over the embedded lump that just seems grows bigger. “Please.”

Effie, still resentfully silent, gathers the two I know I will mourn for the rest of my life, and guides them into the sleek metal box. The doors slide closed as we wave goodbye to each other. Forever sealed between us. My knees give out when the motor hums our final shared sound. 

Sobs wrack my aching body. I curl up on the floor and clutch the matted strands of carpet, feeling them shift under my palms. I cry until my head aches and tears no longer slip from my shut eyes. That ball of guilt, of grief, that has developed in my stomach the second I turned seventeen, threatens to unravel entirely. I know that is the last time Jett and Cordelia will ever see anyone from District Twelve. 

The stiff-backed chair creaks as I climb to my feet, using the furniture as a crutch. Hobbling to the bathroom, I brush the lint from my clothing and splash my face with cool water, taking care to change the bandage above my eye. The stitches have begun to heal. Part of me wants to go in and mess them up again. I deserve every scar I earn here, but I leave them alone. 

When the redness of my eyes and the tear stains on my cheeks have both faded, I venture out into the stairwell, avoiding the elevator. Perhaps Jett and Cordelia are forever there, forever stuck in time, frozen in the elevator. I know it’s not true. I know they are getting their trackers in the back of some van they pulled from storage. I know they are on their way to the runway, to the hovercraft, to the arena, never to be seen alive again. I don’t touch the tomb that crawls up and down the cables. They are safe there. 

Since I didn't bring any luggage, I wander down the stairs and elbow my way through the front doors of the building, where a row of cars idle outside to take mentors to the plaza. I watch District Five's Stockley Milgram load a suitcase into the trunk of a dark car, then turn away. I pick the closest one, settle into the middle seat of the back bench, and stare numbly out of the window. They are not dead yet. There’s still a chance. They could join me next year, maybe have some luggage to bring. Something of their own.

The car slips silently through the streets, leaving blurs of colors behind us, an ugly, unnaturally bright rainbow as our trail. It comes to a stop outside of the same building that held the mentor meeting in the beginning of our Games. I thank the driver and step out of the car, and like always, it leaves in seconds, crawling off down the Capitol streets to gather up another mentor. 

Time for a show. If he wants a show to watch on those cameras of his, that’s what he’ll get. Maybe then the flames won’t take them too. I pull my shoulders back and display the cockiest grin I can find. Rascal all the way. 

On the way inside, I poke fun at some lady’s husband and she keels over laughing. Humor must be sparse here. She joins in on the ridiculing. I grind my teeth the whole time. When that conversation fades, I move on, asking about drinks and laughing at people’s expense. Every laugh counts. For a moment, I hear Jett’s voice, take their gold. If only he knew how much gold I have waiting for him.

Eventually, I push through the rest of the crowd and head inside the cool air of the large building. A Peacekeeper arrives to verify my identity with something that scans my eyes, and then leads me into the mentor bay, a vast white room with monitors above every set of chairs. The mentor pairs from five, six, seven, and eight all sit shoulder to shoulder, all huddled around their monitors. A capitol attendant approaches each pairing, discussing something in a low voice before moving on to the next pair down the line. 

A few other mentor pairs are already present, taking their places at their stations. Wiress and her partner in three. Mags and her partner in Four. I try to catch Mags’s eye, but with the Peacekeepers lining the room, and the Gamemakers weaving in between stations, she and Wiress both keep their heads down. I stare at them both from the back of the room, where District Twelve’s monitors sit on the very edge of the back row. Two chairs, of course, one for me and one to remind me it’s my fault I’m alone. Jett’s voice returns to me from that first night in the apartment, “The rest of the districts have two. Why not us, too? We too much of longshots?” 

Not longshots. Not now. I’ll make this work. I took down twice as many tributes. I can do twice the work here.

The chair slips out from under me right as I try to sit down. I catch the edge of the desk, gripping it tightly to keep from falling.

Chaff, who barked out a laugh to announce his arrival and that he did, in fact, see me miss the chair, catches it and slides it back under me. “Here, Haymitch.”

“Who puts wheels on a chair?” I snap, pulling myself closer to the edge of the desk. I grip the armrests to keep the chair from running away again.

“Keeps the sound low,” he says, plopping down in his own chair and leaning back, forcing the metal to creak beneath his weight. He repeats this a few times, drawing attention from the mentors at stations ahead of us. I reach for my flask.

“Whoa, no, not here.” He sticks his hand out for my flask, and I jerk it away. 

“I’m gonna drink where I damn well please,” I huff, tipping the first few sips into my mouth. 

“Suit yourself. They’ve got the fancy stuff up front. Figured you’d want to save the flask for later.” He grins, throwing his hand up placatingly.

I screw the cap on, muttering obscenities under my breath, and drop my flask back into my right pocket where it clinks against Jett’s coin. I draw my hand to the pocket and hold it momentarily, feeling the fleeting warmth of his palm in the metal. Still gave coin.

Chaff saunters off to get a drink from the high end cart down at the front, and I remain in my seat, mulling over the equipment in front of me. On the desk lies a box attached to what looks to be a wrist watch, that same small glowing rectangle from Snow’s desk that lights up with a touch, and rows of buttons on a board. I prod at the buttons, causing my monitors to jump and flicker. I smell sparks, and the taste of apple sits on my tongue. I try to wash it down with my flask again, but it doesn't help. The taste remains like a stain. 

A capitol attendant rushes over with wide eyes, “Not yet!” He waves his hands in front of the button board. “It could alter the resolution. When the broadcast starts, then you can start flipping between cameras.” He stammers, clacking away on the buttons with inhumane speed. 

How he remembers where everything is, I’ll never know. I just lean back in the chair and fold my hands over my abdomen. “Didn’t realize I pressed the end-world button.”

His head bobs up and down as he looks at his hands, then to the screens above our heads, then back to his hands again until he stands up with a sigh. “There.” He wipes his hands on his pants, “You know how to use it, correct?” 

I stare at him blankly. “Yeah, that’s why I broke it.”

“You broke it on purpose?” His jaw starts to fall.

“Light’s too bright.” I wave at the screen. “Don’t wanna have to look at it anymore.” The flag of Panem flashes on screen to wave right back at me. I put my hand down. 

“Show me how this thing works.” I demand, shoving the board of buttons toward him. Whatever these buttons do, it seems important, as right when the flag flashed on screen, everyone sat up in their seats and started clawing at their consoles. Two heads are often better than one, right? I shake my head to clear Cordelia's words. Two was never an option.

The Capitol attendant picks up each object on my desk and clicks a thousand different buttons, rattling off an explanation that leaves my head spinning. He does not offer a second run through, though and scurries off before I can ask what anything does again. 

Chaff returns with an Avox in tow. “Here, got you the good stuff.” He grins, stepping aside for the Avox to set the second drink on my desk. I take it into my hands immediately, looking over the fancy golden drink. I pluck the leaves from the rim and toss them aside before taking a long sip. Fancy stuff. Too fancy, but it gets rid of the bitter apple.

“I saw that scrawny guy poking at your buttons. You causing trouble, Mitch?” He sets his own drink on his desk and begins tapping away at his board. He seems almost faster than the capitol attendant. I try to watch his fingers, but they fly over the clicking squares on the board before I can get a good look. 

I shake my head, “Just trying to be a mentor.” I sigh, shifting my seat closer to my own buttons. 

“You’re not trying.” He sits back in his own chair and stares up at the waiving flag. “You are one. Wouldn’t have let you in here if you weren’t.”

An attendant in white swoops in and places a coaster under my glass. I wipe my hands on my pants; the cigarette box thumps against my ribs. “Doesn’t feel like I am,” I say.

“How’s it supposed to feel?” Chaff asks.

“More like I should know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Chaff rubs his hand in circles over his chest, working up a belch.

“I have no idea how to work this thing.” I throw my hands up.

“Look, this is a keyboard.” He pulls the rows of buttons closer to him. “Seeder walked me through it, and Harrow walked her. These Capitol people think we all have this stuff at home.” He points at the rows. “This switches camera angles. This monitor,” he gestures to the left monitor on my desk, “will follow Cordelia; the right follows Jett.” He taps the screen. “If a tracker dies, the screen dies. You can reactivate it to keep watching the remaining tribute.” 

He shoves the keyboard my way. “But you know I wasn’t asking about the technology.”

I glance at the keys. They look like a remote we had before the battery shortage in District Three. They don’t seem to be missing any batteries here. 

Every mentor is shoulder to shoulder with their pair now. Everyone seems to know what they’re doing. Cordelia’s gray eyes stare back at me in the reflection. You say that like you don’t think that I can get that far. I straighten up and square my jaw. I can figure this out.

