Aulie passes the morning with me in front of "Weekly Fashion News." He knows one of the co-hosts and keeps poking fun at them (Apple says they used to date and had a really bad break-up).

Erinne has put an outfit together for my day in 8, but she tells me as soon as I'm dressed that if Pal Fields has finished whatever he was making me, I should wear it instead. I like the long gray shirt and black pants she's put me in, they're simple and soft, but whatever comes from Pal should be special. It turns out I don't stay in Erinne's chosen costume very long, because the first person my eyes settle on as I step off the train is the mousy, retiring victor and tailor Pal Fields. He's holding a dress- pink and yellow and orange and white- and, to my eyes, it is the single most beautiful garment I have ever worn or pictured wearing.

He hangs back while the mayor officially welcomes me to District 8, though he gradually inches nearer and nearer with undisguised enthusiasm. "Congratulations!" he blurts out as soon as there's an opening in the dialogue. "May I hug you?"

"Uh- yes?"

It's a strange and awfully familiar thing to do for a guy I just met, but the way he grips me (crushing the dress between us), I get the feeling this is someone who really needs to be hugged back. I try to remember- does he have any family? Does this have to do with how he was clearly previously acquainted with his last male tribute, Heath? "Please be my friend," he whispers to me, hoping the cameras won't hear, then breaks away, not forcing me to answer in a hurry.

"This is for you," he offers me the lovely dress.

"I want to try it on right now," I declare and Apple turns me right around onto the train. The fit is just as superb as anything Erinne has made me. His handiwork is exquisitely professional. I think when I appear onscreen wearing this dress, Papa and Mrs. Mirande will like what they see. It lightens my mood just to look at and touch it.

"Oh," Pal sighs with relief when he see me, "It looks nice on you."

"This is really too kind of you," I insist, "It's a wonderful dress! Thank you so much."

"You're welcome. It's my pleasure."

When we ride into town, he positions himself so the side of his hand sits against mine. It's the calculated gesture of someone who wants to touch, but not give the wrong impression. The car is closed. It's the two of us and the mayor. "I had seven sisters," Pal tells me, "Five were alive at the time of my Games. My mother too. Maybe you remember when they were interviewed."

It's true that as his prompting, the image of five young women with variations on his coloration crowding the camera resurfaces in my mind. "Our brother," they said, overlapping one another's words and creating a melody of fear; a counter rhythm of hope, "Is clever, is good with his hands, is always used to having someone to take care of him."

"H-how did they all?" I ask, horrified.

"Factory fire. One hundred and two people died by the total count."

Accident or "accident?" Could the Capitol have possibly hated Pal Fields so much that they would sacrifice ninety-six innocent people to take away his family? That's hard to imagine. Something must have happened in District 8. Something bigger than Pal, but possibly involving him as well. He's just telling me, but on some level, he's also warning me.

"I'm really lonely," he says.

The mayor, driving, lets out a snort, but I find it easy to feel sympathy for Pal Fields. I am glad we could talk like this. I turn to look out at the distort. There are a lot of factories, even more than in 9. The buildings are all such bland hues that the splashes of color where I can see through windows to where newly dyed fabric is hanging to dry (or something) are as enticing as the Capitol's most ridiculous desserts. Does anyone in 8 wear those things, or is the fabric equivalent of happiness nothing but an export?

Apparently, they wear some for special occasions at least. There are colorful banners in the "Quadrangle" (a rather impressive town square) and a subdued crowd is gathered there, clad in brilliant opposition to their general mood.

The reception they give me is equally muted- Heath and Mercy's families don't avoid my gaze, but they don't exert any special force through their looks either. They are just looking. "Oh," they're thinking, "So that's the girl." If they have any idea of what depths of loneliness Pal Fields is experiencing, they might be thinking, "Poor girl. She lived, and for what purpose?"

I have no worthwhile words for them, but watching does dredge up the memory of Pal and Heath Holystone and how I could tell they were friends from the reaping.

It isn't until I'm being toured through a very noisy factory that I can discreetly broach the topic. "Can I ask you about Heath Holystone?"

"Yes, but there's nothing to talk about. He was my last friend here. …Now," he catches me before I apologize, or express my sympathies, or both, "Once he was in that arena there was nothing I could do for him. For Mercy either. It was in-" he takes a deep breath, notes the ears of Apple, Aulie, Tosca, and the mayor all within hearing distance and decides against finishing the sentiment.

But I read into it. I nod. "God's hands," or whatever means "God's hands," to Pal Fields. I wonder if he understands that we are loosely united in this, believing, to whatever degree, that that is ultimately something more powerful than people, more powerful than the Capitol.

I think he does. From the way he played his Games, we (oh, Beanpole) - we always assumed he was a smart guy. I think the machines in his mind are spinning, just like in this factory. …But toward what purpose?

The locals may be quiet, but we visitors feel good here. District 8 fuels the fancies of my compatriots better than our earlier stops did. Apple is fascinated at seeing the ways the fabrics are made. Erinne declares the headscarves worn by some of the factory girls: "Very interesting. Very inspiring." The scarves are little flashes of color above costumes mainly plain and black or gray.

I pose for pictures in my new dress beneath a pennant-festooned "tree" of directional arrows ("Victory Square" to the right, "Head Registrar's Office" to the north, "Factories 1-3" to the left). I smile without much encouragement. I know what they want to see. I must look fairly jaunty in Pal's creation. Irish pulls him over to give his hair a once-over before they let him into any of the shots with me. Together, I would guess, we seem every more jaunty. We look a bit dissimilar for siblings, but you could probably say cousins. Cousins going to the Wharf Fair. Friends off to celebrate whatever they celebrate in 8.

The berries on my dessert that night are the only part of the meal grown natively in the district, Pal informs me. "If we get cut off," he shrugs.

…And I can't discount the possibility of his life being sliced equally short. Words like this are treacherous even twelve years on and "rebels" still hang from time to time.

I touch the side of my hand against his the same way he did in the car and he quietly gently. It's still sort of ironic when Apple notices and claps me on the shoulder with a cheery whisper of, "Oh, solidarity!"

"Do you approve more of Pal than Jack Umber?" I quiz her when we separate to leave the district. I say it smiling. It's not an accusation.

"Well, I," she glances at Aulie.

"She trusts him not to have any ulterior motives. He's your age; he's quiet."

How funny this is when I can sense the tiny fire in Pal's heart just waiting for the chance to flare up. What they think Jack might want from me, I don't know, but Pal's is an undercurrent of sorrow-forged rebellion.

"Different districts," Apple mutters, "An eleven year age difference- it's really too much. A very clever television personality he might be, but Jack Umber is not Capitol. He should know there are certain things he should not even be asking for. And," she jolts a bit, "And that's even if other people would be willing to give them."

Which makes it sound like Jack is interested in me in a way I cannot believe he would be. That I can't believe anyone with any sense would be. (And they don't read Pal that way because-?) "No," I insist, "He just wants to get a chance to talk to me more naturally. You know I played a bit on his post-Games persona in the way that I presented myself. Fortunately, however, he seems pleased rather than irked that I ripped him off."

Apple's looking at me like I'm slow. "No, dear," she says, "I think he likes you.

Which I'm still not willing to believe.

I lay on my bed in the dress Pal gave me, not wanting to take it off yet. …Some clueless Capitol citizen's affections I could understand- but Jack's I cannot.

I fall asleep still dressed.

I dream about climbing trees.

My friends laugh at me in the morning when I bring the exceedingly crumpled dress from Pal in to Erinne and ask can she "iron it and it'll be like new, right?"

