For as long as Finnick Odair can remember, the ocean has been his home. He learned to swim almost before he could walk; his mother used to joke that he should have been born with fins and gills instead of arms and legs. His earliest memories are drenched in saltwater and smell like brine and fish. They are sand-bottomed, adorned with seashells and kelp and coral, set to the melody of waves crashing against the shore and seagulls crying from the air. They are wrought from long hours spent aboard District 4's trawlers, netting seafood bound for the hungry mouths of Capitol citizens. His parents' house might be where he sleeps, but the ocean is where he belongs.

Despite this, the ever-present threat of the Hunger Games sweeps Finnick out of the water and deposits him in the austere world of Career education before he's old enough to fully understand what he's preparing for. The only son of eminent fleet captain Lochlan Odair and his shipwright wife, Finnick is selected for District 4's prestigious training academy two years earlier than the normal recruiting age. Every minute Finnick is not at sea he is training, learning how to survive, how to fight, how to win.

Being a five-year-old in a class of children two years his senior should have left him at a distinct disadvantage, but Finnick is a natural, both at the physical and mental aspects of Career academia. After his first day at the academy, Finnick marches thorough the door of his home, head held high, and announces, "I'm going to win the Hunger Games one day."

His parents don't quite know what to think about this. As one of the few families of Panem with some material wealth to call their own, a sense of responsibility falls on the Odairs, a need to provide for and protect the less fortunate of their district. They donate frequently to the Games tribute fund. They satiate the appetites of greedy Capitol officials with bribes and obsequience. But willingly sending their own child to the Games is a sacrifice above and beyond what they are willing to make. In District 4, it's considered an honor to be chosen to compete in the Games, but it doesn't make the possibility of their child dying at the hands of another any more palatable. So Finnick's parents mask their worry behind sunny smiles and words of congratulation.

We are so proud of you! Their voices warble like the tide. You will make such an excellent angler. All of the fish will just hop right into your net!

Meanwhile, Finnick, young, soft, and new, is dazzled and awed by the bright posters hanging from the academy walls. Show pride in your district! the posters urge. Volunteer to compete and show Panem what District 4 is really made of!

In Finnick's academy days, volunteerism, while not rampant like it was in Districts 1 and 2, was frequent enough to preserve the district amidst a sea of destitution. To the trained, money is a powerful motivator, and the fact that many victors pour their winnings back into the district makes the Games seem much more appealing. But the Games are only appealing when someone from District 4 wins.

Finnick is seven when he hears about Nereus. News of the victor's death floods the streets as though carried by a riptide, and soon all of District 4 is talking about it. Poor old Nereus, academy personnel would mutter when they thought the students could not hear. Found his body on the beach. Wanted to see the sun set one more time, the poor fool.

Even then, Finnick is old enough to know of Nereus, victor of the Forty-second Hunger Games. While other victors were deeply involved in the functions and activities of the academy—drafting the school's curricula, hosting seminars, even teaching classes for potential tributes—Nereus did not step foot once in the academy after his victory. He holed himself up in his luxurious house in the Victor's Village and did not emerge unless coerced. Except on the night on which he died.

Officially, Nereus died of a heart attack—a tragic accident, the mayor of District 4 claims at his district-wide funeral. But there are rumors floating around District 4, eddying in the dorms of the academy and muddying the waters of the mayor's claims like silt.

They say Nereus died of a heart attack, but he never goes outside. Why would he go to the beach unless he knew something? Unless he planned something?

One night, Finnick is brave enough to ask his father about it.

"Dad, the mayor says Nereus died of a heart attack. But everyone else is saying he planned it himself. Like he wanted to die."

Finnick's parents exchange looks. Finnick just waits. His father will answer eventually; he always does.

"I'm not sure I understand your question, Finnick," Lochlan says at last.

"Why would Nereus want to die?" Finnick asks. "He won the Hunger Games, right? He lived in a big house and had all the food and money he could ever want."

Lochlan takes a deep breath, as if about to dive underwater, and fixes Finnick with a serious look. "Nereus' death was unfortunate, yes. But he was selfish, through and through."

