We're sitting at the table. I am, at least.

Mom leans on the counter a few feet away and takes a long sip from her tea, gazing out of the window. It is still early morning. The marine layer rolls with the gentle breeze over the sand dunes and through the sails of the first boats pushing away from their moorings.

I take my spoon from my cup of tea and draw little designs on the table with the water. A circle. A line. I wipe my finger through and the shapes smudge into one mash of droplets.

"Don't do that, Annie," Mom says, not meeting my gaze.

"It's just water," I mutter.

She takes another sip from her tea. We stare out the window together. More fishermen are hopping into their boats. They swing the nets onto their backs, throwing empty crates from the docks to the boats, loading lobster traps by the dozen into the boats' storage units.

Mom is sick today. She went to sleep with a cough last night. She told me that she would be better by morning and planned on returning to work by dawn as she always did, but was forced to retract her words after being seized with a coughing fit for the fifth time in the middle of the night.

"You know, it's kind of nice when you stay home," I observe after a moment.

"Yes," Mom murmurs, but I'm left unsure of whether she even hears me or is simply answering out of habit.

"Since you're home," I try again. "Maybe could go… visit the cemetery?"

If these words convey any meaning to her, it doesn't show; she just looks out sadly past the waves at something far in the distance that I can't see.

"Not today, Annie."

"But it's been over a year since the fire. And we haven't gone once since then!" I complain. "I want to go."

"You may go if you'd like," she says evenly.

I glare at her. Her face is placid, emotionless as the sea.

"But… but this is something we have to do together! You and me… we need to honor our family. We need to make sure they're not just forgotten… Dad and Dash and Uncle Tuss—"

"What did I just say?" she cuts me off. "Now is not the day. I'm not feeling well." My mother cups her face in her palm and squeezes her eyes closed.

"What does that have to do with it?" I say. "Even when you're well, you won't even talk to me about them!"

"Annie, sometimes it is best if we do try and forget about these things."

"These things?" I repeat in horror. "These things are your son and your husband. They're people in our family!"

"Let's not talk about this anymore. Fetch me some headache pills, will you?"

"I don't understand why you won't talk to me anymore!" I say, pushing my chair away from the table angrily. "You never come inside, you avoid me, you ignore me!"

"Annie, we're done."

But I can't. It's like the angry words, so pressurized with hatred and grief, have been trapped inside a dam, and once they begin to spill out, they cannot stop.

"It's like you wish I don't even exist sometimes! You go on pretending that people we loved are nothing more than names—names that you tell me not to mention! You lock yourself away from people—you lock me away from you—and I can't do this anymore! I can't—"

"Then don't!" Mom's teacup crashes against the countertop as she slams it down. Immediately she is in my face, grabbing one of my wrists in her stern, bony grasp as if I were nothing more than a rag doll.

"I said we were done with this conversation," she hisses. "I don't want to hear you mention the fire anymore under this roof, do you understand? Sometimes it is better if we try to forget."

I feel my eyes burn with red hot tears. "I just don't want Dash to be forgotten," I whisper, my voice thick with sadness.

She drops my wrist.

"Please," she says, carefully placing her teacup in the sink, though her hands are visibly shaking. "Go find something to do. I would like to be alone."

Alone. That's all she and I will ever be.

I can't stand this house anymore. It reeks too much of loneliness. It used to smell like bonfires from late nights of singing outdoors together and watching the boys board until it got too dark. It used to smell of saltwater from splashing in the surf and marveling in late-night bioluminescent tides.

Now the pungent odor of the incense Mom uses to cure her headaches wafts through our cold two-rooms like sickening perfume.

Without another word, I turn and bolt out of the house.

I run, though I am in nothing more than sandals, through the people milling about for the first fishing lure trades of the day, dodging the empty barrels that men and young boys are loading into their boats, skirting around several disheveled families who are forced to sleep on the sidewalk where they are constantly dusted by the sea spray. I run through the town square where an enormous statue of a man with a trident was erected when District 4 was first established and then through the rows and rows of piers where the larger fish are brought in. I sprint past the Victor's Village and the salt marshes.

I run and run until I can no longer breathe.

Then I walk the rest of the way to the cemetery.

I trace my hand over the peeling white picket fence and finger the words engraved into the rusty sign that designates this meadow: DISTRICT 4 CEMETERY.

The cemetery spans over an enormous meadow enclosed by a bleached white fence. Since "Cresta" is at the beginning of the alphabet, I have to walk past the many neatly lined rows of identical metal placards to reach the side where my family is buried.

Most of the graves are ordinary citizens. An ordinary citizen gets a placard about as big as my hand labeled with his or her name and lifespan. A higher class or political citizen, like the mayor, gets a slightly raised headstone with the same information, as well as the fishing symbol of servitude to District 4. The placards are clustered together, the cemetery being able to accommodate so many people. Some bodies have to be laid on top of each other, in which case their placards are aligned vertically.

