7.

I scramble up so quickly from the floor that the room shakes all around. After a moment of disorientation, I head to the desk in the dark corner and jam open the second drawer, filing through the mass of old papers. Finally, I come across it.

Carla Beth Hansen- 4815162342, 8621, died of post labor phyrosymphisila.

Phyrosymphisila. THe word itself sounds painful. I take the sheet delicately in one hand and stand where I am, growing still. I poise to listen, ready to detct any movement, any noise.

Nothing.

I sti back down on the dusty floor and quickly type the numbers into the foreign looking keyboard. It must be three or four years old now, but it's more intricate and sophisticated than the latest editions installed in my Victor's Village house.

I copy the numbers into the black space using the keys. 4815162342.

Denied.

Next, I try 8621, a small entanglement of stress building in my stomach.

Denied again.

This time, I try both, bracing myself as I hit the 'Enter' button.

Denied.

Could the Capitol have shut it off after catching word of Cecilia's death? Or perhaps Cecilia disbanded it herself, knowing what would happen if anyone were to find it. This throws me into even more curiosity.

I press my face against the glass window and think. Outside, firefilies light up spontaneously from place to place. One lands on the windowsill outside, glowing in increments of 1 every 8 seconds.

Phyrosymplisia.

It's a crazy idea. But I gather my thoughts and resolve and set myself to the screen one last time. I think aloud.

"P. P is- a, b, c, d, e, f, g-" I sound out the rest of the alphabet, counting simultaneously on my fingers until I reach the letter. "Fifteen."

I enter 15 into the screen.

"H. H is 8th in the alphabet."

I enter 8.

This must go on for at least a half an hour, before I've deciphered the entire word. It types out something harrowing like this:

158251814192613151291991

I silently praise myself for the effort as I hit the enter button and a tiny bleep arises from it. The words change to red and then shut off, before sliding back to reveal a handle.

I examine it for a minute. It's rusty, like a doorknob, even- meant to be turned. What have I got to lose, anyway? So I turn it.

A large creak makes me jump out of my skin as the space of wall behind the desk produces a perfect hole of escape.