The expression on my face must be more pathetic than I realize. "You didn't ruin it by sleeping in it, Mags!" she's smiling as she shakes her head. "It'll be just fine!" she takes the dress out of my hands.

"I just," I mumble, "It's important to me." I pull the little note I've written out of my pocket and pass it to Apple. "…Can you see that this gets back to Pal? I mean, I know that he knows I liked it…but there's not really anything I can think of to do for him except say again."

"Oh, that's so sweet of you," Apple says. "Of course I'll take care of it."

I sit quietly (kind of embarrassed) as I scoop berries onto my oatmeal and slather an overly generous amount of butter onto my toast, then watch it melt from the warmth of the bread.

Aulie turns on the TV and flips through some menus that I didn't even know we could bring up. "I recorded something for you," he says.

I hope it doesn't have to do with Jack Umber, because I'm getting tired of being teased about that. I'd just like Jack and I to get to maybe be friends without anyone bothering us about it, but I suppose that as a victor (as two victors) that's too much to ask for. …But I think of Aulie and Apple as my friends as well so maybe it's not strange then for me to expect them to be a bit more definitively on my side.

But (fortunately) it has nothing to do with Jack Umber. It's a cartoon. Just some kid-directed thing. I watch as I eat my breakfast, although I don't know what Aulie wanted me to see it for until the funny, semi-stifled smiles start to spread across the room, indicating the point of interest to come.

The two stylized girls in the story end up hiding in some bushes. I can't see where this is going until they start discussing how they don't know how long they might be out there and one's stomach growls. Well, it turns out the other girl (the one with the purple hair) has brought along something to eat: a tin of Crispco crackers.

…and then I know. The girl with the blue hair says the words I have seen myself say in rerun almost word for word: "This is the best cracker I have ever eaten! Crispco! I could eat the whole tin!"

I've left an impression… And while it's not really the kind to be proud of, it's better than being caricatured as a killer. That's me. A goofball girl who loves crackers.

Butter drips down the side of my hand and the style team laughs at me good-naturedly as I lick it and show myself to be all too close to the joke being made onscreen. Were they ever hungry during the war? Maybe not. I think they would remember that. Or maybe I'm not funny because I'm hungry? Maybe I'm funny because I'm so earnest about it. It's that thing where it's not "cool" to show too much interest in something?

I was never "cool" until I was suddenly a victor. And even now I'm not exactly "cool," but I'm liked as I portrayed myself onscreen. There's a saying isn't there? "Everyone loves a winner?"

I think of the other victors. Of how we smiled when we saw them on TV. Even though they weren't from 4, they weren't Capitol, so they were us, of a sort. We put it to the back of our minds that Hector Auric killed both of the kids from 4 his year when he juggled apples on "Amateur Hour." I hope that people- the people in 7, the people wherever- can do the same for me.

I gaze off at nothing.

And then I'm looking out the window when I see them.

The trees.

They start out gradually, and though the varieties are different, they're of about the same density as in the more heavily wooded reaches of 4. But then there are more. And more. And more. And they're tall. And some are so thick. Amazingly thick, like no tree I've ever seen before.

"It may be cold out there," Erinne wraps a scarf around my neck, "We've been on a northward trajectory of a little while now."

"There are matching gloves," Spring holds them up for me to see.

I stumbled sideways as the train slows to a stop, trying to help Spring pull the gloves on my hands. Erinne has me turn around for them to see- a whole one-eighty. She gives me a thumbs-up. "Camera-ready," Tosca agrees. So I am lightly bundled up as I leave to meet the trees.

I can feel the cold as soon as I'm out there. The scarf and gloves and all were worth it. Is it cool here all year? If it is, the temperature of the arena must have felt very strange to Haakon and Meridew.

Not wanting to think of it doesn't stop me. I picture the pale of Haakon's face as he bled out on the dirt. I didn't finish him and I didn't save him. He said he had a sister.

"Come, come," Apple urges me forward, because apparently I'm lost enough in thought so as to miss my proper cues.

Kayta Hiro is more like Pal or Emmy in his reception than Luna as he's waiting here to see me. Raisin, his girlfriend, stands beside him. I have a vague recollection that she was being discussed on television around the beginning of my Games, but it's harder to remember smaller things like that in the shadow of what occurred in the arena. Apparently I do know what Raisin looks like well enough to recognize her. Maybe it's just that this is the proper context. I hadn't realized I would have.

"We had it in the bag, Mags!" Kayta speaks to me loudly but without anger, "We should've won that."

"It was fifty-fifty, Kayta," Raisin reminds him in a voice not even half as loud.

"I can understand why he thought it wasn't," I offer. "Haakon and Meridew were really good- better at it than Beanpole and I. …In the end, it turned out that Haakon was nice." That's why I won and he died. Haakon was probably a lot like me.

Kayta can agree with this. "Yeah, he was nice. A warm personality and all. Meridew was more cool. But I would've been happy to take either of them home with me." Raisin leans in and takes his hand. They seem very natural together. Real girlfriend and boyfriend for sure, not just some spectacle for television. The reason the Capitol wants so badly to show victors having regular lives must somehow mean that many don't (or can't).

Kayta squeezes her hand. "If I'm going to come home bringing only corpses along with me, you're a very good pick for company though," he allows. Raisin gives him this look of fond exasperation.

"We haven't made a full set yet. It was about time we got a Four."

A very pale, middle-aged man squinting through his spectacles sways unhappily from side to side. He's probably someone important out here. He's obviously not enjoying my conversation with Kayta and Raisin, but bigwig or not, he doesn't feel confident enough to butt in and cut it short. Tosca is giving him a funny look, having noticed his discomfort, but she doesn't look like she's about to step in and help him either.

I feel bad enough that I can't just let it go any longer. "Um, Kayta, is this Seven's mayor?"

"Ah, yes," he seems pleased to act airy about it as if he never noticed the hand wringing going on a few feet to his right and contribute to the mayor's displeasure, "This man is Mayor Temza Bacon."

"Victor Margaret Gaudet!" he blusters, calling me by my full name- it's the first time I've heard it in a while. I think I have been cemented into the public consciousness as "Mags." "Congratulations on overcoming the arena! Truly, you were a worthy opponent for our tributes. Welcome to District Seven!"

I expect him to reach out to shake hands after that, but instead, he keeps his hands at his sides and gives me a small bow.

"Um, thank you," I nod my head back, unsure of the proper bowing protocol. "District Seven seems like a very picturesque place."

"You like trees?"

"Yes, but none of the trees back home are- well, in Four, there's no forest like this."

"I'll take you around," Kayta resumes leadership of the conversation, "Don't worry," is his only concession to the mayor's nerves, "We'll follow the itinerary. Come on, Mags."

Parked just a ways down from the station is a clean but dinged up black truck. Kayta heads off toward it with Raisin beside him. "Um, err, Kayta, what about-?" Mayor Bacon stammers.

"Ooh, that's right. I can only get three people into the cab of my truck. And now that's going to be me and Raisin and Mags. …You mean you didn't prepare any transportation for the rest of these fine folks?"

I'm not sure what to make of all this, because Kayta Hiro seems to have the poor mayor squeezed beneath the heel of his boot, and, even more alarming, he's carrying on this way in front of cameras from the Capitol. Isn't he concerned that there might be repercussions for his behavior? He makes me want to hold my breath.

One of Raisin's hands is clasped with Kayta's still, but the other stretches back toward me. I reach for it. Glove touches glove.