"Lochlan," Finnick's mother starts, reproving, but he carries on.

"You were right, Finnick. Nereus was a victor. And as such, he had a duty to his district. A duty to care for his people, to give them help as they needed it."

"Like you do," Finnick says.

Lochlan nods solemnly. "Nereus was so caught up in himself and his woes he forgot his obligation. But we will never be so. You, son, are an Odair. And when you grow older, when your mother and I are gone, you will carry the responsibility for our district as well." His eyes, to which Finnick's are so often compared, are as dark and fierce as a stormy sea. "As captain, I must direct my crew. I must tell them how to steer the ship, exactly where we are to go, or else we will get lost out on the open sea. Or even worse, crash and sink the bottom of the ocean. District 4 is one giant ship. There must be a strong, steady captain, or the ship will not make it safely back to the harbor. Do you understand?"

Finnick is seven and understands very little of what his father's metaphor implies. But he nods his head obediently and tucks the conversation away in his heart, where he dwells upon it often in the quiet, solitary moments before dawn.

Later, Finnick realizes District 4 didn't mourn Nereus' death as much as they mourned the sudden lack of monetary resources his presence sanctioned. He might have been a recluse, but his winnings still aided the people. With one more victor dead, there was one less salary the district could use as a crutch.

Unfortunately, Nereus' death seems to be the advent of a streak of bad luck for District 4. In the following months, when the seas are normally teeming with life and District 4 flourishes under its bounty, trawlers begin hauling in seafood black and putrid with disease. A parasite, they soon discover, and quicker than a flash flood it spreads from the sea to the air. Infected birds begin to litter District 4's pristine shores alongside their infected prey. This won't last, trawler captains assure their Capitol managers. Give it a season, and the parasite will die out and your quotas will be met.

Another season comes and goes. Fishing is poor and the district poorer.

In response, strict rationing is instituted by the Capitol. The inner sectors of the district, already barely keeping themselves afloat, start to get pulled under by the riptide of starvation. Dissent ripples outward, starting in the inner sectors, where the rationing hits hardest, to the outer fringes of the district, where the Odairs live. The Capitol, fearing outright rebellion, tightens its chokehold on District 4 with an unforgiving fist. Anyone suspected of instigating unrest are punished severely, or just disappear altogether. A district-wide curfew is enacted, with harsh retribution inflicted upon any who break it. And the academy is shut down, because every child over the age of seven is forced onto a trawler alongside their older siblings and parents, shuttled inland to work in the processing plants, or consigned to long, back-breaking hours combing beaches for clams and any other edible source of food.

The fleet is out to sea for weeks at a time, venturing out to waters previously considered too dangerous to fish. Finnick is lucky enough to have grown up on his family's trawler, but other children are not so lucky. Every week, it seems there is a new story about some untrained child being washed overboard by colossal waves, or strangled by the weighted nets, or withered away by dysentery from eating rotten seafood. These unfortunate children are tributes in a series of never-ending Games, except their loved ones aren't allowed time to mourn their deaths.

Finnick's mother and other shipwrights are displaced from their jobs in the shipyards to assist in the process of moving delicate, time-sensitive cargo onto trains and hovercrafts bound for the Capitol. With so much of the seafood being rendered inedible, it is imperative that every iota of good food is transported to the Capitol as quickly as possible to minimize the amount of time trawlers spend in port and reduce the spoiling of perishable goods. Finnick and many other children do not see one or both parents for weeks.

The only time everyone has off is to partake in the 60th Hunger Games. The afternoon before Reaping Day, every vessel in District 4's fleet returns to shore, but there is no relief in the days to come. For the next three weeks, District 4 witnesses firsthand the consequences of minimal to no Career training. This year's volunteers—a pair of inner-district adolescents desperate to fight their way out of poverty or die trying—have not been properly trained in over a year. They don't stand a chance against their Career counterparts from One and Two. District 4 watches, deluged in shame and horror, as both of their tributes are killed off in the first week of the Games. The chance of securing relief from the Capitol in the form of food or other supplies dies with them.

