A/N: Hey guys! Alright, so we've gotten well over 500 with the reviews, and while that is AWESOME, it means I have less time to reply, with more than 50 reviews a chapter. I read each one, though, and I love hearing your thoughts, so keep 'em coming!
We've got quite a way to go before this is going to be an issue, but eventually this story is going to end and I'm going to start planning the sequel. I'm trying to decide if I'm going to continue it or start another story. If I do that, then I'll post an epilogue-y chapter on here with the title, so you guys know the deal or whatever.
Enjoy! (Especially Shauna)
Mom doses Gale with morphling and he goes loopy, but she won't let me stay here with him to make sure he stays awake. "Haymitch wants to see you, go do that," she says.
Prim said something about that before, so I know she's not completely making up an excuse to get me away. I take Cato with me, since a drunk Haymitch is one I'm sometimes not strong enough to handle, and he's been drinking for the past month straight.
I knock on the door and don't wait for a response to walk in. "Haymitch?" I call.
He grunts loudly from another room, so we go to there and find him sprawled out in a chair, a large bottle sitting on his stomach. "Look who finally walked in," he slurs. "Don't mind me. I'm just drinking."
"Yeah, and you should stop." I take the bottles from him, put them out of his reach. "Why did you want me to come visit?"
He shakes his head and kind of shrugs. "Missed you."
"He's very drunk," Cato observes.
"Yep." I nod. "And very incoherent. Haymitch, do you need something, or should we leave you alone with your-"
"No," he says quickly. "No. Don't. Are you two okay?"
"Yeah, we're fine," I say suspiciously. "Why do you want to know?"
"Curious." He shrugs.
"Can you be curious with pants on?" I suggest.
"Yeah. Yeah, I can be." He doesn't move. "So how's the kid's family?" he asks, elaborately nonchalant.
"Peeta's?"
He kind of cringes at the name. "Yep."
"They're fine, I guess."
"No, no." Haymitch puts one heavy hand on mine. "No bullshit. How are they really?"
"The two brothers are angry. The dad's depressed. The mom is… I don't know. She doesn't seem to particularly care that much," I finally say.
"Angry?" he asks.
"Yeah. But not at me."
"So at me?"
"Of course not. It would actually probably mean a lot to them if you went and… I don't know, told them what a good fighter he was or something," I suggest.
Haymitch waves his hand dismissively. "Nah. Bad idea."
Cato speaks up. "You can't hide from them forever," he says, matter-of-fact.
"You shut the hell up." Haymitch points his finger a few feet away from Cato. "You don't know what you're talking about. I'm not hiding. I'm a victor." He punches himself in the eye as he tries to point at himself. "Damn it."
"Have you eaten food recently?" I ask, concerned.
"Nope. Food's… food's food." He shrugs.
"Don't be like this," I say.
"Like what?" he says, and he just sounds exhausted. "Come back to me when you've killed thirty kids, watched them die on national television. We'll talk then about eating. Talking to their families."
"And you've never spoken to any of their families?"
"Would you have?"
"I did. Ryan… you should talk to him, at least."
"Why?"
I don't have the answer for that right away. Seeing Haymitch consumed with guilt like this is hurting me in a way I didn't know existed, because I can see myself thinking like he does, after a few years of mentoring. Finally, I say, "Cuz I can't watch you go crazy like this. It wasn't your fault."
He raises his eyebrows, sucks in his cheeks. "Sweetheart, you can do anything," he tells me with a tone very close to pity.
"Look, I won't bother you anymore. I'll let you forget who you are. Just go talk to Ryan. At least try to get some kind of closure."
"Closure." He laughs darkly. "Of course. That's possible."
I wait.
"Damn you," he finally sighs. "You and your compassion thing." He sits up, head lolling, then finally wrenches around to look at me. "Give me ten minutes. I have to puke my guts up. And put on pants." He stumbles away, waving off our helping hands.
Cato looks at me intently. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I shrug, pretending that stupid tears haven't sprung up in my eyes. "I'll be fine. I don't know why this makes me so upset-"
"I do."
"What? Why's that?" I frown.
"He's you," he says flatly. "I mean, Gale's like you, but he is you."
Above us, Haymitch falls into something. Loud cursing.
"I'm not sure if I want to be that," I try to joke.
But Cato just looks at me, deadpan, because he knows he's undeniably right.
