Kirji put up a wall of defiance, refusing to admit she had known anything about the trafficking of the Victors, but Dora was not convinced. The prosecution's case had been far more convincing, and Asuncion's cross-examination of the witnesses only supported that. Had Kirji been on trial for human trafficking, Dora would have found her guilty and sentenced her to the supreme penalty without a second thought, and Lai was writing up an entire statement arguing why that should be considered a crime against humanity. Conspiracy? Very much so. The implementation of the Hunger Games? Ironically, that was one count Dora was not sure about.

It all depended on how they would define implementation. Kirji's role began when the Games ended, but she was still part of the system. It had been her overseeing the Victors and decreeing what they could and could not do. She had not carried out the Hunger Games themselves, but she had been crucial in maintaining the system, same as with Blues' building of the Arenas.

Dora would need to think about this some more. She set aside the prosecution's case against Kirji, took out her phone, and called Jack. He picked up almost instantly. "You won't believe what Miller just did," he said in a hushed tone.

"The one who lives two houses down from us or the one with the purple garage door?"

"Oscar Miller." That was the one two houses down from them.

"So, what did he do?" Dora asked, her mind coming up with increasingly unlikely scenarios. Oscar Miller was a civil servant who had avoided Depuration thanks to a total lack of ambition that had prevented him from taking bribes or engaging in other forms of corruption. She couldn't imagine him doing anything gossip-worthy.

Jack huffed. "Married a general, that's what. First thing I hear about their relationship is that they're married."

That grey blob, a general's arm candy? "What? Where's the general from?"

"No idea."

A thought entered Dora's mind. "What gender is the general?"

"She's fifty-six."

"Is there still a chance?"

"A very low one."

"Is Miller still working?"

"Says he'll get his things in order and leave after that. I suspect they're going to adopt. Miller's been going on about how he should have had teenagers by now."

Dora clicked her tongue. "Neighbours won't like it if they take in a pack of lower-class kids."

"That's what I'm worried about. They could whisper about me all they wanted, but at the end of the day, the kids were a judge's kids. If they adopt older children - God forbid one of them breaks someone's window."

There was certainly no shortage of local kids breaking windows, but Dora knew very well that a lower-class child doing the same would be treated very differently. "We'll live and we'll see," Dora said, still shocked that Oscar Miller had managed to find someone - and not just someone, but a full general! He had always been alone and suffering because of it. "Tell them my congratulations."

"I will. And how are you doing? Lee is next, right?"

"He is."

Jack exhaled slightly. Dora knew exactly what he was feeling - the amount of money they had spent on medications had been one even the average person in the city, let alone an average farmer, could not have afforded. "Who's doing cross?"

"Nine."

"Good family, I presume?"

"Small-town elite." Granted, that description held for most of the lawyers. "By now, I know to trust the prosecution to not get personal. So far, they've discussed corruption without devolving into a circus, and we all have experience with that in one way or another."

Jack chuckled. "That's good. Remember how at one of your first trials after the liberation, they took a trainload of returning secret-prison inmates, asked for those with legal training, and forced the one who raised her hand to be the defense lawyer?"

Now that had been a circus. In hindsight, Dora appreciated how certain legal niceties had been observed even in hasty proceedings designed to avert the crowd's bloodthirst and prevent vigilantism. That poor defense lawyer had argued her heart out for several locals who had fought with the Peacekeepers; Dora had been convinced to have three shot but send one to twenty years' hard labour and acquit the last, a fifteen-year-old. "To be fair, most of our defense lawyers signed up for a roof over their heads."

"Do you know if you're going to come back after this trial ends?" Jack asked, the hope evident in his voice. "I talked to some friends, they say everyone misses you."

"Sanchez implied that if we stay, we'll be presiding judges in later trials."

"Did he imply anything about spouses?"

"Hopefully by the spring, the food and housing situation will improve and the military government will consider allowing people to bring their spouses."

"Also works," Jack said with a smile. "But you need to come back to see the grandkids. We're going to have another one."

"Not thanks to Ashley, I assume."

Jack laughed. "No - Wesley's going to have his third. I've given up on hoping Ashley finds someone."

"Surely there are fellow space appreciators at the firm?"

"That's the thing - she doesn't talk to anyone at the firm! She comes to work, goes through documents, and goes home." Now if only Lai and Grybauskaite could be convinced to show such discipline. "At least we have the Web now, so she can talk to other space lovers there."