DASH CRESTA: 17 YEARS, the card to the farthest left reads. I walk slowly down the aisle, whispering the name of each person in my family that is now gone. Even my grandparents have found their way into the cemetery.

I wonder if my family members are enjoying themselves—if they are together… wherever it is they are.

Because I left in such a hurry, I don't have any shells—it is custom in District 4 to place a shell upon a loved one's grave each time you visit—so I simply tell the silence, "I love you all."

I gaze down sadly at the graves. There is one shell at the head of each that my mother and I placed there the day they were buried over a year ago. The grass has grown around the shells, almost masking them completely.

Sometimes it is better if we try to forget. Mom's words ring in my head as I walk away.

But how to forget when their absence has so clearly severed my family? Their deaths are as prominent to me as the stones into which their names are etched.

"Don't worry. You won't be forgotten… at least not by me," I murmur to them as I head back toward the entrance.

The cemetery is mostly empty, which would be expected on a usual work day. Only a few families have come to pay their respects as a body is laid in the ground somewhere towards the end of the alphabet. Someone kneels on the ground at the foot of a grave in the middle.

It takes me a moment to recognize him. And when I do, my spirit lifts ever so slightly.

"You're back," I say, approaching.

Finnick jumps to his feet when my voice cuts through the thick silence. I take a step back, afraid that I've startled him.

But he simply answers, "Yeah, I got back about a week ago."

I nod and we both stand there for a few moments, unsure of greeting to give.

"What are you doing in the cemetery?" I ask finally.

Finnick steps aside from the grave and I read the placard.

I put a hand to my mouth in shock.

"Your… your mom?" I manage. "When?"

"I think around the time the fire hit your house."

"I didn't know."

Finnick's family lived a few houses down from ours before he was crowned victor. Since he spent so much time at the Capitol, his mom, the only other person in his family—Dash had mentioned that his father ran away before Finnick was born—decided to stay at the old house instead of moving to the Victor's Village by herself. I had noticed that the house had been vacated for the past year, but had simply assumed that she had changed her mind and went to live with her son.

I suddenly feel a pang of guilt. "Why did you never tell me? You were always helping after my family died and I… I never ever asked about yours."

Finnick shrugs. "You had enough to worry about."

"I just…" I hand my head. "I didn't know you were alone all this time."

I steal another look at the grave. Although my family's graves are bare at the head, Finnick's mother's is clustered with too many shells for me to count. I cannot imagine the number of times he has visited in the last year—an orphaned boy walking through the misty graves to visit his mother's grave.

"What happened?" I whisper almost inaudibly because I don't want to upset him.

"There was… a boating accident," he says solemnly.

"I never heard anything."

"You wouldn't have. It was pretty far away."

He doesn't offer a further explanation, so I let the subject go flat.

Finnick tosses it back to me. "What are you doing here?"

I sigh. "My mom didn't really want me in the house today. She said… she said she wanted some time alone." I don't want to say more. I'm afraid I might start crying again.

"So you're not going back home?"

"I don't think… I don't think she wants me to. It's… it's okay. I understand. I don't think she feels very well today. I can go take a walk on the beach or go diving for clams."

We walk back together and at the white entrance gate, I'm about to turn and begin the long walk home when Finnick pauses.

"Do you want to come back with me to the Victor's Village?" he says abruptly.

"What?" I say.

He drops his eyes. "I could use some company."

I examine his countenance. The laughing boy who Dash used to jump over the waves with now looks like he could sink into the sand and lie there forever. His eyes are dimmed as if a mist of exhaustion has forever clouded them.

They say that the arena changes people.

I think I'm finally beginning to understand what that means.

"Of course I'll come," I say.

I take Finnick's hand—I can't help wondering how many horrible murders this hand has inflicted on innocent children—and lead him away from the graveyard, as Mother used to lead me when I could barely walk.

"If you have better things to do, Annie… you don't have to come with me," he tells me as we walk.

"No, I want to." I smile. "I've never been to the Victor's Village before."

We walk to Finnick's house in silence for the most part; he is lost in his own thoughts and I am too shy to strike up a conversation.

I only ever passed by the Victor's Village, having never personally known anyone that survived the Hunger Games. There is a towering golden gate with two carved fish serving as handles that Finnick pushes open. Inside, the courtyard is lined with timeless brick houses with marble columns supporting their archways and doorframes. The walkway in front of each house is studded with polished abalone shells. All sorts of plants—hibiscus, gardenias, rosemary, and many I can't even name—poke out of the center planters, extending their faces toward the sun. In the middle of the courtyard bubbles a beautiful fountain with real fish inside.

Finnick leads me over to a house across the courtyard and holds the door open.