We kind of just stand there awkwardly, not looking at each other after that, because something's hanging in the air between us now. Finally, Haymitch comes back down, with pants on as promised, and considerably less drunk. "Alright," he says. "Let's go."
We go. The streets are more empty than I've ever seen them, except maybe on reaping day, and it's eerie, but Cato and Haymitch are both here with me, one on either side of me. "This isn't going to fix anything," Haymitch informs me before opening the door. "I'm doing this as a favor, you understand?"
I nod, and don't let myself ask who it's a favor to; me or Peeta. And we go in, first me, then Cato, and finally Haymitch.
Mrs. Mellark is in the front of the shop, putting out new cheese rolls; she looks at me suspiciously when I walk in, and I remember I'm not exactly on her good side. Then she sees Cato, and her face changes, but I can't get a read on it before she sees Haymitch and changes again. Cato and I glance at each other and reach an unspoken understanding that we're not going to do the talking here, so Haymitch finally says, "I need to speak with your son." He's pale, but his voice is steady. I'm impressed.
"Which one?"
I think it's pretty obvious which one he's talking about. Haymitch maintains his cool. "Ryan."
"Gonna kill him, too?"
Wow. I look at Haymitch for his answer. He almost closes off, gets depressed, but then something clicks in his head, and he goes all flinty-eyed. "No, but much more of this and I'll seriously be considering you as a target." While she's trying to figure out how to respond, he continues, "Now please. Get your son out here."
Hard to deny him when he's like this. Mrs. Mellark certainly can't; she storms to the back with little grace. "How am I doing?" Haymitch asks us while he's out of earshot.
"Could be a little more nice," I suggest tactfully. "But overall, good."
"Yeah, because I have a habit of being nice to bitter harpies."
And then she comes back, with Ryan in front of her, looking royally furious. She all but pushes him towards us, angrily glaring at all four of us, and goes back to putting pastries in the front display case.
We're not really paying much attention to her, though, because Ryan's hurt. He's got a long welt across his face, over one cheek and to the corner of his mouth, and I'm pretty sure it's from one of the baking sheets. One of his arms has a similar mark on it, like he put his arm up to protect his face.
Haymitch is pissed off, now, all thoughts of closure clearly out the window. He peers closely at Ryan "Did she do this?" he asks, making no effort to be quiet. I'm pretty sure she hears him.
"Um…" Ryan doesn't seem to have an answer ready.
Haymitch waits for a second, then nods once and turns to Mrs. Mellark. "What gives you the right," he begins, "to do this, huh?" He's slightly drunk still, I can tell from the way he's talking, but he's also definitely sober enough to understand what he's doing.
"What I do with my family, in the privacy of my own home, is none of your business," she says, seething with anger.
"Lady, I'll say this once. Give me a straight answer or so help me, I'll draw my own conclusions," he says, sounding very bored.
"Are you threating me?" she narrows her eyes. "I don't think you should talk to my son. Ryan, come here," she orders.
Ryan has been looking very uncomfortable, watching this with an expression of obvious dread. When she says this, he starts to obey, taking a step towards her, but Haymitch sticks his arm out.
"No, no," he says. "Let's talk this out."
"It's really not that big of a deal," Ryan says nervously. "I'm fine."
"I know you are, kid," Haymitch says. "But if I'm the only one in this district who's drunk enough to tell it like it is, then fine. That's what I'll do."
"Get out of my store and leave my family alone," Mrs. Mellark orders shrilly.
"I don't think so," Haymitch shakes his head.
Cato puts his hand on my back, like he's ready to grab me and take us away if something happens. Ryan glances at both of us, and I can't tell if he wants us to leave or help him.
"Here's what's gonna happen," Haymitch says. "You're going to let him go with us. You won't stop us. And if you try, I will punch you in the face."
"Haymitch!" I say in shock.
"Stay out of this, sweetheart," he warns. "Not your battle. Take him and go."
"Why are you doing this?" Ryan asks.
Haymitch gives it a second of thought, no more. "I couldn't protect one of you brothers. I'm sure as hell not going to make that mistake again," he says simply. "Go."
He's using his serious voice, so immediately I go. Ryan's not about to move, though, so I take his hand and pull him after me, Cato bringing up the rear. We don't go too far from the door, though, and I drop Ryan's hand after I realize I'm holding it. "You're okay?" I say to Ryan, just to check.