So that was why she had stopped pestering Dora with 'fun facts' recently - she had found people who actually thought they were interesting. "At least she'll have friends now." Ashley had always been a lonely child, cooped up in her room with library books or walking around outside alone.

"Speaking of friends, how's Juan?"

"Well enough." She paused. "It's December already, and we were promised a week off for the New Year." They had hoped they'd end before it, but it was looking like they'd finish the defense cases, go for break, and come back for rebuttals and summaries. The counsel would welcome that.

"It'd be great if you could pop home. If transport is available, of course."

"If it is, I definitely will."

Rye could tell that this cross-examination would be a test of her professionalism. She remembered very well how, as a poor student, she had been forced to take out loans to be able to have Billie in a hospital instead of her dorm room. There, she had been confronted by harsh personnel snapping at her to be quiet and put in the same (moldy and cockroachy) room as two women who could not afford painkillers, resulting in their screaming nearly deafening her and Barrow. Lee was not personally to blame for the nurses who had humiliated Rye and tried to force Barrow to undergo sterilization, but the structural problems of the healthcare systems, from the closures of rural clinics to the dilapidated buildings to, yes, the omnipresent military-style discipline could all be laid at his feet. The policies promising the world to Capitolians (which were not delivered on unless you were rich) and nothing to District people (fulfilled to the letter unless you were rich) were a crime, no matter what Cassiopea Vargas said to earn her lunch.

The defense was quite simple - the policies were perhaps unpopular ones, but it was absurd to call them a crime. The issue of Lee's responsibility for the mistreatment of POWs was excused away by the lack of resources, and Vargas claimed that Lee had known nothing of the IGR's experiments, placing the blame for everything squarely on Cotillion. And if Billie had been born surrounded by women screaming in agony, husbands shrieking with horror when a cockroach ran over them, and medical personnel threatening to slap everyone who didn't shut up while Mitch and Flora had taken their first breaths in clean, quiet rooms - well, that was the fault of Rye and Barrow for having a child while poor.

What Rye needed was to disprove these arguments without devolving into a rant about why actual universal healthcare for all, not feeding some empty promises and giving most nothing, was the way to go. She could and did believe that it had been highly unfair that a person in the Capitol could have theoretically gotten their medications mailed to them for free while Rye's parents had had to go to the pharmacy and pay money for life-saving medication, and it was just as unfair that regular Capitolians had been forced to queue and bribe to get what they had been promised. Nothing would make her stop believing that rural people giving birth at home with no professionals on hand and no chance of emergency assistance in case of complications or stories along the lines of 'the ambulance crew had to take a horse-drawn cart for thirty kilometres in a snowstorm because the rust bucket of a van broke an axle' (what century was this, exactly? Rye could not believe she had once thought this was normal) were nothing less than horrific. But what she believed was irrelevant to the cross-examination.

Lee had called so many witnesses, it had taken the rest of the week to go through them. Rye was glad for the warm-up. By the time that Sanchez adjourned until Monday morning, she felt reasonably ready. She even agreed to attend Reed Zvi's birthday party, which would be held on Saturday in, of all places, a pool.

"This is gonna be great," Carver said as the taxi hit a pothole. The taxi had two back rows, to allow them all - Rakesh, Anna Goldfield, Rye, Carver, and Lope - to fit. A few paralegals and secretaries had also been invited and were in a different taxi. "You sure I'll get to swim?"

"Positive," Lope replied. "They're legally obligated to provide an accessible space, and even if they hadn't before, Zvi wouldn't have picked this place if it wasn't now."

Legally obligated to provide an accessible space. Had Rye said something similar about the omnipresent stairs back in the Justice Building she had worked in, everyone would have simply shrugged and ignored her (except the wheelchair-using clerk crawling up and down the stairs every single day). That had been deliberate policy. The Ministry of Health could have simply cited lack of money and made all healthcare for-profit, but in order to placate the Capitol, they had been promised free healthcare no matter the cost. And anyone who complained about the realities on the ground, of course, could simply be ignored.

"Great."

When they arrived and entered the building, Rye realized this wasn't just a pool - this was an entire sauna complex, and one that must have been for the exclusive use of the very rich at that. "Never knew Zvi knows his luxury," she said to Rakesh as she looked around the entrance. The place showed signs of looting but still held much of its former grandeur.