“You remember much about last year?” I ask Chaff.

Chaff takes a second to respond, his eyes glued to the flag above our heads. “I think you’re better position than you think you are.”

I stare at the side of his face, hoping he’ll say more, but he doesn’t. No insistence. No context. Does everyone else think the same? I look back around the room. The pair from District Two are hunched over their screens. District Four is deep in whisper. District One, Palladium Barker and his partner, turn and glance at me. He doesn’t need to like me. I killed his brother. He probably wants me just as dead as he is. I move to lower my gaze, inferiority weighing upon my shoulders, when I stop. I straighten my back. 

I lived. I survived. I am the victor. That’s the ticket that got me here. Jett called me out once—said I’d forgotten where I came from. Don’t have to work in the mines like your father anymore, and now you let them walk all over us. 

Maybe he was right. Maybe I’d dressed myself up too sharp and let the Seams show. Not here. Not now. Not when their lives are on the line. 

I am a winner. I can do this. No one will stop me. These kids, these friends of mine in some other life, I will get at least one of them home. I fought and won before. Nobody, not Palladium, not Plutarch nor Snow, can take that from me.

I won. I fought. I survived. I’m just as good as everyone here.

An attendant brushes behind me to refill my glass. Instinctively, I lift my hand to wave her away, but I set it back in my lap. I’ll act as a victor should. 

Chaff coughs into his elbow and clears his throat with a drink. “This flag’s usually on for about fifteen minutes. Arena reveal comes after. I haven’t shown you your communicuff.” He slides the watch toward me, and I turn it over in my hands to get a better look. The cold metal’s heavier than it looks, and the leather band is slick with Capitol polish. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to me, it just feels like another tether. 

“It’s not gonna do you any good in your hands. It knows your pulse. Put it on. That’s how it knows it’s you.”

When I strap it to my wrist, it lights up in sharp little squares that mimic the bigger rectangle on my desk. The glow bites into my skin. I flex my fingers, testing the weight, half expecting it to constrict like a shackle or bite into my wrist with spikes.

Chaff leans over to point out the symbols, his hand steady despite the liquor he’s been working through. “This is for when you’re moving about and networking. If you see something happening while you’re out in the bar area, you can send sponsor gifts. Usually one mentor stays behind to watch while the other networks. You don’t have that liberty.” He looks me dead in the eye and repeats himself, “You don’t have that liberty.” 

I nod, “I don’t have that liberty.” 

He settles back, satisfied. “That right there is a tablet. You will use it to select the gifts and see the menu. Prices increase daily.” He taps on the glowing screen, and it shifts under his fingers. 

“Thirty-eight percent per day,” I mutter, watching his hands move across the surface. He’s slow for my sake, but still, my head spins trying to keep up. I already feel behind.

“Why don’t they make this easier?” I snap, my hand tightening into a fist around the cuff. “Don’t they want us to be able to send our tributes gifts?”

Chaff just looks at me from under his brow like I’ve missed something obvious. He doesn’t say a word, but the silence does all the explaining I need. They don’t want us to send them anything. Not unless the Capitol’s already decided they’re worth saving. It’s not about saving anyone, it’s about the price of spectacle. The only districts who seem to have an immediate grasp on the devices are those with enough food at home to spend time thinking about anything else. 

Wiress and her partner are speeding through their screens, but this is likely ancient technology to them. Even the other career districts are catching up to them. From Six up, though, the rest of us crane our necks, peeking sideways, trying to steal knowledge before the current sweeps us under.

“Sometimes, Haymitch, the best thing you can do is start to pay attention to those around you. What they want. What they order.” Chaff lowers his voice, a rare seriousness in his tone. “What they’re thinking.”

When the anthem blares, the Peacekeepers whip their guns from their backs, holding them in front of their stark white uniforms. We all rise to our feet and mumble along, just as we do in the reaping ceremonies. 

When it ends, I catch Mags’s eye for the first time, and she chances a dismal smile. I return one to her.

Caesar Flickerman is the first face on the screen after the anthem. His freakish, frostbitten face looks all the more ghoulish on camera. I busy myself by fastening the watch looser around my wrist, ignoring his crowd work. Today, they have stationed him on a stage in the middle of the plaza, and the direct sun makes him look like melting wax.

Seeder leans over to mumble something to Chaff again, and he passes her the watch. She looks across him and lands on me. “Haymitch, your kids did great at the interviews. Really, Chaff was begging me to chase you all down after and find out how Cordelia took Caesar’s wallet.”

“I said I could use a few wallets myself.” He slaps my chest with the back of his hand. 

Seeder glares at him, but it doesn’t dull his smile. “You are a wonderful mentor, Haymitch. I know you’re going to give it your best today. Whatever happens is the fault of the Games, not your own.” Her gaze pins me to the chair, as firmly as the Peacekeeper’s rifles lining the walls.

“Thank you, Seeder. And Chaff. Thank you.” I turn back to my screen and grip the armrests of my chair just as the trumpets split the air. Their sound blares from every corner of the room, but I can’t find the speakers.

My hands shake anyway. I dig my nails into my grip, but the tremor won’t quit. Questions hammer me from all sides— poisoned food, flooded plains, volcanoes puffing smoke. They’ve done it all before. They’ll do it again. Arenas take years to build, I remind myself, and maybe they haven’t had the time to make the force fields crueler, deadlier. Last year was all mutts. Maybe this time it’ll be the land itself, turning the tributes against one another.

But it doesn’t matter. I can’t outguess them. Whatever is waiting will come either way. Let it come, and be there when it does. That's what a mentor does.

The countdown in the plaza winds down in golden numbers until the camera lifts like a bird to show the arena.

In the north, there’s a vast, rounded plain of grass, each blade brown and dry as a droughted summer. Trees scatter the field, but they’re wrong. Their trunks are as fat as three or more of the trees in the woods, with bark knotted into ridges and roots arching in the air like someone dug up the tree and turned it upside down. They’re tall and unclimbable, no shade or shelter to be had. Just the endless wind rattling the unearthed roots. Even worse, the trees are far and few between, scattered amongst the plains. 

Fire looks tough to build, though not impossible, as does shelter. The entire northern part of the arena is flat. There is no cliff or mountain to scale. There’s no where to hide. 

In the south, a wide, dark body of water swallows the light. A basin of dark blue water waves back at the grass, lapping the shore, and brushing the offshoots of rivers crawling up into the plains like veins over lungs. The rivers break the arena into marshy land with even fewer trees than up north. There is nowhere to hide. 

The golden Cornucopia sits proudly in the middle, glaring with the light of a setting sun. 

Around me, mentors lean forward at once. Some hiss their assessments. It seems everyone is thinking the same thing. That water can't be safe. Which means they’ll need more supplies, more sponsors.

I risk a glance at my watch. I’ve got a good number, at least, until the prices start to climb. 

An Avox holds a tray of drinks out to me, but this time I shoo her away, too sick to even think about drinking. My fingers twitch, and my head pounds with adrenaline. I smell spring, the same bottled spring from my own arena, and feel the fur of a rabbit brushing up on my foot. My hand twitches around the watch, loosing my fingers just so I can reach down and stroke its soft, dove-colored down.

And then a shriek rips me clean out of the haze.

My fingers snap back to the watch just as the screen bursts to life. I must’ve missed the gong.

But no. No gong.

The silence gives way to ringing.

My heart drops to the floor. My eyes dart back to the black screens in front of me. Every bit of that woven ball of grief left in my body unravels at once and my hands fall limply at my sides. 

Jett and Cordelia, bright as coins in the sun, frozen so young, have stepped off of their plates.

Chapter Text

Grief is a dark-winged black bird perching on my shoulder and scavenging the bodies of those I loved. It flaps its wings and opens its beak to decry the death of another, then more, before swooping down and flying over the bodies of everyone I have known in a long yawning row. Like a train barreling down never ending tracks, it flies forever, over the shoulder-to-shoulder carrion stretching farther than I will ever venture, farther than I will ever see the end. 

Its long black wings shade the bodies from the sun, leaving behind a darkness only the most violent storm clouds forebode. It soars above the lost lives silently through the whispering parted trees. Though the darkness follows, there is no solace in the sun that slips through its feathers. It only illuminates the decaying flesh of those I will remember, of those who visit me, and those who have left for good. 

Two new bodies at the end. Two young people, so deserving of life, gone in the wind that carries the raven’s flight. The raven, long the size of dust from the mines, so far away now, does it fly to greet them as I sit frozen, watching, flightless, locked in the conductor’s seat in the train that will never stop rolling? 

