The door creaks in protest when Peeta opens it. He has to give it an extra shove to force it past the deep gouges the door's corner has scratched into the wood.

"We should fix that door," I think, before remembering. There was no point in fixing this house. No one wants to buy the house of a former Victor, not when it's filled with so many bad memories. Most likely the Council will want to turn it into a museum, afterwards. A tribute to a leader of the rebellion. Others want to keep it as it is, let it fall into disrepair and dust, especially the ones who lived in Twelve before the rebellion. The Council says that it would be wrong to let a reminder of such poignant history fade away. The people say that it's only fitting that the house should die with its owner.

Charming as ever, Haymitch doesn't give a damn what they do with his house. If anything, he's amused that they aren't even waiting for him to drop dead before squabbling over what they can do with the publicity.

I'm suddenly impossibly tired. Memories press themselves against the back of my eyes, trying to push their way into my sight once more, make me live them out again. Bright spotlights bake my flesh. Make-up cakes my face, a second layer of skin. Words sit heavily on my tongue, learnt words, remembered words, and even as I lift my bow above my head I can tell that I will be shouting the corpse of another person's script.

And then I'm back, eyes shut tight, teeth gritted. A tear congeals in the corner of my eye. It surprises me. I thought I was all cried-out already.

But then I feel a hand slip into mine, and a familiarly strong grip anchors me in the present. The rock of Peeta's clasp is enough to dam the flow of memories both lived and imagined.

I let out a breath I don't remember taking in and open my eyes to see the familiar face of my husband. He looks haggard. He probably shed a few tears, the ones he held back so the kids wouldn't see. But he looks concerned, and understanding, and I fall in love with him all over again.

"Hey," he says. "It's okay."

I nod, because I need a moment to compose myself. I clear my throat to buy a few extra seconds.

"How is he?" I ask.

Peeta grimaces.

"Not good. He's still Haymitch, most of the time. I've been reading to him. We've been looking through the memory book together. But now and then, it's like he completely forgot I was there. Like sometimes he'd look over at me and jump a little, as if he was surprised I was there."

"We could petition the Council," I say for the millionth time, because there are so few things to say at this point. "I'm sure they've got something that'll get his liver going again, and there are these new artificial kidneys, and-"

"Katniss," Peeta says in that quiet, firm way he always does when I bring this up. "He's just old. There's no cure for that, and he wouldn't want one anyway."

I shake my head, because even on his deathbed Haymitch is still the most stubborn person in the world.

"Just like him to be the only one who's made peace with his death. Just so he can tell everyone to stop crying and get over it already."

"He wants to see you," Peeta says. He smiles a little, but I know that he's just humoring me because this is the kind of joke that only Haymitch and I find funny. "Where are the kids?"

"Downstairs," I reply. "I knew Haymitch wouldn't want to let them see him like this."

"Of course he wouldn't," Peeta says with a sigh. He shakes his head. "All right, I'll go check on them. Go inside. I'll be downstairs."

Peeta walks off to go check on the kids, leaving me with the door. It's dark inside, so even if I peek I can't see anything more than the edge of Haymitch's bed. The smell of dust, sickness and age breaths out into the hallway.

I'm considering taking a breath, a moment to steady myself. Even after two childbirths and decades of experience, I'm still not entirely convinced I can deal with patients and my bedside manner is still abominable. But then I remember that this is Haymitch, and he wouldn't consider it a waste of air to chastise me for wimping out, even if it was with his last breath.

I walk inside.

The first thing that hits me is the smell. Even with Peeta and me cleaning him and washing the sheets and dusting the floors, there is the unmistakable scent of death and disrepair in the room. Beneath the fragrance of the flowers on his bedside table, the air stinks of disinfect and decay.

I'm thankful now that Haymitch insisted that the life-support machines and monitoring equipment be removed from his room. He'd done it against the protests of everyone, including me. He said that the noise they made drove him crazy.

At this moment, I'm glad that Haymitch can be so obstinate. Combined with everything else, the beeping and clicking of hospital equipment would likely have brought on another panic attack. As is, I take a breath to steady myself and push forward.

For Haymitch.

I've just stopped at the foot of his bed when a soft voice croaks out of the shadows.

"Hello, sweetheart."

I pull up a chair and sit down next to him. I turn on his bedside lamp.

"Hello, Haymitch."

He looks worse than I remember. His eyes are sunken, and what little hair he has left is limp and brittle. He's lost weight, but alarmingly so. His skin is pulled so tightly over his frame that his wrinkles are almost invisible, or are lost among the veins pressing outward. He's propped up on thick cushions, but it's clear that gravity's the only thing keeping him in place. It takes so much effort for him to turn his head to the side to look at me that I'm legitimately worried he might snap his neck under the weight of his skull.

"You haven't been sleeping much, have you? Because you look terrible." Haymitch says in a cracked, hoarse voice.

And it's so ridiculous, so sarcastic, so Haymitch, that I have a mini-breakdown where I don't know if I should cry or laugh and so settle for a strangled hiccup.

"Still prettier than me, though," Haymitch says. "Even after popping out two kids. And raising the little beasts as well. Life's so unfair."