"I suppose you could all climb into the truck's bed," Kayta shrugs. There's a slyness in his dark eyes that makes me think he's been planning on this the whole time. …Of course, I think it should've been the responsibility of the mayor to see to it that everyone would be able to get where they need to go, so…

Kayta sends Raisin and me ahead into the cab and we peer through the rear window as he jauntily assists Mayor Bacon, Apple, Aulie, Tosca, and two cameramen all into the back of his truck. The style team, who've watched everything this far from a distance, decline to squeeze in. They've probably made the right decision. The way Kayta grins when he climbs in alongside us, I have a feeling that my escorts are in for a rough ride.

"…Do you drive frequently?" my voice comes out in an unplanned squeak.

"All the time. …Did I not mention it in my Games interview? Eh, it was a long time ago now- maybe you forgot. Before my dad died, back in the rebellion, he taught me how to drive- I was still kind of small then, so I had some trouble trying to see where I was going and reaching the pedals at the same time, but, eh." He laughs. "This truck used to belong to him. He left it to me. The times I had to leave the logging camp and be in town, I lived in this truck."

"That's how I met him," Raisin offers, "My mother was the district postmaster and no one could ever figure out where to send things to so they'd reach him, even though we kids in school were sure he lived in town. One day, to help my mom, I tailed him him and saw him climb into this truck and go nowhere."

They're both smiling at the memory, though Raisin's response is warm and full and Kayta's is tight and thin. "And now," he announces as he turns off the paved area around the train station onto a wide dirt road, "Hold on, ladies, because it's going to be an interesting ride from here on out…"

The translation of this is that Kayta Hiro can not only drive well, he can also drive like the slightly off-kilter young man who killed six people and smiled and smiled and smiled afterward. It's not as if he's just out and out reckless. I never fear for my life, that is. But the people in the back must be having quite a ride, bumped and shaken this way and that over the holes in the road and around the corners he manages to take as sharply as possible.

Apple's yelps make me feel sort of guilty.

But not enough, apparently, to ask him to stop.

"All out, folks!" Kayta swerves and brakes. From the back come sighs of relief.

I can hear Tosca interrogating the mayor: "Do you run this place or does he?!" I don't catch Mayor Bacon's actual response, but it doesn't sound as if his timid streak has suddenly ended. Kayta Hiro doesn't run 7, but Temza Bacon doesn't cross him, I'd guess.

I move as if to exit the vehicle, but Raisin stays my hand. "Mags, you get the special tour." Her smile is mischievous.

"…what does the special tour entail?" While I'm sure Raisin and Kayta mean this with only the best of intentions, they are making me a bit nervous. I didn't come prepared for any portion of the Tour to go so distinctly and purposely off the rails. What if I protested against it? Would they drag me off with them anyway? …Looking at them, I am led to believe that they might. Not be to cruel, of course. Because they think it would be fun.

"Forest, forest, and more forest!" Kayta slams his foot on the pedal and we take off, leaving the mayor and my entourage behind. "-And not a camera in sight!"

"Oh, Mags, it'll be okay," Raisin tries to comfort me, because my surprise and worry must show clearly on my face.

"D-do you do this kind of thing with all the victors?" I sputter.

"Of course not," Kayta chuckles, "If we did that, even someone as dim as Bacon would've caught onto us and figured out a way to stop us by now!"

"We would never have done something like this with Emmy." Raisin looks slightly horrified by the idea. "Who knows what kind of reaction she would've had to it."

"We got Pal pretty good though," Kayta reminisces.

"He was scared at first, but he ended up enjoying himself," Raisin expands upon this remark. "And, see? We didn't get him in bad trouble. Pal's just fine, isn't he? I mean, you just saw him."

Just fine? I doubt it has anything to do with any misbehaving on Kayta and Raisin's part, but Pal Fields is hardly fine by my standards. Is this another "you're a victor adjust your standards" moment? Because Pal seems sane and coherent, things I'm not sure can be said about all the victors, but he's also lonely and desperate and sad (and there was so little I could do for him, it felt like nothing). "I-" I begin to formulate a polite way to object to this statement.

But Kayta cuts in. "She doesn't get it, Mags. She can't get it the same way we do. And, honestly, I'm glad it's going to stay that way, because hasn't that evil contaminated enough?"

We all go quiet. Small branches snap beneath the wheels of Kayta's truck.

Raisin seems to be pouting, but whether I caused it or Kayta did isn't immediately clear anymore. "Pal Fields wants to make me a wedding dress." She breaks the silence with a tiny smile. "Of course, I'd ultimately prefer it were up to a certain man in this truck. I do a lot of things, but asking is something I'd like him to do."

"Eeeeeh?" Kayta makes an exaggerated noise of- confusion? "What was that, Raisin?"

"Stop the truck and let's go for our walk," she says in a snippy manner.

"As ya wish, beautiful!" he brings the truck to…a surprisingly smooth stop after all the screeching around he's done thus far.

"Ah, dooooomo," she chirps and hops out the door.

I follow her. Just a few steps off the vaguely defined road the layer of fallen leaves becomes layers. They crunch beneath my feet. There's something ocean-like about them. Like a beach of dead leaves instead of sand. A cold breeze blows through the trees. Loose strands of hair flutter around my ears. "Is there something special about this place in particular?" I ask.

Kayta gets out of the truck. "Not this exact spot."

"It's just a spot," Raisin giggles. Does she have extra teeth or are they just squeezed together too tightly in her mouth? Close-up I really notice how they overlap. Is that genetic?

Kayta walks in front and Raisin and I follow him, meandering through the trees (I am counting on the two of them not to get lost, because it all looks pretty much the same to me). He tells me some things about the trees- the different types, how old they are, how long they take to grow, what the best uses are for different kinds. The way he pauses and laughs at some of the things he says, I'm left to wonder if there are jokes here I don't understand or if he's trying to convey some kind of coded message that flies equally over my head.

"So…you're friends with some of the other victors?"

"There's a group of us. Me, Shy, Sunny, Pal, and Jack. And," he adds, "Probably you, I figured."

I'm a bit coy in my response. "What are the conditions?" I don't think there's anything as strict as that to be considered, but I'm curious as to what he'll tell me.

"You have to be friendly. That's pretty much it. …And you have to be with it enough to be trustworthy."

"Who's not 'with it?'" I can already guess the answer.

"Emmy Pollack." He shrugs. "I couldn't guess the slightest thing that goes through that girl's head."

"Pink," Raisin volunteers, "Ferdinand."

"Aaah, yes," he accepts these as valid answers. "Ferdinand," he repeats. "Anyway, I don't want to spoil the surprises for you, but it's like this. Emmy is a head case, Luna hates everyone who isn't from Nine, Pal lives up to his name- though I don't understand why he's not just called "Paul" or "Pol" or something more normal-"

"It must be some kind of Seven thing," Raisin chimes in on the tangent.

"Ohh," I realize, "It's like a nickname for Paolo or Pablo? I thought it was a different kind of name entirely."

"Actually," Raisin begins.

"We don't know," the say at once, then laugh. There's something about the way that their eyes meet that fills me with embarrassment. It's sweet and I'm uncomfortable seeing it. "We just thought…" Raisin finishes. "It's like I've never known anyone called 'Mags,' but I know a Margreta called 'Greta,' so I understood that it was just a District Four thing."

"Cross-district couples wouldn't just talk about names- they'd have to think about versions of names," Kayta muses.

Now Raisin looks embarrassed. "D-don't talk about names!" she spits out, flustered.

"Were you going to tell me about the rest?" I come to her rescue. "After Pal?"

"Ah, yeah," he agrees. "Want to sit?" Before I answer, he makes a show of taking off his coat and lying it on the leaves under a nicely shaped tree, gesturing for Raisin and me to sit down on it. She takes the offer first and I slowly follow. Kayta sits down in the dirt across from us, but doesn't seem to care about that. I would've sat on the bare ground too, although I would be slightly concerned about getting the nice clothes my style team chose dirty (if it were my own clothes, I wouldn't worry- I'd just wash them later).