"Yeah, yeah. Is Edan?"
"Yep. On our couch, happily miserable. I think he hates Gale a little less, though."
"Really? That's great."
"So I think you might be staying with us."
He sighs. "Yeah. Although I don't know how that's going to work out. Why'd he do this?"
"Hell if I know. He was just supposed to come talk with you guys," I shrug.
"And why's that?"
I hesitate, unsure how to explain the reasoning, and Cato steps in. "He needed to get his balls back. Wouldn't stop feeling guilty about your brother being dead. He was gonna drink himself to death if he didn't face you." He shrugs. "Closure."
"Guess that went out of the window," Ryan observes.
"Yeah." I tighten my lips. "Sorry."
Ryan's face twitches a couple times, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "It's fine. He's-" He stops talking when we hear a thump from inside, then Haymitch hurries out.
"Time to go, kids," he says, and herds the three of us towards home.
"What'd you do?" I ask.
"Punched her in the face," he says calmly. "I warned her."
"Are you serious?" Ryan stares in disbelief.
"Absolutely."
That begins this conversation between the two of them that's very personal and absolutely none of my business. Cato and I slowly realize this and hang back several feet, and after a few minutes of walking side by side, our hands find each other. I finally have a second to remember my epiphany from before, and I don't know if I want to walk closer to him or back off until I figure myself out.
"Well. I guess he's getting his closure," I say quietly.
"Is this how it usually happens?"
"I don't know. I'm not big on this type of thing. But I'm going to guess no, usually most people don't get closure by punching a woman in the face," I say with a bit of a smile.
"Oh."
"You don't… do you need closure?" I ask, looking up at him.
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, I mean you were in the games, too. It doesn't seem to have affected you, and I'm just wondering if that's really what's true."
"Yeah, I'm fine," he says. "We're trained for it, though, so I guess it's different."
"Okay. As long as you're sure." I pause, figuring out my next words. "If something does go wrong, though, you'll tell me, right?"
"Sure," he agrees. "Don't worry about it."
"You can't stop me from worrying about you, y'know," I inform him.
"What?" He seems confused.
"You heard me."
"Why would you say that?"
"Because I thought it."
"That's not what I mean."
"Then what do you mean?"
"I'm not sure." He holds my hand tighter.
"Alright. Well, let me know when you figure that out. Until then, I'll worry."
"Deal." He almost says something a couple times. "You're awesome," he finally gets out.
"Where did that come from?" I tilt my head curiously.
"I don't know." He pulls me into his side, and we walk the rest of the way home like that.
Ryan ends up staying with Haymitch for the next week or so. The two of them have some kind of bonding experience or whatever, and when Edan's finally healthy enough to walk, he goes over there, too. They're good for Haymitch; he doesn't stop drinking altogether, but he does it considerably less. When they finally do go home, both Mellarks have more confidence than before. I'm pretty sure there's some agreement in place now, about not letting anything like that happen again, but I don't know the details. None of my business.
During that time, Cato stays with us. So does Gale, which leads for some uncomfortable moments, but they never try to kill each other again, so I guess progress is made. Since the woods are off-limits now, we finally have time to work on developing Cato's personality. Effie sends a package with a variety of things – painting supplies, flower-arranging stuff, journals and fancy pens, and books about all kinds of pursuits; bird-watching, history, fashion, and trivia. I need a talent to display on the tour, and hunting doesn't count.
We soon learn that I have a knack for none of that, though Prim gets reasonably good at most of those things. And Cato's not a painter or a fashion designer or a trivia person, not at all. He tries reading, but although he doesn't say a word, I can tell it's really hard for him. Not like, intellectually hard, but more like he never learned to read that well, so that's why it's hard. He knows his name, his district, and he can work out most of everything else, but it just takes some time.
And then, he writes. It starts off normal, just letters to his sister to make him more sympathetic to the Capitol citizens, but then I read them, and I realize; he's got a gift. The thing he said, about my eyes in that note before, that wasn't a one-time thing. I'm no gifted critic or anything, but even I can tell. Eventually, a few pages of his words make their way to Haymitch. He stops by to talk to us.
"Hey. Who wrote this? You wrote this?" he asks Cato. We're sitting at the kitchen table, which is finally without a boy on top of it for the first time in a week.
"Yeah," Cato says. "Why, what's wrong with it?"