"Isn't he from here? I bet he went here once as a bribe and couldn't wait to get back."

That was a good point. Rye couldn't do more than nod, because they were now at the changerooms. She went inside and was struck by how nice it was. She took out her phone and took some pictures to show to her siblings. They'd never believe it without proof.

"What a nice place," Anna Goldfield said, taking off her shoes.

Rye quickly changed into some swimming things one of the drivers, a genius with the black market, had scrounged up - a pair of shorts to the knee and a sports bra. Next to her, one of the secretaries was putting on a skimpy bikini. The driver's priorities were rather evident, but then again, this was the same woman who had mastered the black market with the express purpose of attracting locals. "Wonder where the owner is now."

Anna Goldfield chuckled. "I wonder if this visit will count as bias if we get to try them."

"We're prosecuting Lee despite having had experience with paying through the nose for appendectomies and rabies vaccines, so probably not."

"True."

Outside, they nearly collided with Husk Goldfield, who was deep in conversation with a secretary. The pattern held - Husk was in loose shorts, but the secretary was wearing a pair of tight swim trunks. Rye had not expected Zvi of all people to invite secretaries just so they could ogle them.

"Convenient you're both here," Rye said to Anna Goldfield. "You can keep an eye on each other."

She laughed. "How'd you react if you found out your Barrow was at a party like this back in Nine?"

"Probably just tease him about it," Rye said. She had stopped caring if his eye drifted to someone else for a second already in their first year dating, and the same went for him. It was not momentary impulses that mattered, but whether or not you followed up on them.

At that moment, Carver left the changeroom, sitting in a different chair - one that could be submerged. Lope was demurely clad in a T-shirt and shorts. "Alright," Carver said, "this is going to be great. You want to come with me?"

"Of course," Anna Goldfield said.

"Do you like my outfit?" Carver was wearing a very daring one-piece. "I'm so glad I finally have an excuse for someone other than my husband to see me."

"You look great," Rye said somewhat sincerely. There wasn't much Carver could do about her physique.

"I better - Lope nearly went crazy putting this on me."

They walked through the place, following the signs to the pool. Rye had never been in anything even vaguely similar before and could only wonder what some of the things were. On the side of a large pool, Goran Briscoe was flirting with four young women, all of them secretaries. Three were attractive, one must have also been quite the looker before receiving those massive scars all over her body.

"So, what are your names?" he asked as Rye tested the water - it was tepid.

"I'm Rose," said one of the unscarred women, "and that's Daisy, Marigold, and Fern." Fern was the scarred woman. Rye sat down, sticking her feet into the water, and watched Lope put floaters on Carver and wheel her down a ramp into the pool.

"Huh," Briscoe said. "You're like a bouquet of beautiful flowers - and, um, ferns."

Shocked, Rye turned to see Fern's face fall and her jaw twitch. "That's not very nice," the secretary said quietly. The other women cringed. Next to Rye, Anna Goldfield was wincing as she tested the water with a hand.

"Er, I meant it as a compliment," Briscoe said hurriedly. "It'd be nice to have a bouquet that includes ferns. Ferns are pretty. Even if they don't flower."

Given how many people Briscoe had slept with by this point, Rye had thought he'd be smoother.

"Nobody ever gifts moss. Or ferns."

"I would," Briscoe said, regaining some of his usual charm. "I'd bring you pots of moss, bouquets of ferns and cycads, wreaths of conifers."

Fern looked like she couldn't quite believe that Briscoe, in all sincerity, was trying to seduce her with moss. The other three secretaries were also confused.

"Do you think it's funny that people call flowers pretty, and my name is a non-flowering plant?"

Briscoe shook his head, the picture of intent seriousness. "I think it's an amazing coincidence," he said, leaning closer. "People say - you're as beautiful as a flower. But non-flowering plants are beautiful, too. Just differently. And so are you, Fern. Perhaps an asymmetrical face and a missing eye do not fit into what is usually called beauty. But are not the fractal patterns of a fern leaf beautiful, too, in their own way? Is not there beauty in fiddleheads uncoiling into fronds?" He leaned in closer and took her by the hand. "In Eastern Europe, people believe that there is one night in a year when you can find a flowering fern and it will bring you good fortune for the rest of your days. But I believe that you, Fern, are a treasure greater than anything they seek."