"So, there's me. I should probably let you come to your own conclusions about me."

Something about the look on my face gives him my answer. "…Then again, you probably already have."

"I might've," I play along.

"Then in Six there's Teejay and Sunny. Like I said, Sunny's nice. She's a good person. Too good a person for our crowd, really. Teejay's usually in his own world and that's where he wants to stay. Shy's nice too. She doesn't take Games stuff personally, which is good. In my opinion, she has a kind of scary ability to disconnect from things she doesn't want to feel anything about. …I don't think Beto dislikes us, but maybe he thinks he's above us? He's too smart for me, anyway. He likes to be by himself. Gerik and Hector will talk, but they keep to themselves. You…" he pauses to think, "You don't seem so different, but I don't know- the inner districts seem to have more distinct cultures. Different things are going on there. Outer districts get each other."

"And probably bleed together to the Capitol," Raisin speaks up.

"Yeah, you've got that," he grumbles, "I'll tell you right now I don't know anything about horses."

"I didn't think so," I smile.

He seems to have worn out his speech about the other victors with this second digression, but I'm still interested in hearing what he says about Jack. Who is from an indisputably inner district, but who Kayta also considers part of his group of friends? "What about Ja-"

"Mags, darling!" calls Apple, "I hear you! Let me know where you are!"

"Grobian! Malefactor! Pǐzi!"

Those must be Mayor Bacon. I don't understand any of the words he's saying, so I'm supposing that frustration brings out the dialect in him.

"Bus-ted," Raisin singsongs.

Mayor Bacon comes into sight first. Kayta jumps up to greet him, acting for all the world as if it never even occurred to him that what he was doing could be considered wrong or insubordinate. He does this so easily I can't help but feel a little sorry for the mayor again. Kayta exerts the pressure of a tidal wave. I can't understand most of what the mayor says to him, although he gesticulates a lot, which makes up for the strange words. Something-something horrible influence (on me, on Raisin). Something-something (other mayors?) would not up with this. Capitol retribution (on Kayta? on both of them?).

Apple runs up and hugs me tight, like she's afraid these "ruffians" from Seven might have hurt me.

A large truck snorts to a stop not far away- it can't reach us without pummeling its way through the underbrush, but I can see it and the thick-bearded man driving it through the trees. Tosca steps down and intercedes between Kayta and Mayor Bacon. "We have a schedule to keep, so let's get back on track. Scold him on your own time." She's ice cold. "…Unless you want me to report this incident to Victor Affairs. If you can't handle this man, I'm sure that someone else can, Temza."

He tenses up. Even Kayta seems to stand slightly more alert at this suggestion. The devil you know?

Apple leads me over to the truck, where Aulie brushes me of- there are pine needles in my hair. One of the cameramen films him doing this. They won't show any of this detour, obviously, so I wonder how he thinks they might cut it in. But I haven't watched any stop of my Tour footage in full. Maybe they chop all of it up into tiny pieces and puzzle them together afterward into something almost entirely different.

The mayor doesn't trust Kayta to drive his truck over to the logging mill we're going to tour next, so he tells Raisin to take charge of it. But Raisin doesn't know how to drive (she giggles nervously behind a hand raised over her teeth). Aulie volunteers himself to do the job, although he needs directions. He doesn't think to just ask Raisin to come along with him, but instead has her draw him a map. At a quick glance, it looks to me like nothing but triangle shapes and squiggly lines.

In the back of the big truck, Apple sits on one side of me and Tosca on the other, effectively blocking me from direct or unsupervised contact with the local troublemakers. When they're not paying attention, Kayta makes faces.

As a result of the time we've lost, I suppose, our visit to the lumber mill is very focused and perfunctory. Some paper mills and carpentry shops are pointed out to me, along with signs pointing in the directions of various logging camps.

The time for me to be put through the tortuous speech-making process coincides with the end of the school day. Perfect timing for Haakon's younger sister to come and hate me or despair or whatever it is she felt about me then and probably continues to feel.

Teachers and other employees of the school come to see. Shopkeepers and others who work in town (Raisin points out her mother) and a selection of workers from some of the nearby processing plants and factories who won a lottery to attend (I wonder whether or not they wanted to win that lottery- if they're losing money that would go to feed their families while they watch me smile and stumble).

I do have the opportunity to give them some honesty. "I completely understand if my being here rubs every one of you the wrong way. It came really close. If the Games were completely about skill, I'm sure Haakon Erikson or Meridew Alder would be our victor, because they were really good at doing the hard things the Games ask you to do. I couldn't have won if it weren't for Haakon. I mean, I wouldn't have won if not for the actions of a lot of people, but it was the goodness in Haakon that kept me alive in the very end. He wouldn't even have had to kill me. He could've just let the shark do it."

I think I have found his sister in the crowd. She's staring up me. Her eyes are blue and her lips are slightly parted. The knot in my stomach twists tighter.

"Correct me if I'm wrong…because I might be wrong. I never knew Haakon personally. We only interacted a little bit during training. But I think Haakon and I had some things in common. He and Meridew were a team, just like Beanpole and I. We needed our district partners to survive as long as we did. We valued some of the same things. Our friends, our family, our home districts.

"I'm going to tell you all the same thing I told Kayta when I arrived in Seven today. I didn't win because I was better than Haakon in any way. I won because Haakon was better. I hesitated when he did not. He was a good person."

I want to cry, but it seems wrong to seem to be crying over my own speech. It's not my words, really, but the thoughts they dredge back up. It's a shame that I wasn't able to know Meridew or Haakon. It's a shame that saying these things is all I can do.

The mayor makes a few kind remarks that don't really soak through my skin, then Kayta grabs the microphone for some grandstanding, trying to cheer people by reminding them that even though 7 didn't bring home a second victor this year, they were so close and maybe next year will be their year again (though what happened this year can hardly determine any of that because, while the general outline and goal will remain the same, all the details- the tributes, the arena, the challenges- will be different).

Haakon's sister is crying. What Kayta's saying won't help her any more than the things I said. The crowd seems to feel about the same. Kayta and I receive roughly the same amounts of applause. It makes me wonder about 7's relationship with their victor. Does Kayta say these same things every year? …And 1 might be completely different, but I know for certain that Jack does say things of that nature every year, and it's been even longer since anyone from his district won. I have some thought (and investigating?) to do in the future about how I address my district.

Mayor Bacon invites a couple of elderly men onto the stage and they bring their musical instruments with them- some kind of flute that I'm not familiar with, a pretty stringed thing like a lute, and two fiddles. All combined, they make some very interesting music. Kayta hops down off the stage and convinces some kids in the crowd to start dancing. Raisin sits down on the stage's edge and claps her hands, turning and looking at me, encouraging me to join her. I don't think I could pick up this dance easily. I follow Raisin's lead.

Of course, Kayta doesn't let her off the whole time. As soon as the next tune comes around, he sweeps by and grabs her hands. "Gehen wir!" he urges her, grinning, "C'mon-shiyou!"

"Not for television!" she protests, "Nein! Peinlich-shiiiii," she drags out the last syllable petulantly.

"I would highly recommend that you take part," Tosca slinks down to sit on Raisin's other side.

"Ha ha." Compared to the many laughs I heard from her earlier, this one sounds force. "Oh, I am just playing hard to get, Ms. Snow." She lets Kayta tug her carefully down. "I meant to do it the whole time."