"Nothing, nothing's wrong with it," Haymitch says picking up some more pages from where they're scattered over the tabletop along with my crumpled attempts at painting. "You came up with this out of thin air, just by yourself?"
"Yeah."
Haymitch sits down at the table with us. "You've got a gift," he announces.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Cato frowns.
"Writing. You've got a gift for it. If you were born before the games…" Haymitch shakes his head. "You're an artist."
"I don't get it. I'm not even good at it. What do you mean, I'm an artist?" Cato says.
"I mean you can make pictures with your words in a way I haven't heard of in anybody since the Dark Days. They did their best to beat it out of you, though, didn't they."
"Great. So I have a completely useless talent," Cato says flatly.
But Haymitch shakes his head. "Not useless. Not by a long shot." He stares off into space thoughtfully for a second, then nods once, like he's decided something. "We'll talk more later. Beautiful stuff," he tells Cato, getting up, and then he's gone again.
Privately, I'm not completely sure he's right about Cato. He doesn't write a lot, not unless he's got a reason to – more letters home, notes for me, and after Prim uses her puppy-dog eyes, he writes down things for her. Fairytales, descriptions, anything she wants. I know for a fact, though that he the stories he writes for her aren't any from his childhood. The endings are all too happy.
I don't tell him about my epiphany. It's not that I don't trust him enough to tell him, but more than I don't trust myself. The last person that I felt anything similar to this about died, because of me. I can't risk it again. He's the best thing to come out of the games with me. I'm not going to let him get away.
And on top of that, I don't know what I'd do without him, comforting me in the middle of the night because the nightmares just won't stop, holding my hand. And at the most random times, he'll reach out and touch me, my arm, my face, my shoulder, like he's reassuring himself I'm here.
The more this happens, the more I know he's not just my friend. I've never wanted anyone to touch me, or kiss me. Not like that. He's the only one. I can't lose him, can't do this without him. It might scare him away if I bare my soul to him. So I don't tell him.
He keeps making these random trips to the Capitol, though, every couple of days. He'll leave in the middle of the night or something, try to hide from me how long he's gone each time, but I catch on. The third time he goes, the day before he returns to his own district, he's gone for almost twelve hours.
I admit, I panic just a little bit. I mean, I pass the day fine enough, doing normal-type things, but when I see him walking in, I freak out. I don't run to him, though, because I can tell something is horribly wrong again, something big, like the last time he came back from there and needed me.
"You okay?" I ask cautiously, less than a foot from him.
"I'm…" he can't finish that sentence, so I look deep into his eyes to try to find the meaning there. They're completely blank, though, like the lake on a still summer day.
"What have you been doing there?"
He won't answer that.
"I want to help you," I say, taking his hands and holding them tight. He doesn't even twitch his fingers in response; they just sit there limply in my hands. "Why are you doing this?"
"For you," he says, his voice low. "I'm doing this for you. Please, believe that."
"Okay, but I don't know what that is."
He kind of shrugs, and that's it. He won't say another word. But he hangs onto me tightly for almost the next hour, and he looks at me differently after that. So when he tells me he has to go back to his district – something about training the next volunteers – I don't argue. Something's wrong with him. Maybe he needs some alone time to figure it out.
But then everything goes even more wrong. He leaves and he doesn't come back, doesn't call, won't take my calls. I don't know what to do, so I try to maintain some resemblance of normality.
I do my best to keep up a semi-normal routine; with Gale over his previous jealous rage, he and I go back to spending hours at a time together, working on a spot in the fence until it's weak enough to bend and slip through. We're more careful not to get caught, though, only trading game with people we know won't out us. In my absence, the Hob was burnt down, so we sneak it directly to people's back doors, avoiding Mrs. Mellark at all costs.
And then one day, when I get back home, something's different. The house is completely silent, empty, and smells strange. I don't register the specific scent until the door's shut, when it hits me in full force and I feel terror register in my gut. Blood and roses.
It's too late to run. "Hello, Miss Everdeen," Snow says calmly, sitting on my couch.
I immediately tense up, gripping my bow tightly and considering if I can risk a shot.
"I would put that bow down, if you know what's good for you," he says, unfazed. "And if your self-preservation has wavered since the last time we spoke, then do it for your fellow victor. That… animal you seem to be so fond of."
"He's a person," I narrow my eyes.
"He's a mockery. But if you value his life and sanity, then you'll drop the bow and have a civil conversation."
