I'm sorry that I accidentally posted the last chapter twice. Technology is a bitch. I think I fixed it, though. And I'm sorry that some of you guys didn't like it. In my own defense, I'm getting writer's block. Hopefully this one won't disappoint.

Mother Dearest

(FINNICK)

It's been two weeks since Annie was crowned. We haven't been alone together after our most recent kiss.

Upon Mags's request, I go to the apothecary on Mainland in search of an antidote to the poison I saw Snow use. "Better safe than sorry," Mags said. "Especially after what happened at the recap." I didn't think it was a bad idea.

Lysander is about my age. He runs the apothecary with his mother, Timoxena. Lysander always looks like he's been in a recent explosion – huge dust-covered goggles over his eyes, dark blond hair extending in every direction, and a dirt-smudged face.

Right now, he's riffling through a cabinet of suspicious-looking elixirs. "So what were the symptoms again?" he calls.

"Besides dying, there's coughing up blood," I reply.

He returns with a paper pouch in one hand and a vial in the other. "Did you want the poison or the antidote?"

"Antidote," I say.

Lysander curses under his breath. For a moment, he examines the two in his hands. "Eh . . ." He hesitates before handing me the liquid. "That's it. Maybe. No. Yes. Yes. That's it. Yes. Definitely it." He nods to himself.

"Do you want some time to reconsider?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "No. Nope. I'm sure. I think." He sticks his pinky into the powder-pouch, licks it, then spits on the ground. "Yep, I was right. The antidote is tasteless, but the poison tastes like strawberries. That's how you tell the difference."

"I'll remember that for later," I mutter. I hand him a few coins and slip the vile into my pocket before leaving. I try to head out of the marketplace to the docks, which involves going through the residential area.

In said residential area, I see a woman struggling to unlock her front door while holding onto a mass of brown paper bags.

"Need help?" I call.

When the woman sees me, she shrieks and drops the bags. She immediately slaps her hand over her mouth. "Finnick," she gasps, extending a hand to me. "I – I'm Jocasta," she stammers. "Asper Brewre's mother."

Asper Brewre, as in my tribute Asper Brewre. This is the mother of the twelve-year-old boy that was decapitated in the arena.

I shake her hand. "Oh, of course. I'm Finnick Odair."

I can see the resemblance in the almost-unnatural silver hair and the shape of the eyes, but that's where it stops.

"Would you like to come in?" Jocasta asks.

After agreeing, I help her pick up the fallen groceries and we head inside. It's a one-floor house, cluttered with dirty plates and papers. There's a shrill whistling coming from the other room. Jocasta curses and rushes into the kitchen, shouting over her shoulder for me to put the bags anywhere.

I set them down on the couch. In doing so, I accidentally look through a half-open door.

Jocasta comes back in with two cups of tea. She puts them down on the already-packed coffee table. "That room was Asper's," she says quietly. "You can go in, if you like." She opens the door for me.

Sunlight pours in through a huge bay window on the far wall. A small bed, a desk, and chair are the only furniture. The walls are covered with drawings. An open sketchbook and colored pencils are laid out on the bed, waiting for the owner that will never return.

These drawings aren't the mindless doodles of children. They're realistic enough to be photographs. Some are of people, others of places and things.

"Do you draw, too?" I ask.

"I try," Jocasta says with an airy laugh. She sighs. "I know I should clean out this room out, but I can't bring myself to do it."

I should probably say something. "I had no idea he was so talented."

"That was my Asper," Jocasta says quietly. "He wasn't a very good student. He was drawing when he should've been studying."

If Asper had won, he'd probably drop out of school. Almost every victor does. I didn't, though – not right away, at least.

"Asper was a good kid," I say. A good kid that I allowed to die a horrible, gruesome, painful death.

"How's Annie?" Jocasta asks. "I saw your announcement on TV."

I shrug and pick up the sketchbook to examine a half-finished picture of a sleeping cat.

After a moment, she says, "I'd like to meet her sometime – if that's all right."

I'm not going to deny her that. "Sure. I've got to head back anyway. Want to come?"

"Is that okay?" she asks.

"If it wasn't fine, I wouldn't have invited you."

We head to Victor's Isle, then to Annie's house. Britton answers the door.

"Finnick," he says. "Hey. And a strange lady. Hello to you, too."

"This is Jocasta Brewre," I say. "She's Asper's mom."

Britton's eyes widen. "Oh. Hi." He shakes Jocasta's hand. "Come on in."

We enter the house.

"Jocasta wanted to meet Annie," I explain.

"Uh, you guys get comfortable. I'll go get her." We remain standing as he disappears upstairs.

Jocasta takes a deep breath. I can tell she's thinking about what it'd be like if her son had won, if she were living in this house instead of the Crestas.

"Nervous?" I ask.

"I don't know," she says. "I don't think there's an emotion for this."

Britton and Annie come downstairs. When she sees me, Annie breaks into a smile – which makes me smile in turn.

"Annie," I say. "This is Asper's mom."

Annie takes one look at Jocasta and faints.