Numb, I sit as the train rolls along the moaning tracks, watching the faces I once knew call to me from the ground beneath the crushing wheels. Some shout blame before the train rolls onward, some call for help, and some lie silently watching as I lull after the bird pulling the chain of my train on a leash. I open myself to their words, drinking them in like the dregs of the bottle I have come to crave. 

The train will roll and I will watch as the line stretches farther and farther until I become the last person on the tracks.

The room returns to me. Not in the whole of which I once saw it, but in pieces.

Someone wraps their arms around me from behind. Another tries to speak to me, but it only sounds like the scratching of the wheels. Wind finds its way to me, and yet I sit there, staring, as everything I thought I could do to rescue these people burns to the ground. 

I filled the cistern. I got them money. I gave them advice. I believed in them. What more could I have done? Where did I go wrong?

I stare into the blackened monitors. Dark circles hollow my eyes. A drunk looks back. I am not a mentor. I never have been. Jackass. Beast. Arsonist. Drunk.

The keyboard is pushed away, the watch confiscated, the tablet disappeared. I don’t reach for them. I am of no use. There are no tributes. There is no one to save. There is not even a body to bury. I have failed.

I sit frozen in the conductor’s seat, my fingers gone numb around the armrests of the chair. 

Who will tell their parents? Do I have to? They’ll know. They must have been watching. Both tributes dead in a matter of seconds. I’ll never be welcome back again. 

How could this have happened? Was this the plan? All along, everything I had done for them, and they turn around and step off? To what? Prove a point? Make a statement? 

Plutarch. 

Plutarch!

I jolt out of the chair and ram into the door. My shoes squeak on the marble, but I make a break for it. Somewhere here there must be a control room.

I fly down the corridor. No one stops me. Everyone is stuck in front of a screen, watching their own tributes or watching the mentors watch their tributes. There are no Peacekeepers, no attendants, no one with a barrel of a gun to point right at me. So I run.

He’ll pay. I’ll kill him if I have to. Take him with me. He’ll pay for what he has done. 

I bolt down a hall, then another, looking in to every office I can find. This building never ends, but at the center of the maze I’ll find him, leaning over some computer.

Right as I cross the hall to a stairwell, I slam into something hard and stagger back. 

“Where are you headed?” A man twice as large as I am asks, peering down at me. 

“Upstairs.”

“Nothing up there for you.”

“Plutarch is.”

“Heavensbee’s not up there.”

“I saw him. He’s up there.” I wipe the blood dripping from my smashed nose on my sleeve. “Let me up there.”

“No, he just left. Looking for some kid for an interview.”

“A tribute?”

“Are you stupid?”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I play it off with a smirk. My head’s fuzzy since crashing into the wall of a man in front of me. 

He points when I don’t respond. “Went that way. Said he’d find the guy in the bars.”

I bolt down the hall and out toward the bar in seconds. 

The plaza is swimming with crowds unlike I’ve ever seen before. There’s crowds when you’re sitting in the stands or when you’re facing them on a stage, but down here they press like water, each face another hand on my chest. I hold my breath and wade through the people, elbowing them out of the way. 

The bar stands at the edge of the crowd with the doors propped wide open to let people in and out. I shove my way into the building and stick my back to the wall to get a view of everyone. There are people in green. Green everywhere. But no him. No Plutarch.

I slump back against a bar stool pushed against the wall right as my eyes start to blur and my head starts to pound. Something flashes in front of me. I don’t look up to see what it is. Someone grabs my arm, another flash. I look up just as a man with pale blue-lined eyes tries to hand the lady next to me his camera. I smack it out of their hands, the lens shattering on the ground and stomp away from them right as the crowd begins to take notice.

I slip out of the bar and find my way back to the corner that gave me the stitches I’ve had to stare at every morning since. My blood, now dried brown on the brick, dripped all of the way down to the flower pot below. I sit in the flowers and put my head in my hands. 

They’re gone. Gone because of him. Gone because he turned their deaths into spectacle before they even tried to live.

The noise from the plaza erupts, then settles back down to the buzz. How many are dead now? I don’t check. I stare at the cobblestone path beneath my feet.

“That’s all. Yes, go find Fabular. He’ll have a spin for it. He’s the one to go to for the beheadings. They’re good content. I’ll see you soon. I’ve got some interviews here.”

“I thought you finished the interviews.” A higher voice replies. 

“No, not yet. I sent the package over to the bar owners and they wanted more about the air conditioning. We’re burning daylight. Go find Fabular.”

“Plutarch!” 

“Don’t. Not here.” His voice dips low. “Around the corner. By the HVAC unit.” He grips my arm and steers me around the building.

“You did this, didn’t you?” I snap, but I follow.

“I just need an interview by the AC.”

The air rattles from the HVAC, roaring loud enough to swallow our words. The smell of hot metal, oil, dust. It vibrates in my teeth. Plutarch lines me up against the grating like I’m part of his set, my shoes now slick with a leaking puddle from the machine. His fingers dig further into my arms, steadying me like he’s lining me up for the firing squad.

“I’m not giving you an interview. You got them killed for your damn footage, didn’t you?" My voice comes out raw, shredded from the inside. “This was the puppeteering you were talking about.”

His hands go still. A flicker in his eyes, but then it’s gone, smoothed over like it was never there. “No. No, Haymitch. Think. What good would that do me? A stunt like that is chaos. And chaos without control is dangerous.”

Good. Like he’s ever known the word. My pulse hammers in my ears, faster than the machine. “Like you’ve ever cared about good.”

“I’m concerned with outcomes, not appearances. And this—" he gestures at the plaza beyond us where the massive screen illuminates the ghastly faces of the crowd, "made my job much harder. Snow’s already pressing me for an explanation. You’re lucky no one cared enough about that boy to dig deeper.”

“His name is Jett.” The word grates against my teeth. “And I cared about him.” I step forward. He doesn’t flinch. “You were with them in training. You think I wouldn’t notice? Every mentor came up to tell me.”

“No, Haymitch. I didn’t tell anything to your pair. Too obvious. Too public. It would have served no purpose.”

"I should've known. You'll only ever be one of them."

“I have to be one of them,” he says like I’m just not understanding something. “That’s the only way this works.”

“And that’s why Jett and Cordelia are dead.”

The machine groans, cycling louder. For a second I'm back on the cliff, the generator just an axe throw away. 

"Lives will always be lost, Haymitch,” he says. “That’s the cost of change.”

“Don’t feed me that shit." My throat burns. "Two more kids dead. How many more lives are you planning to spend?”

“I didn’t plan anything. They’ll die as they always die. All eyes are on us — too dangerous to improvise now.”

“You’re lying.” My voice tears out of me. “You’re lying, and I’m sick of it.”

“I’m not lying." He shakes his head with a frustrated sigh. "Your tributes—”

“Jett and Cordelia."

“Yes. They made it messier than it had to be. I’ve already sold the fainting story, Jett catching Cordelia. Dug up training footage to back it. I’m buying you cover so you don’t end up hung in Twelve.”

“You think I did this?”

He doesn’t even shrug. “Doesn’t matter what I think. Only what the rest believe.”

The hum deepens, rattling through my ribs. I want to throw him into it. Let the blades chew him to pieces.

“So truth's worthless to you.”

“Truth is worthless everywhere. It’s only what people believe that matters.”

“The truth is you’re a monster.” My voice cracks on the word.

He lowers his sleeve from wiping the lens. The beady black eye of the camera stares back at me. “Maybe. But I’m a monster who knows how to survive. And how to help others survive — if they’re willing to be smart.”

The heat on my face could be grief or rage, I can’t tell anymore. “You don't know what I’ve been through.”

“I’ve watched you every second since you stepped off of the train.” He zips the camera back into his bag. 

My stomach lurches.

“I have to know what Snow sees. I have to stay one step ahead.”

“You’ve been listening this whole time.”

“Purely precautionary.”

“You heard everything.”

“I only clipped a few things for B-Roll. Nothing intrusive. Well, I was going to use them.” He pulls the camera bag between us.

“You’re sick.” I take a step toward him.

“I’m helping,” he says. “Necessary measures.”

“They’re dead because of you.” I take another dragging step, my hands balling into fists.

He tilts his head, calculating. His knuckles are pale as he clutches his camera bag tighter. “No, Haymitch. Really think. What purpose would it serve for me to push them? None. It was a tragedy — but not my design." He hesitates, then there’s that small, unreadable curl to his mouth. “Although… one year…”

“Publicity.”

“They’ll watch no matter how the children die. Explosion, arrow, blade — they’ll watch. We don’t need to orchestrate that. It was exhilarating, though, you have to admit. Quite the spectacle.”

“It’s true,” a deeper voice cuts in, and my head whips around. Chaff. Leaning against the corner, eyes burning into the side of Plutarch’s face. “They’re going to watch no matter what.”