Finnick doesn't quite understand what the Games imply, why they occur or why children must be sent to die. But he recognizes his parents' grief, the pronounced slump of his father's shoulders, the sheen of tears in his mother's red-rimmed eyes. He recognizes the bent heads and dull gazes of other adults, and even some children, who even younger than Finnick are impacted by the despotism of the Capitol.

In the subsequent weeks, the bodies of two more victors are found dead, one in her house, another lying on the beach, washed ashore by the tide.

As the Games draw to a close and Finnick and his father are sent back out to sea, district morale seems to be at an all-time low.

The night of his ninth birthday, Finnick is rocked to sleep by the roll and pitch of his father's ship, already redeployed after the Games. He misses his mother desperately, but he most likely won't get to see her for another fortnight, when the trawler will deliver its bounty into her custody onshore. It can't go on like this forever, he thinks, though it's hard to think about much other than the hunger gnawing at his belly. At some point, things will go back to normal.

And gradually, things do. In the following months, the parasite infecting District 4's waters dies out, and more food becomes available to citizens outside of the Capitol. Children are allowed to go back to school. The academy reopens, and vigorous training resumes. By now, though, District 4 is a good two years behind the other districts in terms of Games readiness. And it shows when Four loses yet another Games—to a girl from Three, of all places.

The humiliation wears at District 4's normally indefatigable spirit. It's made indubitably clear that the only way District 4 will begin bringing home victors again is if they're trained first. So District 4 unites the best it can, pouring every possible asset into scholarships and Games-related aid organizations. Every extra cent of the Odairs' income flows directly into fund dedicated to providing for Four's tributes in the arena. As for Finnick, there is nothing he can do but train. And train he does, with an unprecedented intensity and focus. His dedication garners the attention of academy faculty, who praise his skill and commitment. Even Capitol officials, stationed at the academy to monitor for suspicious activity, remark at the newfound enthusiasm with which he tackles his education.

Your boy shows such promise! they'd tell Finnick's father. He's going to be a volunteer for sure.

By the time Finnick's thirteenth birthday arrives, he has been living at the academy full-time for three years. Once children achieve Games eligibility at age twelve, the most promising ones are assigned personal trainers who were specially educated by former victors. Batten, though slim and prematurely gray, is a perfect match for Finnick's relentless ambition. He shapes Finnick into just what he intends to be: A reason for District 4 to keep its pride, a victor through and through.

When the 64th Hunger Games roll around, there are no volunteers. Despite District 4's best efforts to rejuvenate the Career program, many of his schoolmates are forced away from the academy to help their families put food on the table and a roof over their heads. This, combined with the recent lack of victories and mediocre support in-Games, makes volunteering a highly unattractive prospect. The past few Games' worth of tributes have not been up to par with District 4's usual standard. But the 64th Hunger Games are a whole new level of horrific for Finnick. The boy, one of Finnick's classmates, perhaps stood half a chance. But the girl...

It's the worst Games Finnick has seen in all his thirteen years.

When the Games are over and everyone resumes life as normal, thirteen-year-old Finnick tells Batten with all the solemnity of a sacred vow: "Next year I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna volunteer for the Games."

"Don't be ridiculous," Batten says, but there is no real bite to his words. "Volunteers under sixteen aren't allowed." It used to be seventeen, but the age restriction was lowered after no one volunteered last year.

"The academy doesn't take students under the age of seven either, and I started when I was five." Finnick flings his arms wide, nearly decapitating one of his fellow trainees in the process.

Predictably, the student whirls around and snarls, "Watch it, Beacher!"

While common out at sea, camaraderie between peers at the academy is generally discouraged. Why make friends with the person you may end up fighting to death in an arena? If Finnick has heard it once, he's heard it a thousand times: Aimless sociability opens doors to exploitation of weaknesses and creates false loyalties that may hinder a tribute in the Games. So Finnick doesn't deign to offer an apology, and the student stalks off with a huff.

"Beacher, eh?" Batten echoes wryly once the student is out of earshot.