Based on the way she dances, I really don't see any reason for Raisin to be embarrassed. She's good. At first she's self-conscious and her eyes keep darting around in search of the cameras, but after a while she gets into it and I don't think any outside the bounds of the dance even seeps into her mind.

Eventually a dance comes around that Mayor Bacon thinks I could catch onto. It's partnerless, so I don't have to worry as much about tripping anyone else up or stepping on their feet. He waves over two little girls. "These are my granddaughters," he informs me. "Mimi, Chiyo, can you teach Mags the woodcutters' dance?"

I think they might be twins. They look very similar. I'm not sure which is Mimi and which is Chiyo. One is wearing a red dress and the other is wearing pink. I'd guess they're still a few years below reaping age. "Yes, Opa," they say, their identical replies overlapping (the one in red starts first).

I join them just in front of the stage. "This dance is easy," the one in red tells me, "Because it makes sense. It's like you're a woodcutter."

Of course, I know very little about being a woodcutter, but-

"First you put your hands together like this, and swing them across, see, you're cutting the wood."

"You do it twice," the girl in pink chimes in.

"Then, like this," the girl in red continues making the gestures for me as she describes then, "You put the axe aside. Then, pick up the wood. Reach down toward the ground and then up, across, over your shoulder."

"You're putting it in the basket on your back. It's not like a big, huge trunk."

"Then the other side. The, uh, left side. Right, then left."

"Then wave the back of your hand over your forehead! Right, then left! You're wiping off the sweat! Then you pick your axe up and start all over again!" The girl in pink is excited by the whole procedure and jumps up and down. "Try it! C'mon!"

"Try" is something I'm capable of. I certainly can't say there's anything the slightest bit impressive or graceful about it. The way the girls are laughing as I try to dance seems to back up my assessment of my questionable abilities.

"Never let anyone say that you're not a good sport," Kayta eventually makes his way back to my side to tell me.

"I've gotta have a few things going for me," I laugh.

He sighs and sticks his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, don't we all."

While the dancing is wrapping up, the outdoor area is rearranged for us to be able to sit and eat. The local cuisine seems mixed between completely unfamiliar things and items I can generally recognize or know in another form. There are dumplings with meat inside them, some kind of strange rolled cake with a very long name (Raisin tries to explain to me how they make it by pouring batter over a sort of spit, but I can't quite get the idea to solidify in my head), a bitter kind of tea, but also apple cider, a few varieties of sausages, and maple syrup, which I've never had before, but everyone here seems to make a big deal out of.

Kayta is obedient to the powers that be for the rest of our encounter, even passing up several easy opportunities to heckle the mayor during a post-meal stroll around town where he tells me lots of dull things about 7's various wood-related industries- dull because he already mentioned most of them earlier and he doesn't seem to have suddenly come up with any more exciting ways of passing them on. It's feels kind of funny to have a stop that began with so much- nearly too much- excitement wear down like a top spinning slower and slower until it finally falls down.

I ask Kayta if he knows how Haakon's sister is doing in general (not when I'm here making everything worse again) and he admits that he doesn't really know. Because Haakon was her only family, Kayta tried to give her a little money when he came home after the Games to help her out, but she's only fourteen and unless he actually took her in or something, there was no keeping her out of the district's community home.

"She's not very happy with Kayta," Raisin tells me, "And, you know, it's harder to help people who don't want to be helped."

I offer my services if either of them think of something later on, but, all the while, I know it's probably a lost cause.

Mayor Bacon doesn't leave town to head back to the station with my group, but thanks me there, "For being a very welcome guest." For what it's worth, I also offer him my best.

"I'll be seeing you Capitol-side," Kayta waves me off. "Have fun with the rest of this thirteen-ring circus."

"It was nice to meet you," Raisin also concludes.

"I have my work cut out for me," Tosca sighs to herself as she watches back some of the footage from 7.

"You like having it that way, boss," one of the cameramen counters.

"Heh," she chuckles, "I suppose you have a point."

The trees recede as I turn in for the night. In the morning, any trace of forests is gone.

I can see 6 coming long before we're officially within its boundaries. There's an orange-gray haze hanging over it and a stretch of clouds- more like one giant cloud of over-stretched wool, really- looming over its epicenter and reaching out in every visible direction. It's ominous. It's the place Sparrow (and Bailey) spent every day of their lives until the left it to die. I feel the same as I did when I asked Sparrow about it. There has to be something in 6 worth living for, but it isn't the scenery.

"Breathing that in can't be good for you," Aulie draws alongside me. "No wonder so many of the Sixes are such poor runners."

"They have two victors though."

"Teejay, if you recall, didn't exactly do a lot of running."

Sapped and sallow, Teejay's yellow-brown face appears in my mind as he looks roughly at this moment- these days. But I can remember back beyond that. How Teejay dug a pit as a trap. How he threw his voice (a trick he refuses to perform since, to much Capitol disappointment). He wasn't good at making his kills quick or clean, but deep pits - think fish in a barrel.

Mr. Bronze thought dehydration might get him before a showdown the way he kept throwing up. Teejay Atticus didn't run. He waited.

The first turning point in Sunny Lightfoot's Games came when she fainted exactly three minutes and thirty-four seconds after the gong rang. She had been ranked twenty-one out of twenty-four going on. While she lay in the clover, she jumped up to number sixteen out of sixteen. No one had paid enough attention to notice that she wasn't dead.

And, like her name promised, when she arose, Sunny could run. When she woke up she began to transform into an almost entirely different person. She acted progressively stranger and stranger until her eventual victory, at which point the consensus among my circle back home was that she was all but completely detached from reality.

The gap lasted longer between her win and her crowning than any victor before or since, but when they finally got her back in front of the cameras she was placid and pretty again and stated that most of the Games had been such a blur to her that she didn't remember the details. I don't know if it was brain surgery or pills or some kind of talking therapy that did it, but it taught me that doctors in the Capitol are amazing.

"Two victors to meet this time," I say pointlessly. Sparrow seemed to regard Sunny as nice, if not particularly helpful.

"It'll be your own miniature victors party?" Aulie guesses.

"You think it'll be fun? …Should I bring a host-and-hostess gift?"

"Maybe," Aulie grins.

"Hey," Spring comes to retrieve me to change me into my proper outfit for the day, "We have bright colors for you since it's so gray here. You're going to pop! It'll look great on camera."

"Okay," I agree, though I wonder what they'd say if I didn't. 'Fine, go do your own hair and wear your own plain clothes and not a dab of makeup?' I couldn't look worse than I did during the Games. I'm not beauty queen victor anyway. It wouldn't be one of those "hideous secrets" of stars caught without their makeup things.

The general theme of the outfit appears to be blue. A deep, cobalt blue, like the dress I wore when I was crowned victor. There are hairpins shaped like birds with little forked tails- swallows.

We have swallows in 4 for part of the year. They're migratory. They come into 4 (and parts of 1 and maybe 3, I think) and when they go…I don't know where they go. 11? That's the direction they take.

Victors are the swallows who go to the Capitol.

They go, they come back.

We slide to a stop in 6 and only one of their two victors is present and waiting for me- Sunny Lightfoot, in a lacy white dress with a daisy-shaped balloon in her hand.

She runs right up to me with her arms outstretched to hug me, but holds off at the last possible moment, which looks kind of comical. "May I?" she inquires. Her teeth are movie star white, stark against her syrupy skin.

"Uh, go on," I encourage her.

It's probably good that she asked because this is the kind of tight, overly-familiar hug that should come with forewarning. …She smells like medicine. Like talcum powder. Like laundry soap. Smells that, to me, mean "mother." …Not any mother. Mama.

I hold on, digging my fingers into the softness of her dress.

