The first door on the right opened on a room with a gigantic bed, a TV mounted on the wall, a wide open window, and a faintly musty smell still clinging to it. Which made sense – I'm probably the first houseguest Haymitch has had in several decades, Gale thought.

He switched on the TV, which was tuned to reruns of some singing competition, and unzipped his duffel bag. Most of his things – the underwear, socks, spare shirts, pair of jeans – could stay in the bag, ready to be pulled out and stuffed back in. But his dress uniform he removed with great care. Finding a hanger in the closet, he folded the pants over the bottom bar, checking that the seams wouldn't shift. He put the shirt on another hanger, with the buttons done up so it would hang perfectly. He arranged the jacket over a third hanger, brushing the lint off and straightening the collar. The boots and their polish he carefully laid out next to the wardrobe, mentally noting that he'd have to give them a touch-up before the stag party. Finally, he put his three medals on the bedside table. Those were shiny all on their own, so he wouldn't have to do much to them.

His mother was right that he'd never taken clothes this seriously before. In truth, he still didn't take much interest in fashion. He only cared about this uniform, his uniform. He'd earned it. He earned it the night District 12 was destroyed and the day the Nut was cracked and the day the Capitol fell, and then he kept on earning it afterwards by rebuilding the shattered Peacekeeper forces. Although the memories of the worst things he'd done were a nuisance, he knew that he'd done it all so he could have what he had now – the apartment, the food, the rank, the happy siblings, the peace, the uniform.

On the television, the District Four contestant was crooning an old ballad written about the first Quarter Quell. Gale didn't turn it off when he left the room.