The sounds of the throng at the train station were muffled through the thick glass of the train windows. Reporters clambered over each other in a bid to get the best pictures of the children as they rolled up in a black car. Drusilla pushed past them as she shepherded Fawn and Sage to the train, her nose covered with a handkerchief to shield herself from the billowing smoke. I hardly got a good look at them as they passed through the first train car, Drusilla ushering them to their own suites.

As the train departed the station, dad returned to the car with a drink in hand. He sunk into a plush velvet couch, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. Though the games often fell under the same schedule and the same way of running things, this year had changed. It was dad's first year as the sole mentor of district twelve.

Soren Ingalls, the district twelve victor of the fourth Hunger Games, had passed away last July at the age of seventy-eight when he developed sepsis from an infection that had taken hold of his foot. I remembered when he lived across the street from us. The hedges in his front yard were always neatly trimmed and he made it a habit of inviting us for dinner every Sunday.

He puttered around with an ancient ear trumpet that he pressed to his head every time someone spoke to him. Nobody ever figured out where he dug up that horn. I still have a sneaking suspicion that he was just using the horn to mess with everybody. It was never difficult to understand what he said, though, because he always shouted. It wasn't only his ear that was failing him. You could hardly tell that he had once been a tall and strong young man. He broke two vertebrae in his Hunger Games and adamantly refused to have them repaired, so he developed a hunched posture from a young age. He walked with the help of a cane.

Many wondered why, in a time when surgery was so advanced and comprehensive, he would refuse to have his injuries repaired. Soren was a kind man, but he trusted nobody; one of the phobias he'd developed after he won the Hunger Games. He never saw a doctor or a nurse. This was his demise in the end, as he wouldn't allow the healers to treat his foot.

Soren had mentored dad in the fiftieth Hunger Games, and after his victory, Soren tried to support him in any way possible. When my grandmother and uncle died, Soren stepped up to be like a father. He really cared for dad, and dad was very protective of Soren in return. But as caring as Soren was, he was an enabler. When dad drank, Soren said nothing. Every year during the Hunger Games, though they were both required to come, Soren did most of the mentoring. My father didn't interact much with the tributes.

It would be different this year. Dad didn't have a choice. Nobody else would be there to take over.

I moved to sit in a chair opposite him, grabbing a pear from a bowl and sinking my teeth into it, savoring the sweet and velvety fruit. Even if you had money, you'd never find foods like this in district twelve. "So," I said slowly. "What do you think?"

He knew what I meant. Does district twelve stand a chance this year? "We'll see," he said wearily. "I don't want to discuss it."

He finished off the drink in his hand and looked at it wistfully. "Be a good kid and go fill this up."

I stood and took the glass from his hand wordlessly, leaving him behind as I made my way through the train to the bar car. I passed through various rooms, each displaying capital elegance. Both tributes were in their rooms, and Sage was sitting on his bed with the door open when I passed. I paused, not sure if he left his door open to welcome visitors. He still looked pretty shaken up, his knees tucked under his chin as he stared out the window. I wrapped my knuckles on the doorway softly. "Hey."

His focus snapped away from the window and he looked over to me, startled. "Hi," he replied.

"How's it going?"

Wow, how lame. I couldn't think of anything else to say?

"Pretty good," Sage answered with a weak smile.

I offered a sly grin in return. "Yeah. Thought so."

"So," After another awkward pause, I leaned back against the doorway and sighed.

"Are you ready?"

Sage looked back out the window, tightening his arms around his legs. "Ready as I'll ever be," he answered quietly.

"I wish I could just get it over with now. The waiting is the worst part."

He bit his lip and he looked resigned. The whole scene was just upsetting to witness. "Look," I said after a moment. "Your team is going to do everything they can for you. Just train hard and don't count yourself out. You stand a chance as long as you believe it yourself, man. There've been plenty of upsets in the past."

He glanced back at me and nodded. He didn't look completely convinced by my words of encouragement- hell, I didn't believe it- but he seemed a bit more optimistic as he relaxed. I grinned reassuringly and turned to leave him be as I continued to the bar car. The scenery outside passed in a blur, the sky appearing pink as the sun began to sink into the horizon.