"Genius," Anna Goldfield called out sarcastically. "Amazing. Magnificent!"

"Way to ruin the mood," Briscoe grumbled and let go of her hand.

"Hey, everyone, look!" Carver called out. "I'm swimming!"

Carver was, indeed, floating in the water with a wide grin on her face, Lope standing next to her. Watching her colleague, Rye couldn't help but smile. "Nice!" she called out.

"That was terrible," Anna Goldfield said quietly. "Still, what an uncanny coincidence with the names. They're all from Seven, aren't they?"

"I think so." Briscoe was now walking away - Rye pitied the men from Six who would now have to endure long rambling innuendos about non-flowering plants. The secretaries hopped into the water and began to dive after the rubber disks they had dumped in. "It's almost perfect - they work together and all have plant names. Perfect for flirting."

Anna Goldfield chuckled. "I remember making all these jokes about Husk's name. When he complained about exams, I'd ask him if he felt like a husk of himself now."

"I was just insecure about my 'peasant' name," Rye reminisced. As a teenager, she had hated her parents for naming her after her grandfather's crop. "I suppose Barrow's name also lends itself to puns - I remember he broke his leg once and had to be in a wheelchair for a while, and I'd say that he was wheel-Barrow now."

Carver floated by, towed by Lope. "How are things?" she asked with an almost unnatural cheer.

"Worried about Lee," Rye admitted.

"Didn't you finish your outline already?"

She had, and Hudson was currently giving it a final look-over, just in case. "I did. Being here's just making me think about it more."

"Yeah," Carver said. She looked more relaxed than she ever had before. "Lope told me swimming is good for people like me - but there was no pool in my town, and my parents had enough problems without adding passes to a big city on top of that." The fact that, contrary to the law, Carver's family had had to pay for nusinersen and a wheelchair, was one of the cornerstones of the case against Lee.

"You liking it so far?" Anna Hudson asked.

Carver grinned. "Best day of my life. If I have to, I'll campaign until the end of my life to make pools accessible for everyone. How many people in smaller towns, and even big cities, haven't left their apartments for decades?"

It said a lot about them that even at a pool party, they discussed work. "Terrible," Rye said before gingerly hopping in. The water wasn't exactly warm, but she felt no cold, either. How much money did it cost to keep the place operating? If VIPs were using it for birthday parties as always, probably far less than what they earned.

Miroslav only had himself to blame for his current predicament. As he forced himself to throw up for the fifth meal in a row, he cursed himself for having accepted that stupid pancake. The greasy lump had made him feel unwell, so he had vomited it back up - but now, anything he ate caused that same feeling of nausea. Throwing up brought no relief, only an awful burning sensation and pain and blood. Miroslav shuffled back to his office and curled up on the armchair, shaking. His esophagus hurt, and the inside of his mouth tasted awful. He wanted to go rinse out his mouth again, but he didn't have the energy. So he just sat in his chair until someone knocked to say that Pollman wanted to talk to him.

After the talk - which was more of a monologue about geopolitics on Pollman's part - Miroslav simply flopped back into his armchair and waited for something to happen, hating himself every second of it.

"Hey, Aurelius, you want to come with me to dinner?" Mallow asked from the corridor.

The thought of dinner sent a wave of terror through Miroslav and he literally shook, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself. What if he ruptured his esophagus and died horribly? Tears pricked at his eyes and he wiped them away.

"No. Already ate."

"Alright."

The same thing repeated the following morning. Miroslav had to force himself to drink some tea and chew on toast. The desire to binge was gone, replaced by a fear of food he struggled to put into words. Being a psychologist, he tried to reason through it and figure out what he was feeling.

He was scared of food because food=purging, because he hadn't kept anything substantial down for days and didn't think he could. He was afraid of vomiting and afraid of keeping the food down. Why was he afraid of having food inside him? That wasn't logical at all. If he ate something light, he would at worst get an upset stomach. So then why was he afraid of it? Why didn't he want it? Why was his most basic instinct suddenly not working?

Miroslav brought the piece of toast to his mouth and felt no desire to eat it despite his hunger. He put it back on the plate. He just didn't want to eat, and that was that. He didn't want there to be food in his stomach. The very thought made him feel uneasy. Because- what?

