My experience with the doctors from the Capitol lingers in my mind long after it's over. Their cold hands, medical scanners, their endless barrage of tests determining the extent of my disability. Electric prods trying to stimulate a response from my legs. A lengthy questionnaire to evaluate my mental abilities. They even knock me out for about fifteen minutes. I don't know what happened then. For all the information I have, they could have sat around my unconscious body sipping tea, or all raped me. I have no idea. The doctors were far more disturbing than I thought they would be, all cold hands and white masks, long coats and tools and an utter lack of empathy. I never thought I would be, but suddenly I'm glad we have no doctors in District Seven. Even if they could fix my legs, I never want to be touched by expressionless hands like that again.

At least one good thing came out of all that. Father wasn't disappointed. His daughter is a tribute.

I feel like I've been marked with some highly visible sign or something. When Father carries me outside, nobody looks at me. It's like I just don't exist – no, worse. They don't just look past me; everybody actually turns away, so all I see is the backs of people's heads. Nobody wants to look at the helpless sacrifice who's supposed to represent their district.

Father reaches the Justice Building and, on the directions of one of the rather ornamental Peacekeepers, heads upstairs. I'm clinging to his neck as we lurch up the stairs. It probably feels fine to him, but I'm terrified I'll fall any second.

This room, then, is where I say my final goodbyes. From here, I'll never see my family again. I'll just disappear on a train, hurtling towards the Capitol and my death. Father sets me down on a chair and stretches, stepping aside.

For the first time, I see the boy tribute. One of us is certainly dead. We can't both come home.

For all that between us, I don't even know his name. I can't attend school and I certainly can't work, so I don't get out much. Or at all, really. But his disability is obvious.

He's missing his right arm.

And the entire right side of his body looks twisted, oddly, sort of gnarly beneath his clothes… It takes me a while to place it, and then it clicks.

Burns.

Sometime, this boy has been so badly burned he lost his arm and the scars show through his clothing. I don't know how his face escaped, but it's completely smooth. His eyes meet mine.

"I know you," he says, almost sounding surprised. "You used to go to school with me."

Now I'm ashamed that I don't remember him, and still don't, even with this prompt. I shrug. "Sorry, I don't remember."

"Yeah, you're… Aviary, that's it, right? Aviary?"

"Yeah. Sorry, what's your name?"

"I'm Kain, Kain Harwood."

I still don't remember him. I'm sure if I tried really hard I could call up a memory of a class or a fete, something non-specific, and see him there, but honestly it's not worth the effort. Even before the accident I struggled to make friends, and I'm not going through all the trouble of getting to know Kain when one – maybe both – of us will be dead before the end of the month. But he seems like a decent guy – better than I am, since he remembers me, but I can't remember him – and he's got a much better chance of survival than I do.

So I nod, and smile, and hope he gets at least some of the message. Hope he understands that I'm not going to kill him the second that I can.

"Well, Avie," Father says, moving back into my field of vision, "I guess this is it. Listen closely." He pauses and suddenly I realize how serious he is. Here, with only Kain watching – and he's had a brilliant idea and turned his back, offering at least the pretence of privacy – Father isn't going to reveal a soft spot for me, isn't going to ask forgiveness. He's still the Games victor who wants his children to follow his footsteps. Even if they can't walk. "You've got a lot against ya, I know that. But you're clever. They might 'ave mobility and rage, but you've got brains. Ya dunno what these other kids 'ave against 'em. But ya know that yer mind is sound. Use what you've got."

He squeezes my hand once and walks out. I watch him go, sad and yet uncaring. I'm going to die. What difference does it matter if Father loves me or not?

Clarrine comes next, still angry and cold. I close my ears to her rants about missing her chance. She just screams at me until a Peacekeeper takes her out. Just like Father, I find I don't really care. We've never been close, even before the accident; four years was too large a gap for us to have common interests, or common school friends, and after I was paralyzed we drifted further apart.

Kain gets a few visitors, and I do my best to ignore them the way he ignored me and Father. So I close my eyes and try not to hear his mother sobbing, his four-year-old brother shrieking. Try not to hear Kain himself crying after they leave.

Then I get one more visitor.

It's Mom.

I don't know how she's done it, considering she hasn't left the house in years. There's something wrong with her that means she just can't be around other people, it's like she's allergic. I don't know how she and Father got close enough to have children. I don't know anything about her, really, I can only remember speaking to her a few times. Normally she doesn't leave her room, Father brings her food a couple of times a day. I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for her to come out among all these people just to see me.

