Your Own Kind

by Seta Suzume

What comes after. Mags as a mentor; Mags as a victor. [sequel to Save Yourself]

12. Part III, Chapter II

I return home to find the date I went on has already been remarked about on TV- of course. In a way then, Jack and I are accomplishing exactly what we set out to do. The more rings there are to this circus, the more divided the focus of the Capitol public is, hopefully taking pressure off those among us in more difficult positions.

There is both sanctioned footage and amateur photography and comment on both our official date and our visit to Jack's apartment. Fortunately, the stuff I see while spending time with Faline isn't the sort to leave me too embarrassed.

"I wish I could go there," Faline sighs over the butterfly garden.

It's hard to come up with a response to that. She'd better off if she never receives the opportunity to go there (and this is quite a theoretical consideration to begin with, because for her to survive the Games I can only imagine what both she and I would have to do, even setting luck aside), but I do think she'd love it…

"Anything about Silk that I missed while I've been busy?" I ask instead.

"Not that I've seen." She thinks on it a moment, "Oh!" she brightens, "It's not about Silk or anything, but there is something for you to hear about."

"What is it?" I haven't the slightest idea what the subject might be.

"Zeno brought someone new to the beach with him yesterday."

From the way her eyes light up and the particular sort of smile on her face- one I have to admit I don't really know- I think I can guess a few things about this person, even if I don't know their specific identity. "Zeno's kind of a go-getter, huh," I muse.

"It's a boy I'd never met before," Faline goes on quickly without my actually needing to ask her anything else, "From way down-District. He's my same age and he seems really nice. His name's Reza." She pauses, suddenly embarrassed as she realizes how obvious her crush-ish level of interest in this boy is.

"It's okay," I try to be encouraging, "Tell me whatever you want about him. Maybe then when I meet him I'll seem all supernaturally amazing and knowledgeable."

That's good enough it seems as a signal of my approval. "His dad came here from Five before the fences went up- he was some kind of engineer there so he teaches math at the down-district school. He's got reddish hair and he's all tan like anybody else, but he has blue eyes, Mags."

I can understand her interest in this. Blue eyes aren't all that common here (though with Zeno, I suppose that makes an unbalanced percentage of two in our small company- apparently to Faline though, Zeno is just Zeno).

"He brought a skim board with him and we all played around with it after lunch. He's got good balance. …I really hope he decides to stay and be part of the club."

"I do too." Our reasons are sort of overlapping. I certainly hope Faline's interest in Reza works out pleasantly enough for both of them.

And the next day that we all meet up I see that the new boy has come back for a second round. "Hola!" He shows up with Zeno and rushes to introduce himself to me with some overeager shaking of my hand, "I'm Reza Surfjan!"

"The amazing Reza Surfjan," I reply, "Your reputation proceeds you."

"Q-que?" Reza laughs, possibly confused about how far I might go in teasing him, "My reputation?"

"If you ever had the slightest thought that 'Lito and Faline aren't completely in it to tell her absolutely everything of interest that goes on around here please re-adjust your perceptions," Zeno informs him. I'm glad that he doesn't outright lay this at Faline's feet, even though it shouldn't be a hard leap to make when the odds are fifty-fifty.

"It's good," I reassure him, "When I heard what I heard, I hoped that you'd be back."

"Yeah…?" He looks down at his toes, digging into the sand, "That's funny… I wanted to meet you and you're telling me you're happy to meet me."

"Shake hands then, Amazing Reza!" I laugh and offer mine.

Everyone else laughs too as he doggedly goes for it.

Reza Surfjan is mine, I think, for at least a while.

We settle that day on some distance swimming. When we come back in and rest Zeno gets the boys riled up into a sandcastle-building competition and the girls sit with me and chat. Maria has a crush on the postmaster's errand boy, Rey Ruiz, and this fuels some additional interest on her part regarding things between me and Jack. It feels funny for anyone to be asking me that kind of thing.

"Mags, you're the only one who's ever had a boyfriend!" Estelle puts it into perspective, "I guess you're going to have to lead the way there too. We're just those kinds of girls!" she seems embarrassed and puts her hands over her face.

"Thank you for being even super nicer to Reza than you usually are," Faline adds. Estelle and Maria laugh.

The post-Games part of the summer is a good season despite the the impressive heat and the humidity that makes my hair puff out large and wavy whenever it's not tied up.