Because it made him feel dirty. The sensation of having food in his stomach made Miroslav feel dirty, and seeing blood in his vomit yesterday had flipped something in his brain and turned off whatever it was that made him eat uncontrollably, leaving only the purge part. But if he wanted to feel 'clean' despite the impulse to overeat being gone, if even a bite of toast was too much, that was an entirely different condition. Miroslav wanted to beat his head against the table. Anorexia was more lethal than bulimia.

Instead of sitting in her room all alone, as Thumeka normally did on the weekend, there was a diversion today - two correspondents were getting married. The situation was added piquancy by the fact that the correspondents were from countries that were at war with each other, Renee Poirson was Jewish and Helga Schmidt was Catholic, and neither of their home countries recognized same-sex marriage.

Thumeka could already picture the scathing articles about how Panem of all places had more freedoms than their countries. Same-sex marriage was a complete non-issue here for complicated historical reasons Thumeka had bored everyone in her room halfway to death with, Poirson and Schmidt had been correspondents in Ottawa for over a decade (though they had only started dating here) so it only stood to reason that they would not be as affected by the current upswing in nationalistic hysteria, and while the religious barrier was as much of an issue as anywhere else, they had still managed to dig up somewhere a priest and a rabbi willing to oversee a mixed marriage.

The ceremony, of course, was on neutral ground. Thumeka stood at the very back of the meeting-hall and observed it. It had a bit of an improvised air to it and there were nowhere near as many guests as when she had married Yemurai in the presence of what had felt like half of Harare, but it was certainly very nice.

"Do you know Poirson?" Thumeka asked Mikola as someone recited something.

"Yeah - we attend synagogue together." Poirson was from Alsace, and a bunch of patriotically-minded people on the Web had gotten into a nasty fight over whether she was really French or German before eventually agreeing that she was Jewish. You'd have thought that the sort of people in that part of the world who were able to spend time on the Web had better priorities, but no.

Jiao chuckled. "I think you attend synagogue with every single Jewish press representative."

"I think we've taken over that one," he said ruefully. "Once we leave, the congregation will be like - wait, where did everybody go?"

After the ceremony, they went back to the billet to eat lunch and watch the news. On the television in the 'quiet' living room, Heiko Laur was addressing a group of foreign delegates.

"I know what is said of us abroad. That Panemians are somehow different. That we don't value democracy or human rights or any of those things, or that we wouldn't be able to keep them if we got them. That we want a dictator. That we want to be oppressed."

"To that, I answer - if we were content with what we had, why were secret prisons all over the country full of those who did something to upset the dictator? If nobody wanted to rise up, why was a repressive machine needed to begin with? I often hear about how there was a little minority of rabble-rousers, and then there was the 'mass' of the normal people. But there is no such thing as a mass of people! You would lump a great variety of different people together under this label. Look at how our government has rebuilt itself, the different political parties that are represented. At how ninety-five percent of eligible voters vote in local elections - is that the action of a people that does not care about democracy?"

"We are not any different from you. We don't have some sort of flawed gene that makes us susceptible to dictatorships. Perhaps less of us are prone to speaking out publicly than in robust democracies, but do not take our silence for approval! When the Rebellion broke out, did the kitchen-whisperers do even a single thing to prop up the government? No! Myself included!"

"Before, we could not speak out for fear of punishment. Now, for many of us, that fear remains - I admit it. But we have the ballot-box now, even the most silent of us can make their voice heard that way. I ask you - do not look at us as if we are a different species, as if the shoots of our beautiful young democracy are going to wither away no matter what. We will be able to survive and we will be able to prosper. We ask only for your aid in this endeavour. A wise person once said - 'first comes grub, then comes morality'. You have the power to feed our people, and by extension, to help keep Panem democratic. If the Great Powers will it, Panem will be a stable and friendly ally on the world stage."

That was so different from any other governmental speech Thumeka had ever heard, it was almost funny. Nobody ever spoke from such a low position, begging for help. It simply wasn't done. And here was Laur, seemingly unaware that no other foreign minister would have been able to swallow their pride like that, speaking like a supplicant come to plead for aid.

"Interesting," Mikola said. "But I think most people at home still think of Panemians as a separate species."

Jiao scrolled through her phone. "Hey, look, a couple of journalists tried to investigate Paylor and her family."

"And?" Thumeka asked. Now that the three branches of government were equally powerful, the president was not the almighty figure of before, but the persona was still interesting.