Finnick shrugs. "Some of the students don't like me much. Must be jealous of my prodigious skill and devastating good looks." He waggles his eyebrows.

Batten rolls his eyes. "And your money. And your status as an academy favorite. Don't forget your money. And your house on the district's most beautiful beach. Did I mention the money?"

"All right, all right, I get it." Finnick puts up his hands in surrender. "But none of that will matter when I win the Games next year."

"You're too young," Batten insists. "One and Two will eat you up and spit you out before you can get to the Cornucopia."

"Come on," Finnick wheedles, giving his weapon an exaggerated flourish. "I'm as big as a sixteen-year-old, and just as smart. I could keep up with their coursework if you'd let me join their classes."

While the existence of training academies in the Career districts is common knowledge to nearly all of Panem, the directorate of District 4's institution decided it was sensible to have pretext to fall back on should the Capitol suddenly decide to take their rules concerning pre-Games preparedness seriously. About twenty years back they added actual school subjects to the academy curriculum and rechristened the already-established training portion "supplemental instruction," or "Career courses." While everyone knows lectures about the ecosystem of District 4's coastline are a front for lessons on how to spear a person to death ten different ways, bribes offered to Capitol officials—funded mainly by winnings earned by previous victors—combined with the scholastic facade instituted by District 4's mayor, seems to be keeping them above Capitol scrutiny for the time being.

"I don't know why you insist on training with that thing," Batten remarks, eyeing Finnick's weapon scornfully. It's a magnificent trident, crafted by professionals at the behest of seasoned fishermen, sold to the academy for the sole purpose of training potential tributes, and beloved by Finnick and Finnick only. It's Finnick's favorite weapon, and Batten knows it. He's just trying to steer the subject away from the possibility of volunteering, but Finnick is nothing if not persistent. "When have you ever seen one of those in the Games?"

"Just because it hasn't been introduced yet doesn't mean it won't someday," Finnick replies blithely. When Batten's expression remains unchanged, he adds, "Besides, it's useful for fishing." The academy's training arsenal is carefully accounted for by faculty according to the strict standards of the Capitol, who don't want anyone secretly stockpiling weapons for their own rebellious purpose. But a trident is a tool for work as well as violence; to someone like Finnick, work and violence are often one in the same.

"Well, once you're through playing with your toy, I want you running laps." Batten gestures around the gymnasium. "Then I want—hey, Mags! Come and get a load of this loon. He thinks he's going to volunteer next year."

At the mention of Mags' name, Finnick immediately straightens, brushing back his hair and lifting his chin. He's seen Mags around, of course, both at the academy and in town, where she could be seen at the local deli or walking along the shore with her husband. Even decades after her victory, she's still highly involved in academy affairs, hosting seminars for older trainees and attending meetings with faculty and fellow victors. But victors who have achieved mentorial status rarely bother to assess junior trainees. Interaction with a senior mentor—someone who has more than ten years of job experience—before you hit volunteer age is even rarer. To have the chance to leave a good impression on one of the academy founders and the oldest living victor in District 4? Finnick has to make every moment count.

"Morning, Mrs. Flanagan," he says with a characteristic wink. Batten makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat, which Finnick ignores.

To her credit, Mags doesn't immediately write Finnick off as a lost cause. She gives Finnick a good onceover, eyes still as sharp and discerning now as they were fifty-three years ago when she won her Games.

"Volunteer, hm?" Mags says, her tone even and appraising. "You're Lochlan and Caravel's kid, aren't you? How old are you?"

"Thirteen, ma'am." Finnick replies, head held high. "But I'm turning fourteen very soon."

Mags' countenance remains unreadable. "The faculty talk about you, Mr. Odair. They say you train like you already know you'll be reaped. But tell me this: Why do you want to volunteer so badly now, when you could just as easily wait three years and have a much better chance at winning? Are you really so desperate for glory and fame?"

"No, ma'am," Finnick assures her. "It's just...we haven't had much luck in the way of victors lately, and I think I can change that."

"What makes you so sure you'll win?" Mags inquires. One of her dark brows is imperiously raised—a skill Finnick envies and has yet to fully master.