I pick away at improving my talent and even go out with Papa and his men on the boat some days when I don't have any other plans back home or with the training group (but Shuun Kappe, one of the hands, says my presence is pretty distracting- "It's a compliment as well as a complaint, I guess, but I had to tell you directly, miss. I can't tell Captain that." - so I probably won't be making a habit of it).

I go to meet 'Lito when his shift ends at the boat shop and we take his dinghy up one of the inlets into the mangroves. It's lazy weather and I stay out longer than usual.

When I get home, Papa is on the phone. I don't believe I have ever seen him on the phone before. Who would he call? I'm left to assume that someone else called and Papa answered. It's strange, so I stop and listen. "I know she's tough enough to survive anything, but she really cares about you," Papa says. Either he's not aware that I'm back or he's so invested in what he's saying that he's not going to change his words or tone anyway.

"So all I can ask of you is that you don't approach her in regard to anything without the sincerest of intentions," he goes on.

I freeze up, stiff. He's talking to Jack. He must be.

Papa's voice ebbs down to a string of short responses: "Yes. I know. You do? I see."

I relax enough to step forward into sight, but it feels like my heart is still beating unnecessarily fast. I raise a hand in a small, not-too-interruptive wave as I come into his field of vision, but Papa seems cheered by my appearance. "Mags!" he smiles, "It's Jack."

I hustle along in response to his call.

"Hello, Mags."

"Hi, Jack. …I was out."

"It's okay. It was nice- talking to your dad. There's definitely a…family resemblance? I'm not sure if that terms quite works in this situation, but he does seem similar to you. I started to get the feeling that I know what kind of mom you'd be…"

My grip tightens around the phone. Something about that is awfully embarrassing. "How's the weather in Four?" he inquires. "It's hot? Is it really bad?"

"It's hot, but it's normal hot. It's like this every summer."

"So 'it's too hot back in Four' can't be a reason for you to come visit me?"

"Jack!" I laugh, "If you want me to come see you, you can just ask!"

"Not for any special reason," he goes on (I can tell he's trying not to laugh in return), "Just to see each other. I mean, not specially for the cameras."

"I'm going to take that to mean that on your end you're not seeing people give Silk a hard time either." It's a worthwhile thing to hear what with the way I incited all this to sort of cover for her and that Jack is privy to more, uh, media coverage than I am, if not more actual information.

"Considering she's only two months out of the arena, I'll pinch something I heard once on a broadcast out of Eleven- 'just peachy.' Pal must be driving the reporters crazy though the way he manages to horn in on all the coverage. I imagine in any other circumstances it goes against every fiber of his meek existence. Have you seen? How he comes out and stretches some gigantic robe he's working on in front of her. It's pretty ridiculously blatant."

"I've seen him do all the talking, but I haven't seen that."

"He's been in the Capitol too, making deliveries and such. I think he's still paying out on all the promises he made to get Silk that sponsor money."

"Well, if he did it all with clothes orders, it's no wonder he still has more to do. I get the impression he spent a bundle."

"If you come out here I can't say you'll see him- he always turns around fast to get back to Silk- but he did ask about you."

It's a pleasant thing to hear. "You know. Pal and I are friends."

"And you and I are-" Jack plays games.

I ignore it. "So you want me to come and visit you?" As seems to be normal for me, I have a variety of hesitations, but in the end I do call in to Victor Affairs and ask if I can come up. Nar gets tricky and connects it up with a meeting with a couple of publicity people for Crispco Crackers first who are pretty kind about the sponsorship stuff, as well as interested in perhaps having me appear in some commercial, an offer I am not about to turn down because I anything as easy as that that will keep people thinking nicely about me and, hopefully, District 4's tributes as well is a worthwhile use of time.

While I'm involved with Crispco Cracker business I miss a chance to see Pal passing through on another errand, which is a small disappointment, but Jack, picking me up in the business district, reminds me that we're almost halfway to the Victory Tour anyway and I'll even get to help host Pal and Silk on my own home turf then.

Jack takes me to the aquarium I previously saw him visit on television with Sophie. Some small children on a trip with their mothers recognize me and laugh and point to see me hurrying about this way and that to look at the fish, but no one else bothers us (as someone moderately well-known, I don't consider being simply looked at as an intrusion).