"Is this your place?" I ask.

"Yup."

It's simple, yet exquisite. Everything from the furniture to the drapes must have cost a fortune.

"It's dark in here," I notice. "Don't you ever open the windows?"

Finnick shrugs awkwardly and I catch some of his old humor creeping back into his eyes. "I'm a guy," he says, as if that's an excuse. "It's not something I give a lot of thought to."

"Well, it's so warm outside. It would be a shame not to."

I reach for the window, only to be stumped by the complicated latch that fastens it shut. We only have a simple deadbolt on our windows and doors at my house.

Finnick flicks the latch open with one finger, vainly trying to hide a grin.

"Thank you," I say, embarrassed. I throw the window open and the breeze and sunlight flood into the room, casting a warm glow on everything. The difference is so dramatic that I fly across the room, opening the rest of them. Each of the windows spans from floor to ceiling. An entire wall is facing the beach and I can see the blue waves crashing in the distance.

"That does make it better," observes Finnick.

"When I was little, we used to keep the windows open all summer long," I tell him. "So it would always smell like the sea inside. And mom would weave these cool baskets from fishing nets that had been thrown in the trash, and we would fill them with dirt and plant some of those pretty flowers that grow by the sand dunes in them. And then we'd hang them from the top of the windowsill, like this." I mimic looping the edge of a net around the top of the window.

"That sounds great," Finnick says. "Maybe we should do that here."

"I don't have any nets."

"Don't worry, I have plenty," he chuckles and bounds upstairs before I can get in another word. He is back in seconds, his arms loaded with a pile of nets so high, it is a wonder he can see over them all.

"What is all this?" I ask incredulously.

"I made them," he explains, untangling several and spreading them across the floor.

"By yourself?" I hold one up to my face to examine the hundreds of intricate knots looping the strands of rope together.

"Yeah, victors need something to do when they're not gorging themselves at the Capitol."

I laugh. "These are amazing!" I grasp one with shards of sea glass knotted into place at even intervals around the border. "Wow, no one in our class at school could ever master this pattern in school!" I grab another with a spiral-helix pattern of knots.

Finnick looks pleased. Quickly he ducks his head and shovels to the bottom of the pile until he finds a net that suits him and tosses it to me. "Will this work?"

I finger the material. It's made of very fine string—not like the normal fishing rope—and the stands are tied so closely together that light can barely find a space to shine through. "This is perfect," I remark, chucking it back at him.

"Good." He sets about fastening it into a basket shape. I watch over his shoulder, intrigued. His hands move so fast, tying one corner to the next and knotting the sides together, that my eyes can barely keep up.

"How do you do it so fast?" I ask timidly.

"Too much time on my hands," Finnick says. "You find it funny that Finnick Odair, winner of the 64th Annual Hunger Games and trident-wielding stud—" He flexes one of his arms menacingly. "—likes to say at home, knitting?"

His voice evolves into a high pitched old woman's voice. We both crack up.

"No, I think it's cool," I say between giggles. "I bet all the other victors are jealous."

"Ha, I doubt it. How does this look?" He holds up the finished basket for my approval.

"Hm." I pretend to size it up and down. "It's perfect."

We decide to walk down to the sand dunes by the beach where the indigenous flowers grow. We both agree the flowers that grow in District 4 are much prettier than the blindingly colorful ones the Capitol plants in the Victor's Village.

"I'm no genius when it comes to botany," Finnick says, scratching his head as I crane down to dig up some of the salt-ridden soil.

"I think this one's wild dandelion," I say, pulling up some roots embedded in the dirt. "And these ones are the mermaid's blossoms… or maybe these ones are." I falter.

"Ah, they're all the same to me," Finnick says indifferently.

He holds the net basket taunt and I stuff as much dirt in as I can. I show him how to insert the flowers into the soil and in no time the basket is overflowing with life.

When we return to the house, Finnick stands onto the window sill and fastens the loose ends of the basket to opposite sides of the window frame. It dangles from the window, rocking ever so slightly, as if it were lulling a baby to sleep.

"Wow, I should really fire those Victor idiots and hire you as my interior designer," he says, jumping down and high-fiving me.

Finnick tells me about a ridiculous old Capitol lady, wearing a hat with a real bear's head on it that flashed and made weird growling noises when a button was pushed, who came to put the furniture in place. We sit cross-legged on a sofa next to the window and eat toasted sandwiches and a weird drink that fizzles in your mouth. I've never had anything like it before, but it's delicious.

Finnick's funny—I'll give him that—when he's not morbidly depressed, and though I usually take some time warming up to people, before long I find myself laughing with him. I can see why he was my brother's best friend. Dash liked to laugh.

We don't talk about anything in particular. The worst jokes we've heard. What we want to do when we're old and white-haired. Pet peeves. Funny childhood stories: the time I tried to take home a dead fish as a pet because I thought I could save its life, the time Finnick ran into a screen gate in the fishermen's market and broke his nose.