“Why are you here?”

“Plutarch’s been missing too long. I knew he’d be sniffing around you.”

Plutarch’s smile snaps back on like a mask. “Back to the studio for me. You sure you can’t give me a line about how Carnivorously Cool the air is? That’s the mutts this year. Carnivores! No vegetation.” He elbows Chaff. “No foraging.”

Chaff glares at him until he leaves. The hum of the unit seems louder with him gone.

“I’m sorry, Haymitch,” Chaff says.

“I hate him.”

“We all do.” He lowers himself onto the machine, the unit groaning in protest under his weight. “But he’s not as bad as the rest of them. And he can pull strings none of us can.”

Pulling strings again. My voice is hoarse. “Puppets. We’re just puppets, Chaff.”

“We all work for the Capitol, Haymitch. We’re puppets no matter who pulls the strings. At least we can yell at Plutarch. He gets red and sweaty. Started carrying around a handkerchief after we met.”

“I don’t get it. We’re supposed to wait, and my friends are dead because we waited.”

Chaff rocks back on his seat, looking smaller than he did moments ago, but steadier now. “I remember the first tributes I lost. Pair of kids I’d never seen before from the city part of Eleven. Nicer clothes than I’d ever owned before the Games. Good kids. Cerise and Rind. I still hear every single name called on that stage.” He shrugs one shoulder. “You can tell how much a family’s got by their shoes. You can stitch a nice shirt from a neighbors scraps, but nice shoes don’t come as easy. They had nice shoes.”

I look down at my own shoes, shined with Capitol polish, taken from the stocked dresser in the apartment. “What’s that got to do with change?”

“Nothing.” He half shrugs again. “Not the kind of change that matters. Might help you, though.”

“I miss them.”

“Me too. It don’t get easier.” He meets my eyes. “Least I can do is tell you the truth. That’s one thing money can’t buy round here.”

I keep my eyes on the toes of my shoes. Any more polish and I’d see myself staring back. “I told them I’d try. I shook hands, told jokes. Followed Plutarch’s advice. And now they’re gone.”

“Not everyone wants to win this thing,” Chaff says quietly.

Cordelia’s laugh flickers in my head, something I’d only ever heard from the other side of the school cafeteria. It gives way to her words. I think I’ve given up on me. I look away from my shoes.

“Plutarch says Cordelia fainted. I didn’t see it.”

“Plutarch spins stories,” Chaff replies. He glances toward the square, then back. “He’s floated that one to make it look like an accident. No one fainted. Jett stepped off first. Cordelia followed.”

“So it was on purpose.”

“Looks that way.”

“Why?”

“Can’t tell you more than any other person you ask.”

“I told them I believed in them.” My thumb rubs the inside seam of my jacket where the cigarettes and coin rest. It’s no longer warm from Jett’s palm. He didn’t need it after all. 

“You can’t make decisions for people, Mitch.”

“But Cordelia said she was going to try.”

“You never know what’s in someone’s head.” Chaff leans forward. “Come inside. I’m blowing my hearing out trying to listen to you over this damn AC.”

“I don’t want to be around those people.”

“It’s easier once you’ve got something in your hand. Come on. We’ll talk inside.”

I follow him. Half the remaining mentors are already circling and shaking hands; the bloodbath’s ended.

“Doesn’t it bother you not knowing if they’re alive?” I ask.

Chaff glanced over his shoulder, the neon barlight flashing off his scarred jaw, then turned back to the bartender. The man slid him a whiskey in a glass sweating cold rings across the warped wood.

“They don’t let us send out gifts until after the main event’s over,” he said. “Seeder’s taking first shift.”

From the adjoining room, a scream rose and broke, drowned out a second later by the crowd’s roar on the monitors. I felt the noise in my teeth.

“So you’re networking?”

“Networking.” He winks.

I stare at the glass. For once, I can’t stomach it. “How do you deal with not knowing?”

“I learned not to make promises.” He looks at me plain. Above us the screens blink with the face of another tribute. The room breathes with a rush of excitement like a mutt that doesn’t care who it swallows next.

“Used to promise I’d get them out. Tore myself up mashing those buttons. Didn’t do any of us any good. I trust Seeder. What happens in that arena right now isn’t gonna change no matter what I do out here. You gotta pick your pieces. They like me out there, but they don’t like Seeder as much. I make the money. She moves it.”

“I really thought I could do it.”

“We all do our first year. Sometimes the second.” He nods. “We deal with the cards. You play poker?”

“Solitaire.”

“That’s sad.”

I shoot him a look, and he flashes a smile. 

“I’ll hold off.” He wipes the sweat from the glass on his pants. 

“So they’re gone. Just like that.”

“You can’t keep putting it all on yourself.”

I lean over my glass, staring down at the liquid silently. 

I lean over the glass, watching the liquid. Chaff sighs. “We’re stuck with this game for the rest of our lives, Mitch. Can you blame two kids for not wanting to end up like us?”

“I didn’t realize I was a worse choice than dying.” I force a half-joke down my throat.

“I’ve enjoyed your company.” 

“I don’t have anyone, Chaff. I thought I could.”

“You can’t keep what don’t want to be kept.”

“I thought I could have a friend at home.”

“When I heard about your folks, I tried getting Plutarch to reach out.” He takes a sip, then goes back in for more. “He told me no. I sent some fruit anyway. Guess it never made it.”

I stare at my cracked hands. A fruit basket arrived a few weeks back. Thought it was from Snow, so I tossed it like every other neat thing. “I got it.”

Chaff just nods. 

“I don’t think I can go on like this.”

“I can’t make you, but people need you.”

“No one needs me.”

“Every kid on that train needs you. Jett and Cordelia needed you. They ran to you. I saw how Cordelia pulled on your sleeve. I saw how they stuck next to you. Those kids needed every second with you.”

“I failed them.”

“You gave them the power to play the Games the way they wanted.”

“I let them down.” I lift my glass and let the liquor sit at my tongue, then set it down untouched. I know the warmth won’t fix anything, but I need it more now than I have ever before.

“You gave them opportunity.”

“I don’t have any to give.”

“But you do. You’re not powerless, Mitch. You did more in a year than most mentors do in five. You got people to like you.”

“I don’t need them to like me. I need this to be done with.”

“You only have power when people here like you. You’re only human to them when they like you.”

“I bet they cheered when they died.” 

“Would you be a better person if you cheer when the people in this bar die?”

I roll my eyes. 

“I know," he laughs. "It’s just what Harrow said to me when I was going through this same thing my first year. I wanted everyone here dead too. I know how you’re feeling.”

“All this time I thought I could do something.”

“You still can.” He waves the bartender over for another round of drinks.

“You said that. I don’t believe it.”

“You think Snow likes any of us? He called me vermin on the victory tour. Said I tracked mud on his carpets. I was fifteen.”

“He needs to die.” I watch the bartender work to pour the fresh drinks. 

“That’s the one guy I’d like to have a word with again.” Chaff laughs. “Have a lot to say to him.”

“Even if Harrow says otherwise?”

“Especially then.” 

The AC kicks back on right as Plutarch’s voice burrows through it on the far screen to announce a set of bloodbath highlights. I press my palm flat to the wood of the bar and feel the tremor under my skin as if the world might cave in and swallow me whole if I just pressed a little harder.

“Why do you keep coming back?”

“Booze.” Chaff slides the new glass toward me and takes his own. The glass moves too smoothly on the brand new polished, unscratched stone. His fingers leave smudges on the perfect shine. “Why not? These kids need me. Not like the train’s gonna stop rolling. Best I can do is my best for them.”

Beneath the roar of the crowd, the air hums with the low, steady push of the new cooling system. A crystal panel in the wall cycles through subtle blues and silvers, painted to look like winter.

“It’s pointless, isn’t it?” I mutter. “They’re gonna die anyway.”

“Maybe. Yeah. But does everything have to have a point?” He tips his glass back, the ice clinking against his teeth. “I do this because it’s the only way I can keep trying to make a change.”

“That’s what—” I glance over my shoulder. One of the brand-new monitors flickers on the far wall with arena footage sliding across it in bright, vibrant color. A scream cuts through the static for half a second before the feed resets into silence. Must be highlights. I turn back quickly, gut twisting too much to get another sip in. “That’s what he told me in the interview outside.”

Chaff doesn’t ask who. He just raises his hand, and the bartender — smiling too wide in his peridot jacket — pours another measure without a word. Rows of untouched bottles gleam behind him. The glass is so new it throws back fractured rainbows under the lights. Once they’re pulled down from the shelf they’re immediately replaced. 

“Some of us have different roles,” Chaff says, voice lower. “Requires different things. Him? He’s selfish, anyway. I don’t know if he sees us as people, either, but he’s trying to help, even if it’s just to get the boot off his own neck.”

