The Training Center – now our "hotel" – is beyond nice. Forget the amenities of home in District 12; this place has it all. There's fine furniture; windows that can tune to any view across Panem you want; food made to order at any time, with any ingredients. Despite the rebellion that supposedly made us all "equal," the Capitol never lost much of the grandeur that my parents still talk about back during the Hunger Games years. Frankly, I don't mind this part of the trip one bit. Surrounded by this place and free from the prying eyes of the media, I feel just fine.

Drake's not hurting the situation, either.

"Feels like they're fattening us up to slaughter or something," he jokes as we walk about the Odairs' floor. "Give us a bunch of food and then toss us in front of the whole country with a bunch of interviews. Really nice of them. Maybe if we're lucky, we'll get to go fight to the death in an arena afterwards."

"No; we'd have to get even more interviews after we won," I kid. Something about Drake makes me ease up; I'm feeling far more at home with my parents already out mingling with Johanna Mason and the other famous people of the rebellion. "That wouldn't be any fun."

"No fun?" Drake laughs, pushing a hand through his hair. "You're just not doing it right, then."

"How am I supposed to talk to cameras right?" I ask incredulously, throwing my hands in the air. "All they want to know is if my mom's gotten over all her past and whatever. I don't really care."

"Tell you what," Drake says, veering the conversation quickly away from cameras and lights and all that publicity. "Since we've got until late tonight to ourselves with our parents out, let's forget about all this Capitol stuff and bring some food up here. We can…catch up, and all that. Leave all the media behind."

Tempting: "Well…I mean, do you think anybody's expecting us to be somewhere? If we're not – "

"Who cares?" Drake waves away my creeping fears with a nonchalant wave of his hand. It's so smooth that it takes me by surprise; it's a boldness and confidence that I wouldn't expect from someone in conservative District 12. "What's going to happen if we are supposed to be somewhere? Nothing. So while we have some privacy…let's enjoy it."

I don't even have anything to protest this time: "Well…okay. Lead the way."

An hour later, I'm seated across from him at the big dining table on the floor. Dishes of tasty food lie half-eaten across the table, brought up by servants without a hitch. Ribs stick out of a long fish that overloaded my taste buds with salty tang; orange fruits dare me to take another bite of their sweet and sour explosions. Two bowls of soup that we hardly made a dent in still simmer with seafood and meats that I've never even heard of, while salads brimming with the freshest produce invite me to push my bursting stomach to the brink. I want another bite of something, anything, so bad, but I'm so full I can barely even move.

"So, let me get this straight," Drake leans his elbows on the table, pushing his plate to the side and taking a sip of some brown drink. "Haymitch Abernathy is the country's oldest victor, and the guy raises geese? And he doesn't even eat them?"

"Yes!" I exclaim, maybe a little too enthusiastically. Whatever's in my glass – a red drink I think is some sort of sweetened wine, but it's getting to my head regardless – has me talking excitedly where I'd normally shy away from the conversation. "He raises geese and drinks with my mom. That's like, all he does. I've never even talked with him until last night on the train here."

"That's ridiculous," Drake laughs, showing a white set of teeth as he smiles. "Never seen anybody like that back in District 4."

"What's it like?" I ask.

"What's what like?"

"District 4. I don't even remember it…I can't even picture anything. At school they tell us about the other districts, but I can't put anything real together about them."

"You have such a bad memory," he jokes. "First you can't remember me, then you can't even remember my district. Ugh. Okay, fine – we live in this place called Panem – "

"I know that!" I protest. "I mean, like…the ocean, and everything. We don't have that in District 12."

"Well, it's got a lot of water…"

"Drake!"

"Alright," he laughs. "Well…this is new; I don't have to describe my district to too many people, usually. Our house runs up a cliff above the rocky beach; during the day you can see the morning fog roll out and the sun come out. During the night, it's easy to fall asleep when you can hear the surf hitting the shore. We're about a ten-minute walk from District 4's downtown itself; there I can find all the canneries and fisheries, along with the main docks. There's all sorts of boats tied up there; my dad has a personal one, as does my brother, since he'll probably move out soon to live with his girlfriend. Pretty much everyone who has a good living has a boat. You can take off at any time; just go off out on the water and get away if need be."

Something about this sounds so…idyllic to me. I can get away in the woods back in District 12, but escaping everything out on the ocean…I wouldn't have to deal with anyone. All that water; nobody would be able to find me. Not my mother, not Hera and her little band of bullies that have a great time at my expense. I could just be…alone. Alone and at peace.

Suddenly, District 12 doesn't seem like such a great place any more. I'd gladly skip the snow-packed winters and humid summers for falling asleep to the sound of waves on a cliff.