"She lives in an ordinary apartment and bikes to work." That did not surprise Thumeka - the textile-mill president was one of those people who stuck to old habits even when luxury was available. "The First Gentleman stays at home with the kids and plans to go back to work once they're older - he also used to work in a textile mill. There's a bunch of photos of their apartment, too."

A president's spouse on the factory floor? "I think that people here don't quite grasp how you're supposed to do things," Thumeka said, "so they come up with their own ways."

"It's always nice when even investigative journalists can't dig up any dirt on the ones with the power," Mikola said, stretching out. "Either of you want to go for a beer this evening?"

"Only if we're back in time to sleep early," Thumeka said.

Mikola chuckled. "I'll be on the bus, too - and I'm too old to function on three hours of sleep."

Monday morning, Rye and the rest of the team that would be attending the trials made their way down the streets, watching snowflakes float down. There was a thin layer of snow under curbs and on branches.

"We should have gotten a taxi," Nora Pillar muttered. "It's freezing out here. And dark."

"It's only a ten-minute walk, and in a safe area to boot," Anna Goldfield said, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets. Rye had worn her warm coat today, and was glad for it. "We need to get at least some semblance of physical activity."

She was right about this being a safe area - for the most part. Rye hadn't forgotten how somebody had attacked her practically under the walls of the Justice Building. The townhouse area was safe, yes, but the big street and its husks of once-fine buildings were not the best place to be alone.

At the entrance to the Justice Building, they showed their passes and were waved through. Rye bought herself a coffee and went to the Nine office to pick up some things. Then, she went back down to the courtroom to wait. She felt some anxiety - not only would she be representing Nine on the national stage, but Panem on the world stage. Carver had done a good job with Thread - nothing like Jinwe's masterpiece of the legal art, but a perfectly competent effort for a thirty-two-year-old lawyer. Rye would need to be a little bit better, because of that added decade of experience.

She could do this. This was just a cross-examination, she had done plenty. Lee was already seated in the dock with the other defendants, head bent down over something. Yet another drawing, most likely. Hopefully not one of her. The three journalists who always sat in the corner were there, looking very bored. Besides them, there was the usual trickle. Nobody cared much about the testimony of the former Minister of Health.

The judges filed in, and the day began. "Does the defense wish to ask further questions to the witness?" Sanchez asked.

Fortunately, none of them had decided that they had more questions.

"Does the prosecution wish to ask questions?"

"Yes, Your Honour," Rye said, standing up and gathering her things. She made her way to the lectern, feeling a little bit like an actor on a stage. But then again, a trial was a sort of play, where everyone knew their roles and had a script, and could improvise from time to time.

Rye began with seemingly simple questions that would set Lee at ease. Not having any legal training, he couldn't grasp where she was going with his questions about when had what subordinate been promoted to what position. Aware that this was a cross-examination, he tried to push against even basic questions, attempting to be contrary in everything. It was a little bit annoying to have to refer to documents to prove the most basic assertion, but that was why all that preliminary research had been done. She'd need to gift all the staff something nice after this.

Over the next few hours, she managed to get Lee to start stonewalling her completely, denying even easily proved assertions. When she managed to pin the mistreatment of POWs on him, he got almost panicky, desperation evident in his eyes as he tried to evade the question any way he could. Rye ignored his terror, pressing him further and further.

"No further questions, Your Honours."

"Does the defense wish to re-examine?"

The defense did not wish to re-examine.

"The defendant may return to the dock."

Lee looked resigned as he slunk back to his seat.

Leon went to the black market after work - he needed to get cloth to patch his coat. On the way there, someone called him over.

"Excuse me?" he said, showing his press badge. "I am conducting a poll. Were you born in the Capitol?"

"I was," Leon said, stepping closer. They were standing on the sidewalk next to an empty patch of ground where the rubble had been mostly cleared.

"Would you like to participate? You'll get a chocolate bar as a reward."

For a chocolate bar, Leon would have danced naked. It was prohibitively expensive on the black market, to the point where he didn't even try. "Of course," he said.

"It'll be just a few questions. Would you like to sit down?" The journalist gestured at a pile of rubble.

"Sure." Leon sat down on a large piece of concrete, already tasting the chocolate. The journalist sat down across him, clipboard on his knees.