“I don’t like him.”

He shrugs. 

“I know.” I mutter. 

“Point is, Mitch, you make your own purpose now. You don’t have to live under anyone’s thumb. You can choose to be here for whatever reason you come up with. Mags likes being a mentor. I think she finds it comforting to know the kids have someone clearly on their side. Seeder likes to think every year we can get a little closer. I like to make a new friend every year. Makes us district folk a little more human here.”

“Who’d you convince this year?”

“You.”

“I know you are a person.”

“But you don’t think you are.”

I bite my tongue. Beast. Arsonist. Mutt. 

Person.

My throat closes around the last word. It tastes like bitter coal dust.

“They let you go when they don’t need you to order gifts anymore.” He sets his glass down with a soft clink, the sound somehow louder than the rest of the commotion in the bar. “They’ll have a train waiting for you at the station. Just hop into one of the cars outside of the mentor bay. I’ll tell everyone you went home.”

I don’t speak. The bar lights flicker off the bottles behind him, green glass and sharp angles, everything too polished, too new. My reflection ghosts back at me, a smear of hollow eyes floating in a wall of liquor. Hattie’s never shone like that.

I stare into the dregs of my glass, where a bug has plastered itself to the side, wings spread wide, so close to taking flight, but forever stuck. The water clutches it like a net. Its wings catch the fractured reflections from the bottles behind the bar, scattering them across the liquid in jagged, jewel-bright slivers. Red, green, gold, and blue shimmer and fracture, spinning like a broken kaleidoscope. I slide the glass across the counter, but I don’t let go. My hand sticks to the perfect shine, sweat smearing where coal dust should be. I rest my head on my arm and shut my eyes.

They’re gone. Both of them. The first day. Why? Why did this happen? How long had they had this planned? Did they plan it?

I tuck my free hand under my arm and shut my eyes tighter. Jett, he stepped off first. He must have planned it. But when?

My hand falls down to my pants to wipe it clean from the sticky bar. The memory hits like a body blow: Jett taking the stage, shoulders and jaw set. His father yelling, escorted out of the Justice Building. The last time he saw his son. And his first words to me. It’s pointless to try and win. Else we’ll end up like you.

Oh, Jett.

Oh. Jett. 

He’d always known when he wanted to go out, hadn’t he? And how—in pieces, unburiable pieces. No miner’s uniform possible. Not like everyone else.

And Cordelia. Quiet, stubborn Cordelia. Did she know the same day? Or was she only following him, like she had no other road? I lift my head at a tug on my sleeve, but no one meets me. The newness of the room is all glass and chrome, but the crowd has already gathered at the glowing screen on the wall. A Capitol attendant manages a line of people, their arms outstretched with bills and coins that glint like fish scales the butcher hangs from his ceiling to dry. On the broadcast, a man draped in more gold than a sunset hands money over to another with a grin as wide as the screen itself.

Maybe she was right. I never gave her a real chance. She never stood one.

The bug buzzes weakly against my fingertips. I slide it along the glass, trying to free it, but it remains stuck. Its legs scrape, frantic, the wings catching light one last time before the colors dull. Neither of us can lift off.

Haymitch, we don’t stand a chance.

Odds again. You and Jett both. I’m just a number now.

I see her across the interview stage, Caesar’s wallet in her small hands, her eyes determined even as her fingers trembled. You say that like you don’t think I can get that far. You sound like one of them.

I have to be one of them. Had to be. For them. And now they're gone. 

And now all that remains is a coin in my pocket.

When I feel steady enough to face the plaza, I weave through the open doors beneath the etched emblem of Panem. The sudden brightness sears my eyes. The sweltering sun beats down on the crowd, bodies pressing shoulder to shoulder, sweat rising off them like steam. The noise comes in waves — hawkers calling, coins clattering, someone hollering for odds. 

Above it all, a black bird cuts across the sky, wings dragging against the blue. It circles once, then drifts away, leaving me with the heat, the crowd, the odds.

I keep my head down and slink into it.

Chapter Text

The hot July sun has returned, bleaching through the clouds and covering everything in a thick sheen of humidity. My head swims, and the condensation from the glass still drips down my fingers, leaving droplets below me that could just as easily pass for sweat. 

A few people still linger at the corners of the stage, where a massive screen shows the District Two boy hacking at one of the arena’s tree trunks. Despite the glaring Capitol sun, night has begun to sink inside the arena — orange sky dulling to navy, then to black. The anthem rips through the speakers, announcing the fallen.

I hang back at the edge of the crowd, fists jammed into my pockets, watching faces flicker across the sky one by one. The boy from One. The girl from Three. The boy from Four. Both from Five. The girls from Six and Seven. The boy from Eight. Both from Nine. Finally, my two tributes. Their painted faces, slathered in Capitol powder and glitter, looking nothing like the kids who I met on the train. I turn away before the names even finish scrolling, staring down just as something lands on my shoe.

“Hey! I had good money on that boy of yours.” 

“Did you spit on me?” I knock the glob off of the toe of my leather shoe and look up to see one of the two men with golden rings. 

“You said they were dangerous.” His glare hardens when I meet his eyes. “They didn’t last two seconds. My money’s gone, and I didn’t get a drop of blood for it.”

“Twelve kids just died, and you’re angry about your money?” My hands leave my pockets. I step forward until my shoe brushes his.

He doesn’t back off. “You told me your boy could fight. I didn’t even get to see him swing once.”

“You don’t got enough money to waste? Then hold your tongue,” I spit back. “Else folks round here are gonna find out you’re broke.”

The other man grips the first by the arm. “They’re all savages,” he says mildly. “See how quickly they resort to killing each other? This kid’s killed before. You’ve seen the diagrams. Their brains are smaller. They don’t think like us.”

On the screen behind them, a flash of red catches my eye — the boy from Six’s head rolling from his body, the hollowed cavern of his skull laid open by the Two boy’s axe. Warm blood trickles down my fingers where the droplets had been. I smell spring, taste chocolate. 

“Let’s spread our wings,” the second man says, turning back to his friend. “I’ll refurbish the vacation penthouse. They just dug up some old statues. A female statue this time — supposed to be from a set of six. Beautiful. We could use a new set of Avoxes, too. Blondes to match the furniture. What do you say, Midas?””

“No, Verres.” The first slips his arm free. I edge back, looking for a gap in the crowd. “We have to educate this…” his nose flares, “…boy.”

“We’ll report it.” Verres’s eyes flick to me. “Him. Report him. What was the hotline?”

“It’s in your call history, Verres.” 

“Oh, from this morning.” His fingers flicker over a small screen. “Yes. Here we are. 1-800-TEL-SNOW.” He lifts the rectangle to his ear, and I’ve had enough. I turn on my heel and shove through the crowd.

He calls after me, but no one moves to help him. I disappear into a cluster of poodle handlers and break free at the edge of the plaza, breath sawing in my chest. A bar cart waits there under a striped awning, a large television bolted to the corner blaring the Games at full volume. The screams drown the vendor’s voice; I have to shout just to be heard.

I slam my flask down and jab at the first bottle I see. He shakes his head, pointing to his ear, and I repeat myself. Finally he fills it halfway.

“No. Full.”

His lips tighten. He’s young, unaltered, his face still his own. It moves the way I’m used to seeing faces shift. He fills it the rest of the way and hands it back.

“Just give me the whole thing.” 

He passes me a fresh, unopened bottle instead. I lug it beside me as I move toward the line of cars.

The nearest one opens its door as I approach. “Train station,” I say, sliding into the back seat and uncorking the bottle. I drink deep, leaning against the leather, closing my eyes.

The car crawls through the Capitol streets, past candy-colored apartment blocks, hedges of violently blooming flowers, stores bursting with goods no one needs. I turn from the window and drown myself in the bottle. It’s a long way home.

It spits me out at the train station. On the platform, two simple wooden boxes wait, clashing with the polished marble beneath my shoes. Already prepped for the ride back, the boxes are just as poorly crafted as I remember. I don’t twist the screw into the plate on the left box. I leave it. I don’t want to know what’s in them. There wouldn’t be much to send back.

Peacekeepers load the boxes into the first car. I climb in behind them. The taller one squints at me from the door, I glare at him anyway, though the dark shadow hides his eyes. Again, he turns away. 

“Skipping the ride this time?” I snap. “Wasn’t I pleasant company last year?”

The Peacekeeper slams the door shut, but his eyes remain. The same eyes that saw me standing with three boxes last year. The same eyes that see me again with two more this year.

When will it stop?