There are fish that I'm familiar with and when my knowledge starts to peek through, Jack encourages me to tell him more about them.

It's not until we're walking through an immense hallway with a curved ceiling- the aquarium stretching all the way over and around us and I jerk to stop at the shadow of a car-sized shark that I realize I am holding Jack's hand. Our casual grip breaks apart as he finishes the step that I was unwilling to take.

My eyes are fixed to the shark as it passes overhead. I doesn't even notice me, I'm sure, but. But my knees are weak and my palms are beginning to sweat.

I briefly note that Jack looks at me and doesn't seem to understand. He doesn't protest though. He hooks his thumbs into the corners of his pockets and his head tilts back to follow my gaze. "Ohhh…" he comprehends.

It's not real- it can't be- but I can imagine I feel my foot throbbing. I force myself to take my eyes off the shark as Jack tries to meet my eyes. "Are you all right to walk through here? Should we turn back? I'm sure I could carry you if I had to."

"No." That would be embarrassing. I would have to be in a situation a lot more troubling than this. "No. I'll be fine. Just. I'm not interested in looking at these ones. So let's walk through." I take a deep breath. "But fast."

I don't run. I try to move in a…business-like manner. But when I get through into the next area, a comfortingly normal room filled with jellyfish, and turn back to see Jack nearly two yards behind me I am not so sure I accomplished to maintain even that tentative level of dignity.

Jack, when he catches up with me, doesn't laugh or comment on it, but bemused being one of his typical states of being, I can't say I feel he's being particularly sympathetic either.

I don't want to think about the sharks any longer than necessary though, so I try and put it behind me as we peer at all manner of strange jellyfish. Jack doesn't try and hold my hand again and I don't reach for his.

I don't want to make a big deal out of my visiting and I don't suppose Jack does either (everyone's got to want some time not intentionally in the public eye, right?), so it's just a day visit, but on my way home, dozing on a train as the sun dips low, Aulie puts in a call to me while traveling (the member of the train staff who has to deliver this call to me seems rather surprised over it). "You didn't even drop me a line," he pouts at first, but doesn't give me time to respond to his mild complaint before instructing me to turn on the television to a particular channel where, lo and behold, there's a rather amusing photograph of me eating curry rice at the aquarium cafe.

"So, was that dish any good?" Aulie asks, despite the fact that this is surely not the smallest portion of his point in contacting me over it, "Because it looks good. Apparently you enjoyed the aquarium? Jack was telling Sophie Varen you could give a guided tour to the fish of District Four there."

"It was…good curry," I say stupidly, listening as whatever inane host this program possesses remarks on how "charmingly quaint" I seem to remain despite my ongoing proximity to Jack and the Capitol. The mating habits of certain sea creatures are joked over. "…So, Jack was on this?" I press Aulie, "He talked to Sophie about me?"

"Not on this one exactly- earlier in some other segment apparently but I didn't catch it until the replay here. …I figured you would want to know."

"I don't," I struggle to decide what it is I really want to say, "I don't understand Jack as well as I'd like to."

Aulie doesn't have a real answer to this and even when I'm home I don't have it in me to call up Jack and ask him about it. No one's been hurt by it. I was just caught off guard. Maybe there was even some tactical reason.

The first thing I do when I get home is sleep because it's just about two in the morning.

"I like him," Papa says over breakfast.

"Who?" I rub my eyes. We've barely gotten past 'good morning' and 'how would you like your eggs?' so I hardly think it's strange that I don't know what he's talking about.

"Jack," he clarifies, "He's very friendly. But, also, he's thoughtful too. More than you realize from TV, I mean." His face crinkles up and I think he's going to start laughing.

I laugh first. "That's true," I agree, "He is."

With my "blessing" of sorts to it, Papa starts laughing too. I try to set aside the ongoing unknowns of Jack's behavior and just enjoy that the open parts- that he's nice to me; that he makes me laugh.

I go try to move back into the ordinary rhythm of my days as seamlessly as I can manage. Faline cheerfully accepts the gift of a free pamphlet from the aquarium I brought home. I even see it sticking out of her book bag several weeks later. She thinks about the Capitol and what I do there a lot, I think.