"I'm tougher than I look," Finnick says earnestly. "I can swim better than all of the kids my age, and most of the older ones. I'm good with swords, spears, knives—"

"So are the tributes from One and Two," Mags cuts in. "And as you've so tactfully mentioned, they've claimed six victories over us in as many years."

Finnick winces. He hadn't meant to take a jab at Mags' mentoring abilities.

Mags must notice his regret, because the corners of her mouth turn up in a small smile. "You've got heart, Finnick Odair. I admire it. But it takes more than heart to win the Games, and you're still a bit too young to volunteer. Wait another couple of years, and maybe I'll consider it." A perfunctory nod at Batten, then she walks away, leaving a crestfallen Finnick in her wake.

The academy might house the best Career resources and faculty District 4 has to offer, but none of it can compare to the quiet simplicity of a training session on the beach. It's after supper, and while other students are settled in their dorm rooms or working at the gym, Finnick is at the seaside. Trident in hand, he works through a series of exercises developed for spears by one of the weapons masters at the academy and adjusted by Finnick to suit the specifications of his weapon. He flows through each movement like water through a gully, the familiarity of each sweeping motion, each jab and twirl and stance, loosening the sedimentary disquiet cumulating in his chest.

"Batten was right about you. You are rather remarkable with that trident."

Finnick whirls around to find Mags watching him with the same considering look from earlier that afternoon, her hoary curls blown around her face by a gentle breeze.

His first instinct is to gloat or compliment her back, but he has a feeling neither boasting nor flattery will have the same effect on Mags as they do on nearly everyone else. Mags is the oldest victor still living in District 4, perhaps in all of Panem, and Finnick doubts she ended up as such by believing everything she hears from scheming sycophants and desperate hopefuls. Which is also why he hopes she won't rat him out to Batten for being outside after curfew.

"Batten told you about me?" he finally gets out.

Mags nods. "He did. He also told me you're arrogant, self-absorbed, and infuriatingly stubborn."

Finnick shrugs, unrepentant. "Batten has an eye for talent. What can I say?"

Mags gestures at the trident still gripped in his hand. "Didn't get enough practice in earlier?"

"Nah, I practice plenty enough at the academy." Finnick replies. "Sometimes...sometimes I come down here when my thoughts are all tangled up. Using the trident helps me sort them out, I guess." He grins sheepishly and rolls his eyes. "It sounds pretty stupid when I say it out loud."

"No, I don't think it sounds stupid at all." With impressive grace for someone approaching seventy, Mags lowers herself down on the sand and crosses her legs, palms planted on either side of herself for support. "Come over here, Finnick Odair."

Finnick sets is trident down and plops himself down next to Mags. For a long moment she says nothing, and they just sit and watch the ocean waves collide against the shore and listen to the multitude of insects commence their nightly symphony. The setting sun pains the horizon in brilliant hues of vermillion, indigo, and gold, so mesmerizingly splendid it's almost unreal. Their sky is nothing more than a trick of the eye, an illusion constructed by Capitol science to entrance and entrap the district's citizens. Needless to say, it worked. No other district in Panem has sunsets like Four, Finnick claims. And despite the fact that he has never actually seen any other district in Panem, no one has felt the need to dispute him.

"Do you remember Gillan?"

The question comes unexpectedly, but it's not unwelcome. The beach is still warm from the bright summer sun. Finnick draws patterns in it, scooping up grains of sand and letting them fall through his fingers. "Yeah." It's an oddly succinct reply coming from him. An entire course exists at the academy dedicated to studying past Hunger Games, but there is something about watching people die in gruesomely creative ways that Finnick finds distinctly unappealing.

"He was a marvelous boy," Mags sighs. Her gaze never leaves the horizon. "I selected him myself, you know. He was smart, charismatic, healthy—and he had the heart of a victor, just like you. And yet he didn't win. He didn't even come close; he was killed in the bloodbath by a girl from Six. Imagine that: A Career killed during the first few minutes of the Games. And by District 6! The bettors were outraged."