I settle myself between the boxes and brace for the trip back. They’d plastered together enough wood for two plain coffins with the cheap brass name-plates. That all-too-familiar smell rides up between them. Old varnish, sawdust, the sour tang of not yet dried paste. The train lurches, the carriage rocks, and I push myself up onto my feet because standing feels like the only honest thing to do. I stagger to the other side of the box on my left, set the bottle on the floor, and shove with everything I have until the two boxes sit flush together.

They would have wanted that. Jett’s arm thrown over Cordelia’s shoulders, the red flush on her cheek catching the light — small things that will never be again. So I arrange them the way I imagine they’d choose, side by side, like a pair of kids leaning on each other in a schoolyard. 

I drop down on the cold plank of the floor to the left of them and let the train change the world for me for a little while. The liquor crawls up my nose and the floor hums under me until the black on the inside of my skull gives way and sleep finds me.

When I wake, the sun’s the same arrogant thing it always is, chasing the train across the fields and throwing heat through the carriage windows. It follows us all the way back to Twelve, like it’s earned the right to be everywhere. I stretch and toss the empty bottle across the compartment. It clatters, rolls under the little fold-down table, and taps to a stop on a leg. I watch it there for a long while and think, I’ll be back for that next year. Of course I will.

I haul myself up and wobble around the car to work feeling back into my legs. Outside, the hills slide by, the same ones I’ve cursed a hundred times for holding me in the district. The Games will keep playing in the square. 

A pair of tarnished uniforms, yellowed beneath the dim, flickering lanterns dangling overhead, cut through the thick, ashen haze. Pitch black coal dust swarms my vision and settles as a lump in my throat.

Not important enough for a complete stop, not important enough to wait longer than a second.

The train lurches again and the wheels moan their low, indifferent screech. I think about all the times I stood on platforms like this one, the same smell in my nose, listening to the same noise, and how the sight of these boxes used to be some other family’s tragedy.

I settle down against the wall, watching the boxes and draining my flask. They’re not gonna sit up. No matter how much I wish this would be over. It will never happen. These Games have no end. 

I can’t end these Games. Nothing changes under the sun. Nothing changes in Twelve. 

I fold back against the wall and drain what’s left of my flask. They’re not going to sit up, no matter how many times I ask them to into my drink. No amount of wishing will stitch them back together. These Games don’t end because you want them to. They’ll never end.

When the flask’s finished, I fish in my pocket for anything left that might count for courage. My fingers brush cardboard and my thumb meets the edge of the cigarette carton I’d hidden earlier. For a beat I imagine lighting one up, drawing slowly, letting the smoke fake warmth into these hollow places. I could burn the station down; I could smash every screen; I could throw myself from the roof and watch it all go up in real fire for once. What would that change? The train would come back. Some other mentor would be assigned next year. Names would be called. Children would be taken.

I pull the pack from my pocket and thumb over the ink of the label until it smudges. Still in my pocket remains a coin. Jett’s coin. I press my palm flat over it the way I do when acid’s burning its way back up. It’s cold now, like everything else that was once warm. I hear her. Haymitch, we don’t stand a chance. I hear him. You can spare some change.

I slot the cigarettes back into my pocket and put my hand flat on the lid of the nearest box. 

In my other, I hold Jett’s coin up to the sun and watch the light glint off of the Capitol minted metal. It shines in my eyes, then angles the light down onto the platform. I rock it back and forth in my fingers, letting it catch the light, until the dot of sun rests on Jett’s box, resting so silently on the barren planks of the station. 

I fold my fingers around the coin and count the nails in the coffins — doing anything to keep my hands still. As close as I can make myself look to man with composure. Like a mentor.

I was supposed to be the mentor. I was supposed to bring them home. I was supposed to change this.

But no. Nothing changes under the sweltering sun of District Twelve. Nothing changes in Panem.

And yet I’ll have to come back. Next year. And the year after. Chaff was right. If not me, then someone else. If I walk away, who will remember? Who will keep their promises? Who will take their coins to their pa? I could leave the job up to some slick Capitol favorite or a soft-spoken victor from a far-off district, with their smooth words and rich promises. But that’s not home. I’d never forgive myself. So I sit. I make myself stay alive. I carry home back with me, even if it’s only in pieces.

When the orange on the horizon breaks and succumbs to the blue of the day, the first sounds of footsteps crunch through the cinders. I look up to see a group of miners approaching with both the Fletching and Corvus families in tow. I drag myself up, steadying against the splintering wall, and drop Jett’s coin back into my pocket. Standing silently next to the coffins, I fold my trembling hands in front of myself and try to stand like a man who still deserves to be here.

Mrs. Fletching breaks into a harrowing sob and throws herself onto the box closest to me. Her husband kneels beside her and lays his cheek against the unsanded wood as though he can reach her girl through it. I turn to give them privacy, though there’s no privacy in grief here.

Mr. Corvus stares down at the other box, his head bowed in a silence so complete it feels like a blow. Jett was his only family left. The last of the Corvus line. Gone. Not even a boy anymore, just a name on a box.

No one looks at me. No one speaks to me. I stare at the silent coffins, wishing so desperately they’ll wake up and climb right out it hurts. The words won’t come, though I want to tell them how sorry I am. That I failed to bring them home. That I failed them in every way. My mouth stays shut. I turn and leave before my face betrays me, tears already burning.

The miners hoist the coffins on their shoulders long after I’m gone and head toward town. The same gray dust coats my shoes and clings to the wet, hot trails dripping from my eyes and down my jaw. The taste of salt creeps into my mouth again.

I lock my eyes on the unpaved road, not daring to lift them until the rumble of the square speakers reaches my ears. They’re still playing the Games in front of the District. I duck behind the bakery, skirting the square, and take the long way around. I don’t want to know who’s still alive. I don’t want to know who’s winning. No one wins the Games.

The trees seem to part themselves as I walk, and the path into the Seam feels older than it should. The warm months have brought the green leaves back, a few shrubs still thick around the path. The fence still stands, but the path to the woods is well worn, so someone must be making the trip out still. I’m glad Lenore Dove still has company. I hope she’s telling whoever it is the same stories she used to tell me.

When I reach the edge of the forest, I cut through the meadow and make it just in time to watch the speeches at the burials. The hot sun doesn’t allow time for grieving. Instead, we bury them first and grieve them second. With only two holes to dig this year, the burials move faster.

This year they start with the speeches. Peacekeepers mill around the graveyard edge, pretending not to listen, but the guns in their hands and the disdain in their eyes give them away. People haven’t had time to settle into grief yet. No anger, just shock and silence. You can’t move silence as easily as you can anger.

Mrs. Fletching speaks first, her words of a bright future cut short tumbling out between sobs. Her husband takes over when the tears come too hard and too fast. Next, the same old miner from last year steps up, shoulders sloped, as though even he knows how useless his words are at bringing them back. We all listen, though, because grief’s only medicine is sharing. 

No one talks about Jett’s time below ground. A law’s only broken if it doesn’t benefit the Capitol. None of us ask why a seventeen-year-old boy was hundreds of feet under the soil. It doesn’t matter now. He’s gone. There’s no liberty in being poor, just like there’s no liberty as a victor. Still a puppet, different strings.

The mayor opens the burial to anyone else who wants to speak. My tongue runs dry as my throat. No eyes find me. We all know I’d end up making it worse. I stay where I am.

Instead, a few of Cordelia’s friends speak. They say she always thought beyond what was in front of her, that she never turned on anyone. That she was loyal. That she was kind. That she was nice. She is remembered the way she wanted to be. Not a word about what she had to do to get by.

Jett’s father stands rigid at his boy’s grave, head still bowed. He never lifts his eyes, never speaks. Some of Jett’s friends take the place he will not. A boy from the Seam says Jett was always good for a joke. I never got to hear one, but his tongue was as sharp as his mind. I wish I had known him happy. Another man says Jett was always the one to hang back to make sure everyone got out at night. That he didn’t like the idea of anyone being left behind. That he didn’t trust the overseers to check right. He’s careful with his words and never mentions how Jett would go down in the elevator and wander the shafts. He leaves it vague and lets us picture it ourselves.

I stand in the back, silent. Counting the nails in the coffin. Counting the years ahead.

Right before the final call for speeches, Mr. Trunner, Cordelia’s favorite teacher, hobbles up to the front of the crowd, his leg lame from his mining days and the wear of time. He speaks through a hacking cough, but his words float above the crowd like a circling bird. 

“Cordelia was a bright young lady,” he begins. “She knew the right questions to ask and the way to go about getting an answer. She would hurry to my classroom before I could pack up for the day to ask one final, burning question, then offer to clean the chalkboard while I swept. She knew stories from the mines only the most hardened worker knew. She was bound to be the surest miner Twelve would have known. She showed promise and grit, but she never stopped asking for more answers. One day I didn’t have an answer she liked. I spent fifty years in the mines, and she asked me: ‘Mr. Trunner, how deep can you get before it stops?’”

