Effie wakes with a start. There is sunlight on her face, but she is not in her bed, and this is not her room. She pulls the blanket tight about herself, counting as she breathes. It takes her a few seconds, but she places the space: the living room in Peeta's house, the soft couch against the far wall.

Sitting up, she feels a sleeve of her dress get pulled off her shoulder as the blanket shifts with her. She frowns, looking down: she is still wearing yesterday's dress. A hand to her head tells her she's wearing her wig as well. On the coffee table in front of her is her favorite mug, and snoring in the armchair off to the left is none other than Haymitch.

Memories of the previous evening come back to her, from his drunken intrusion to her request for him to stay. The last thing she remembers is telling him she's going to speak with the Marshes today. Now here they are, both in need of a shower and a change of clothes.

Feeling rested for the first time in days, she stands and goes to the armchair. Not once in all the years she's known him has she ever seen him look so relaxed, his hold loose on the glass from which he drank last night, his dark hair in his face. She takes the glass and sets it on the table, smiling. The air isn't cold, but she shrugs off the blanket and drapes it over him anyway, a silent show of gratitude for his having done the same for her last night, for not having left her to wake here alone and wonder at what happened.

She makes quick work of showering and dressing. Haymitch is still asleep when she comes downstairs again. In the kitchen, she makes twice as much coffee and leaves him a full mug on the table before she goes.

The air outside is muggy with the humidity left over from the day before, but the sun shines bright and unobstructed. The weather lifts everyone's spirits, but it's more than that for Effie. She smiles because of a good night's sleep, a friendship beginning to mend, and a story that will bring the pieces of this documentary together.

Robert Marsh greets her at the door and leads her into the modest living room, where Heather sits in an armchair with her legs propped up on a footstool.

"No cameras?" she asks as Effie takes a seat on the couch.

"Of course not," Effie says. She lifts her clipboard and pencil. "Only these for today. No cameras until and unless you've agreed to them."

Heather nods slowly, smiling. "I have to admit, I never thought I'd hear those words from- well, from anyone."

"I never thought I'd get to say them," Effie confesses.

Robert excuses himself to go work in a back of the house. "His workshop is there," Heather tells Effie. "It's much nicer now."

Nodding, Effie makes a note on the top sheet on her clipboard. "So, even if you would rather not be filmed, I'd still like to interview you and have some elements of your story mentioned. You'll get to approve everything, of course."

"Oh, we've got nothing to hide. It should be all right."

Effie grins. "All right. Let's see." She purses her lips as she looks over the questions she'd written the day before, after Katniss' visit. "Well, let's just dive in, I suppose. How was it, finding out about the baby in the middle of the rebellion?"

"Terrifying." Heather bites her lip for a moment, her eye glazing over with the memory. "We were refugees, obviously new, trying to adjust to Thirteen. It was safe, but… different. I didn't like it. I missed the woods, the streets, the sky. I was scared to think our child might be born there, might have to grow up there."

"I can't even imagine," Effie says, jotting things down and thanking one particular professor for her short course in shorthand. "But I have to ask, doesn't it worry you that there isn't a hospital here?"

"Not at all," answers Heather. "It was great having doctors and equipment in Thirteen, yes. I'm glad for that, and I'm glad we get to know we're having a girl. But women have been giving birth here without fancy equipment for years. There's a midwife, a woman named Yasmin, who lives two buildings over. She's our acting medic, so she got to move in and set up before anyone else did."

"How long has she been practicing?" Effie asks. It's an unscripted question, but she is curious. She vaguely remembers reading about midwives in school, but they were treated as a quaint occupation of the past, a class of people who practiced a primitive art.

"She was an apprentice when I was little, so she's been working at it since at least then. Twenty-five, maybe thirty years, I'd guess."

"So she must be very good at what she does."

"She's excellent. Best in the Seam." Heather is proud as she says it, her grey eyes lighting up, lending her smile a subtle brightness that could clear the darkest of moods.

Effie gets clarification on what the Seam is, taking diligent notes in case they're needed. There is so much no one outside this district knew about its way of life, but the past is not the focus of her project. It's the present, the hope that burns bright through the rebuilding effort, and the future towards which they are working. Perhaps someday, when the wounds of the Hunger Games have begun to heal, people will need to remember the history of their country, that they may never repeat it again.

Soon, it feels less like an interview and more like a conversation. Effie learns which leaves make a tea that reduces fevers better than the medicines she's known her whole life, which flower's petals sweeten even the blandest of grain cereals, and how to dry any number of plants for use in the winter months. The only thing she can give Heather in return is to show her how to make a dress out of a blanket. It was a game she and her cousins played when they were in their early teens pretending to walk down the most prestigious of runways in the Capitol. With just a few pins and the right layering, they could have gone out in public without fear of ridicule if their parents had only allowed them to try.

"It looks comfortable, actually," Heather remarks as Effie folds the blanket with which she's just done her demonstration. "Lots of freedom to move."

"And it's very cool in hot weather." Effie sits but does not take up her clipboard. "Well, we covered everything I had in mind and so much more. You can take your time with your decision. Probably the director will ask you similar questions, just so they'll be able to record the answers.

"I do have one more, though. Completely off the record."

Heather chuckles, nodding. "Go on ahead."

"Do you know what you'll name your daughter?"

Heather draws in a deep breath and presses her lips together. For a moment, Effie wonders if she's crossed a line, but there is no anger in Heather's face or eyes as she sinks into her thoughts.

"You know, we have a few ideas," Heather begins slowly, "but we still aren't sure. It's important, picking a good name."

Effie nods. "It's not the same thing, but we still haven't picked out a name for the documentary," she says. "I can't seem to come up with anything that isn't- well, awful or trite."

"Yes. We could choose to name her Hope, but that's… well, we don't like it."

"It's pretty, though."

"I think it would put pressure on her to be hope, or to have it." Heather shakes her head. "That's a lot to put on someone's shoulders. I don't know how Katniss managed all she did."

"Neither do I," Effie says quietly. "But then again, I don't know how anyone managed all that happened."

"No one really knows what they can withstand until the time comes to withstand it," Heather says. "My father used to tell me that."

"He was very wise."

Effie remains silent for a while in honor of that man and the countless many others who died in the years since the Dark Days. Then, with a deep breath and a smile, she says good-bye and heads on her way.

"I'll be in town every day, so you can let me know your decision any time this week," Effie says at the door.

"Oh, no need," Heather tells her, waving a hand in the air. "A few hours for a camera won't be so bad, I think."

It takes all the strength Effie possesses not to jump and squeal, but she does permit herself a bright, beaming grin.

For the rest of the day, she is nothing short of ecstatic.

That evening, she is back to merely pleased with a dash of content. Even Haymitch's sarcasm doesn't get her down.

"To your little project thing," he says, lifting up the bottle in his hand and taking a drink.

She does the same with her tea. "To District Twelve."