"Oh no," I say flatly to Plutarch. "I can't face it without a bottle. And in case you noticed, they're not big on inebriation here."

I waggle an arm to demonstrate the play of bones underneath muscle, the yellow waxiness of my skin. The combination of forced sobriety and very little sunlight has not served me well. I look like a corpse and the alcohol is still filtering out of my system. At least I'm not shaking anymore. Aside from being inconvenient, it was also embarrassing.

His broad face falls slightly, but he doesn't look that surprised as he slumps in his chair. I wouldn't be, either. The truth is, you can't treat visiting my decimated home district like it would be an enlightening experience, which is how he's trying to sell it. It wouldn't give me closure in any sense of the word. I think seeing 12 would actually drive me to breaking the locks on the hospital cabinets to get to the carefully rationed rubbing alcohol, and I have been doing very well not thinking about breaking those locks.

The lighting in command makes us look sallow and causes gray shadows to fall under our already tired eyes. Other than it being a pure necessity, I don't understand how the people in 13 have stood living underground nearly full time for over 75 years.

They're- we're- allowed to go out at specific times in the day for exercise and sunlight, but coming from a place where if we weren't miners, we spent our time outdoors, this is a problematic adjustment. I've also spent enough of my summer months in the Capitol with the City Circle and lush parks to like being indoors all the time.

But it beats living topside and getting blasted to pieces, I guess.

"They're not," affirms Plutarch. He obviously wants to say something more critical. I'd almost welcome the hostility. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm hunkering for liquor. A welcome distraction could take the form of me pounding a former Gamemaker.

There's been more tension between us ever since I intervened in Fulvia's plan to produce their Mockingjay in a studio. That, and I was a tribute. I am a victor. It doesn't matter that he didn't design my Games; he has that mentality where everyone around him exists to be manipulated to his personal advantage.

I'm no altruist myself, but I lack a certain cunning that Plutarch makes up for in spades. We understand one another, even if we don't particularly like each other.

"You want to take Katniss, Gale, and the camera crew, take them," I say. My lips twist into an ironic smile. "I'm not going. You wouldn't get anything useful from me, anyway. I'd probably scare people with the way I look."

He finally breaks eye contact because he knows I'm right. Of the present camera-ready rebels, I'm the least charismatic one. Cocky only works when you're young. Beetee, even, holds more appeal than me. Also, my days of looking attractive on camera are well behind me unless I get awarded with a team of stylists. The only one of those we have belongs to Katniss.

I could tell Plutarch about the dreams. That would shut him up.

I have these dreams about 12 burning. They leave me waking in a clammy sweat with blood dripping down my hand, because I'm clutching my knife just where the base of the blade meets the handle. Neither time nor reality seems to matter in the nightmares; the people getting burnt to blackened charcoal include my old tributes, my mother, or my younger brother.

And always Peeta or Katniss. These days I have a one-track mind rendered neurotic by my detox.

But I decide against divulging, because they've recently released me from the hospital into a living compartment. I wouldn't want word getting back that I'm somehow mentally unstable.

Part of the process of sobering up involved panic attacks and erratic hours when I would launch myself at anyone who bothered to come near me. I'm not proud of it. But the problem was, they forgot how strong I am. I'm glad Katniss never came to claw at my face again; I might well have done her some damage if she tried to touch me. I wasn't in control of myself.

Plutarch wouldn't be able to grasp the concept of his entire home being firebombed into ashes. How could he? The only home he's known has been the Capitol. Even if we manage to take it over, Capitol forces will probably end up doing more damage to it than the rebels.

To Plutarch, District 12 was nothing more than a poor, dirty district, nothing to compare with where he grew up. I can only imagine how patient he's trying to be with our traumatized survivors. No one would argue that 12 was the best or prettiest place to be, but it was home.

"All right," he says evenly. "This afternoon we'll go and film more for the propos."

"You do that," I reply. "I'm sure it will be great." He glances at me. There's little appreciation for my sarcasm in his expression. I look at him blandly and fold my hands on the tabletop. "Anything else?"

Sighing, he says, "No."

I try to stop him as he starts to disappear into the hallway. My mind flashes to an image of Katniss wandering the dank corridors of 13 like a wraith. She has already been to 12, once, but I suspect things will be different this time now that she's more lucid. "You push her too hard and she'll break, Plutarch," I warn him wanly.

But he's already made it to the elevator.