After supper, Lola Lane requests our presence at what she refers as the Entertainment Room, so we can watch the recaps of the reaping together. Needless to say I find it a terrible idea, but I manage to dodge that bullet by vomiting the main course (and probably the dessert too) all over her pretty clothes. Needless to say we're dismissed immediately, to everyone's relief; even Margot and Finnick seem alleviated. Not that I think their relief got anything to do with avoiding the recaps, which is my case. I think they're appeased because they get to avoid Lane — the same goes for Asa, who appeared to be interested in the tributes, but not that interested in Lane's company.

I decide to head straight to my chambers in the midst of hushed good nights, anxious to get some sleep.

But I can't sleep. My bed is too comfortable, my pillows are too feathery, the sheets are too delicate, the duvets are too smooth. Everything's excessively soft. Suddenly, I see. I understand why the splendor of my bedroom bothers me, bothers my body in a way the bathroom couldn't before, during my blissful shower. All this time, I thought I've come to terms with my sealed fate. Hot water is nice, I thought. Heated floor is wonderful, I thought. This soup is good, I thought. And I thought all of it because it's what I do best. I cling to dumb facts (Indulgence is fine) when I panic (Annie Cresta!). I've never come to terms with my frightening current situation, and now I have to deal with the consequences of living in autopilot since the very moment I was reaped.

Part of me remained next to Gia at the promenade, and never really left. My body is here, but the same can't be said for my soul. Moreover, how am I even here? How did it happen? How can it be, one time you're home, you're in District 4, and in a blink of an eye you're on board of an opulent train headed for televised demise. I guess that's part of the reaping experience, part of the magic behind the odds. Now you live, now you don't. One minute you're safe, the next you're doomed. That's it. I'm in the Hunger Games, me, Annie Cresta, as Lane announced. And after such epiphany, how can I ever sleep again?

I decide to leave my bed — no, not my bed. Capitol's bed. In school, I've learned about Panem's districts industries, and there's one in particular that stuck with me. District 10, livestock. There, farmers would care for and feed the animals until they were ready for slaughter, for consumption. That's exactly how I feel; an animal being fed, cared for with unimaginable delight until I'm ready for the Capitol's citizens consumption, for slaughter. How could I ever allow myself to actually enjoy the ride? They took me from my home! From my bed! I worked so, so hard to earn those, just to be stripped away from it by perverse rich people. To them my life means nothing, and I'll only have worth when I die a gruesome death or survive by killing viciously every kid who stands in my way.

Asa's question resurfaces and I'm panicking. I need some air. I need the sea, a calming dive, salt water on my lips, on every inch of me. How soon do you think we'll get there?

The real question, however, is what then? I know Margot said she won't give up on us, but that alone won't be enough. I know Asa let implicit we'd be allies, but the truth is our mentors will have to choose between one of us eventually… And I don't have anyone to go back to, unlike Asa. We'll get there, and what then? I'll be part of the Games. Oh, such an honor! Lots of Careers are jealous of me now.

I roam aimlessly from car to car, lounge areas mostly, trying to find somewhere with a skylight; I need to see the outside, if I can't run away. But I just end up in an occupied room, quite big compared to the others, but with scarce furniture: just two fancy crimson sofas and a large widescreen television, which is on. The lights are off, but the screen illuminates enough to delineate a silhouette sitting on the far end of one of the sofas. I can't tell who it is, though.

Still, whoever it is senses my presence right away. "I'm watching the recaps of the reapings. It's… Devastating," a sighed pause. I'd recognize that powerful voice anywhere. No one else but Asa. "Can't sleep?"

"Yeah…" I answer a bit apprehensive. "May I join you?" As someone who was trying to escape the exact idea of the Games only seconds ago, as someone who vomited on Lane to evade the sight of the kids I'll be up against, I don't understand why the question comes out of my mouth. I tell myself that maybe the issue at hand is I don't want to be alone.

"Be my guest," he says as patting the space next to him. "Now they'll reprise District 9."

I sit down, settling in but maintaining a respectful distance between us, while the Anthem plays through the sound system placed in various areas of the room, so loudly enclosing us it makes me feel like I'm there. It is devastating. "I didn't think it'd be possible for a escort to look worse than Lane," I manage to say in a poor attempt to lighten the mood when the camera focuses on who the subtitle claims to be Paulette Authier, the District 9's escort. She's a tiny woman dressed in an emerald green dress that blooms like petals on her shoulders, combined with a disproportionate bright yellow wig; she's probably paying a homage to corns. No wonder the stylists dress us tributes in abhorrent costumes if they're willing to go around dressing like that.

"You should've seen District 6's escort. The guy was identical to a wagon." We both share a laugh that dies as soon as the girl tribute is reaped. Her name is Wren O'Malley and she's sixteen years old. Still, she looks older and it's evident that's the result of a lifetime of working hard. Asa turns his attention me. "Are you scared? I mean, that you might have to kill them?" Then he stares at the television again, scrutinizing Wren's demeanor. She looks tired.

I hesitate. I can't be honest because that would be saying "I actually doubt I'll have the guts to do it." I can't say that to him, can I? Allies or not, I don't want him to think of me as easy prey, just to kill me when the first opportunity arises. On the other hand, he doesn't look like someone who has the guts required for brutal murder, too. But who knows for sure? So I merely say, "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

"Safe answer," he says.