"Your poor fish," Finnick remarks.

"Your poor nose," I throw back at him.

I don't remember smiling in a while and the wonderful aching of my cheeks starts to come back to me.

And after what feels like only a few hours, the day is done, the sun is setting quite suddenly, and Finnick is offering to walk me home.

"That's okay," I decline politely, although I wish we could just keep talking for another day entirely. Finnick was right; we were both in dire need for some company. "I don't want to make you walk all that way."

"I'll be fine," says Finnick. "Besides, I don't think you could make it halfway there carrying all this stuff."

Of course. He hasn't forgotten about his usual deliveries.

I scoff. "I could carry them more than halfway!"

"With those little arms?" Finnick teases, leading the way with the crate full of groceries.

I grab four bags off the top of his load and hop off the porch to join him as we walk back to my house.

By the time we reach the little cottage, I'm sweating, exhausted by the hot summer air, and trying to ignore Finnick's complete I-told-you-so smirk.

"You know," he begins gently as we unload the food in the storing boxes my mom and I had to develop last year to accommodate all of Finnick's gifts. "If you're ever kicked out of the house again… of if you're just bored, you can come over again."

"Sure," I agree. "It was fun."

"It's not like I'm busy," Finnick goes on. "All I do is sleep, eat, swim, make nets—real taxing work."

I snicker. "I'm sure."

In truth, I cannot wait to do this again. What began as a curse has turned into a blessing.

However, it is months until I see him again… besides his usual deliveries of food to the front porch, which often happen after I've gone to school.

In my own defense, I had a valid excuse. The weeks become so busy, I can barely keep track of them.

School resumes at the end of the summer, when the days begin to get short again. It's different when I get back.

I never had that many friends before. Families in District 4 tend to stick together at socialization time and meal times. During lunch, the oldest schoolchildren and their younger siblings may leave to eat at home. Dash used to walk me home every day and we would eat lunch at the house with Marina and sometimes Tuss.

But now I have to stay at school because Dash is not there to walk me home and I am not old enough myself.

Everyone seems to know about the fire. The first few weeks of the school year, I got a few glances of pity and apologies for my loss. Eventually those subsided into general avoidance of eye contact. I think it scares them. No one is sure how the fire started in the first place, although the Peacekeepers claim it was some kind of leak underground.

I have a few friends, though… People will talk to me if I ask them a question, and who crack a smile if I pass them in the hallway. But I never talk to them when the school day is over. They walk home together in a group, and there doesn't seem to be room on the sidewalk to accommodate another person.

There are changes in my schedule, too. I'm fourteen now, so for the last few hours of every other day, the girls and the boys split up and leave the school buildings to prepare for future jobs. The boys go to the decks to practice sorting the fish, or some board the few docked vessels to try their hand at small fishing. The girls and I go to the nearby factory where my mom works and practice skinning and gutting the fish.

The smell is the worst. The first time we walked into the factory a few girls fainted. The odor of decaying fish is absorbed into the walls and wafts around the room once the building warms up, banging against your skull like a hammer.

We rotate around different stations each week. I suppose the best one is taking out the bones; it's the least dirty work. I sit there at a stool, surrounded by women with greying hair and concentrated brows, and pick out the tiny bones that my elders cannot see. The worst job is taking out the trash. At the end of each long table are enormous piles of scales and bones that never seem to shrink, although workers are constantly sweeping around the room, gathering up the trash into enormous bags. The rotting trash is then taken to what most people call the Valley of Scales, an enormous field of landfills, in which the useless parts of fish are dumped. I learned in history class, that fishermen used to dump the remains into the sea, but the water became so clouded with flesh that spear-fishers could barely see and stabbed each other by mistake, and it disturbed the ecosystem of fish eating their dead family members.

I walk home with my mother if she can get off of work early. We both reek of fish and I finally understand why she throws off her worker's uniform the minute she gets in the door.

Mom takes more and more days off. In the beginning, it was just a cough, then a stomach ache. One day she woke up and didn't want to get out of bed.

That scared me. Mother loves to get up at the crack of dawn.

Her friend at the factory gave us the rest of her pills from when her husband was ill. We don't know what they do exactly—since none of us is a doctor—but mom tries them and they help a little.

However, the pills only last so long. Before no time, we run out of pills and mom is sick again.

For the second time, she falls so ill she cannot get out of bed.

I run around the house frantically, bringing her cups of warm water and cool cloths, but nothing seems to relieve her malady. I beg the women at the factory for more medicine, but to no avail. She says she will be okay, that by tomorrow she will be up and at work, but I am having a hard time believing her when her voice sounds like it has been scratched out by barnacles.

