Father

Johanna sits wearily in the chair outside her house, the rain falling on her face and arms, soaking her thoroughly. The other inhabited dwellings have warm lights in the windows but she can't bring herself to go inside. The rain is cold, freezing her mind so that she can't focus on anything.

"Johanna, please," her father begs. "Join us." He hovers just inside the door, his features haggard with grief though two months have passed.

She looks back at him, at his pleading expression. She's tempted to refuse, but he's her family. She can't shut him out. So she rises and enters the warmth of the house, sitting down at the table for dinner.

Minutes later she runs out again, tears on her face mingling with the rain. She flies down the streets of her district, skidding to a stop to bang on the door of a nondescript building, the same in every way save the red cross over the door frame.

Pedestrians stare at Johanna Mason, their newest victor, as she pulls the medical worker down the road to the Victor's Village. Inside, amid the lights and supposed safety, the food on the heavily laden table has been scattered on the floor in a mélange. A boy, her brother, sobs in the corner.

Her father writhes on the carpet with the wine bleeding into the design. Only minutes ago had it been filled to the brim. Johanna wonders with malaise how, exactly, the entire world became so incorrigible? How did the house, the symbol of warmth and light, become as cold and dark as the rain that continues to pound?

She knows it was poison, but that's not what she's asking. She's asking who's responsible for this? As the man's hand grows cold in hers, she realizes that she knows the answer. President Snow. But no – the fault isn't his, at least not directly.

It's Johanna's fault. She knows she killed her father.

Two down, three to go.