Another small death: that's what every Reaping Day was, but alcohol quieted the voices of twenty-three years of dead Tributes.
He sent the infirm or stupid straight into the Cornucopia before he reached bottle's bottom. They died with only a few moments of terror and agony to haunt his sober moments. The others – the few he sobered up for and tried to coach – he suffered every moment along with them.
He stumbled off the stage, hoping these two would be stupid and die quickly and that his required participation in the Seventy-Fourth Games would end soon.