Apple taps me on the shoulder, which I think is meant to warn me that it's getting weird, but, oh- And Sunny hasn't tried to pull away.

I will be good.

I let go.

Mayor Cambridge, a sort of pudgy, middle-aged woman, comes up and gives me what I've come to see is sort of a standard issue "welcome victor" speech. This is one of the friendlier iterations I've been subjected to though.

In a sort of private aside with Sunny occupying the cameras' time with some chatter with Aulie and Apple where she seems to express some admiration of…something about me, the mayor even thanks me for befriending Sparrow. "I hope you won't allow your experiences in the arena to prematurely color your impressions of Six," she says. It's practically an apology.

I shake my head, "No, of course not. I should be asking you the very same thing about Four and me. There's really no such thing as equal here, because I lived and she died, but, you know, I know, it's because of the Games. I didn't want to kill her and I don't believe she wanted to kill me." In the recap I was sure I saw it. So much hesitation. And that the darts went with some kind of chemical agent, not a deadly poison, she couldn't have known. It was just some sick Gamemaker's joke. She wanted to kill me quick, not horribly. She wanted to do it without having to look me in the eye.

"You victors impress me," Mayor Cambridge admits, "I think too often we don't give young people enough credit. …and then, on the other hand, we might expect too much." I can't say what's on her mind over this. The differences between Sunny and Teejay?

"We'll pick up Teejay at the hospital," Sunny approaches.

"Hospital?" my brow furrows, "Is he okay?"

"He's…" she lets out a nervous little laugh, "He's the same as usual. You could even say he's volunteering. …in a way. …Giving us experience."

"He's an addict, Mags," Tosca interjects, "Morphling. It's a big problem out here. Just don't mention it."

"But it isn't a bad thing to have to go to the hospital," Sunny speaks up again, like she thinks her remark will have unsettled me (do I look bothered?), "I help out there all the time. I didn't want to disappoint anyone if there were a change in schedule so I didn't mention it to any patients, but I think there are some people there who would be really cheered by seeing you."

She's sweet. I'm sure she's wonderful at the hospital. If her bedside attitude is anything like this, I know I would be cheered to have her taking care of me. (One victor needs care from the hospital, the other gives it- everyone comes out of the arena different)

It isn't far to the hospital. Unlike the doctor's place back home, this three-story building really does align with the concept of a hospital in my mind. "This is the largest medical facility in the outer districts," Sunny informs me, "Along with the this-and-that related to transport, building and maintaining cars and trains and special refrigerator cars and such, we manufacture medicine here."

That's where the prevalence of morphling addiction comes from, I guess. They're making it here. They're probably testing it here.

Sunny remembers that the balloon she's been carrying was meant as a present for me. "I can't make anything good like Pal," she admits, biting her lip, "I don't have any special skills."

"That doesn't matter," I insist, "It's still really nice of you." For now I give the balloon to Apple for safekeeping. I don't want to accidentally pop it.

"…Whenever I can," she says, "I want to be nice. I want to help people."

"You're great at helping people," Mayor Cambridge attests. "You've done a lot already, Sunny."

She smiles a little, but her face stays taut with worry. Maybe it's because all her tributes so far have died. Not that there's much she could've done about it, but it has to be harder when you're clearly so sensitive. She killed to stay alive and I look at her and imagine that she never wants to see another person hurt again. She probably thinks that she can never do enough.

I don't think there's anything I can say that will change things in a large way, but I might be able to help in the moment. "Sparrow told me you were really nice," I address Sunny, "She was right."

"…You talked about me?"

"I wanted to know what victors were like. What it was like to have a victor helping you out before the Games. And Sparrow was nice enough to tell me." She also thought Sunny wasn't very helpful, but that doesn't matter now. What this is about is that Sunny Lightfoot cares. And caring matters.

We walk up through a little garden of roses, mainly white and yellow, though speckled here and there with grayish dust, up to the doors of the hospital. I think Sunny is blushing a little, but she keeps turning her face further and further away from me when I try to gauge her expression.

I stop trying to look when I notice a tiny jerk in her chest and shoulders that makes me realize she might be crying. She might be trying to stop. To keep me from seeing. Both. Certainly the last thing I want to do is hurt her. The world has already hurt her enough.

A gaggle of nurses (something about their costumes, err, uniforms, reminds me of geese) swarm out of the doors with a wreath of carnations that they put on my head. They shake my hand and say hello and chatter at Sunny, forming themselves up around the two of us (if there were tears, Sunny has stopped them) and prevailing upon Aulie to snap several photographs of this arrangement.

"We had to come outside to meet you so that we could be loud," one girl, probably about my age, laughs. "When we go inside, we'll all have to be good and keep the noise level down."

"Of course," I promise.

"If you're willing, we'd like you to come visit the children's ward," another nurse, older, with the tiniest curls in her black hair, addresses me.

"We'll pick Teejay up along the way," the first girl confirms the unasked question implied by Sunny's open mouth.

"Mags," Sunny looks to me instead, "If you'd like?"

"Certainly," I agree.

I have to be stopped from holding the door open for the cameramen. "Go on in ahead!" Aulie laughs at me. "I've got this, dear!"

I catch sight of one of the nurses hanging back and possibly flirting with Aulie's favorite cameraman. …not sure if there's also something to "get" there.

Inside, the hospital echoes with many small, quiet noises. Some of the nurses break away from our group to get back to work. I wave at everyone I see, which I hope will be well received. Some people (some patients, some doctors, some presumably family of patients) wave back. Some people ignore me. Either way is fine with me. I guess the ones who don't wave just won't be broadcast to the nation (not to say that everyone who does will either, but-).

By the time we've reached the elevator (the first elevator I've ridden in outside of the Capitol), our group has narrowed down to Sunny, Mayor Cambridge, three nurses, and my people. Although we take the elevator just to the second floor, the ride makes me a bit dizzy. "I'm not used to it," I say.

"I'm sure I'd be worse on a boat," the mayor kindly backs me up.

Teejay Atticus is sitting in a folding chair in the hall, thumbing through a book that appears to be entirely photographs of Capitol cityscapes. "Hey, Tee!" Sunny makes a funny pointing gesture at him that's apparently friendly (I've never seen it before) and he looks up.

"Girls," he says. He smiles, but the focus of his eyes is kind of fuzzy.

"Tee," Sunny kneels down beside him and waves her hand back toward me, "This is Mags, remember?"

"Yeah," he agrees (remembers?), "Yeah. Mags, hi."

"Nice to meet you." I lean down closer to him. It's hard to know what to ask him. No one coached me on any special protocol though, so I figure I should continue to act normal. "Are you going to come say hi to the kids with us?"

"Nah," he shrugs, "I'm taking a break. Letting Sunny do all the work, unless, that is, you specially need me."

"Oh, well." I'm not going to press him. He does look pretty settled in and comfortable where he is.

"Now, if you have a good gumbo recipe you could pass along, that would definitely be appreciated and I'd have to be sure and pay you back properly," he muses. He yawns.

"Maybe you do?" Sunny gives me a funny look. We leave Teejay behind in his chair and pause just outside the ward door.

"Sure, but he doesn't have to pay me back for it." Does "gumbo" really mean gumbo in this context? Is this some kind of code? There's nothing for me but to keep on going as I have, but on some level, there seems to be something going on with both of 6's victors that I have absolutely no grasp on. They're both…I don't know. Something.