He pauses, pulls a cloth from his pocket, and coughs black smudges into the rectangle before shoving it back into his mourning clothes with shaking, veiny hands. The crowd’s eyes drop to their boots as the cough echoes. “I told her as deep as they make us go, then a little more. She didn’t like that answer. She asked me again how deep it went, and how long we’ve been mining. I told her as long as there’s been light, they’ve been putting us in the ground, and I told her we’ll keep mining till the evening horn tells us it’s our time.”

His hand goes back to the top of his cane, fingers blotched with decades of work and age. “She didn’t like that answer either. That was the day before the reaping. Just about a week ago.”

He sweeps the crowd with his watery, squinting eyes, looking past the bowed heads until he finds the pocket of miners come to say goodbye to Jett. “Tomorrow, when they put you in the ground too, remember Cordelia. She would’ve been one of us. She should be here. A friend. A colleague. Someone to pick you up. Jett, the boy you knew, should be here. Remember that. Remember that when they leave you down there in the dark with no Jett to get you when it’s time. They should be here. Remember that.”

His cane thumps against the dirt. as he starts back to his quiet spot of mourning. He turns and shoulders his way back into the crowd, disappearing just as he was before — an old miner vanishing into the murmur of other old miners, all of them breathing the same slow grief.

The speeches end with the first few notes of the burial song. This year, Burdock’s not the one to start it, but I can still hear his notes high and clear above the crowd. I crane my neck to find him, but all of the faces blur into one long seam of people I’ve already lost, people I’ve already grieved. I look back at the graves. Together we sing the lines, leaning on each other’s shoulders and drawing a few extra breaths to keep the tears down until it’s over. We press our fingers to our lips and lift them to the sky.

As the crowd begins to thin, most of them heading back to the Seam to mourn over bowls of ham hock soup, I stay at the edge of the graveyard, watching the last few shovels of dirt fall. The earth lands soft at first, then heavier, blanket after blanket. I stand there numb, the sound of digging in my ears. It’s a sound I’ve come to know just as well as the exhale from a fresh bottle. The same sound that follows you into dreams. The same sound that tells you what you’ve lost is final.

For once, my mind is silent.

Far across the yard, I see them, Ma and Sid. Maysilee. Wyatt. Jethro. Louella. Pa. All in one place. Faces staring back at me through time-worn headstones. 

The rustle of steps jolts me from the void, and I blink the haze from my eyes. Mr. Corvus, the only other person still in the graveyard, kneels at his boy’s headstone, lips moving against the stone like he’s telling a bedtime story. I turn to go. He needs privacy, the comfort of words I don’t have, but my feet won’t carry me any farther. I am buried in this graveyard next to my own kin just the same.

“Mr. Corvus?” My voice cracks like the creaking of the mine’s elevator. He lifts his head and our bleary eyes meet. “He wanted you to have this.” I fish in my pocket for Jett’s coin and hold it out to him. “It’s the one he took with him.”

He pinches the small piece of metal from my hand with trembling fingers. He turns without a word and sets it on his boy’s headstone.

“I’m sorry about—” The word won’t come. Everything. Him. The Games. “This.”

He shakes his head. “I begged him in the Justice Building. ‘Give yourself a shot,’ I said, but he knew what he wanted to do the moment they called his name.” His voice breaks on the last word. He brushes past me and leaves me alone in the graveyard, with only the stones as my company.

I don’t leave until the orange of the sun fades into a black, cloud-covered sky. I count the fence posts and the rocks under my feet. When I look up for the stars, the clouds have stolen them. I look back down at my laces and count the steps until I reach the Hob.

Despite the mourning and the Games still raging, Bascom Pie’s stall boasts a moderate crowd. The smell of yeast and ash and the sweet sting of home-brewed liquor wrap around me. I weave through the drinkers and dump my remaining Capitol coins onto the counter.

“Missed seeing you here. Got quiet,” Bascom chirps, pulling six bottles down to pack into a box for me.

“You missed my coins,” I slide onto the stool at the counter, voice flat, "not me."

“One’s as good as the other,” he replies, setting the box of bottles in front of me and passing me a seventh to drink here. I pull it open and let the liquid burn my tongue.

“Bet you were getting all kinds of spoiled up there with their colorful, smooth stuff.”

“No one makes it as grainy as you or Hattie, Bascom.” I set the bottle down. He breaks into a toothless grin. 

“Hey, weren’t we supposed to win this year?” Another patron slides onto the stool next to me, dropping enough money for one of Bascom’s bottles. Bascom disappears down the row to fetch it.

“We’re never supposed to win.” I shift the box of bottles to my left shoulder, making it harder for the guy to reach for my stash. 

The guy grunts and leans over anyway. “But now we got a mentor. Now we’re good as the other districts.”

I shift on my seat. The silence hangs too long with everyone waiting for me to reply, so I break it. “It’s all the same. Mentor from Twelve or none at all.” I grumble, taking a small sip and letting it wash over my mouth.

“Why’d you tell them kids to step off? Don’t you want us to eat?” He leans in, his hot breath melting on my face. “You tryin’ to starve us?”

“Yeah, you specifically.” I grunt, turning away from the foul smell of his breath. 

He jolts off his stool and careens closer to my face. “You killed those kids,” he hisses. “Did it on purpose, didn’t you? We were supposed to win, but no. You and those outbursts of yours. I remember when we lost wages ‘cause you couldn’t keep your mouth shut. I remember those gallows they put up. Ended up in those stocks myself.”

“I didn’t kill them. No one’s supposed to win, either.” My knuckles go white around the bottle’s neck. “I didn’t do a damn thing like that.”

“Ain’t nobody ever stepped off their plates. We all know what happens. And both of your tributes stepped right off the moment before the clock started. You don’t think we’re dumb, do ya? We know what you did.”

My blood, flammable from the liquor, burns hotter within me. “I didn’t tell them to do that.”

“Yeah? Like how you didn’t burn your house down? You didn’t mean to shut down the mines? Didn’t mean to get that singing girl killed? Those two tributes, mentored by the guy who can’t keep his mouth shut like everyone else here, just decided on their lonesome to step off and blow themselves into bits. No message, no words, just guts everywhere, and you ain’t had nothing to do with it?” 

Red floods my vision. I slam the bottle into the man’s temple and hook into his right ear. He shoves me back and swings just as hard. The stars I missed earlier burst into my vision, but no one comes to help. I swing again, missing, and he drives a knee in my stomach, right above my scar. I double over, coughing up my liquor. It pours down my chin, and he grabs my head and lines it right back up with his knee. 

Bascom Pie charges in, hollering about how he’s gonna get shut down if this keeps up. Only then do the others watching seem to care. They yank the man off me, and I crumple to my knees, black crowding the edges of my sight.

I press my palms flat on the ground and try to work air into my burning lungs. “I didn’t tell them to do shit.” I sputter, spitting a glob of blood onto the floorboards.

There’s a low murmur around me. Questions about what to believe, whether to do anything more. I climb to my feet, using the stool as a crutch, and slide my arms under the box of bottles. Wind scrapes my lungs as I try to get my words in order. “You all think I did it on purpose?” I heave.

Silence. Beyond my panting, silence is the answer. 

I take my bottles and go. 

I shut myself in my Capitol prison and drink until my stash runs out. Sometimes, I hear the phone ring. If it’s not Plutarch or Chaff checking to make sure I'm still breathing, it’s always her — my sweet girl — telling me she’s in the Peacekeeper’s base, whispering the same words I once told her. I hear my own voice echoed back, the click, then the line goes dead. Still, I run every time, hoping that once — just once — it will truly be my girl on the other side. When I’ve had enough, the phone ends up in pieces again. This time no one fixes it.

Sometimes I visit her, until I don't. Her geese flew off when she never came back. I guess that part of me did, too. Over the years, the walk only seems to get further and the woods just get quieter. I stop visiting when the train rolls back into town. 

Plutarch tried wrangling the story, but somehow the rumor that I told them to step off made it back to the district long before he could even phone the commander. He tried to tell me people forget, that he already had something new lined up to help the process along. I never asked what it was. Didn’t matter. No one brought down the gavel. Maybe the scorn's punishment enough. It wouldn’t bring them back, anyhow. If they need me to blame, I’ll stand in the stocks.

For months my only company is the news. The girl from District Ten wins the Games. The snow brings the Victory Tour. I drink until it’s over. I meet her at the Justice Building. She’s smaller than she looked on television, and her eyes dart around like a rabbit’s. I drink until I black out and wake up under the frigid stars.

