I think Careers are just a little less sickened by what they've been through during the Games than victors like Katniss and Beetee.

And Finnick is so a deity descended from Olympus. DO NOT DENY IT. And his middle name is so Jace. DO NOT DENY IT.

The walk up to my new house is much longer than I expected. Probably because I've been implementing long-unused back alleys and shortcuts to escape the crazy camerapeople intent on capturing every moment of my return. I think I've shaken off all of them, at last.

I take out my house key – solid brass, monogrammed with F.J.O.: Finnick Jace Odair. Unlocking the door takes no effort, even though I've never used a key before. I push it open dramatically, stretching this moment of triumph, of victory, as long as I possibly can.

Anticlimactically, my sisters Vanesse and Scylla have already decked out the interior with pink and purple.

Nessie comes down the stairs, calling back up, "Cy, did you steal my mascara again?"

Then she catches sight of me. Her mouth falls open. She drops the makeup bag in her hand and tackles me.

"Finnick!" she squeals.

I push her off, laughing. I'm her older brother, sure, but Nessie treats me like I'm younger.

"The train was fast," I start to say, before Scylla comes racing down the stairs.

"Nessie? You said Finnick's name – OH MY GOSH!"

She jumps on/tackles me too. My sisters are so emotional. No, that's not the word. Expressive is more like it.

"Ack," I manage. I'm pretty sure that giant Career girl was less heavy than these two. They get the message and get off. I stand up.

"Oh my gosh," little Scylla repeats, still staring up at me like I'm a deity descended from Olympus.

There's more pounding on the stairs. Mom and Dad come down at the same time.

"Finnie," Mom breathes. Okay, I hate my pet name, but right now I'll let it slide.

I run forward and hug her. I can't keep up the cool tough victor front. I'm sick of the cool tough victor Finnick Odair. I want easygoing, funny Finnick Odair back. The boy who rolled his eyes and laughed good-naturedly when his mom called him Finnie. The guy that everyone wanted on their team at school. The boy who didn't start training, didn't devote his life to winning the Games.

Because now, that new Finnick doesn't know what to do. The Games are over. He's back home.

I let go of Mom and hug Dad, too. Then an impatient Scylla says, "What was it like? Robyn said that you must have been really scared, but I didn't believe her. I told her that you were never scared. Right?"

"Sure, Cy," I say with a smile, obliging her another hug. Of course I was scared. I was terrified, on my toes, trying to keep from being stabbed, through most of the Games.

I love to be able to say I was. The Games are over. Forever. Never going back. There is no way in heck I'm ever going back. Ever. No victors ever go back.

I realize I'm chanting in my head for consolation. I let go of Scylla.

"You must be so hungry," Mom says sympathetically. Of course. Typical mother. My stomach is more of a concern to her than my brain. I don't have the heart to tell her that I stuffed myself several times over on the Capitol train.

"Yeah," I say. "Starving, actually."

She beams at me and says, "I'll bake salmon."

When I don't react, she prompts, "Your favorite?" I note Scylla and Nessie watching me. Dad's watching them.

"What? Oh! Yeah. Mm, I love baked salmon." Which is true. I do. I was just distracted.

"Good." She hurries off into the kitchen, apparently glad to be doing something. Either that or she's just eager to use our brand-spanking-new two-oven kitchen with stainless steel everything.

Dad follows her. I don't blame him. He's never been one for shows of emotion. He probably has no idea what to do now. Thankfully for him, Nessie and Scylla take over. Babbling, they drag me upstairs to their new rooms and show me mine. Scylla's so obviously proud of the way she's decorated my room – with hot pink streamers and confetti – that I agree to sleep there tonight. But the first chance I get, I'm taking down those streamers. I think their color has imprinted on my eyelids already.

One year and two hundred and thirteen days pass…