"If you're trying to scare me off, I'm already aware of the risks," Finnick says. "I know the Games aren't fair, and there's no surefire way to win, even for a Career."

Mags finally turns to look at him, dark eyes regarding him calmly. "I want you to understand something else, something the academy probably hasn't told you. They train you extensively in preparation for the Games, but they have no way to prepare you for what comes after. What it means to be a victor."

"Then tell me," Finnick presses. His fingers twitch, restless, and he resists the urge to wrap them around his trident. "What does it take to be a victor?"

Mags' gaze flickers down the shore, coming to a rest on something Finnick cannot see. "The victors of District Four do not just look after themselves as some of the other districts' victors do. You see, when you wear the victor's crown, you wear it not for yourself but for your home, your people. You become your district's shield and anchor, the lighthouse keeping your people from shattering on the rocky shore, no matter the cost to yourself. No singular entity—whether it is another victor, your family, or even yourself—comes before the good of the whole district. You carry the responsibility of every citizen of District Four on your shoulders, and only other victors can help you bear it."

Mags' speech takes Finnick back to the conversation with his father all those years ago. As captain, I must direct my crew. I must tell them how to steer the ship, exactly where we are to go, or else we will get lost out on the open sea. Or even worse, crash and sink the bottom of the ocean. District 4 is one giant ship. There must be a strong, steady captain, or the ship will not make it safely back to the harbor.

"I can do it," Finnick tells her. "I'll win for District Four, no matter the cost."

"The cost?" Mags shakes her head, a darkness not cast by the looming night shrouding her expression. "You are still so young. You don't understand the cost of victory, and you should never have to."

"Who'll help fund the academy if another district takes the crown?" Finnick shoots back. Perhaps he's stepped out of line, but he doesn't care. "Who'll feed the inner sectors and give out scholarships to their children?"

A long silence passes before Mags speaks again. At first, Finnick is afraid she will scorn him, calling him prideful and naïve as so many others have. But what she says throws him off guard: "Answer me honestly, Finnick Odair: Do you truly believe you, a thirteen-year-old boy, can beat the best One and Two have to offer? Can you appease the Gamemakers outside and within the arena? Can you look another child in the eye and willfully take their life?"

Drawing himself up to his fullest height, Finnick opens his mouth, about to answer with a resounding yes, when a new notion occurs to him. Perhaps Mags doesn't want bravado and proficiency. She definitely doesn't want to hear the response that popped into his head on the heels of his affirmation: I'll actually be fourteen-almost-fifteen by the time the next Games comes around. Maybe she wants exactly what she asked for—honesty. So he swallows back his bluster and hubris and replies:

"Maybe not. But I have to try."

"But why?" For the first time, there is a bite to Mags' tone. It stings like salt in fresh cut. "Why are you so insistent on sacrificing yourself?"

"The last Games," Finnick responds shortly. "Darya Wells." He can still hear her name being called from the podium, can still hear the answering, traitorous silence ringing in his ears. He hadn't regretted his own negligence then—he was only twelve, after all, and just getting back into the swing of training after an extended hiatus—but now his lack of action weighs on him like an anchor, threatening to drown him in guilt and shame. He had not known her well: she was an inner sector resident, one of the factory kids who always smelled like fish and never had enough to eat. The three months before she was reaped, she attended the academy on a scholarship—the Odair Merit Scholarship, to be specific.

She had stopped by the house to thank the Odairs for their generosity, all stick-thin limbs and wide, hollow eyes. She ogled at the house like it was heaven itself, and watching her wolf down every morsel Finnick's mother put in front of her like it might disappear made his heart wrench with pity. Even with a quarter-year of good food and training, there was no prospect of Darya winning. She was too timid, too young, too inexperienced. For Finnick, being forced to watch her Games was a special kind of torture.

Finnick has dug a sizable hole in the sand by now and starts filling it in, smoothing the beach obsessively with his fingertips. "Every time I saw her make a mistake, every time she got hurt or came an inch closer to dying, I thought, I could've done better. I could've done something to survive better. I could've fought for supplies instead of running away. I could've climbed a tree instead of sleeping on the ground. I could've fought back when that boy from Two..."