Plutarch’s big idea never happens — whatever it was. But he’s right. People forget. The mines close. The mines open. The envelopes of winnings arrive one after the other. The cigarettes find their way into the cellar. They let me back into the Hob again. People ignore me. People move on. Still, I never linger. When the snow clears I drink more, until the next train arrives to take me back to the Capitol. I return every year from then on. The tracks wear a groove into me. The Capitol calls it mentoring. I call it burial duty.

I catch Blair's eye once, many years later. He's got a girl on his arm and small one in a stroller. He looks away first and heads down another aisle, losing what was left unsaid in the crowd. I never try to reach out. Would only do harm. The boy he knew died with the others.

Eventually the district gives up on the idea that having a mentor means Twelve is more likely to win the Games. I give up on it too. Twelve won’t win. Twelve was never supposed to win. Not every pair of tributes goes out the same way, but every face still visits me in the dead of night. Every added body lies shoulder-to-shoulder on my never-ending tracks. I start shutting myself in my Capitol room and only coming out during the Games. I return back to Twelve sooner than most other mentors. No one notices. Or they notice and prefer it that way.

The cigarettes keep piling up. People start to gift them to me. I don’t smoke. Never have. They can’t know that, the way I make sure to bring a pack home with me after each Game. Maybe they think it’s helping. Maybe they think it’s mercy. I start leaving rotten food around to drown out the stench of death I can’t scrub from my clothes. I give up on cleaning. My rooms turn into a wasteland. But still, I live.

At first it’s out of spite. I live because Snow doesn’t want me alive. But just like everyone else, I try to forget, and move on. Spite turns into routine. Routine turns into survival. I live to live. What once was is no longer. I no longer need spite to get out of bed. I live because I’m still here. Because somebody has to. Because everyone else is gone, and I’m all that’s left. 

I still hate him. I want him dead and gone. I hope to watch it happen. But I never meet Snow again, despite every year I return to the Capitol. 

Still, things change. Eventually, Chaff’s plan works. They start treating us better once they know our names. I make myself into a fool. I crack jokes and drink until I can hardly hear anyone around me. Within a few years, I am the joke I always was. Everyone laughs, but no one takes me seriously. But I can finally speak my mind. And I’ve got thoughts of my own. 

Chaff makes so many friends that they start treating us like people, or as close as we can get. By the Sixtieth Games, they put us up in a fancy building, higher off the ground than I’ve ever stood before. I grow to look forward to seeing the other mentors. I learn their names, the names of their kids. It’s long past the time I could have any of my own. I still wouldn’t chance it. I will never love again. Never risk it. The thought of someone else in my bed becomes terrifying. I won’t let anyone in my room. Won’t let anyone close enough.

At first, it’s hard. I watch victors take comfort in each other. Find myself wishing I could, some nights when the bottle’s a little deeper than I’m used to, or if it goes down like water. But I never do. It becomes second nature after a while. I don’t crave anyone. The fear runs too deep, the cut left a scar, and I’m numb to it. Apathetic. I’ve got myself, I’ve got friends, but never anything more.

Years pass. The bottles empty. The cigarettes stack. The Games spin on.

I stop trying to connect with the tributes. As I grow older, they only start to look younger. Food disappears over the years. Rations end up smaller. I do what I can, leaving a few coins in my wake, but they always end up back in my pocket as I sit between the two boxes on my way home. And yet the train rolls, back and forth, to and fro, like a clock. And every year, back and forth, I take the coin.

I float between graveyards as I always have. I stop attending the burials. They don’t want me there. Sometimes I venture out to the growing graveyards to say my goodbyes in the middle of the night. Hattie’s hits the hardest. I never said goodbye. The markers keep coming. I keep counting them like fence posts.

When Burdock died, I didn’t visit. Hadn’t spoken to him in years at that point. Heard through the Hob he and Asterid married, but I never got an invite. Can’t hold it against him, not the way we left off, not the danger I bring to him. To anyone. We stopped being friends long before it happened. I kept to my place, and he to his. For a while, I resented him. I’d heard he had two of his own. A life I’d wanted to live, but never could. So I never learned their names, never saw what they looked like. Never visited. Neither of us came back knocking. It wasn’t good for us, but it was the best thing for us. 

I grow to look forward to seeing the other mentors. I learn their names, the names of their kids. It’s long past the time I could have any of my own. I still wouldn’t chance it. I never love again. Never chance it. The thought of someone else in my bed becomes terrifying to me. I won’t even chance it. 

I stop trying to connect with the tributes. As I grow older, they only start to look younger. Food disappears over the years. Rations end up smaller. I do what I can, leaving a few coins in my wake, but they always end up back in my pocket as I sit between the two boxes on my way home. And yet the train rolls, back and forth, to and fro, like a clock. And every year, back and forth, I take the coin.

Chapter Text

The only thing that gets harder each year is dragging myself out of bed for the reaping. It’s gotten later in the day than it used to be, but I never sleep until morning anyhow. I indulge in my breakfast, the biggest bottle I can find, and grab a light snack, a slightly smaller bottle, for the road.

I pull on something without wrinkles. Used to pick out clothes. Stopped doing that when I realized they’d let me up on stage whether I was there for the anthem or not.

Every year it’s the same: the same square, the same faces growing older or thinner or gone. The same sound of the anthem crackling through speakers older than me. I’ve stood through forty of these now, and the sun always burns just as hot by noon.

The bottle sweats in my hand as I step out the door. Somewhere in the Seam, another family’s waiting to hear their name. Another train’s already being polished, ready to haul two more ghosts to the Capitol. I don’t look at the clock anymore. I don’t have to. It’s always reaping day.

I make my way down the path to the square. The noise of the speakers greets me. Late as always. Still, the train rolls on. I stumble down to the steps of the stage right as they call my name and start to complain about how they never wait for me just as a chair appears in front of me. I fall into it. Too much to drink, I guess. Or maybe not enough.

The sun beats down like a punishment. I can feel it boiling through my jacket, through my skin, straight into my bones. The air’s too clean. No coal dust, no smell of liquor, just sweat and perfume and the sweet rot of flowers wilting in the heat beside me. Effie Trinket’s too sweet and too heavy perfume. I lean over to complain, falling too fast as I attempt to catch myself and end up almost falling on top of her. She fends me off. I laugh. 

She scowls. The mayor calls her name. I sink back into my chair, trying to decipher what’s real and what’s the alcohol playing tricks.

“Happy Hunger Games,” she chirps. “And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Another year. Another coin flipped. Heads, tails, train, bottle, grave.

And still, the world keeps turning.

The girl’s name is called first. A murmur runs through the crowd. I squint against the light, trying to see her face. She looks like a dozen others I’ve lost, small and stiff and trying not to cry. Two small, blonde braids down her back. Back of her shirt untucked.

And that’s how I recounted it for the girl and the boy when they pulled me into that memory book with them. I put it off for as long as I could. I wanted nothing to do with it. I smelt smoke and felt the sear of burning flames on my fingers every time I picked up the pen. I had to excuse myself more times than I can lean over the page.

But they waited. They waited the months it took for me to convince myself nothing will happen to them. No one’s going to hurt them if I tell them.

When I brought the box of twenty four packs of cigarettes over from the depths of my cellar, I watched the look they gave each other. Still, I thumped it down next to them and peeled the first one open. 

I started with Cordelia. Quick hands, quicker smile. I decoded each letter quickly. Gave them what I could remember. How she wanted to be remembered. How she was. Mr. Trunner, long gone but his speech, still quoted in the hob. Remember. So I did. Best I could. Every tribute’s name, everything about them. Jett came next, owed no one, still gave coin. The boy helped to write when my fingers gave up on holding the pen. 

I tore open each pack of cigarettes and went year by year, name by name, code by code. Smoke curled through the room like a reminder of last time I tried something like this. They forced me to take breaks. Get fresh air.

I added Hattie and her work. I added Sid and his stars. I added Ma. And Pa. And Lenore Dove. I added everyone I could think of. It took more months just to get their names down. But they kept the pages open for me to write when I’m ready.

I stopped glancing over my shoulder when the girl asks what I’m looking for. I don’t tell her what happened last time I tried something like this. She’s got enough to worry about. 

I even unraveled their cigarettes, deciphering the code to put on the pages of the 74th Reaping. I unravel a third for Primrose. I couldn’t face the book for days afterwards after watching how the girl fled deep into the woods that evening. 

I lock myself in my house after it’s done. Drink myself nearly to death until they pull me back to life. 

Life gets better. I start to remember more. Work with people when the girl and the boy drag me down to a doctor one day. Life goes on. Life got better.

And I remember the truth. No one can take that. Not from me.