Whatever it is, the sick kids in the hospital ward aren't. I shake hands and look at crayon drawings and take photographs with them with the same hospital camera the nurses brought and Sunny sings a song about a train and fails horribly to teach it to me through no fault of her own. I learn that when Teejay comes, he blows up balloons and twists them into shapes- animals mostly. Once he made a train. A sallow-faced boy shows me a picture as proof. The general consensus regarding Teejay- not that I ask specifically, but some of the kids wonder about where he is- is that he is just as kind as Sunny, though often very drowsy and not able to cope very well in the face of any significant medical trouble.

Overall, there's an impressively positive attitude prevailing here. I hope it's not entirely unwarranted. I hope that the availability of medicine means they are getting what they need. The things I see- the IVs and machines and the thick charts I try not to glance at- tell me these sicknesses are serious. The reapings aren't the only way your world can come tumbling down.

Mayor Cambridge checks her watch. We wrap things up. According to the curly-haired nurse I can expect a thank you card from the kids in about a week or so (or however long it takes to get it to me- I advise that they send it to me via Apple to try and circumvent some of the extensive inter-district mail and transport issues- to the best of my knowledge, victors are the only ones who can even receive inter-district personal mail, although it's still subject to the censorship controls).

Heading out through the hospital by another path, I see tiny babies in incubators. Not that I know much about medicine anyway, but I would practically be afraid to hold them, let alone try and treat them. "They're born addicted," Sunny tells me. "It's when the mothers are using…"

"Oh," I whisper. I never knew such a thing. Even in my small visit, I have begun to see things that make me understand Sparrow's feelings about her home. 6 is a sad place.

We go out to our ride to find Teejay lounging in the backseat. "Time for the moment of shame," he sighs.

"Mind your manners, Mr. Atticus," Tosca scolds him.

"Ain't got nothing left to mind for," he shrugs.

Sunny's face pales. She climbs in beside Teejay and makes him sit up straight. "There's always something else they can use to hurt you," she says. She looks and sounds deadly serious. She makes room for me and I join her. Over my shoulder, I glance back at Tosca, who appears a bit smug.

"Onward then," Mayor Cambridge manages things with more dullness than before. My visiting is one thing. I don't imagine she relishes this either.

Unlike in the other districts, I arrive before the crowd. But I'm not meant to go out before the crowd. I sit down with Apple and Aulie at a little table. Apple pours me some juice. I sip it half-heartedly.

I offer some to the peacekeeper watching over us, but he politely turns me down.

Sunny and Teejay accompany their mayor out to…get in place? Set up the last few things? Irish is prevailed upon to come and put some makeup on Teejay because Tosca thinks he needs it.

I can tell that people are cuing up and taking their places (or just milling about- I don't know, maybe for the crowd there are no proper places) by the gradual increase in noise. I'm given a five-minute warning, then Apple, Aulie, and I are on deck until Mayor Cambridge calls for me.

On cue, I come out onto the stage and my companions follow me.

There are two chairs on the stage for Sunny and Teejay. Only Teejay needs the chair, but I think they're trying to pretend there's nothing funny going on with it by making them match.

Teejay's head is hanging forward. His eyes are closed. Maybe he's sleeping (I've been given the impression he sleeps a lot). He's resting at least (is he just cocky like Kayta and choosing to ignore the mayor?). Sunny reaches over- she tries to do this discreetly- and feels his wrist. It dawns on me that (Sunny is a volunteer nurse) it's for his pulse.

…What would happen if it turned out that Teejay Atticus was dead on the stage?

I don't get much time to indulge in these bad thoughts. Sunny gives a little sigh of relief. Teejay is fine, for certain relative values of fine. He's not dead. He doesn't require medical attention. The mayor can go on talking and I can go on half-listening, looking around at the crowd.

And then my eyes fall on him. There's a family to his left- a mother and father, I assume, three youngish kids- the family of Bailey, the boy who came to the Games along with Sparrow, that she didn't have any special feelings for (because she had the self-control to tamp down her feelings, to do the things that should've led to her victory). But it's not Bailey's father or either of his brothers who is the "him" that staggers me. It's Sparrow's father, a haggard-looking man, who might not have fifteen years on my father, but looks it.

He is standing on his own, but aside from that detail, he is very much like Teejay. His eyes are sunken. His face is pale-ish and yellow (Teejay's face has a strange tone, its originally earthy darkness altered by however many years of morphling abuse) and I wonder if it's drink or morphling or sickness or something else that's given him that look. It's not just grief for Sparrow. I can't remember all the details of what she told me in the arena, but she didn't regard him very highly. I have the impression he had washed out of mainstream life to a certain degree years before she was reaped.

But her death can't have helped any and he stares back at me with dark, searching eyes.

I'm worried that I'll never get those eyes out of my mind.

I stumble through my pre-written speech, botching it the worst that I have anywhere, although, fortunately, the bar for my speech performances hasn't been set very high. "Follow instructions" are my watchwords here, so I keep saying what I'm supposed to say and forcing myself to smile when I'm supposed to smile.

But Sparrow's father keeps watching. He can't take his cavernous brown eyes off of me.

As soon as everyone is politely clapping, covering up the smaller sounds onstage, Apple takes the opportunity to try and set me straight. "Mags, your expression is ghastly. What are you staring at?"

"That's Sparrow's father." I can't be so rude as to point at him, so I hope Apple will figure out who I mean.

"That sick-looking man?"

She's got it. "Yeah."

"Is there something you need to tell him? Because there might be the time to arrange it backstage." I love her for her willingness to hustle for me in whatever sort of ridiculous situation I get myself into (though maybe by Apple's standards, these situations hardly qualify as ridiculous- I can't say I have much of an idea what her average day is like when she's not running around with me).

"…I don't know. I'm not sure there's anything to say." The crowd is quieting and I stop speaking to allow the mayor her final few words before my reckless emotions are broadcast to the entire crowd.

I walk offstage between Apple and Sunny, following the mayor. Teejay doesn't get up and no one bothers him. We just leave him dozing there. I look back a few times, but no one comments on it and Sunny and Mayor Cambridge must certainly know him better than me, so…

I can't shut myself up about it. "…You sure about him?" I touch Sunny's shoulder.

"I can't carry him," she shrugs. "And I don't really have any authority over him anyway. I'll make sure the people from the hospital know where he is, but he doesn't have any family anymore either, so it's really…" She holds up her hands hopelessly. "All the help I want to give him isn't any use if he won't dial back his using enough to decide whether or not to accept it."

Apple turns back toward me, away from Mayor Cambridge. "She's going to get Avert, Mags."

"…that's his name?" I frown. I didn't say I wanted this. I'm not sure I shouldn't refuse it quickly and adamantly while I still have time, but at the same time…

"Av and I were schoolmates," the mayor volunteers. "…But, of course, he was different then." She tries not to make it seem like such a bad thing with her additional remark: "We all were, though."

"Where can I take Mags next?" Sunny smiles at the mayor.

"In the meantime? Anywhere on the approved list," Cambridge waves a dismissive hand at her and marches away to bring Sparrow's probably reluctant father to meet the girl who killed his daughter. Clearly, I have a bad habit of taking an interest in things I should let pass.

"Let's go watch 'em paint cars," Sunny suggests with vigor. The idea obviously appeals to her.

"And what kind of place do they do that, dear?" Apple regards her with calm interest.

"There's a big factory warehouse. I know things are different, like they do them special, for particularly fancy Capitol cars, we just put down the base coat and send them on to specialists in, I don't know, One maybe, but this is where all the regular district vehicles get done up." Her enthusiasm doesn't flag. "My da-" Until this hesitation comes. "A friend of my dad's used to work there." But this misstep doesn't entirely derail her. "When I was little, I would go watch them spray paint the cars after class. Me and…my friend, Rae Proudfeather. It was her dad who had the job there."

