"Johanna, someone is here to see you," A guard informs me. I glance at the other Victors, and they look confused. Who would visit me in the Capitol? Getting up, the guard looks at me hard and holds his gun tight to his chest.

"What?" I say, disgusted. "I'm not going to try anything!"

"You never know with you Victors," He answers, deeply, angrily, and I don't know why.

I follow him down a few halls and turn into a room. The man in the chair I don't recognize. However, the man in the corner is obviously my Head Doctor.

"Hello, Johanna!" My doctor says. "It's so nice to see you again! I haven't seen you in, oh dear, it must've been a year now!"

"Obviously, since the last time you saw me was after my Games, the 68th, and they happen once a year. . ."

He looks slightly confused, and for a doctor, this is not a good sign. I shake my head slightly and change the subject. "So, what am I here for?"

"Ah. Remember our conversation on the telephone? This is your therapist, Dr. Rellimen!"

"Oh, joy," I mutter.

"So!" 'Dr. Rellimen' screeches. "We should get started on your thera-"

"I really don't want to do this. And you can't force me," I burst out, then lean back in my chair, the slightest bit embarrassed. "Sorry," I whisper.

"Why ever not?" My head doctor asks.

" 'Cause, you know, I got a rep to maintain with my fellow champs back in the control room," I shrug, picking my words carefully. "And, you know, therapy isn't gonna cut it. . ."

The therapist and my doctor consider this for a moment. "Ah, yes, I suppose you 'District' people would want to keep a reputation," Says the therapist.

A flame blooms inside me. What does he mean by that? The District Victors aren't good enough to be in their precious, yet somewhat fragile Capitol? The fires that warm their hands come from my district! The seafood they eat comes from Finnick's district! All the latest techno-gizmos come from Wiress and Beetee, the District 3 Victors, district!

"What's wrong with being from the Districts?" I ask.

"Well, you are all, rabid. And you're a murderer, Johanna. People don't like that! They want to keep their distance from you. . . In case, you, well. . . You know!"

"Um, I had to kill if I wanted my own life!" I turn my head around and don't look at them, but glare down at the floor. Then I place my hand on my forehead, suddenly feeling an ache, a pain, but when they collide, instead of being overly hot, it's bitter cold.

Dropping my hand down, I place my hand over my heart and feel the steady beat. No, not steady. Much too fast. And too hard. This is where the pain is coming from.

"I gotta go," I say, and swing the door open. Maybe, if I get back to the control room in time and see the other Victors, those who barely cry, then I'll be able to choke down my tears and maybe help out my only remaining tribute.

The door is closed, but I push it open. Several turn their heads, but most are focused on the fighting going on at the Cornucopia. I hear a long swipe of a knife and sword and a girls high pitched scream as I click the door shut behind me.

"What's going on, everyone?" I ask.

"Fighting," Says Cecelia from 8. "District Two and the guys from 6 and 7."

"Seven?" I ask, and take a seat on my swively chair. "How'd Jared get himself into a mess at the Cornucopia? I could've sworn I told that boy to steer clear of that place! And when did he team up with District 6?"

One of the Morphlings leans towards me and says in a calm yet unstable voice, "His name is Eglina." I can tell right off the bat that the instability of her voice isn't from alcohol, it's her morphling supply.

Another thing I know is that this kid, Eglina, isn't a fighter. Not strong, though swift on his feet. Has a thing for knives. . . He's better than Jared.

Not Good.

Then I realize, Jared's a fighter, but he looks like he'd give up on life right away.

"Haymitch, Chaff!" I hiss. They turn. "Can't take this much longer. Lets drink tonight, okay? Bring the supply from your floors, too."

Both of them smile slightly and nod, and only Chaff's girl is remaining, but Seeder is keeping a close eye on her. Mostly, Chaff's been drinking and watching and wincing as his boy dies.

Damn, He'd say, and then open a new bottle to drink from.

That night, I awake on the chair in the Control Room. Slowly, I force my head up and dizzily look around. I can't quite see him, but I know by sight its Haymitch passed out, dead drunk, on the ground. My feet pick me up off the ground and I stare at the screen.

Jared is still alive. He's still alive. It's getting closer to the end. Will he somehow make it out? My muddy thoughts swirl around inside my head, and all I can think about is What if Jared wins? Then I won't be a failure. For some reason, I feel I have to send him something.

I wipe my eyes and sit up on the chair. Taking a good, hard look at Jared: With his brown eyes that stay wide open, even in the middle of the night, fearing predators. His eyes, full of hate and distrust.

No! I think. Why? Because thats where I went. And look at me now, waking up in the middle of the night after passing out drunk. His hands press against each other and he breathes on them, trying to warm them.

It must be cold. In fact, it looks like he's getting frostbite. If he loses his fingers, how will he win? I look at his sponser count. Not high, but he's not a phenomenon. The real reason he has any was because he was involved in and killed people during the fight. My fingers inch up onto the buttons. Since gloves are often sent, theres a preset button.

I wham my fist down on it, and, as the parachute decends, I watch as Jared excitedly opens it. He tears out the gloves and whips them on. The look on his face is no longer bitter cold, but relaxed.

No, not relaxed.

Fear. How could I not know that?

I look fear in the face every day.