"Aaay…" Her voice is soft, unused, only able to make the first syllable of my name before faltering, but it's the voice I remember. "Aaay…"

I take her hands gently, leaving her plenty of time to understand that I want to touch her, giving her the choice to pull back before the contact gets unbearable. I'm pretty sure she actually grits her teeth, but she lets me. Her skin is soft, lily-white, so delicate. Much like mine, lying over wasted, unused muscles. I know she won't be able to say anything else. She probably doesn't know how to say what she's feeling.

I lay one of her palms flat in mine, press my other index finger to it. And draw. As soon as I learned to read and write in school, I thought of communicating like this. Mom hates noise, always has, noise of any kind, and even our whispers to her would cause her to slam her hands over her ears. I tried this once and it made her so happy I vowed I'd talk to her every day. Except that after a while she couldn't bear to have me around and wouldn't open her door. But unlike Father, I know she never chose to be like this, and that's why I tell her what I've always wanted to:

I love you.

I draw the letters individually on her palm, leaving a short pause before starting the next one, a longer pause before a new word. I write it slowly, making sure she understands. I can't say anything aloud in case I overwhelm her, but she clutches my hands when I finish writing. Just like the rest of my family, we've never been close, but the difference with Mom is I wanted to get to know her. It would never happen, but I wanted to know her. I wanted her to know me. I wanted to find out if she was as trapped as I was, her because of the pain, me because of the isolation.

But I never will. She stands, leaves. I feel like I want to cry. I've always held on to the hope that one day she'll feel strong enough to come out of her room, even for just five minutes. But now, I know that even if that happens, I won't be there to see it. I'll be lying dead while Clarrine, who never cared about Mom anyway, gets to see her.

It's so unfair, but honestly, what about my life isn't? Crippled at twelve, an uncaring father and a bratty sister, my mother only a shadow I've seen less than half-a-dozen times, and now, dead at sixteen.

I just have to be like Mom. Grit my teeth and get through the pain. If she could go through all the agony of coming to see me, I can get through the three weeks before my death. I know I can. I have to.

Kain turns to me and shakes his head. "How are you so composed?" He's not crying anymore but his hands are shaking like leaves in a high wind. "You'll probably never see them again… and it's like you don't care!"

I sigh, frustrated. "You heard what my father said, you heard my sister shrieking. They hate me. I don't care about my family because they don't care about me."

"I'm sure they're just… tough… or something…" Kain says, but he falters, unable to explain their attitude. I shrug and sink back into my seat. I would keep talking, but for one I'm shy, and for another there's not much point in making friends when one or both of us will be dead soon.

There's a short walk between the Justice Building and the train that's going to take us to the Capitol. Two Peacekeepers carry me in a stretcher, and Kain walks with a cane. There are cameras swarming everywhere, reporters babbling. Most of them ask me what it's like to be the daughter of a victor. I'm not sure what I say. Everything's grey and hazy. We stand on the platform in the cold for about five minutes while pictures get taken, and then we're taken inside the train and rushed away from home. Forever.

Everything's so luxurious that my eyes almost start watering. Plush carpet floors, dark wood paneling, gold lamps, softly perfumed air. Even the train is straight and steady, not rocking from side to side like the lumber-filled transport ones do. The Peacekeepers take me to what I guess to be a lounge room, with wide windows and squishy chairs everywhere. My eyes boggle at the sheer numbers of the furniture in this room alone. Is this how people live in the Capitol, with more chairs in a single room than could fit in a whole house in the Districts? With carpet that you could sleep on? I reach down and run my fingers through it. It's soft, springy, like the world's best grass.

"Wow," Kain says softly, settling into a chair next to me. "Look at that."

I follow his gaze and glance out the window. Trees, thickly forested, block the horizon and even the sky.

"I had no idea the plantations went out this far," he whispers. It's true we're a long way out. I can't calculate how fast this train is going, beyond really fast.

"These aren't plantation trees. Look at them. Plantations are regularly spaced apart and mostly all the same size. These trees are too random to be plantation. They're wild."

We both fall silent, leaning forward to try and focus on the trees. I'm so used to seeing them in perfect rows that this chaos is almost painful, impossible to comprehend. Trees can grow on their own? If we don't get involved, they'll still grow tall and straight like these?