We miss the boy tribute and two hosts appear on the screen, weaving comments about the contestants so far. They overlap each other's opinions with irrelevant and biased expectations; "she's sturdy", one of them says, to which the other replies with "I can't argue, but I'm still betting on 2. Who isn't, frankly?"

"I'm not," a third voice jumps in their conversation, but it doesn't come from the speakers. I can't make out their features in the dark, but I'm presuming its owner is Finnick Odair, the only one aboard this train who has a reassuring and friendly voice by nature, contrary to the Capitol's affected hosts. "And so does Mags. We'll bet on you. It's part of our job to believe in our own."

Asa establishes eye contact with him, as intense as it was with me. "Is it worth it? The job that comes with the victory?"

Since victory isn't a topic I yet covered in my mind, its spoils were most definitely beyond my consideration; the fact the winner's fate is to become a mentor for their district is ghastly, plain cruel, and to my convenience it had evaporated from my knowledge. I take a moment to picture myself as a mentor, watching year after year reaped kids march to their deaths, or worse, to their cursed victories. Help them through new and innovative atrocious arenas, plead for their lives to obnoxious sponsors. Margot does this since the Twelfth Hunger Games, often with no assistance. How does she endure it? How is she still sane? Is that why she trains our children? Handpicks them? To give them the best odds possible at the same time as sparing, if at least for a year, those who can't fight? That'd be a noble presumption, though, as far as noble can be applied to this sentence. Whatever. It doesn't matter, because in the end, it's appalling. If you somehow survive their sadistic Games, your prize is a lifetime of mental ones. A lifetime of tortures, of complicity. But make no mistake, there's a silver lining. You'll be rich and famous and honorable.

The inquiry disturbs Finnick and he needs to sit down before answering. "This job… Even if you win the Games, it makes sure you never leave the arena. You both should be prepared for that."

"I thought so," Asa says. "It's part of the reason I don't plan on winning."

My eyes widen.

"What's your plan, then?" Finnick asks, taken aback.

"To die, of course," he briskly declares. Then he gets up and goes for the door, but he doesn't leave before glancing at Finnick one last time. "The victory is too costly, don't you think?"

"What does he mean?" I voice my concern out loud, stunned. By costly does he mean the burden of mentoring? The haunting that for sure will follow the killing of his opponents?

Finnick breathes in and breathes out, visibly distraught. "He means he knows more than I gave him credit for. More than he should."

I owe Asa as much as he owes me, which is nothing at all. But I can't help but to feel worried about his suicidal thoughts. "Margot said she wouldn't give up easily. Tell me you won't give up on him just because he said those things out of… I don't know, fear? Stress?" At some point, giving up on him might be the same as choosing me to survive, choosing who will benefit from their aid and from the sponsors, and I understand this rationally, but I can't accept it. It would be, indeed, too costly.

Finnick studies me, and I grab the opportunity to size him up as well. The light provided by the screen isn't nearly enough to do justice to his beauty, but his eyes, the same color of the ocean in a sunny day, are brightened, and so are his golden brown locks. Perhaps it's due to his tanned skin, but he feels familiar, and he feels like I could entrust him with my life. But that's often the very trap of beautiful and kind creatures — they tend to be lethal, and as he takes his time watching me, I wonder if the lethality beneath all of his allurement will be used against me, against Asa. "Mags won't, no matter what," he says at last. "But he didn't say those things out of stress or fear, you know that. He's of sound mind and I'll respect his decisions."

I'm angry. How can I know that, how can he know that? But it's true. I'm angrier because it's true, because Asa is of sound mind. Everything he says, his very intonation, his disturbing questions, can only come from a logical person. "So you'll give up on him? I don't want-"

"No," he interrupts me, "I won't. What I'm saying is, when push comes to shove, and it will, I'll know where he stands."

The Anthem resonates through the room again, and I shudder. I don't want to die. I don't want Asa to die. I don't want Wren O'Malley to die. I don't want anyone to die. I'm breathing too fast now. I'm panicking. The television is so loud. Asa forgot to turn it off. "Can you turn it off, please? Asa forgot to," I whisper.

But he hears me, getting up and complying with no need of further ado. He touches the screen and as the room goes pitch black he commands to no one in particular, "Lights on." And the lights do come on. I must look funny to him now because he lets out a soft, melodic laugh. "There's switchers, but it's easier by voice."

With the room lit, Finnick basks in its light, more handsome than ever; but he's standing in the exact same way he did in the chariot, during his Games' parade, wearing that ridiculous Poseidon costume, and I snort. Then I guffaw. "I'm sorry," I try to say as I catch my breath.

But he doesn't seem bothered in the slightest; quite the opposite. He seems rather amused. "What?"

"It's just…" I struggle to explain, still laughing. "How the weight of your body's on your left and your right hand is on your hip. You're Poseidon again."

He nods in understanding and smiles. "I'm missing my trident. Tragic," Finnick shifts his stares to different spots in the room, as if being photographed. "But I trust I'm ravishing regardless."

I'm again at ease. "Well, I can't say I've seen better."

His smile broadens. "Don't worry, I'll talk to Asa. Now you get some sleep, alright? We've got a long day ahead of us."

I promise I will, but of course I don't. It's impossible. A few hours pass me by when the brilliant thought of rearranging the sheets and the pillows on the floor comes to me, but then it's too late; I barely shut my eyes close when Lane comes to collect me, 7 am sharp. "We're almost there!" She shouts as she enters my chambers without permission. "Be ready in fifteen minutes, crystal clear?"

I grumble. Crystal clear.