"We've never played fair, though, so it all balances out," I say, trying to keep my voice even. "You more than anyone."

"Fair is for suckers. I play with a stacked deck or not at all," Haymitch says smugly. His face goes slack for a moment as he stares at something only he can see, some long-lost memory which has resurfaced. He blinks, and looks at me, confused.

"The kids are downstairs, Haymitch." I say, to help give him an anchor, a point of reference. "I didn't know if you'd want them to see you like this. We can call them if you want, Haymitch."

That's another technique we picked up over the years, us lucky few called Victors. Repeat someone's name often as possible when talking to them. It helps them focus, keeps them in the now. I'm hoping that it works against age and senility as well as crippling trauma and scream-inducing nightmares.

He nods, eyes focused once more.

"It's fine. You chose right. No kid needs to see an old man fall to pieces in front of them. The brats don't like me already, no need to add to that pool of bad memories."

"That's not true," I say even though it's completely true. "They love you." Haymitch raises an eyebrow at that. I amend my reply. "They don't understand you, and that scares them. But they know that you're important to me and Peeta, and we've told them that you're the reason we're still alive. And that's good enough to make them…" I search for a word that fits. "Appreciate you."

Haymitch grunts. "Tolerate, more like." But I can tell, by the way his neck loosens of tension and how he relaxes into his cushions, that Haymitch is a tiny bit pleased.

"So, what's been going on out there? Nobody tells me anything, and if they do, I don't remember it anyway." Haymitch says.

I try to remember the broadcast I only half-watched this morning before breakfast. Most of it's a blur. I'm not great with politics on the best of days, and the threat of Haymitch dying was enough to take what little attention I had left.

"President Arix's been trying to get District 2 to send more gravel shipments to the Capitol to help repair the roads, but people are fighting about the quantity. I don't remember why. District 3 and District 9 are feuding over grain distribution. Three claims that they haven't received full shipments for two months now, but Nine says that they told Three they'd be facing shortages until the drought ends in Eleven. And-"

"No, none of that," Haymitch says. He flutters his fingers a bit, which I think is the closest he can get to a dismissive wave. "I don't care what happens out there. Not anymore. It's all…" his mouth moves silently as he struggles to find the end of that sentence. His scowl tells me that he's lost it. "Well, you know how it is."

Do I ever. Not even fifty years after the rebellion, Panem is already fighting itself. Every District wants its due, and every District thinks that it's being shafted by everyone else. The Capitol's trying to hold itself together, but every move to assert authority has everyone screaming tyranny. In some places, people are all whistling and lighting torches, calling for the Mockingjay, while in others there are reports of mobs chopping off their neighbors' fingers. Everywhere, I hear stories about how the Mockingjay said this, or did that, or argued against this bill, or shot that Peacekeeper.

Apparently, I've been very busy over the last few decades.

But Haymitch looks so disgruntled and I don't really know what else to talk about, so instead I say, "I saw on the news last week that they're making effigies of me."

"Hmm," Haymitch grumbles. "Good, good. Make the rascals remember why the next generation isn't short fifty kids."

I don't bother correcting him. As his mental state deteriorates, Haymitch has been spending more and more time in the arena. Not just his Games, either. Every game ever since the second Quarter Quell is jumbled together in his head. An endless parade of teenagers, whose names are in the history books but are remembered only by this sad waste of a man.

I'm almost hoping that if I reach his age, my memory will be so shot that I can't even remember my own name.

"I don't know if it's all good," I say. "They've been setting them on fire."

Haymitch mumbles something approving before what I said properly registers. He mouths the words to himself. He squints suspiciously at me.

"That's not good, is it?"

"Depends on how much people remember. It's either a demand for my head or a call for my return. I suppose someone out there thinks they're very clever." Haymitch still looks confused so I elaborate. "Because I was the girl on fire. Back during… back then."

Haymitch nods distractedly, and I'm not convinced that he actually does remember. But this is the best facsimile of civil conversation with anyone outside my family I've managed in weeks, so I storm on to the next topic that pops into my head.

"We had fish for dinner last week. I took Lukas to the lake, and he caught it. He's definitely his father's son. He wouldn't stop dropping snide hints all the time about how his fish was bigger than mine. I think Annie doted on him too much. He stopped after I growled at him. I think I said words. It might have just been a growl."

"Polite as ever," Haymitch says in a bemused tone.

I shrug. "I have Peeta to talk to people for me. I just scowl menacingly, remember? My social skills have been compared to a snail."

"It was a slug," Haymitch interrupts suddenly. He jerks on his pillows so he can turn to look at me. His eyes are clear, but unfocused. He's not staring at me, he's staring at some memory superimposed over me. "It was the day of interviews. You were the most hostile girl I'd ever known. I was drunk. I said you were as personable as a slug. Or did I get drunk after?" Haymitch frowns, then closes his eyes in defeat. "Doesn't matter, does it? You haven't gotten any better since then. Surly woman."