"Alright," he said, "my name is Walter Tihkoosue, I am from North Bay, and I'll ask you to answer a few questions and possibly elaborate on them. I will take notes, if you don't mind, so that I can get a direct quote or two down. If you don't want to answer something, you don't have to."

"Sure," Leon said.

"Alright." He shuffled around, pencil poised over the clipboard. "Before, what opinion did your parents have of the Hunger Games?" Oh, that was genius. Nobody was willing to admit personal support, but possibly long-dead parents? That was a different story. "Strong disapproval, mild disapproval, neutral, mild approval, strong approval."

"Mild disapproval, I'd say."

"Are they still alive?"

"Yes."

"What opinion did your parents have of District people in general? Same categories."

"Neutral - I don't think we ever thought about them."

"What opinion do they have now?"

"Mild disapproval," Leon had to admit - this was an anonymous survey.

"What caused this shift? Name as many possibilities as you wish."

Leon thought about it for a second or two. "I guess they're looking for someone to blame. They say they long for stability and forget how much they hated the so-called stability. Nobody's being kidnapped from their apartments now, but they still think it's more dangerous now than before."

"You refer to political kidnappings there?"

"Yes."

"Uh-huh." He wrote something down. "They blame the Districts for rising up?"

"Not quite - we were mute opponents, we understand very well there were as many dissidents in the Capitol as anywhere else. But when they blame someone for causing a 'mess', the Districts get the blame."

"In your recollection, how often did they watch the 'Hunger Games'?"

"Mandatory portion, and half-heartedly. It would be playing in the background as they did chores. We did sit down and watch the preliminary content sometimes - Reapings, interviews - but then my brother would idly wonder how someone would die, and you could see my parents wishing they could just turn off the TV. But the neighbours could have been listening, and everyone knew there were people who reported to the NCIA."

"Alright," Tihkoosue said, "now, some demographic questions. How old are they?"

"Both fifty-four."

"Occupation before the Rebellion?"

"Mother was a factory worker, father's a dishwasher." It stung to not be able to call Mom the programmer that she was.

"So I assume your father was sometimes at work during mandatory?"

"Sometimes."

"Did he ever say anything about these absences?"

"No. It was just how things happened. Even the porch gossips accepted that he simply had that shift sometimes."

"Alright. Level of education?"

"Both had six grades."

Tihkoosue nodded. "Do they still work?"

"Yes."

"Same jobs?"

"Mother is a programmer now, she's self-taught."

"Salary or wage jobs?"

"Mother has a salary, father - a wage."

"What is their combined annual income?"

Leon gave the approximate number.

"Before, did they make a habit of discussing politics with you?"

"Not beyond kitchen-jokes and grumbling."

"Do you live with them?"

"Moved out a week or so ago." It already felt like an eternity.

"Do they watch the trials?"

"Yes."

"What is their opinion of them? Same scale as before."

"Strongly approve."

"Alright, thank you very much. Here you go." He took out the holy of holies - the chocolate bar. Leon took it eagerly.

"Thank you," he said, slipping it into an inside pocket. "Have a good day."

As Leon walked towards the black market, he wondered what sort of findings this journalist would reach. It would certainly be interesting to compare what people said their parents thought of the Hunger Games with what they said about themselves. And he'd need to pop home tomorrow to give them some of the chocolate. They haven't had any in a very long time.

Mallow deserved a special medal for putting up with his nonsense. She didn't even bat an eye when Miroslav updated her on the condition of his brain.

"Interesting," she simply said. "That is certainly not the usual presentation. Back when I was young, you'd usually see anorexia in kids and teens whose parents used hunger as a punishment or guilted them for either eating too much or being too picky. It happened to a friend of mine. He suffered from hypersensitivity, so he couldn't eat most foods, but his parents would yell at him that there were starving children in the streets who'd have killed for what he was pushing around his plate. So he simply stopped showing up to mealtimes. He starved to death while middle-class, in a year of good harvests to boot."

"That's very good to know," Miroslav snapped, patience suddenly gone, "but how is it relevant to my situation?"

Mallow shrugged. "I thought you might find it interesting." She sounded hurt.

Miroslav sat back in the armchair and cursed his existence. "I'm sorry. You're just trying to help me."

"Apology accepted. Now, can you tell me more about your state of mind?"

"You're my psychiatrist now?"

"I'm your friend."

Miroslav buried his head in his hands.