School starts back up on its regular schedule and I don't see quite as much of her as the summer gave me. Tylina invites me to her wedding to Jose Cresta, the family's only son (there are also three daughters). It's a small, but pretty ceremony. It's nice to go somewhere and be ignored. Tylina Cresta is radiantly happy. Azzie is her right-hand woman throughout the ceremony and party. When the two of us sit down to talk during a break from the dancing, I find out that she's engaged now as well. She catches me up on the doings of some of other classmates. Most of them are doing more or less what I expected they'd be doing post-graduation based on what I saw them do or heard them talk about when I was still in school. Saigo Kanno's already been promoted into a pretty good position on the shrimping boat he works on (his wife is very pregnant, according to Azzie, who still lives near him, and they think it might be twins).

Although I have the strangest job of everyone, I can't say I feel my forward motion into adult life is all that arrested. I didn't have any plans or expectation of living away from Papa or getting married at the time I volunteered for Faline. …maybe that made me an especially appropriate choice for the part- what sort of future did I stand to lose? It makes me wonder what Beanpole wanted for his future though.

"You look sad," Azzie notices.

"I was thinking about Beanpole."

"…He would've been trying to act like he knew what he was doing in the dances and just messed up and smiled, all red-faced and embarrassed." Azzie obviously remembers him well. "No one would care but Beanpole. It's just supposed to be a good time."

"Excuse me, Azzie," 'Lito slides between several empty chairs to reach us, "Mags, do you want to dance?"

"There's your cue!" Azzie encourages me to get back up.

Dancing with 'Lito isn't like dancing with Jack, although I have fun here too. These are the music and the steps of home.

I stay late and 'Lito sails, then walks, me home. On the doorstep, I think he wants to kiss me, but he doesn't ask and I don't offer.

Autumn falls and slowly deepens around us. It's a mild storm season. Jack calls occasionally. I make two excursions into the Capitol, but they're both basically for business, though I see Apple on one and Aulie on the other.

On a third trip I go on television with Sophie Varen and play up the role of 'conservative district girl' all shocked by the various things we go to see. It's not quite me, I think, because even though these party spots aren't part of my life, they don't shock me. It's even funnier to watch Sophie play this angle though, because she's been around this stuff for ages.

Afterward, we sit in the studio's 'green room,' which is not green, and Sophie chats with me about this and that, which, considering the spread of things the two of us have in common, inevitably means things turn toward Jack. He was out in 1 on a date with the president's daughter, apparently, but I missed the coverage. Showing everyone that things with me aren't such a big deal? That he can go out with whoever he likes?

"The thing is," Sophie gives me her take on it, "I don't know, maybe it's not obvious to people who don't know him, but to me it's impossible to think that he likes doing things with her as much as he likes hanging around you."

"Hmm." I hope it's just Sophie. I don't want the president's daughter taking any special notice of me. I don't want Jack getting in some kind of trouble.

I change the subject to: "What do you think of Silk?"

"She's kind of adorable," Sophie manages, a tense sort of calm in her tone, "…She's not very popular in One, of course. We almost had a new victor."

"…Would it be bad to ask for your personal opinion?"

"Considering it makes no difference now," she shakes her head, long, blond hair swishing back and forth across her shoulders, "Between the two of them, I do think I like Silk better."

"I think I like her a lot."

As the time for her tour approaches, Silk begins to dominate the airwaves again.

I have no objection to watching Silk's Victory Tour. They have finally "closed the gap" the programming commentators say, to have the initial airing of each stop's Tour footage air the night that stop was made (this way, those of us present for the entirety of Silk's stop in 4, for instance, won't miss the coverage of her visit to 5). Actually, I find viewing it far more fascinating than any I have seen before and pay close attention to each day's required segment of it. Silk seems sweetly pleased by most of the things that she sees. She's incredibly gracious (though with only two kills to her name, it may be easier to pass through the outlier districts without an over heavy burden of guilt laid over her shoulders) and is largely possessed of such poise as to render the memory of my visits as ungainly as a seal on land.

"Oh, your other cousin," Papa jokes, attaching her to the idea I suggested about myself and Pal, "They were always my favorite niece and nephew!" He settles down beside me on the couch to see them arrive in 10. "…He watches her like a sea eagle."

"I guess he doesn't feel that she's secure yet," I venture. I can't blame Pal for being so protective. I'd probably be acting the very same way if that were me with Salvador. On some level, I'm jealous when I couch Salvador as a potential part of this. He was so good. He did so well. "I mean, it's not as if her life were in his hands now, but she's still his responsibility through the Tour."

