There are only three slips in a single ball this year.
It's a concession, of sorts, but also a huge source of district pride. Tiny district we may be, and also the poorest, yet we look after our own. This year, they couldn't even scrape together entrants from both sexes. No matter the size of the bribe - quietly increased week by week - they couldn't achieve it. Almost nobody would co-operate. So after the first name is read, and it's a boy, the girls visibly relax. Safe for another year. Effie coughs, a little embarrassed by what the Capitol regard as our egregious lack of courage, and she feels must reflect at least a little on her. Then she reaches into the bowl for the second name.
"Peeta Mellark."
He raises his jaw, squares his shoulders, walks with steady tread to the platform. Next to the weeping thirteen year old. And I know, with absolute certainty, that the witch never told him. He thought he, like almost everyone there, was safe for once. The other kid's misery said it all, and so does Peeta's shock. He's not had time to prepare. Time to be terrified. Time to reflect on exactly how his name would sound, echoing into the wind.
I've been dreading this day less than I might have. I knew Prim, Madge, the Hawthornes - all out. All safe. And that's been the biggest comfort anyone could have given. Nobody, this year, would be someone I cared about. This first year Mentoring, I could do my job and come home, just as soon as they were dead, safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't be someone I really knew. Horrible, yet bearable, and this year, too, it wouldn't be me doing the killing. But things are suddenly worse than I'd ever anticipated, because there were so few kids thrown to the wolves this year, and he wasn't meant to be one. He's a Merchant, after all.
Effie greets him effusively, squawks inconsequential nonsense about a glorious new dawn for Twelve, about how she'd be betting on her Tributes this year, inspired as they must be by my own glorious victory. As though Effie's opinions ever counted with anyone, anywhere, ever. As though a superior ability to butcher other kids was an enviable trait. And then he's shaking the other boy's hand, and Effie beams at the crowds, and breathlessly croons her admiration, her understanding of just how hard this must be for the parents, but what nobility, sending their children to prove themselves on the field of battle, what faith and trust they showed in their abilities and courage.
Everyone knows Davyd's father isn't actually his father at all, his survival to date being solely down to his mother's family, so his being up here isn't a shock. The entry bribe was large enough for a mean drunk with no other way of seeing coins last more than a night, and frankly Milo Darke hates his dead wife so much, he'd probably have paid them to put that slip in the ball just to get his revenge. Better late than never, and if it's a dish best served cold, the grave's as chilly as it gets. Poor kid'll be joining her there inside the month, and there's nothing, now, anyone can do to stop it. But the Mellarks? Nobody, but nobody, could have seen that coming. And to judge from the blankness on Peeta's face, I'd guarantee he was one of them.
To remind ourselves that the Games arose from the choices of the Districts, the Tributes this Third Quell shall be reaped from those offered forth by a parent.
"Well, it'll be quick, Sweetheart." Haymitch cracks open the bottle. A deep swallow, and he exhales in the same way my father used to, getting home after a long, cold day at the mine. "They'll be lucky to make it past the bloodbath, but my reckoning is they'll be out inside the first three days. Very sad, cruel loss, credit to their districts, wham bam and home we go ma'am."
Effie hands a glass across the table, a little harder than necessary. It lands with a sharp smack on the polished mahogany. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was his ruthlessness she objected to, but of course, it isn't. It's his table manners.
"You were wrong about me," I say, my voice casual. "You could be wrong this year as well."
His eyes narrow across the bottle, arrested for a second by this unexpected optimism. "No. You can get sentimental all you like. They'll die just as fast. You were a fluke, Katniss. A merchant kid and a scrawny little bastard aren't lasting ten seconds when a Career decides otherwise, and the faster you prepare yourself, the easier it gets."
"For you." I have my fist around the bottle neck now, stopping him from taking a sip more. "For you."
"Sure," he agrees, smiling. It's not a pleasant smile. In fact, it's downright nasty. "And if looking after number one weren't a priority for you, you'd be dead right now. Wouldn't you?"
I can't tell him. Can't explain that if it weren't for Peeta, I'd be in that graveyard right now anyway, with Prim and my mother beside me. That I owe him a debt I can never repay. That if he dies in there, I'll be haunted by that failure all my life, haunted by the failure to save the person who saved Prim, let alone me. So I just snort and yank the bottle out of Haymitch's hand, throwing it against the panelling where it shatters and sprays red droplets everywhere. Then I ignore his enraged expletives, ignore Effie's loudly-voiced, dripping fury, ignore everything until he's calmed enough to lock eyes with me and recognise my determination for what it is. Then I nod.
"The other one... there's nothing we can do, his parents saw to that a long time ago, before he was even born, most likely. Mellark, though... he has a chance, Haymitch. A chance."
Effie has stalked off to change wigs and repaint her face, muttering darkly all the way. So Haymitch leans back in the chair, eyes, narrowed, appraising me. "Okay, Katniss. Level with me. You don't really give a damn about anyone but that little girl and the Hawthorne boy. So why are you so damn determined to save Peeta Mellark?"
"Does it matter?" I'm prevaricating, because I need to buy time. Haymitch can read me. He always could; it's how I survived at all. And the truth is just too personal to share.
"No. Probably not, in the real sense. But if you want me to help you - and let's face it, in your first year mentoring if you want to stand a hope in hell you're going to need me to help you - you're going to have to tell me. Because I want a reason for saving a Merchant kid like Mellark over Anya Hoakes' poor kid. And don't give me his better odds, " he interrupts, seeing my face flicker with the thought. "Don't lie."
"It's private, Haymitch."
His face changes, and he looks at me with an expression I've only seen once before, the day I won, the day he met me in that hallway. It scares me, because it's kind. Haymitch doesn't do kind. It's only ever a sign things are badly wrong.
"Oh Katniss. Don't you get it? You're a Victor now."
"Yeah. I was there, remember?"
He shakes his head. "No. You know you won. But you still don't get what that means."
"What it..."
"It means," he interrupts, "that nothing is yours, not really yours, ever again. And if you want to help that kid, you'll have to sell whatever pieces of you you can, just to get someone to be interested in helping him. So," his index finger is suddenly shooting towards me, a little unsteadily - it's been a long day, though it's still only three - "If his survival really means anything more than a damn to you - you will tell me what the story is. And then we work out if we can squeeze some value from it. Because that, Katniss, is how this game is really played."