I don't have a choice; warily, I put down my bow, then cross my arms and ball up my fists. "What do you want from me?"
"So hostile," he chides. "Really, if you knew the efforts put into your safety, you wouldn't be so flippant. The sacrifices made for you."
"What are you talking about?" I say, keeping my voice controlled.
"He hasn't told you? Predictable. I'll leave that information to his discretion. I have my own agenda for today." He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. "I'd like you to reconsider your arrangement for the Victory Tour."
"What?"
"Do you still intend to stay in the same train car with the other one?"
"Absolutely," I glare at him.
"Enough to not see him until then?"
There's some kind of a catch here, I just can't quite grasp it. "Maybe. Why?"
Snow sighs. "Here are your options. You can either spend the next few months together and build up that sickening romance of yours and separate during the tour, or you can give him some room to perform your respective duties as victors and reunite happily in due time." He pauses like he's done, and I start considering. Then he adds, "One more thing – if he comes back now, your little supposed romance will be finished the moment you first see him. That's a promise."
I feel something like a knife in my stomach – that's the real threat, that statement he tacked on as an afterthought. "What do you mean?"
"Was I unclear?" he frowns.
"No. But you can't control that. That's between the two of us," I say, well aware that I'm getting too defensive to be logical.
"Miss Everdeen, have I ever lied to you?" He answers his own question. "No, and I don't plan to. Believe me, I can control that. Stop stalling. Make your decision."
Half of me wants to choose staying together, just for the reason that it isn't what he expects me to do. But the rest of me knows I can't, just on the off-chance that he might be telling the truth. I don't want to know what he'd do to end our romance, and I can't afford to find out. So I say, "Doesn't he have a say in it?"
Snow laughs, genuinely amused. "He hasn't had a say in this from the moment you took him captive, my dear," he says.
"I'm not your anything," I say sharply. Snow just raises his eyebrows and doesn't argue, like a parent who's unwilling to waste any more time on an unruly child. "Fine," I finally spit out. "What's the catch? You're really only going to get involved if I choose the first option?"
"Of course," he says kindly. "Otherwise, I'll leave you two alone in your demented, blood-soaked paradise."
I want to puke, but my decision is made. "We'll wait until the tour."
He smiles, his eyes going squinty and snake-like. "Excellent. No contact, remember." He stands and leaves without another word.
My mother comes back later that day, after I've gotten myself somewhat together, after I've thought my way through this situation. This has happened. I have to deal with it. I made the best choice – the only choice – that I could. I can survive this time without him. I've made it sixteen years without him. I can make it a couple months.
And I do. It hurts, but I do. I send Cato a brief letter, telling him how Snow made me do this, that it wasn't my choice, but I don't know what he thinks about it or even if he gets it, because there's no response from him whatsoever.
After a few weeks, I give up on him ever replying and try to push all thoughts of him from my mind. It's a lot harder to do that when I'm aware of what I'm doing, but I pull it off. I spend time with Gale, Ryan, and Edan sometimes, with Prim and my mother, and occasionally even with Haymitch, as he dries out.
Now that I've been gone, I appreciate them so much more. They can all tell something's wrong with me, every single one of them, but not one asks me. They care for me, enough to give me room, and I love them all for it. Prim especially takes care of me. She comes to me in the night if she needs me, smooths down my hair and assures me that everything's okay, that she loves me. And although she doesn't have big, strong hands and strong arms, she does have her own kind of strength. She's a healer, like my mother, and she does her best to heal me.
They all do, in their own ways. Ryan somehow continuously looks past the fact that I killed his brother and becomes basically my brother. He continues to tell me the truth, even if it's not particularly complementary, and sometimes, late at night, we talk about the boy we both knew and loved.
Edan doesn't join us for that, not once. He's still bitter, which he totally has the right to be. In a crazy way, it almost feels good for someone to be close to as angry with me as I am, so I understand him. I like him even, in a crazy way, and he tolerates me, so we're okay.
Gale really steps up to the plate, even for him. He's everything I need and nothing more. I start to see what I've been missing all these years, how much he truly does love me, and not completely in a romantic sense. He apologizes so many times for what he said in the woods that day that I can't help but forgive him, and he curses the Capitol for me when I run out of anger.