It would be hard to talk to Papa about my specific concerns about some of the public interest in Silk, so I don't bring it up.

Emmy doesn't call Silk "May" or any other wrong name like she did me. Silk is Silk and Pal is Pal, even if she says "Pal" with a kind of funny twang in it.

To my eyes, at least, nothing Silk is shown doing in 10 is troublesome. She takes part in the sanctioned activities with ease.

I fall into a sort of pattern, caught up in my meager chores around the house and other, more leisurely, tasks during the day, but hurrying to always be ready for the official evening showing of the Victory Tour.

In 9, Luna is cool as ever, but more cordial with Silk than she was with me. Neither Pal nor Silk seems to be of special interest to her. A decent portion of the citizens I see onscreen verge on familiar to me. The pool of people in 9 willing to play a cheerful part on Capitol television may be a bit small compared to the district's actual population.

On the afternoon of the day Silk's visit to 7 is schedule to appear, I meet up with 'Lito, because it's his half day at the boat shop, for lunch and some pointless boating. The boating part seems to be a necessary part of the equation (this kind of thing does tend to happen among kids-people?- our age when you know someone with their own boat).

I supply the lunch and 'Lito supplies the boat, as well as more than his fair share of the manpower. Of course, we really only row off to somewhere sheltered that we can drift without much concern.

"I don't think your friends make it look as fun as you did," 'Lito observes.

"The Victory Tour?" I laugh, "You think? I guess I'm not one to judge, but watching them is interesting to me."

"You were all caught up while it was going on, I guess." He leans back and trails a hand in the water.

'Lito doesn't quite get all of it- the Games and all- but it's not any particular failing on his part; it's just the general understanding most ordinary district citizens have of the Games and the Capitol.

I'd rather talk about more mundane, local things with him. Our conversation lolls about, circling around the boat shop and his work there, with diversions to anecdotes involving mutual acquaintances and fishing stories.

I go home to watch the showing of this newest visit with Papa. District 8 is skipped over to save 'til the end, as per formula. There appear to be significantly more Peacekeepers in 7 than I remember seeing on my visit there. Kayta makes some cheeky remarks, but there's a stiffness to his posture that makes me think he's not being allowed the leeway to even try something like he pulled last year with me. Raisin kisses Pal's cheek over the dinner and Kayta rolls his eyes drolly into the camera.

That's when he flashes the camera a bit of gold, taps Silk on the shoulder so she'll turn and look at it, and grins as she gasps in delight, tiny hands jumping up to cover her open mouth.

"Raisin," he moves behind his girlfriend's chair and calls so that she's look at him. "You know I'm not the type for the flowery, poetic stuff, so I won't waste anyone's time. I'll stop dragging all of this out. If you're ready, I'm ready. You want to get married?"

"Kayta!" she knocks the chair over backwards in her hurry to get to him.

The answer is an obvious yet. "Oh, wow," I say.

"They've been a couple from before he won, haven't they," Papa recalls.

"Raisin- she's really sweet," I add, which is sort of my agreement to his statement.

"You think they'll make it?"

Together, he means. I don't hesitate with my answer. "They will. If anyone can, Kayta and Raisin will."

Silk is cutely pink-cheeked watching all the excitement and kissing. Finally, she just buries her face in the loose fabric of Pal's shirt, and he pats her shoulder. "When will the wedding be?" Pal asks the local lovebirds.

"Spring?" Kayta half-suggests, half-asks his wife to be.

"Spring would be nice," Raisin agrees.

"And, in lieu of more traditional weddings presents," Kayta looks to the camera, "I think Raisin and I can also agree that the best gift of all would be sponsorships for District Seven's tributes in the upcoming Games."

"Another victor in Seven will keep Kayta from being over-worked," Raisin laughs, clinging to his arm.

"Oh, that's tricky," notes Papa, "Your friend Jack will go crazy over that showmanship."

"Probably as you speak." Assuming he wasn't in on this in advance to one degree or other. …that's a harder thing to speculate about. Raisin seems pretty shocked and giddy and Pal and Silk are also responding in a manner I'd consider to be more or less off the cuff, but Kayta, understandably, had all of this cooked up beforehand. On his own, I'm leaning toward, but that doesn't mean he didn't necessarily tell Jack.