I don't get the feeling Mr. Proudfeather moved on to a better job. But I never know whether or not to broach these sorts of things with people. Even the mention of her friend gives Sunny some trouble. Maybe Rae is her Aoko, another lost tribute. Maybe Rae died some other way. Maybe they just aren't friends anymore. Coming home from the Games shakes up your relationships. We've talked, but it's not as if I've spent any significant time with Azzie and Tylina.

"Do we…walk there?" I venture down the safe path.

"We could, but," Sunny looks at Apple's teetering mock-fishbone shoes, "I think it'd be better to get someone to take us."

"I'll handle that," Apple trots off.

Sunny looks around, eying every camera to see that none are trained on us and, as a matter of fact, only one appears to be on, with Tosca directing the man in charge of as he takes some District 6 filler footage. For all I know, it won't even be edited into the Tour programming, but saved for some other time that it's needed. The Victory Tour isn't Tosca's only television project. Sunny turns her head sharply toward me and leans in a bit. I resist the urge to lean away in turn. "Mags, you know, I-" she starts to say.

There's a pause of only a few seconds as I wait to hear her continue, but it has the feel of a cautious eternity.

Apple waves to us to come join her. She's got everything worked out as quick as that. Mayor Cambridge probably left instructions with the driver anyway.

"…Don't give it any mind," Sunny looks into my eyes and then walks past me toward Apple.

But I do "give it mind." There's nothing I can do, but it doesn't stop me from wanting to know what she was going to say. I am even less content after this exchange than after expressing my reckless desire to meet Sparrow's father. I keep this to myself as we make the short drive to the car-painting factory.

"Hey, Miss Lightfoot!" the man at the door greets her.

"Hello, Harry," she smiles. "We're gonna show Mags how they do the cars."

"You should get them to let her paint one," he suggests.

"I would do a bad job," I insist, laughing.

He slides open the heavy door and lets us in. Aulie, as usual, hangs back to chat. A feel a pang of curiosity regarding what he discusses with all these unfamiliar people (men mostly) while I'm not around.

"Long time no see," a female worker calls to Sunny. She receives lots of other similarly friendly jibes as she shows me around. She fits in here just as well as she did at the hospital.

"I don't want this to come off weird, but I probably can't help it," I preface my feelings. "I'm really glad that you turned out okay after your Games. …Back home we weren't all that sure you'd be able to right yourself again after that."

She looks…not offended, but bemused. I don't understand why, but I'll take it. "Well, thank you for being concerned back then on my behalf. I needed some peace and quiet and tranquilizers for a while," she laughs at the tranquilizers bit, "And then it was important to come home and be left alone."

"Being home and having it be quiet was important to me too," I muse. It can't be said that our experiences were entirely dissimilar.

A couple of workers show us how they put racing stripes on some of the cars for local use just for the fun of it. They're not racing cars like the souped up things they seem to crash for fun in the Capitol, but there aren't any regulations against it. Sunny seems happy. "You're a good excuse to come here," she admits to me. "It brings back good memories."

"With Rae?"

"Yeah," she nods, "Rae got killed in a train accident before I came home from the arena. They told me it was because she wasn't getting enough sleep at night sitting up worrying about me having gone crazy. It was rough to find out about it. What I did in the Games was too much for my mom too. She had to be institutionalized, actually. But at least I was able to check her into a place in the Capitol where they'll take really good care of her. …So, there's a part of me that remains in the Capital…and a part of Rae that lives on in me."

Someone points out that Apple has walked through a spot of wet paint and is leaving yellow heel prints all over the warehouse floor. She looks befuddled. Workers laugh.

"I know I'm really lucky to have my dad," I deliver a terse reply, wondering. "…How did Rae's dad take all that sadness?"

"He quit his job painting cars. I think he was headed into the gutter really- didn't think he had anything to live for- but I hired him to come work as my gardener." She sighs. "He stayed out of trouble for a while. I thought he was doing okay. Then he jumped in front of a train and killed himself."

I'm silent. It's awful. There is happiness in District 6, certainly, but it's surrounded by grime in the sky and drug abuse and broken people and parents. "That's the father of your tribute I asked to see," I say.

"I know," she replies.

Apple rejoins us, having cleaned up her shoes and then taken a call from Mayor Cambridge. "I hope you ladies are hungry, because it's time for all of us to go eat."

"I let them put up a tent in front of my house," Sunny's demeanor reflects her name once more.

"What about Sparrow's father?"

"Ms. Cambridge said that he's agreed to eat with us. You shouldn't let it work you up too much, Mags," she fusses, "I hardly get the impression he's the sort to beat you up over it."

But he might have been a better father if he were.

"Harry back there is going to sell me some vintage rims," Aulie brags on our way to 6's Victor's Circle (the name informs the general layout of the "village").

"Harry's such a wheeler-dealer," Sunny rolls her eyes.

"It's a…good deal though…I think," Aulie answers.

There are four circular tables set up under the tent in front of Sunny's prim, Capitol-styled house. Mayor Cambridge hasn't arranged for Avert to sit at my table, so I go to speak with him while allowing other people to go ahead with their eating.

"You're a funny little fish," he looks at me. He doesn't frown; he doesn't smile.

"I'm really sorry about what happened to Sparrow." I realize I'm tugging on the fabric of my dress, so I fold my hands to stop myself.

He points at the swallow-shaped pins in my hair. "We didn't name her right, I guess. She weren't a swallow- she didn't come back. She were prettier than a sparrow though. It ain't your fault really. That she died. It happened in a bad way, but she did what nearly everyone here wants to do- she up and flied away."

"But," I stammer, "Sh-she was smart. She wasn't afraid to do whatever needed to be done. I probably wouldn't have even made it without her. She could've won."

"She could've," he agrees, "And in that case, it's beyond me to even imagine what she would've done. I never understand that girl too well. I wasn't too much of a father. But it's not your fault in any way that really matters. Where she's gone, they forgive. And in Six, the way to live is to forget."

"Are you going to be okay?" I think of Sunny's mother, of Rae's father.

"I'll be the same. I'll live. I'll try and forget."

This close he smells a little like liquor.

"You try and do the same," he brightens, albeit quite fractionally, "Thanks for the dinner. I love chicken fry."

"Take leftovers home then." What else can I do for him? I don't think he would accept anything more anyway. "If anyone asks, tell them I told you to. But," my hands have come apart and I worry the dark blue fabric once more, "I'm not going to try to forget. I won't think of it all the time, but I think it's important to remember. Someone has to. I'll remember everything that I can as long as I can."

I take a deep breath. "I think Sparrow would have done the same thing. …She was my friend."

Avert shakes his head. He may disagree, but he's not going to argue about it. "Thanks again for the chicken fry," he says.

I take my seat between Apple and Sunny. Teejay comes out from his house across the circle to sit at Sunny's right. The food is good. We talk and eat and enjoy the warmth of heaters lit against the chill of the coming night. Teejay falls asleep at the table with his face on his plate. At least he's emptied it first.

Sunny accompanies my group back to the train station even though she could've easily said goodbye to me on her doorstep. She scuffs her toe on the cement. "I wish I could ask to come along with you," she sighs.

"I'd take you if I could," I assure her.

"Not everyone in Six forgets, you know. I promise."

"Huh?"

"I…only listened in a little." She has the good grace to look embarrassed.

"Oh." I'm not all that offended. "Well, I figured as much."

"Take care of yourself. And your father."

Tosca is yawning as she passes us by. The cameras are all packed up.

"Thank you for everything-" I should say "Sunny." I say nothing instead. She gives me a hug. Remembering doesn't mean you mention it aloud.