Finally, she takes my hand and presses some folded slips of money in my hand.

"Annie, use this at the medicine counter at the Infirmary for me, will you? Do you know where that is?"

I swallow and nod, crumbling the money into my fist.

"Don't wrinkle it like that," Mother chastises, sitting up to smooth out my knuckles.

She releases my hand suddenly and begins to cough again. I quickly hand her a cold cloth and a glass of water, which she gulps down hastily.

"What should I ask them for?" I say, pocketing the leaflets.

Mother coughs into the crook of her arm.

"I'm not a doctor, Annie," is all she can manage between gasps of air.

"I know," I say flatly.

"Tell them what is wrong and ask for help… please, dear."

I nod and turn to leave.

"Annie!" Mother calls out weakly as I open the door. "Please don't go alone. Take one of your friends from school. It's not safe for a young girl! Promise me you won't go alone."

"I promise," I say quietly.

But once outside, my stomach plummets at the prospect of asking any of my classmates. I only ever talk to a handful of people. I have never called up anyone to do a favor for me before. In fact, I realize with a hint of desperation, that I don't even know where anyone else lives. Although our Community (the West-Side Com.) is relatively small compared to the other Communities in District 4, there are over a thousand families at my school. I have no idea who I would ask, and do not fancy the idea of trumping through the Community looking for a classmate to help me.

I don't know my neighbors either. Now that Mother and I live in a smaller house, we are surrounded by one or two-person families, many of which are elderly fishermen and their wives who can no longer work. At our old house, I could name all of the children for three blocks. There were so many of them and my brother was the most popular boy.

Thinking about Dash makes me remember that I could ask Finnick to come with me. He will probably agree to it if he realizes how weak my mother is.

I am not satisfied with my decision, but it is my only option… and time is dwindling. I am scared to leave the house only for a few minutes. I don't know what type of havoc the illness will wreak upon my mother's frail frame.

As I half walk-half jog to the Victor's Village, I mull over the motives behind that which my mother made me promise. Not safe for a young girl? I have never been to the Community's Infirmary before, so I am not quite sure what that means. There are plenty of places that are unsafe for a young girl: the boating docks, where a heavy lift could accidentally crush a child; the water channels next to the jetties, the riptides around which could sweep a soul out to sea before she had time to swallow a breath; the Southern beaches… but I don't see what could be that dangerous about an infirmary. A few needles and bandages, perhaps?

I feel guilty as I approach the golden gates to the Victor's Village. Maybe I should have visited Finnick again in the many weeks that have elapsed since our last encounter. I have not forgotten how agonizingly lonely it must be to live by oneself, even with all the comforts and luxury of being a victor, yet my newfound workload and, dare I admit it, diffidence have kept me away. Finnick is, well… intimidating. The youngest victor of the Hunger Games, the truest testimony of a survivor, a Capitol favorite… To be honest, I thought a few times about visiting him, but was at a loss as to how to introduce myself or strike up a conversation, perhaps fearing that he would think my coming an intrusion or a nuisance.

I push the thoughts away and the golden gates to the entrance. A misty marine layer coats the surface of the place in a whitish light. It is still early and the Village is silent for the most part. Only one of Finnick's neighbors, a middle aged woman with slightly greying hair, is tending to her garden pensively. She smiles at me and asks a quick, "How d'you do?" as I approach Finnick's mansion, next to hers.

"Are you here to visit Finnick?" she asks brightly, smoothing the soil around a vibrant batch of poppies.

I nod.

"Oh, wonderful. He is such a nice boy. It'll do him good to have some friends," she continues.

I recognize her as she bends over, muttering to herself about the insufferable weeds. She won many years ago, perhaps in the year that the Gamemakers froze the arena. I haven't heard much of her since—she is not big on the Capitol cameras like Finnick is—but apparently she has been here all along, basking in the peaceful rewards of a victor's life.

"Go on and knock," she urges me when I pause.

I do so, but no one answers.

Megs—I think that might be her name—chuckles. "He's probably sleeping. Go ahead and wake him up if the door's open. Laziness is a friend to no one."

"O-okay," I say quietly.

I press the door open, and find it unlocked.

"Finnick?" I try to call, but it comes out as a terrified whisper.

He is sleeping on the couch in the living room. I am pleased to spy the woven basket with the flowers we had made together still hanging from the South window. Finnick has been watering it. The flowers look vitalized, spilling out over the sides of the net basket.

I pad over to his side and clear my throat.

Nothing.

"Finnick?" I tentatively poke his shoulder with my index finger.

Finnick reacts suddenly and instinctively. He whirls around, catching my wrist in a vicelike grip, his eyes wide and crazed.

I gasp and nearly trip backwards in surprise.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" I say quickly.