"Oh, my word," says an absolutely disgusted female voice behind us. Kain spins and I turn in my chair with an effort. Two of District Seven's victors stand in the doorway. Pruvan Tornay is about ninety years old and completely senile. He's got to be here just to make up the numbers. There's no doubt that he's going to stay in his cabin, probably with no idea of what he's meant to be doing, while his partner carries the entire job. Nile Lawcroft won about ten years ago, basically because there was an earthquake and she got lucky. She's got dark brown skin, darker hair and eyes, and she's so tall she almost has to duck to get through the doorway. And she would be beautiful if her face weren't twisted with an unpleasant sneer.

"So this is all I've got to work with? A paraplegic and an armless burn victim?" Slowly, she looks over Kain and me before pointing to him. "You've got a chance. You, girlie, don't. Kid, we'll start your training now. And you can just look out the window." She spins on her heel and strides out before I can get my sudden anger into words. Kain glances at me apologetically before rushing after her.

"Oh, I'm sorry…" Another woman walks in, unmistakably from the Capitol; green hair, plump body, hands that have never done a day's work. "She shouldn't have said that… I'm Angel, your escort."

"Hello." I smile, nod, even though I want to tear the makeup from her face with my fingernails and see what she really looks like. But maybe Angel will help me, even if Nile thinks I'm worthless. Even if I have no mentor, having an escort to line up sponsors and train me on my public appearances can help.

"But, um… she is right, you know… only so much effort to go around… and you know you're sure to get taken out right away, right?"

My mouth drops open, speechless. Anger fades to be replaced with numbness. Great. Now I'm not the only one who thinks I've got no chance. I'm so out of the running that my supposed support team isn't even going to waste their time on me. The worst thing is they're probably right. What can I do, lying on the ground? I won't even be able to reach any of the weapons in the Cornucopia. I'd only get in Kain's way.

And Nile's right, Kain does have a chance to win. Despite his missing arm, he's strong and he can climb. I've never actually seen him do it, but everybody can climb in Seven. Except me, that is. If he gets hold of a weapon, if he gets lucky in a few allies and sponsors, he's definitely got a chance. I don't.

"So, um, helping you… waste of effort… Nile's on her own, needs help with Kain… help who I can, right?" And Angel's gone, just like that. No mentors, no escort. I can understand their thinking but they still pissed me off. Just kicking me out like that? Just look out the window. There's got to be something better I can do than this.

But it appears not. The country rushes past, rolling hills and waving grass, for hours. I enjoy looking at the grass, watching it thrive in so many different kinds. I take note of them, the dry browns, lush greens, tall, thin, pointed, any variety I can notice. It's hard, with the train's speed making everything blurry, but I drink in this view of the grass. Nobody comes to see me. I've been forgotten.

That's about normal, then, but I don't know how I'm going to be taken care of. I can barely feed myself, but somebody's going to need to carry me everywhere and do everything else that Father does. I'll have to live with it, somehow, but only for three weeks more.

I've gone to sleep in the chair before anybody notices me. Somebody shakes me awake and tugs on my arm, trying to make me stand up. Obviously some flunky, anybody important would know I can't walk. I blink the sleep from my eyes, try to see in the room's dim lighting. It's a blond girl a few years older than I am, dressed in white. She tugs on my arm again and I wave her off. She steps back, shoulders drooping, a frustrated huff escaping her lips. She bends forwards again, tries to get her arms under my body and lift me. She actually gets two steps before she collapses and we both crash into the ground.

She gets to her feet, hurries off, I assume to bring some help. I wish she'd come with friends in the first place. I hurt where I hit the ground, head aching, arms sore. At least I can only feel half of my injuries. I should have said something earlier, but sleep is still making everything a bit blurry.

The blond girl returns with two guys about her age, both tall and muscular. They lift me effortlessly and the girl leads them to a room down the corridor. They bring me in and I see a bedroom so plush I'm not sure where I want to sleep. The walls and floor alone look as comfortable as my bed back home. But the girl points towards the bed, a massive, elegant thing, and my porters carefully lay me down and tuck me in, far more gently than Father ever did. The covers are so soft, the mattress so comfortable, that I don't even notice the girl gently pulling off my clothes. I haven't felt it before, but suddenly I'm exhausted and the full impact of the day hits me.

Today I found out I am going to die. Today I said goodbye to my family. Today I left my home and everyone I've ever known. Today my mentor pushed me aside as hopeless.

Maybe tomorrow, I'll find out I don't care.