From this point forward, the coverage of Silk's Tour shares space with the attention being given to Kayta and Raisin- regarding their relationship, preparations for their wedding, marriage and family traditions of 7 and the like.

A box and an envelope arrive via Victor Affairs the day Silk visits District 6. The box contains a green tunic top for me to wear. I guess as the outgoing victor, I still have to maintain some semblance of stylishness. There's a note in the box from Apple that maintains: "My favorite color! I picked this for you out of all the things Erinne had sketched; I hope you like it."

It's pretty subdued, despite Apple's tastes. I can't say I have any complaints about the garment. And, as it's not a full outfit, but just a piece, I can wear it with my own jeans and sandals or whatever seems appropriate.

The envelope holds some rather extensive final directions regarding Silk's upcoming stop in my home district. It makes me a bit nervous to think there's this much I need to know just to be a good host. I don't have the slightest intent of causing any trouble. I read over everything and hope that I won't do anything stupid a little editing won't cure.

In 6, I'm impressed by how…alive Teejay seems for Silk's visit. He's considerably more on than he was during my visit or any other time I've been around him for that matter. Sunny looks understandably cheered by this.

"I feel sort of at home here," Silk tells them, pointing at the smokestacks of the factories, "The big buildings."

"We're not so used to being out in the open," Pal agrees.

At the dinner, Teejay folds up a piece of paper into some kind of fortunetelling game (I'm not familiar with it). "Chatterbox!" Silk exclaims, recognizing the funny-shaped thing.

"Chatterbox?" Sunny echoes, "…we always called it a whirlybird."

"What's the question then, Teejay?" Silk props her face up with her hands, elbows resting on the tabletop.

The way the program is cut, I don't get to hear what he's made this fortunetelling game up about. The next shot of the table is from a distance as they play, Teejay moving about the sort of…four pointed paper…boxes (?) that he's made while Silk giggles.

In a bit of follow-up commentary on the trip that same night, after Silk and her entourage have moved on, Teejay's eyes are glassy and distant again. Sunny can be seen, out of focus, in the background, frowning as he talks to whoever is wielding the camera. "She reminds me of my sister," Teejay gesticulates vaguely, in a manner that doesn't exactly add anything to his statement, "Prettier than my sister, but… You know…?"

Sunny's comments are both more coherent and more standard.

I sit up reading through some of the Victor Affairs papers again.

Silk looks like a little sunflower in District 5, her dark hair like the seeds at the center of one of those bright yellow flowers. She darts about cheerfully enough, her equally bright yellow scarf trailing behind her, as Shy takes her on the particular tour of the district that they've mapped out for her. Pal wanders after them, observing things with a degree of bemusement- I think he's remembering his own Tour. I'm not sure how much things have changed in 5 since then. In 4, I don't think there have been many changes someone who visited only twice would see.

The good mood Silk seems to have been enjoying wears off when she comes up onto the stage in their town.

Silk killed the girl from 5. She bites her lip and her brow furrows as she looks at the dead girl's picture, then leans over to whisper something to Pal.

Silk killed that girl and then put the glasses back on her face.

A woman in the crowd wearing those same sort of glasses is sobbing openly and the tears are falling onto the head of a squirming toddler in her arms.

But Silk presses on with the speech they want her to give and the people in 5 accept it for what it is. "She's going to be here tomorrow," I state the obvious to Papa.

"And yet you don't have to be doing any work in preparation for her the day before?" he wonders.

I hold up the packet that arrived for me in the mail just a few days earlier. "I've already read through all the rules I'm supposed to follow."

Papa squints. "That looks thick. What's in all that?"

"Can't talk about this, can't talk about that, avoid this, avoid that," I shrug, "You know I'm going to try and be good. I don't want to get anyone in trouble."

"So there weren't more instructions in the box that came, right?"

"It was something for me to wear. You know, since I'm the one who proceeded her, I'm kind of 'passing the torch' and all."

Over the district banquet, Pal whispers something to the local headman (passing on what Silk said to him?). "People sure are something," replies Chief Engineer and Mayor McRonsenburg (Shy's "Mac," right?), and it seems like something he said to me maybe, but I can't remember that kind of detail. It's the only thing he says at the banquet that I can pick out in the clipped cut of it we get to say. I don't hear Pal say anything at all.