Finnick's eyes adjust to the shock, the fervor dying in them as the seconds pass. He looks around, breathing heavily, seeming to scan the room for any danger, realizes he is still clenching my wrist, and drops it with an embarrassed apology.

"I'm not used to being surprised. I guess I'm still pretty… vigilant after the Games. Sorry if I hurt you."

"I'm okay," I breathe.

"I guess it's a good thing I don't sleep with my trident by my side anymore."

I let out a slightly horrified laugh. "I would have been a fish-ka-bob."

Finnick chuckles uneasily too. "You certainly would have."

We are quiet for a moment.

"Your neighbor said it would be okay if I came in," I explain. "I'm sorry, I wouldn't have woken you if it wasn't urgent."

Finnick brushes away my apologies. "Don't worry about it. What's wrong?"

I relay the situation to him as quickly as I can. His brow creases in concern when I tell him that my mom cannot get out of bed and how she is riddled with fits of coughing.

"She made me promise I wouldn't go by myself. She said I wasn't safe. I don't know… I've never been there before. But I was wondering if you would be okay… that is, if you would please…" I blush and look down. I hate asking people for help. Finnick of all people must have much more interesting things to do than accompany an old friend on her errands.

But Finnick simply says, "Let me get my coat" and is ready in five minutes to depart.

"Have you ever been here before?" I ask as we walk out of the Victor's Village.

"A few times," he grimaces.

"Is it bad?" I ask.

Finnick doesn't respond at first. Then he says quietly, "It's very sad."

I don't quite know what he means, and I don't want to further his suddenly disheartened spirit by inquiring further.

Outside the Victor's Village, Finnick takes me down a long road that eventually thins out into a dirt path. The scenery changes dramatically as we walk farther and farther from the superfluously elegant Village. The tall beach trees grow dispersed and the weedy flowers that always flourish on the sand dunes become scarce.

The smell hits me as the road starts to level off downhill.

"Oh, god," I retch, cupping my hand over my mouth and nose.

"Unpleasant, huh?"

Finnick reaches into his pocket and retrieves two pieces of cloth. He ties one around my head, so that it shields the bottom half of my face, and secures the other over his own.

"What is it?" I ask, horrified.

"It's the Valley of Scales," replies Finnick.

I've smelled dead fish before plenty of times in the factories… particularly when I get chosen to take out the garbage. But this stench… is unfathomable.

"The Valley of Scales?" I repeat with a frown.

Finnick nods. "They didn't teach you about it in school?"

I think. The name does sound familiar.

"I guess the name is somewhat of a colloquialism," Finnick explains. "In textbooks they call it a Designated Decomposition Space. You know, a DDS?"

"Oh," I say. Yes, a DDS. When the fish are delivered to the factories, they are always prepared before they are shipped off to other districts or the Capitol. Preparation ranges from simply wiping the salt off the scales, to completely skinning the fish, chopping off its head and fins, and dicing it into sushi-sized pieces. I hear the preparation for crustaceans is even messier with so many shells.

Anyway, those pieces of the animals that are rejected (like scales, bones, fins, etc.) are deposited into trash bins and placed outside of the factories in an airtight passageway, so as to prevent a bad smell. At the end of the week, the decaying material is removed and transported to the nearest Designated Decomposition Square, where it can decompose enough to turn into soil.

I have never been to a DDS because it is so far away from home.

Now I hope I will never have to return to one again.

"Welcome to the East Community's local DDS," Finnick announces, gesturing in front of us.

In the distance spans a maze of enormous, heaping piles of decaying sea food, a manmade mountain range of pure garbage. The material at the bottom of the sloping hills looks the oldest—some has already transitioned into soil—the rest at the top looks like it has only begun the initial process of biodegrading.

I try hard not to gag.

"It's a valley, see?" Finnick draws his finger along the perimeter and I can see how the ground slopes down on each side to form a concave valley. "That's why they put it here. The smell stays in one area."

"I would have never guessed," I say. "You can't smell a thing from the Victor's Village."

"The wind always blows inland."

"Where is the infirmary?" I inquire.

"This is the shortest way," Finnick tells me glumly. "We share it with two other communities because medical supplies are so expensive. The only short cut from our community is through the valley."

I swallow.

"If it bothers you, I'll get the medicine and you don't have to go," he offers.

"No," I quickly say. This is my errand, and I couldn't tolerate him trudging through the unbearable valley for my sake.

The smell worsens as we travel deeper into the valley. I am thankful it is a cold day. If it were hot outside, I fear this experience would be a hundred times worse.

My head is spinning by the time we pass the first few rows of rotting fish. Finnick and I have stopped talking. I think we are both trying desperately to keep our mouths closed, so as to not gag.

Before long, I see something that makes my stomach turn upside down.