"I don't know," Drake concludes, talking all the while I've been dreaming. "I grew up with it, so I guess I take District 4 for granted. But enough about me – what's District 12 like? You've grown up there."

"I…uh," I stumble over my words. I haven't thought about describing my home; how am I supposed to paint a pretty picture of life when he's just articulated something I can only fantasize about?

"Tell you what," Drake interjects. "Why don't you show me? We can program the windows to any place in Panem, after all."

As I've come to realize over the course of the day, Drake's prepared for any eventuality. He leads me off to the living room, scooting a chair out of the way with his foot and grabbing the window remote from a table. He pushes a few buttons, staring blankly at the small piece of plastic for a moment before working out how to control it. I'm about to laugh at him before he clicks a few buttons and the windows changes drastically. Gone is the scene of the Capitol at night, with snowy mountains shrouded by artificial light. In its place…are my woods.

Orange hues have turned into green leaves. Glittering silver buildings have transformed into thick brown tree trunks. People do not move about the streets like ants; actual bugs crawl around fallen logs as a mockingjay cries overhead. I feel a strange sense of nostalgia; as much as I want to see and feel District 4, there's something comforting about home in this strange land.

"Familiar?" Drake offers from behind me, shaking me out of my stupor. "I can see why you'd like it there."

"It's…home, I guess," I manage to say. "Only one I know."

"Well…in a place like here in the Capitol," he replies, putting a hand on my shoulder and playing with my ponytail in his fingers. "It's easy to get caught up in all the buzz. Nice to have something to hold onto."

'Yeah," I squeak. Something about him has changed; his words come off as less refined and bold, replaced with something carnal. It gives me an upsetting feeling in my stomach.

"So how 'bout you, Summer?" he asks. "What are you looking for here?"

He turns my shoulder so that I'm facing him. His green eyes have taken a new look. They're no longer looking to ask me questions about my life; they're looking for something deeper; something I can't do. We just got reacquainted today; this is too fast.

"No," I put a hand on his shoulder, pushing off from him. "No, Drake; I can't do this."

"Summer," he looks confused as his words stumble. "I'm just…"

"No," I repeat. "No, I…I need some space. Need some time by myself."

I hurry away to one of the floor's bedrooms before he can respond, closing the door behind me. I don't even bother to take stock of the room as I fall on the wide bed, lying face-down on the soft sheets that easily take my weight. I smash my face into the down pillow as I ponder my stupidity; I actually find chemistry with a guy and what do I do? I push him away and run before he even gets a chance to prove himself. I'm such a coward. I can't even do anything right.

Maybe this is why my mom can't stand me. I'm not a fighter or the face of a rebellion like she was; I'd just wilt under the pressure like a dead flower. I'm no role model – just a stupid girl who can't control herself.

Over an hour passes as I take shallow breaths into the pillow, only vaguely aware of the tears spilling out of my blue eyes. A sharp knock on the door awakens me from my stupor. Thinking it's Drake letting me know it's time to attend to our "duties" as children of the victors, I push myself up from the bed, saying, "Alright, I'm coming."

"Ms. Mellark?" a throaty, chalky voice from the other side of the door inquires of me. "You're needed as soon as possible."

I take a cautious look out the door and come face to face with someone I absolutely didn't expect. A gray-armored Praetorian stands outside my door with a rifle tucked under his arm, his face completely concealed by his steel helmet. A chilling cold shiver snakes its way up my spine as I take an involuntary step back – am I in some sort of trouble? I didn't even do anything yet!

"Wh - what is it?" I ask nervously.

"You have thirty minutes to dress into something more formal," the Praetorian says. If he's judging me with his eyes, I certainly can't tell. Being unable to see the soldier's face is just the slightest bit unnerving. "And to clean up your image."

"Why?" I answer meekly, looking out into the living room. Drake's leaning against a couch, his face ashen. He's still feeling embarrassed about me running off in all likelihood, and the Praetorian's sudden appearance isn't helping. What does this guy want with me?"

"You will be at the Capitol Opera Hall," the Praetorian answers curtly. "Minister Heavenesbee has requested your presence."

Plutarch. He's never shown much interest in me; why does he want me now? Usually that man is obsessed with interrogating my parents about everything under the sun, but all he's ever asked of me is how I like being the daughter of two famous people. Now he thinks he can just meet with me? Something else is going on here that I don't yet understand: "He…why does he want to see me?"

"Classified."

I don't like the sound of that: "Can…is anyone else coming with me?"

"No. He has requested your presence only. Please return to your floor and prepare."

I take a step out of the bedroom, throwing a careful look at Drake. He meets my eyes for just a moment, but the confidence is gone. I've hurt him more than I know by slapping away his overtures.

I should have enjoyed my evening while I still had the time. Now I'm off on some other horrible errand that I'm already feeling won't end well.