My mother's reaction towards me is complex, like most things about the two of us. She cares for me and about me, I know that for sure, but sometimes she avoids me, especially when I'm feeling my most vulnerable. I think it's because I remind her too much of her own sorrow and separation. This time, I can almost forgive her for it.
And Haymitch is a completely different person when he's mostly sober. He's more reliable, more thoughtful, and even smarter than he's been before. I tell him about Snow's visit during a moment when we're alone. He looks very thoughtful, but the only advice he has for me is "Keep your wits about you. Be careful, sweetheart. And keep telling me these things. I might catch things you miss." I don't have any problems agreeing to that.
Since I haven't any knack for anything Effie sent, Cinna steps in. He arrives with my design team about a week before the tour, to prep me for the pre-tour interviews and such. As usual, Cinna has my back; he's developed my talent for me, complete with notebooks full of "my" designs and bags of fabrics and clothes to place conveniently about.
When I see all of that, I impulsively hug him. "You're the best," I tell him.
"It's the least I could do. Where's Cato?"
Of course he doesn't know. He's been in the Capitol this whole time. "He'll be here. First stop is here, so he'll come," I say, sounding more confident than I feel.
"Why did you stop visiting each other?" he asks.
I consider not telling him about Snow's visit, but he's trustworthy and smart. "Snow made me promise to. Or else he'd force us to break up. He wouldn't say how."
Cinna examines my face closely. "So have you had any contact with him since he left?"
"No. None. He didn't respond to the letter I sent him."
Saying this all out loud makes it frighteningly obvious how suspicious the whole thing sounds. I can see my worry reflected in Cinna's expression. "Does he have a talent?" is all he asks me.
"He's good at writing. But I don't know." I shrug helplessly.
"That's fine. We'll work something out," he says, very reassuring. "First things first, though."
First things apparently concern my personal appearance. I'm poked, prodded, shaved and tweezed into temporary perfection. Flavius exclaims over my hair, how much it's grown, how almost passable it is without any Capitol shampoos or products. Octavia is in a despondent state over the tan I've gotten – my makeup will all be the wrong shade – but Venia points out how dramatic the dresses will look on me.
Cato doesn't show up until the day of our pre-tour interview, an overcast day with a heavy ceiling of clouds. I wouldn't have any kind of warning except Haymitch drops by the house while I'm being styled. "Hey Everdeen," he calls, slamming the front door. "He's here."
"Cato?" I ask immediately, twisting to look at him and earning a scolding. "He's here?"
"Yeah. He's got a bunch of people working on him now. Are you done with her?" he asks my team and doesn't wait for the answer. "Great. Clear out, the cameras will be here soon." He picks me up out of the chair and takes me away into the hall. "Something's wrong," he says, matter-of-fact.
"What is it?" I can feel my heartbeat quickening with dread.
"He's not the same kid that left here. I only saw him for a few seconds, but I could tell," he says quietly. "Something's wrong. I'm willing to bet it's because of Snow."
"So what do I do?" I ask, not letting myself panic, because if I panic, then I'll cry and I've got makeup on that I can't have run.
"Be smart about it," he says. "Assume nothing. Feel him out before you do anything. I'll be right here, right off-camera, so you'll be safe, but…I have a bad feeling about this."
"I'll be careful," I promise, then can't stop myself from asking, "Is he okay?"
"I don't know."
At least he isn't trying to lie.
I nod. "Thanks for the heads up."
"Hey, darlin', that's what I'm here for." He stops talking as an interview team comes in with cameras and lights and begins to set up in our living room. "He'll be here soon. Be ready," he continues in a whisper.
"I will."
Gale comes dashing inside; he stops short when he sees us. "He's here," he says.
"I know. Thanks."
"Is it just me, or is he acting weird?" Gale asks, looking to Cato for validation.
"Not you," Haymitch shakes his head. "I saw it, too."
"It almost seemed like he was angry or something. He wouldn't talk to me. Well, I mean he didn't exactly like me when he left, but he'd at least pretend," Gale says.
"I don't like this. Not one bit," Haymitch says.
Then, I'm called into the living room for the interview. They seat me on the couch, very near to where Snow sat the day he came, and the interviewer lady has pulled one of the chairs over near it so the cameras can capture us in one frame.
We have to wait for Cato to get here. The whole time, my heart beats faster and faster, and a thin sheen of sweat covers my forehead. Behind the cameras, Gale and Haymitch look at me with concern. And then, finally, he walks in.