A trio of men so filthy and bedraggled they almost blend in with their surroundings leans against one of the piles solemnly. Their cheeks are hollow and their skin looks so dry, I wouldn't be surprised if it peeled off in the sun. If I was still a little girl, I probably would have screamed, thinking them to be corpses that had reanimated. One of the men is missing a leg beneath is ripped pants. Another blows smoke out of a thin pipe.

"Keep your eyes down," Finnick breathes in my ear almost unintelligibly.

I drop my eyes from the horrifying sight of the decrepit human beings, but I cannot keep from peeking out of my peripherals as more begin to emerge.

They're subtle. A shift of clothing, a nudge to a neighbor, a cough from between wizened, cracked lips are the only indication that life is present. I cannot understand who—or what—these people are and why they have chosen to take refuge in this inhospitable sanctuary.

"Have some change to spare?" a voice croaks. An emaciated man with a thick scar forming a diagonal across his face peers up at us from beneath a makeshift shelter of a shirt lying over two beams. His eyes, red around the edges, bulge in hopefulness out of their sockets.

"No, I'm sorry," Finnick says.

"What 'cha talkin' 'bout, prutty boy?" Another man emerges from behind a pile. He wears nothing but an ill-fitted pair of faded shorts and limps when he walks. "I know yeh. Yer a Victor. Yah got some real gud money, ain't 'cha?"

"Keep walking," Finnick tells me quietly.

"I know you, too!"

"Ye've gotta help us, suh."

"Anything will help."

More of them are emerging slowly. Those who were sleeping are resurrected with the possibility of money. Shadow-like phantom begin pulling themselves up to sitting positions, moaning as their backs crack.

The man with the limp hobbles forward. "Jus' a little som'ing for us, and we'll let 'cha be on yer way."

"I'm sorry," Finnick says again, a little more forcefully, picking up pace. "We don't have anything for you."

I hear someone grunt a disbelieving laugh.

"Missus, you'd like to spare a bit of cash for a man in need, wouldn't you?" one of them asks me.

"I—" I begin.

"Oh, sure yeh do!" The limping man grabs my arm with uncanny speed, nearly dragging me to the ground. "How 'bout—"

"HEY!" Finnick reels back his fist and punches the man squarely in the face, sending him spiraling to the ground.

"Ay, lad! No need to get rowdy!" someone hollers.

Another yells, "You rich Victor scum! Can't even bear to show a little decency to your neighbors! Go suck one at the Capitol!"

A handful of filth hits Finnick in the back of the neck, speckling my face with drops of fish gore.

"Yah bastard!" gags the man who Finnick punched. His oily nose is dripping blood. "Yah filthy bastard!"

Finnick puts his arm around me protectively and sets off at a pace which I have to jog to keep up with, as more garbage begins to rain down on us from our filthy assailants.

The people are yelling at us, screaming insults. They hate the Capitol, which refuses to provide for them. They hate President Snow. They hate anyone who fraternizes with the Capitol—which I suppose includes their "prutty boy" Finnick. "Down with the bastards!" they cry. I see one man clutching his neck and sobbing, begging us for mercy and for money. I am tempted to reach into my pocket for anything to help him, but I remember my mother's life may rest on the medicine.

Finnick dutifully ignores them, although a dirty drop of waste is dripping down the side of his face from a parcel somebody chucked at us. It is almost akin to a tear.

The last person to confront us is a middle-aged woman at the edge of the valley, who is missing both of her legs and most of her teeth. She is swaddled in a nest of dirty sheets and nestles an infant in her thin lap.

"Anything to help us, sir?" she begs.

But Finnick only shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

By time we reach the infirmary, I can hardly breathe—whether from the stench or the ordeal, I cannot ascertain. My eyes are wet with tears.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Finnick says as we mount the steps to the white sterile facility, so brilliantly clean in juxtaposition to its surroundings.

"I don't understand," I pant. "What are those people doing out here?"

"They can't work. Their families can't provide for them, so they're starving. Some of them are injured, some of them are sick… I think most of them aren't mentally stable."

"I guess so," I sigh, untying the cloth from my face. "Is that why they stay close to the infirmary?"

"Probably," he says. "Also because anyone headed to get medicine has to have money. They're all beggars out there."

"Why doesn't the Capitol help them?"

Finnick shrugs. "No work, no pay. They're the undesirables… useless to the Capitol. The Peacemakers would kill them, but instead they let them take refuge in the valley, where they feed off the… the garbage."

I try not to vomit as the scent of the valley reverberates through my memory.

"But how—how can they get away with saying that stuff about President Snow and the Capitol?"

"Who's going to hear them?" Finnick retorts, his eyes narrowing suddenly in anger. "When everybody's too busy paying attention to whatever stupid new trend launches at the Capitol?"

His face is hardened as he holds the door open for me.

"We could help them," I offer.