Papa turns in early. "Gotta be rested up for that little girl."

"You're gonna try and meet her, Papa?" I laugh.

"Well, if I put on my best shirt and a clean shave and try to get into the square for the crowd speech, you figure they're gonna let me, right?" he smiles earnestly.

"Oh, yes. The powers that be would certainly never turn down a victor's father." …But then again, maybe they would like to treat Papa nicely and let him appear in the crowd. Among the other victors, are there any others with living fathers? Not Silk, not Pal, not Emmy, not Shy, not Jack, not Sunny… Maybe Luna?

"You better get to sleep soon too," Papa says in reply.

"Yes," I promise, "I will."

So the Victory Tour comes to Four. I was already informed about the potential events and locales we might visit beforehand as suggested and or approved by Victor Affairs. While, undoubtedly, Victor Affairs is a necessary office, I am gradually coming to find them somewhat…unsavory overall.

I don't get to meet Silk and Pal at the train station. I have to follow my instructions and meet them in the decorated square. I can't stand to sit, so I pace back and forth across the stage. I smooth my hands over the hem of the roughly knee-length tunic that was chosen (made?) for me to wear. Like my victory dress, it's shorter in the front and longer in the back. It's a soft green tone and I'm wearing it with a plain pair of brown pants. Underneath I am wearing my swimsuit, just in case, since the ocean itself was okayed in the information I received as a possible "activity."

When I see our arrivals coming I step up to the edge of the stage and shade my eyes. My anxious toes curl over the rim of the platform. Some cameramen, already installed in the square, sort of laugh at me.

And then there's Silk. She jumps down from the vehicle, light as a feather, her loose sunflower-patterned dress billowing out around her. "Mags!" she yells to me, waving as she runs up, "Hi!"

She's so friendly to act like this when we've only really just met. I don't expect to ever have to alter my general impression of her as a lovely person. I won't ever forget how she asked about Faline during her victory celebration at the president's manor. I hope I can find an opportunity for them to meet. Faline has already been okayed to sit with us during the evening meal, but that doesn't necessarily mean she'll get to be close enough to speak with Silk.

I jump down off the stage and hold out my hands toward her. I expect her to take them, but instead she runs right into my arms and hugs me. She squeezes me tight. She is close to my height, but so much tinier. She is so young.

"The ocean really does smell like salt!" Silk exclaims, "Mags, I can already smell it! Are we close?"

"Pretty close."

"I'd like to go see it. I, um," she pulls at the top of her dress, stretching the fabric away from her skin to show me that she has a light green bathing suit on underneath, "I heard I could go in the water a little?"

Pal is beside us now too, though his smile is somewhat crimped by, I don't know, pain or generally being uncomfortable. Maybe because, though swimming is harmless fun (though I don't think Silk knows how enough to try it in the ocean and will probably mainly just wade), he has no desire to put her into yet another situation where she will be lightly clothed for the enjoyment of the public. It was part of his gambit. He did it to save her and there's no doubt it was a successful strategy. But it's beyond his control now. He can't stop it. Silk still seems innocent and unknowing about all this. Should I worry for her?

"Of course you can," I say, trying to remain casual. Obviously Victor Affairs okayed that. I don't know exactly what continuing to show Silk in this light will gain them, but I suppose it may just be an ongoing part of giving the audience what they want (which, where I'm concerned, means interaction between me and Jack these days). "It's fun."

"You look well," Tosca greets me as the camera people keep their lenses attuned to Silk as she takes a deep breath of the seaside air.

"And yourself as well," I agree. "Thank you." If she's here, I figure she's still happy with her job, so I have nothing to ask about that. I could ask about her brother, but I pass on him as a subject too.

Tosca orders everyone around just as she likes and while nothing in particular is being staged, I take the opportunity to put in a request of my own. "Can someone take a picture of us for me?" I ask a familiar-looking member of the film crew.

"Sure," he agrees, "Do you have your own camera or something."

I shake my head, a bit embarrassed. "No, I didn't think of that."

"That's okay. It's not like it's going to be hard to figure out where to send it to you."

Both of 8's victors agree to oblige my desire for a photograph. A part of my mind drifts to my own Victory Tour and my conversations with Sunny. I promised to remember. A photograph will help.