The memory of Darya Wells' final moments is spattered indelibly on Finnick's brain. District 4 might be Career, but it doesn't glorify violence and savagery the way District 2 does. District 2, from which rumors of cannibalism and infanticide abound. District 2, in which the volunteer system is composed of potential tributes beating each other bloody for the privilege of competing in a series of fights nearly as brutal as the Games themselves. In which trainees are taught that more gore equals more sponsors equals a more prestigious victory. In which they taught Darya Wells' murderer the methods of torture capable of eliciting the most agony possible before death finally stepped in.

"I can't sit by and watch that again," Finnick says. "Not when I know I can do better."

In some ways, District 4 is like water. It adapts, it takes the shape of whatever container holds it. The Capitol is forcing kids to compete in a vicious death match? Mags, District 4's first victor, decides to found a school to train children in the ways of the Games, to give them a better shot at coming home. Fishers aren't meeting their quotas? Lower the age limit regulating who is permitted to fish on commercial trawlers and send the kids out. But there are some things to which Finnick Odair cannot adapt. Unlike water, Finnick feels. And he does not forget.

"Each of us are given a life, Finnick," Mags says, head tilted, countenance fixedly stalwart. "All we can do is live it the best we can."

He hunches over like Batten always tells him not to, hands clasped, arms draped over bent knees. "Do you have a volunteer picked for next year?"

Mags' mouth is drawn into a thin line. "It's still early."

So no, then. "I'm going to volunteer at the next reaping. Even if I don't win, at least I'll give them a good show." At least it won't be another Darya Wells going in instead.

When Mags doesn't respond right away, Finnick plows on, carried by the current of sincerity and fervor she has fomented in him. "You can't stop me." Not quite true, and Mags knows it. As senior mentor she has the power to reject volunteers if they aren't deemed fit to compete, but most of the time mentors are just happy to have a volunteer at all.

Mags sits quietly for a moment, and Finnick waits with bated breath, the expectation of her refusal hanging over him like a one-ton pallet of cargo.

"What do your parents think of this?"

Finnick sucks in a deep breath. "My parents understand responsibility." It will undoubtedly be a tough Games for them. But it will all be worth it when Finnick brings home a fortune to refill the empty coffers of District 4 and enough food to sustain its people for months to come.

"How about we make a deal," Mags finally says, lacing her fingers together in a posture of professionalism. "I'll mentor you, Finnick, provided you train hard and listen to your instructors. But I'm not going to submit your name as volunteer before the reaping. If an upperclassman is chosen, you won't be. They have a better chance of winning than you do."

"But if not—"

"But if not, if a younger or non-Career child is reaped, I will accept you as tribute."

Not quite the answer he was looking for, but it's better than outright refusal. Undeterred, Finnick presses on. "And if I'm reaped?"

"And no one volunteers in your place?" Mags raises an eyebrow. "Unlikely."

A nearly irresistible urge to laugh bubbles up in Finnick's chest. He can think of more than a handful of classmates who would be more than happy to allow Finnick—charming, rich, favorite Finnick Odair—to enter the arena instead of them.

"Do we have a deal?"

Finnick considers what Mags has said, gnawing pensively on his lower lip. How does he know Mags will keep her word? How does he know he won't make a fool out of himself in front the whole district when Reaping Day arrives and he steps forward, speaking those four metamorphic words?

Despite his qualms, something in Mags' eyes speaks to Finnick. They are not the eyes of a bloodthirsty killer, or a cunning sycophant. They're the eyes of a survivor who has endured the horror of the Games again and again and still perseveres, who has watched hundreds of tributes enter the Games and never come out. Who has worked relentlessly to keep her tributes alive, whatever the cost. Who has watched too many of these tributes be sent back to District 4 in plain wooden boxes.

"Deal," Finnick says.

"It's decided then." Mags pats her crossed legs with an air of finality. "You'd better get back to the dorm so you can get some sleep. You've got a year of hard work ahead of you."