"No, the Peacemakers wouldn't allow it. They let them live in the Valley, so long as they don't turn into a nuisance. But they would never tolerate us helping them… When you go to the Valley, you stay there for good. If the Peacekeepers found out that I was using my Hunger Games winnings to better the undesirables… well, I'd be in trouble."

"But that woman…" I begin.

"I know," Finnick murmurs. The angry defiance fades in his eyes and is replaced with that distinct sadness I sometimes detect in them—not real tears, but a strange awareness that supersedes anything a normal teenage boy should be capable of feeling.

"Let's go get your mom's medicine, okay?" he says evenly.

"Okay."

The hospital is bustling with activity. An infirmary that caters to three communities in District 4 is bound to be busy, after all. Nurses and doctors glide from room to room in a perpetual stream of medical attention and supplies.

Finnick and I sidle over to the waiting room, where we stand at the back of a long line designated "Non-Emergency Medical Care."

It's an organized chaos in the waiting room. People are pacing back and forth fretfully, arguing with the nurses, searching their pockets in despair, corralling their coughing children. Some are visibly ill and huddle by themselves in the corners. Others lean against the wall, exhausted by a long day of haggling overworked nurses for a few more pills.

One little girl with eight tiny braids that look like miniature octopus tentacles tugs on the edge of my shirt.

"Are you sick?" she asks me.

"No." I crouch down to speak to her, for she is so short. "I'm here to get medicine for my mom."

"Oh. My brother is sick," she says pointedly. "His head is really hot all the time and sometimes he throws up."

"I'm sorry," I say sympathetically.

"Do you have a brother?"

I shift on the balls of my feet uneasily. "No, I don't," I tell her after a moment.

Finnick eyes me carefully.

"I hope he feels better real soon," she says, speaking more to herself than to me. "I hope he doesn't get more sicker."

"I hope so too."

Her father calls and the little girl with the braids retreats to the counter, where her brother awaits, looking pallid and unwell.

We're next.

I approach the counter where a free nurse awaits us.

"What can I do for you?" she asks, scribbling the previous costumer's prescription on a piece of paper.

"My mother is sick," I tell her. "I don't know what is wrong, exactly. She hasn't been able to go to work as often as usual, and this morning she couldn't get out of bed. She's coughing a lot. She's really tired and weak."

The nurse is only half listening. A parade of stretchers is being carried in. It appears to be a boating accident.

"We're going to need backup in the front lobby. Entrance 2," the nurse says into a radio on her shirt. She turns back to me. "What were you saying, dear? A cough? A slight malady? I'm sorry, honey, I don't know what more to prescribe than a simple cough suppressant, which might help ease your mother's pain and get her back on her feet."

I nod. "If you think that's what's best."

"Alright…" she murmurs, scribbling a series of abbreviated characters on a pad. She tears out the sheet and hands it to me. "Take it over to the prescription counter across the hall. They'll have it ready for you right away."

"Thank you," I say, but she is already helping the next guest in line and does not hear me over the bustle of the waiting room.

I hand the slip of paper to the man behind the prescription counter in the next room. He returns with a white bottle of liquid, the Panem symbol stamped squarely onto the center.

"Busy day today! This is the only cough suppressant we have left," he explains. "It's more expensive, but much better quality. Should only be taken in times of pain or coughing attacks. Would you still like it?"

"Yes, please." I pull out my money.

"Eighty-five pecs."

Eighty-five? I swallow. What a fortune! Mother only gave me seventy. Seventy would be more than enough, she told me, to buy a simple cough medicine, even one that was quite costly.

Unwilling to let my mom down, I am about to beg, to offer my services in compensation for the fifteen pecs that I lack—surely they wouldn't be opposed to a little extra labor around here—or to vow that I will pay back the difference, when Finnick reaches swiftly into his coat pocket and slides a 100 pecuniam toward the man at the prescription counter.

"Thank you, sir." The man's eyes widen a little at such a handsome piece of currency. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"No, thank you."

I start to protest. I can't possibly accept this act of generosity when all I asked of Finnick was to accompany me to the infirmary.

But he cuts me off, handing me the bottle of cough suppressant and slipping the change into my hand before I have time to say more than an embarrassed, "I really can't—"

"Don't worry," he says, leading me out of the infirmary. "I'm sure you'll make it up to me."

"But how?"

Finnick ponders for a moment.

"You could visit more," he says slyly. "It doesn't have to be often. Just on the weekends, maybe, if you have a few spare hours. You could bring your mom too, if she's feeling well enough."

"Okay," I agree. It is much easier than I'd bargained for! Besides, I like talking to Finnick. It's a nice change from the social solitude I embrace at school. He's funny when he's in a good mood and reminds me of Dash with his endless energy and wit.

"You really want to?" His face brightens for a moment with an almost childish happiness, which he quickly tries to dissolve into a nonchalant shrug.

"Sure," I say.