My name is Dandelion Primrose Everdeen-Mellark. The joke in my house is that my mother was so tired after labor that the sight of the first spring dandelion outside her bedroom window prompted the choice. It's not a joke, really. That's actually what happened. But plant names run in the family. My mother, Katniss, is named after a root that grows in the banks of the pond in the woods in our district. Her sister, Primrose, was named after the cute little white flowers my father plants outside in our garden.

My brother and I are namesakes of people who have died during the Second Great Revolution. They named my brother Finnick Haymitch, but the latter name is still living. Next door, as a matter of fact. I'm not sure how that's possible; his drinking leaves him incapacitated most of the time. They've had to replace his liver twice, and his age doesn't make him any better.

As for the first name, I don't have much to say. I never knew him. His son, though, that's a different story. He's fifteen years my senior, and almost the spitting image of the photo of his father that his mother keeps in her shell-shaped locket. His name is Dolphinn. Literally. Dolphinn Odair. Apparently that's what his father's favorite animal was as a child. We'll never truly know though. Annie's mind was damaged permanently as a young woman, and any extended family he might have had died at the hands of the Old Capitol.

Dolphinn and I have a pretty strong relationship, despite the fact that I never see him. He doesn't like his name much, and asks everyone to call him Phinn. Except me. And of course, his mother, but that's a given. When he first told me I could, I was ten. It was the biggest honor I could've imagined at the time. I then decided that he could call me by my nickname, Dandy. My father made it up when I was a toddler, and he was the only one who'd ever used it before Dolphinn. It's a little special thing that we share in a world that's still in a state of recovery.

Our parents lived in a world as children that I can only scarcely imagine. My parents were 'tributes' in the Hunger Games, a tournament that's now taught in our history books. Dolphinn's father won the tournament ten years before my parents. And Haymitch Abernathy, our neighbor, won years before that, and served as my parents' mentor. It's a wonder to me, seeing as he can barely think anymore. I hope for Finnick's sake that alcoholism doesn't spread by association.

The Hunger Games were a tournament to the death organized by the first government of Panem just over one hundred years ago. Two children were selected from each of the twelve districts out of a pool that held everyone ages 12 to 18 years old. The last one standing after the tournament ended won.

The arenas that held the games have been destroyed, replaced with fifty foot high polished stone walls where people carve the names of their loved ones lost during the Revolution. Apparently that idea is older than Panem itself. I wonder if I could find my aunt's name among the dead; I don't know if Mom has ever gone to the Capitol to put it there.

My parents were two of 24 tributes to be chosen for the 74th annual Hunger Games. And they were the only pair of tributes to both come out of the arena alive. My father, Peeta, was chosen. But my mother actually volunteered. She had no choice. She had to protect her sister; her little, defenseless, 12 year old sister. It was a choice that marked the first step to the most violent large scale rebellion Panem has ever experienced before or since. It makes me wonder what I'll have to do with myself to live up to my name. I don't want to have to kill someone to accomplish it.

Sometimes, the Games slip back into our lives, even though they ended nearly 30 years ago. My mother suffers nightmares frequently, so Finnick and I wear earplugs when we sleep. And my father has fits, results of the torture he was put under at the hands of the Old Capitol. They messed with his memory of Mom, convincing him that she was some kind of muttation, intent on destroying Panem. They twisted his good memories into disgusting, fear ridden things. He tries so hard to keep himself in control, to keep from lashing out and hurting one of us. His arms tense, beads of sweat form on his skin, and his eyes dart around, a fiery crazed look blazing in them.

Mom has this thing she does to help him regain reality. It's called 'Real or Not Real?' She recalls simple facts, things which he should know, and asks him if their real or not. If he answers 'real' to a question that is indeed real, then we know he's in control. If he answers 'not real', or seems confused, then we know one of his 'shiny memories' is trying to take hold. The Capitol's altered memories have no cure at this moment. Maybe not ever.

Mom has been teaching me the game too, in case she's not there. Usually I just ask about my nickname, or whether or not I burnt the sweetbread the first time he taught me to make it. I did, by the way.

Other than that first time, I haven't burnt anything since. Like Dad, I know my way around an oven. I also have a way with words, or so Dolphinn tells me. I write things in a journal that I hide under the floorboards in my room. Some things are meant to be kept private.

The one ability I share with my mother is my singing voice. I remember when she'd sing to Finnick and me as young children, how silent everything got, like the whole world was listening to her. The only person I've ever sung to is Haymitch.

My family sends supplies over to him regularly, including a fair supply of spirits, since he barely leaves his house. He's so far into his addiction that he'll die without a constant supply of alcohol. It's pathetic.

One day, I was the designated deliverer of his basket. Usually, I just set the stuff on his doorstep and knock to alert him. But that day, his door was ajar. And what harm could there be in just putting them on his counter? It's not like I was going to steal anything in that hovel of his.

Just as I finished the task of working my way to his kitchen, I heard him crying. Despite my apprehension and a voice prodding in my brain to just leave, I crept toward the sound.

Haymitch was curled up in a ball on the floor in his sitting room, in front of an empty fireplace. His whimpering conjured my utmost pity, and I found myself close to tears as well. I moved down to his side, crouching carefully.

"Haymitch?" I said gently, looking into his wrinkled, tired face. He was in the midst of a nightmare it seemed. Even though he seemed conscious, I knew he wasn't with me.

"Clara," he moaned, tears streaming from his grey eyes. "Clara, I'm so sorry, ooohhhh…"

I didn't know who Clara was, all I wanted was to stop his pain. His cries brought out a pain in my heart that I didn't quite understand. I settled myself onto the floor and cautiously brushed his scraggly hair from his face. He didn't move.

Deep in the meadow, under the willow,

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

I began with my mother's lullaby, the only thing my mind could come up with.

Lay down your head, close your sleepy eyes

And when again they open, the sun will rise.

Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow

brings them true.

Here is the place where I love you.

When I had finished, the house was eerily quiet. I looked down to see Haymitch clasping my hand, his eyes dry and his face totally aware.

"You sound just like her, y'know it?" his voice was hoarse, the sound of a sick man. "Just like Katniss. Even Clara stopped to listen."

He released my hand, patting it once and rising from the floor. I stood too, watching him go to the kitchen.

"How many bottles?" he asked, as if I hadn't just sang to him like an infant.

"Thirty-six," I replied, heading back out the front door.

He's never mentioned it. I wonder if he remembers. I bet he does.