Redone. I like redone. Redone is good.

I don't actually mean to say that Suzanne Collins is not a genius, because she is. This is just a funny little idea. One-shot.

The pen hovers over the paper. Black ink glistens at the tip. How will I write this?

He comes in, Mitch, my son, gray eyes wide, to ask for the teddy bear.

"Hi, honey," I say, quickly stowing my pen away. He can't know yet, he's four.

"I want Glimmer, Mommy," he says.

I wince. Mitch and Chicory, his seven-year-old sister, once overheard me talking about our first Hunger Games. Mitch heard Glimmer's name and immediately decided that Glimmer was the perfect name for the brand-new sparkly teddy bear that was Annie's baby shower gift. So it became Glimmer and I just have to avoid mentioning it.

I take Glimmer off the shelf above the computer desk and give it to Mitch, but he doesn't move. "I want you to say, 'Good night, don't let the bedbugs bite'," he announces.

"Good night, don't let the bedbugs bite," I say. "Ask Daddy or Chicky to tuck you in. Mommy's busy."

"Yes, Mommy," he says, and leaves.

I take out the pen and lean over my paper again. I replay why I'm doing this.

Beetee reaches out a hand. "Katniss," he says, and coughs. "Katniss, the time machine."

"You said that was an experiment," I say.

"Maybe a little more…than that," he wheezes. "Small objects, Katniss. Up to three small objects."

"What?"

"Small…" He considers for a moment before saying, "About the size…of a book."

"You're delirious, Beetee," I say. "Your morphling supply –"

" – is perfectly fine. I'm not delirious, Katniss." And I have to admit that he doesn't seem like it. "The time machine. Anything you want. I gave your husband…instructions."

"Instructions?"

"Katniss, I don't have much time. Maybe until tomorrow. Peeta has the instructions. I'm giving the chance to you." He sits up straighter, regaining strength. "You have to remember, anything you send back can't change the past, because in the past you've already done it. But anything you want, Katniss. It will work three times."

He falls silent and drops back onto the pillows, exhausted. Talking tires him.

"Beetee?"

"I'm tired, Katniss," he says. "Good luck." And he's out like a light.

I try to contemplate what he's said. He mentioned the time machine years ago. I can send three items back – about the size of a book, if his ill self is to be believed – back into the past. How interesting. Three items.

I finally make my decision. Write this in the present tense, to show whoever reads this how I was feeling. Then travel up to District 3, once called Connecticut, and send it back to try and avoid making all of this happen.

Beetee said it's not possible. He said I can't change what happened in the past, that me sending these back has already happened. I don't care. Anything to escape the horrific memories that nip at my heels when I'm awake and storm my head at night.

I begin:

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold…