Effie stays in on the day after the summer festival. There is nothing to miss, as everyone, her film crew included, had decided earlier in the week that this would be a mandatory day off. Never has she been gladder for a break. Seclusion is permissible on the grounds of too much dancing or too much drink, so after Katniss and the rest leave, Effie makes her bed, wraps her hair, and sets about tidying up the house.

Ghosts follow her at every turn, sometimes one, sometimes many. In the mostly clean countertops, she sees her own blood and that of murdered tributes; it takes far longer than normal to scrub the surfaces clean. When she is finally finished some hours later, she washes her hands with scalding water, satisfied of their cleanliness only when her skin has turned red.

Red splattered on the weeping boy's chest, red the sash across the Head Gamemaker's chest, red turned to brown on her face and hands that goes away only after hours in the bath.

A brief rainstorm in the evening cools the temperature enough that she layers on the covers and huddles in bed, cocooned and protected. That night's dreams are of deceased relatives telling her to go home, and of her sweet grandfather telling her he thinks he understands.

The morning sunlight wakes her heart along with her body. Today, she can face the outside world. She finds strength in her preparations for the day, dons it in the form of a floral dress and her wig and make-up.

At base camp, the film crew members are gathered around Quintus, relaxed and smiling. As Quintus generally does not inspire such calm in them, Effie is suspicious as she approaches them.

"It felt so good to sleep in," she hears Agrippa tell Theodosia, who nods enthusiastically.

"Good morning," Effie says to the group.

Quintus takes this as his cue. "All right, we've had our fun. Now it's back to the usual schedule. You all know where you're supposed to be.

"But before that, I want you to keep in mind that at five this evening, we are having our naming meeting. I hope you spent at least part of yesterday coming up with ideas." He eyes Theodosia in particular at that; she smirks. "All right, everyone, get to work."

He waves Effie over as they disperse. She weaves through them, wishing them luck as she goes, while Quintus busies himself with the team's computer and its peripherals.

"I want you to see what Ismene and I worked on yesterday afternoon," he tells her.

"Do you ever take breaks, Quintus?"

"Yes. I call them 'sleeping,' 'napping,' and 'eating.' You should try them sometime."

She rolls her eyes, but she can't help a smile. "Oh, I'm already a fan."

"There." Gesturing to the monitor, he says, "It's only a few seconds, but I think it turned out well."

It's a shot of the rainstorm from the week before, Agrippa's footage with some of Theodosia's near the end. Quintus had been right to hurry them on that day; to have missed these beautiful scenes would have been a tragedy.

"It looks wonderful," she tells him, smiling. "You're not going to leave the editors much to do, are you?"

He chuckles. "They'll have plenty. I just wanted to try and set the tone with this."

"It's perfect."

"Good. All that's left now is to find the perfect title, and we can maybe relax for the rest of this."

"Yes," she says, nodding. She knows better than to expect that to be the case, but she can hope.

And from the look on Quintus' face, he is clinging to that hope, too.

Early in the afternoon, Effie goes to see Heather Marsh. As head of the project, Effie is more of a public relations manager, the face of the documentary, the go-to person on behalf of Capitol TV. It's a testament to everyone's resilience that no one has brought up how like the old days this is, aside from her first time in town. All the better, she thinks. Maybe she can begin to bid some of her ghosts good-bye.

"Still no name?" Effie asks Heather as she hands her a cushion for her back.

Heather leans back in her seat and sighs heavily. "We're close. You?"

Effie shakes her head. "We'll be working on that tonight."

"Best of luck to you."

"Thank you." She pauses a moment, letting Heather breathe, and resists the urge to ask Heather if she's all right. Surely Heather would tell her if she weren't. "How was your interview the other day?"

"Oh, great." Heather sighs again, frowning slightly. "It didn't take very long. That Ismene is a nice woman."

"Yes, she is, isn't she?" Effie falters a moment, Heather's smile a small comfort, but presses on. "I can't wait to see it. How do you- I'm sorry, but I must ask you, are you all right? You don't look very comfortable."

Breathing deeply, Heather shakes her head. "I don't know. It could be another false alarm."

"Would you like me to get your husband?"

Heather nods. "Tell him to go get Yasmin, please. Just in case."

"Of course. I'll be right back."

Robert Marsh is off before Effie relays the whole message. She waits for him at the door, keeping an eye on Heather. Not two minutes later, he rushes back with Yasmin, trailed on either side by Theodosia and Agrippa. Both camera operators stay outside while Yasmin checks on Heather. Effie waits by the door, and Robert hovers between her and his wife, updating the one and supporting the other.

Finally, Yasmin motions to the door and says, "Keep everyone out of here. It's the real thing this time."

On cue, Heather groans, and Robert has only enough time to shoot Effie an apologetic glance before rushing to his wife's side.

Effie heads outside and shuts the door behind her. By now, a few of the builders and most of her film crew have gathered in front of the house. Clearing her throat, Effie says, "It's time. Let's give them some privacy. Go and film around town as you spread the news."

The crew split up, some following residents and others going off on their own. In the space between them and the family on the other side of the door, Effie is filled with nervous energy. With no immediate task, she rushes to find Quintus.

"We'll still hold the meeting," he tells her. "We'll rotate the team in pairs so someone will always be ready for when the baby is born."

The afternoon passes slowly as they all wait. Even the builders, usually so focused, do not manage to keep their usual pace. The wait is so unexciting that Quintus calls the meeting to order early just to keep everyone focused.

And it is nothing short of a disaster. Half the suggestions get shot down right away for being related in some way to fire, and a quarter of them are either too long or off tone. They keep the ones that refer to song or dance, but Effie already know those will be cut. The right title will make her want to sit up and listen closely to a story she already knows. The closest ones right now are the ones that talk of the weather or the district itself.

They part ways again after the meeting. Quintus asks Effie to stay and sort through the suggested titles with him, but she declines.

"None of them feels right, and I don't think we should settle just yet." He narrows his eyes at her. She adds, "You know it's true."

"I can't disagree," he concedes tersely.

Shrugging, she glances at the sky. "I'm heading out. Call me from the train station as soon as anything happens."

"Don't be surprised if you get a call in the middle of the night."

"I fully expect a rude awakening," she says as she walks off.

On her way, Effie gives Peeta the news about the Marshes to share with Katniss when she gets home from hunting, and he gives her a few sweet buns to have later.

"Peeta," she says, half scolding. "You are too generous. Your house to stay in is enough for me."

"This is the way things are here, Effie," he tells her, smiling. "We look out for one another, even if some of us would rather never admit to it."

"Thank you." She leaves out the specifics of her gratitude. He doesn't need them, anyway, probably knows even better than she does all the things behind her words.

There are too many buns to eat at once, so she goes to visit Haymitch. He, however, does not answer her knock. She goes inside anyway, but he is out cold on the couch downstairs. Shaking her head, she grabs a plate from the kitchen and leaves him a few of the sweet buns, then heads back to Peeta's house.

It's been dark for about an hour when Haymitch comes in after a short, loud knock. He took the time to shower after his bout of unconsciousness, she notices; his hair is still visibly damp and blackest black.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" she asks from where she sits on the couch, her planner open on her lap.

He gives her a wide, fake grin as he sets a bottle of wine on the coffee table. "You left me dinner," he says. "Peeta and Katniss never leave food out on plates for me. It was very you, that set-up."

"Well, I'm glad you're awake," she says, indicating the space next to her. "I went to give you some news, but you were sleeping."

He sits heavily on the couch, still tired, or drunk, or both. "Well?"

"Heather Marsh went into labor."

Nodding slowly, he shrugs. "Well, I hope it goes quickly."

"I'll be getting a call as soon as the baby is born."

"How lovely."

She stares pointedly at him and shakes her head.

Rolling his eyes, he sighs. "We'll drink to the moment." He gestures to the bottle on the table.

"Yes." Nodding firmly, she looks back down at her planner. She and the team are coming up on the end of their allotted filming time. All too soon, they will need to pack up and go. By then they will surely have obtained enough footage to deliver a truly amazing documentary. But will they ever get to come back? Will Effie be ready to pick up her life again in the Capitol?

"How'd you do yesterday?"

She turns to face him, holding her breath. "All right," she answers after a moment. "It- to be honest, I'd rather not talk about yesterday."

"Okay," he says, but it evidently is not.

Sighing, she shakes her head. "I'm sorry, I just find it- embarrassing."

"I sleep with a knife and attack furniture with it, and I am no stranger to drinking myself sick. I think I've got embarrassing covered."

"I don't mean to compete, Haymitch," she says, wrinkling her nose.

"I know." Arching his eyebrows, he shrugs. "I won't ask about it again, but you can bring it up, if you want. It's up to you."

"Thank you."

In the silence that follows, she stares at her planner, reading her notes to fill her head with noise. Beside her, he plucks lint from his dark brown pants. A lifetime of lessons on manners and proper behavior brings a heavy guilt to weigh upon her, so she sighs, sets her planner on the coffee table, and turns to him.

She tells him about her ghosts, about the blood all over the house and her hands and face. She tells him about her grandfather and the others in her dream and how strange it is to know that she is betraying them by doing what she believes to be right.

"Now I think I understand why you lied so much," she tells him, and there is not a trace of accusation in her voice or her eyes or any part of her. "You had to."

In exchange, he tells her stories of his own, the less humiliating ones, she presumes, and a few of Katniss having to douse him with water to rouse him from unconsciousness.

They end up opening the bottle early, but they limit themselves to only one glass each. The drink eases the tension in his forehead at once, brings out a little laughter in both of them, and they dare to think of the better memories of the days of the Games, of tributes who gave their prep teams headaches and the few who tried to make Caesar Flickerman's interviews as difficult as they could.

"Oh, and the girl who ripped off Benvolio's wig before the parade," she says, hiding a laugh behind her hand. "His designs were so uninspired. He deserved it!"

"He made them go out there naked," he reminds her, rolling his eyes. "I would've torn off a lot more than his wig."

"You know, in retrospect, I suppose I'm lucky none of the tributes ever tried that with me."

"You're lucky I didn't," he tells her, and for a moment, she sees him as he was during his interview all those years ago: an overconfident youth whose apparent laziness was the perfect cover for his tenacity.

"Haymitch," she says, exaggerating the accent that has softened over these past few weeks.

"Don't," he tells her, wincing. "Just don't. Remember that I'm within range of your wig."

She gasps, feigning offense. "You wouldn't."

In response, he reaches for hair, but she grabs his wrists, stopping his hands just a few inches from her head. "Ah-ah," she says firmly in what is now her normal voice, smiling. "Two things. One: you can't just grab a person's wig without having been given permission; and two: there are right ways and wrong ways to take one off."

Pulling back his hands, he arches an eyebrow. "I can think of a few wrong ways. Care to enlighten me?"

She smoothes her blue curls, as if to remind herself her wig is still in place. This is the one thing she hasn't conceded to changing in her new life. Her dresses are more subdued in style, and her make-up is not as thick, but this she cannot give up. Yet here she is, having opened that door just the tiniest bit with a playful invitation meant to be taken as a joke.

Of course he would challenge her, though. This is the man who outsmarted the old Capitol when he had been just a boy. She is a fool for not having expected it.

Yet there is no malice in his gaze now, no defiance. He is not, in this moment, the man who learned to be suspicious in order to survive, and this game is not quite so dangerous as others they have known.

"All right," she says, nodding. "This is how I learned."

Taking a breath, she counts to three and slips her fingers underneath the front of her wig, pulling out a pair of pins. Another few follow, these from where the back of her wig meets her neck. The last few she plucks from near either ear. She sets them slowly down on the coffee table, as if even this simple act is an integral part of the demonstration.

Gently, she lifts the wig off her head, revealing a mesh fabric cap whose color nearly matches that of her skin. "If you just rip it off," she explains, setting the blue curls down on an arm of the couch, an impromptu wig stand, "you risk taking the cap and some of the wearer's real hair with it. It isn't at all like with hats. You can't just stuff your hair under it and go on with your day."

What comes next is the hardest part of this. The stretchy cap, despite the small but revealing holes in it, is the last line of defense she has. She looks up at him and finds him transfixed. As she holds his gaze, her fingers freeze on the elastic of the cap. She can still tell him to go and forget what he has seen. He might try to fight her on it, but he will eventually go if she really wishes for him to leave.

But she won't. She has come too far to stop now.

Pressing her lips together, she pulls off the cap. Her natural hair has been pinned into submission, but there it is, out in the open. He does little more than frown the slightest bit, his eyes opening wide as if to better take in this new sight. For her part, she makes quick work of removing the pins, setting them with the others on the coffee table.

She combs her fingers through her hair, gingerly coaxing it into place. It's short, barely reaching past her ears, sticking out a bit here and there now that it has been set free. Briefly, she shuts her eyes and pretends it's longer, like it used to be, like it will be in time.

"Well," she says, meeting his gaze for one breathless moment, "that's it."

"It's brown," he says, almost amazed.

She nods. "I told you, it's not much lighter than yours."

For a moment, he is silent, frowning, then he lifts a hand and gestures with it to his hair, then hers.

Her breath catches at the audacity of the request. A prohibition is ready on her tongue at once, but she cannot find her voice. In that instant, her intent gets scrambled in the rush to respond.

So she nods.

He is surprisingly gentle, at first doing little more than tracing the imprints from the pins. She shuts her eyes, almost wincing when he tucks some of the strands behind her ear, then relaxes into the brush of his fingers through her hair, against her scalp.

"A lot of it is implants," she tells him softly some seconds later. "It's the only cosmetic procedure I had done."

"It feels normal," he says.

She nods, swallows against the dryness in her throat. "They replicated what little of my hair grew back on its own. It's as natural as it can be after everything."

He says nothing to that, but neither does he remove his hand. The last person to touch her this way was Seneca, but those moments all bore the taint of the old Capitol, Snow, and all the lies she had to tell to survive. Every stroke of Haymitch's fingers paints over those grey days, pulling her away from the memories and keeping her in the present, in this quiet night.

"It looks better this way," he tells her, voice soft.

Thoughts silenced, she opens her eyes and meets his gaze. He stares right back, resting his thumb on her cheek. This is when she should start counting, breathing through the numbers to ground herself and gather her thoughts. This is when she should find the strength to tell him the show is over and he must go home. Instead, this is when there isn't enough air to fill her lungs.

"Don't go," she breathes, grasping his wrist. Her vision blurs, and she tightens her hold. "Please." If he leaves now, the ghosts of relatives and friends and twenty-two children will stare at her from the shadows and drive her to near madness.

He shakes his head, slowly, breathing deep. "I'm not going anywhere."

This time, she will remember how the rescue goes, how it feels to lie tucked against him and to know that nothing and no one will touch her. She will remember how his breathing changes when he drifts asleep, and she will remember the meaning of trust.