There wasn't much to do on the train, besides eat and watch capital television. When dinner was announced and everyone congregated around the mahogany table, a television was airing recaps of the day's reapings. Only Fawn showed any interest in the news, watching the television intently. When Sage sat down and dished food onto his plate, he hardly paused for breath as he began to eat as quickly as possible, his eyes widened in awe at the spread laid out before him.

"Easy, take it easy," dad said, attempting to placate the boy and waving his hand and for Sage to slow down.

"You'll just make yourself sick if you eat that fast. Chew every bite four times."

Sage made a small effort to calm down, his head nodding in rhythm as he counted each chew. Dad leaned back in his chair with a glass of whiskey in hand. He looked slightly uncomfortable as he studied the tributes, not sure of what else to say. Despite having been a mentor for nearly fifteen years, he was rather new to actually fulfilling his duty.

Drusilla filled the silence with chatter about all of the wonderful things in store for the tributes, her voice rising and falling like she was singing an opera. I began to tone her voice out as she droned on, until suddenly Fawn spoke for the first time since the reaping. " Can you be quiet," she snapped at Drusilla bitterly.

Drusilla looked taken aback as she looked around at the girl. Uncomfortable silence hung in the air for several moments as everyone looked at Fawn. "I'm not here to listen to you all pretend that this is an honor," she said tersely.

Fawn glared at everyone in turn, but focused her gaze last on dad. "I want to train and I want to win."

Dad stared right back at Fawn, looking a little impressed. "Well, ok," he replied.

"How do you expect to do that on the train?"

Fawn's expression softened as she searched for an answer.

Dad continued after a moment, his voice flat. "You have plenty of time to train in the Capital. Right now you've got to relax and give yourself time to process the day. It's better to do that now and come to terms with your situation than waste your time trying to learn things that I can guarantee you won't remember in two days time."

Fawns eyes flickered back to the television, where the recaps were still playing. Dad snapped his fingers, drawing her attention back to him. "You're going to see those kids soon enough. Watching them on television is just going to wind you up prematurely. Finish your dinner and then go find somewhere quiet to sit."

He reached over to the television and turned it off with a snap, then returning to the table. "Eat. Relax. Process," he repeated, pouring more whiskey into the empty glass before him.

Fawn looked like she wanted to retort, but after a moment she rose from the armchair, took a seat at the table, and began to eat. I looked back at dad, still surprised by the way he handled the situation. He seemed a little surprised himself. I hadn't heard dad talk that much in a while.

Was he actually going to try this year?

I didn't see Fawn in the remaining time on the train. She locked herself in her room, refusing to appear even when Drusilla, in an effort to be understanding and encouraging, bid her to come out for some tea or hot chocolate. If you walked by her door, you could tell she was sitting in her room watching recaps on TV. I bit my lip to keep from laughing when I heard dad call her a stubborn mule under his breath as he passed her room.

Sage was a different story altogether. He sat in a parlor car, crying intermittently and nursing what must have been a killer stomachache. I didn't know quite what to do, feeling uncomfortable listening to his distress from down the hall. In an effort to give Sage his privacy, I decided to join dad in the bar car. He was sprawled out on a couch, passed out with his mouth hanging open as he slept off the tremendous amount of alcohol he'd managed to consume throughout the day. I picked up a stack of capital magazines, settling myself into a corner and leafing through each one as I tried to kill time. In the end I just took a pen and scribbled aimlessly over each page, sketching mustaches and snaggleteeth on the absurd looking models. Time passed slowly, the minutes trudging by as I watched the sky slowly darken. The sun was setting in a brilliant shade of orange when dad finally woke up. He took one bleary look out the window and pushed himself into a sitting position, his back still hunched awkwardly as the muscles remained bunched up and tight.

I approached him quietly from behind and flopped onto an armchair opposite him. He jumped, and shot me a dark look, slowly shaking his head with a pained expression. "Don't do that."

"It's not my fault you're so jumpy. I won't spend my life walking on egg shells around you."

He remained silent, choosing to ignore my comment, and I left the car.