Normally, I hate it when people talk about my Games. Even among other Victors, the most I can do is tolerate it. But this is Haymitch, and I know (well, suspect) that he's not deliberately trying to provoke me. So instead I swallow down the taste of bile, and keep talking.

"Alysum had to go back to District 5. Marin's taking care of the kids."

Haymitch's brow crinkles and then relaxes.

"Yes, Alysum and Marin. And…" he waves his hand vaguely as the names of my grandchildren escape him. "And Annie and Arric and Lukas are all doing well. How's your mother?"

"She's doing fine," I say. "She's house-sitting for Annie and Arric while they're here. We talked over the phone last…" And for the life of me, I can't remember when last we talked. It wasn't too long ago, because I remember telling her about Haymitch's failing health.

But Haymitch, through tact or obliviousness, simply grunts his approval.

"Be nice to her. She's gone through a lot. Not as much as some, but still, too much. We've all gone through too much…" Haymitch sighs heavily and groans as he leans back into his pillows. His lips move soundlessly as he puzzles out his next thought. "How's what's-his-name doing? Guy? Gaern?"

I shake my head and, after a moment of debate, place my hand over Haymitch's spotted, too-bony one. I try to suppress my flinch at the contact. "No, Haymitch. That was fifty years ago."

"Oh," Haymitch gives a miffed huff at being wrong. He shifts in his seat and groans again. "Hand me my pills will you?"

I reach over to his bedside table and count out four of the brightly-colored pills which some days seem like the only things keeping Haymitch alive. I pour a glass of water and hand that to him first, because otherwise Haymitch will probably just swallow them dry and curse anyone who tells him off, dry racking coughs and all.

Haymitch rolls his eyes at the glass, but accepts it begrudgingly nonetheless. He knocks back the pills and downs them with a huge gulp. I watch the apple of his throat bob with considerable effort and try to figure out how to ask Haymitch if he's feeling ok.

But, story of my life, while I'm musing over how to initiate conversation, Haymitch turns and does it for me.

"Katniss. I'm dying."

I nod mutely. There's no point in denying it. That time has long since passed. Now, all that remains is to try and make the transition as peaceful as possible.

"Hmm," Haymitch huffs. "You could at least pretend to cry. Sob over me and tell me how that can't be true."

"What would be the point?" I ask. I try not to let my emotions choke me up. It's not a fight I think I'll win. "It's not like you'll believe it, anyway."

"There's a procedure to these things, sweetheart. You're the celebrity, you should know this."

"I had a terrible teacher." I reply as deadpan as I can with tears threatening.

Haymitch guffaws at that. It costs him a minor coughing fit, but I'm glad that he has the strength to still laugh.

When his wheezing subsides, Haymitch points accusingly at me. "Yes, you had a terrible teacher, but you mustn't say nasty things about Effie behind her back."

And then Haymitch starts cackling at his own wit, and that's enough to get me laughing as well, if only because the alternative is to cry. And then I start crying anyway, making the whole thing entirely pointless.

When Haymitch has stopped hacking up his lungs, and I've managed to reduce my blubbering to a dignified sniffle, we both just look at each other contemplatively for a moment.

I see a ruined wreck, old and brittle, an exterior which finally matches the interior.

He sees a somber, morose woman with greying hair, cold and distant.

We both lived sad, broken lives, propped up by the love of others, driven by the need to honor those who died to get us here.

And now he's leaving me to live that life alone.

"I'll miss you," I say, and I know that will be the best that I can muster.

It's okay. For Haymitch, it will be enough.

"Take care, sweetheart," he replies. He nods at the envelope on his bedside table. "That's yours, by the way. Take it with you, but promise that you'll read it only after I'm dead. Consider it my way of having the last word."

"Doesn't matter," I reply. "Either way, I'm going to dance on your grave."

"Works for me. You can't dance to save your life." Haymitch lets out a breath in a huge gush of air. "Help me lie down, would you?"

I sling his stick-like arm over my shoulder and gently edge him lower. Haymitch pants and grunts from the effort, and by the time his head touches his pillow there's a sheen of sweat on his brow. I mop it off with the edge of his blanket.

"Is this goodbye?" I ask.

Haymitch hums contemplatively. "If I have anything to say about it, it will be. Check back tomorrow. If I'm still alive, kill me."

I shake my head at his ridiculousness.

"Most people aren't as comfortable as you are at making peace with their death, you know."

"Most people are idiots," Haymitch says smugly. His smirk droops away and his eyes stare off at something in the distance. "It's life I could never make peace with. Make sure you do better than I did, sweetheart."

He flutters his fingers at me, and I know I've been dismissed. I stand up and make to leave.

"Turn off the light before you go," he tells me. "I can't sleep with the blasted thing on. There had better be no candles at the funeral. With my luck, it'll probably keep me awake in the coffin for the rest of eternity."

I don't smile at that one. Haymitch's voice grows feebler with each irreverent dismissal of his own fate. There comes a point where it becomes too dark for even my humor.

I reach over and turn off the lamp. As I make my way out, forcing the door open when it catches on the floor again, I hear him mutter something under his breath.

For a moment, I pause. Wondering.

Then I slip out and shut the door behind me.