The cameras flicker back to life as I lead her down toward the beach along a pre-decided path.

"Aaah, this part doesn't smell as good," Silk laughs as we tour her through a segment of the fish market on the way to the beach. "Sorry," she apologizes to the fishmongers caught on camera, "I don't mean anything against fish…"

"It's an acquired taste, I think," Pal replies, "…And smell." From his expression, I don't think he's enjoying it much either.

The ocean air rushes up to greet them though as we leave the displays of fresh caught fish behind.

Faline, Che, Rodrigo, and 'Lito are waiting on the beach south of town, sitting in 'Lito's dinghy that he's pulled up on the sand, following up a bit more blatantly than I expected on my tip that this is the beach it was suggested Silk visit. They come closer to the touring group than any of the other onlookers, who keep a more respectful distance up on the pier to the northeast and the rocks to the southwest, although none of them approach so close as to bother or speak with our visitors.

The District 8 escort stalls out at the edge of the sand, anxious about how her tall heels may sink down into it. Tosca laughs blatantly and allows the rest of us to leave her behind. I see Mrs. Mirande and Papa materialize out of the onlookers to offer some bit of kindness to the Capitol woman.

Silk readily sheds her outer clothing on the sand and dashes down to the tideline in her green bathing suit. I kick off my sandals and Pal halts to remove his more carefully and roll up the ends of his pants.

Down beside the ocean, our voices are cloaked by noise. Silk tiptoes out into the water, shrieking in excitement exacerbated by the wear and tear of so much travel and stress with the minimum of moments for rest in between. I wade out after her and Pal follows timidly. I think he's a bit afraid. There's no reason he shouldn't be, I suppose. There is nothing like the ocean in District 8 and there was nothing like it in his arena either.

"Well," Pal forces a smile as he watches Silk, "I'm glad she's enjoying it more or less as much as she expected."

"Don't worry," I reassure him, "It's calm today and I'm trained to save swimmers if there's any problem- so are a bunch of the other people around here. You'll both be safe."

"In Four we will be," Pal breathes, "I know that. I know. But back in the Capitol…ah, well. During the Games, I made a lot of promises for her sake and I've honored all them as I understood them."

"You should tell Victor Affairs if people are giving you trouble," I suggest, frowning.

"People think they're owed more than I promised," Pal stares down into the swirling water.

"Aren't you coming in any further?" Silk yells back to us.

Silk has braved waters that reach to her mid-thighs. Pal and I are standing where the tide weaves in and out around our shins. "M-maybe a tiny bit," Pal hesitates.

"I'm coming!" I call out in a loud voice, putting on a show of good spirit for Silk, for Pal, for everyone who will see this. I double back to the sand to hand my clothes off to someone associated with the Tour show because even if my own things are of no consequence, I don't want to ruin the tunic top I was sent for this. I turn back around and dash out to meet Silk, purposely splashing her in my hurry.

We play around in the waves and she tells me a little bit of this and that with my assurance that no one else can hear- "If you don't speak up, I can barely hear you myself!" I admit.

She mentions how kind Pal has been, how tiring the Victory Tour is, and recognizes Faline as, "One of your friends in that boat, huh?"

Her teeth chatter when leave the water, but Mayor Current is there now, waiting, with a towel. One of the members of the District 8 style team is clearly dismayed by the effect of the salty water on Silk's hair, but aside from the fact that it's wet now, I can't see the difference.

She gets dried off and redressed and coiffed in a back room of the Justice Building while Pal paces around. Someone friendly but still relatively powerful, probably Peacekeeper Benett, lets Faline in to give me a hand, which isn't really necessary, but I appreciate anyway. "Oh, hello!" she greets Pal.

She turns out to be a good distraction for him, introducing herself and asking a handful of silly questions. Of course, when Silk pops out, ready to move on, Tosca rolls her eyes and has Faline kicked out to join the rest of the crowd assembling to listen to the speech in the square, but not before Faline's managed a swift speech of, "Hi! I'm Faline! Great to meet you!" in a single breath.

Silk's eyes squeeze shut tight as she laughs over Faline's brave behavior. "I don't know, Mags, I think she might've done okay even you didn't volunteer for her."

"No sponsors," Pal says under his breath. Obviously, while the sponsorships are a decent portion of what brought Silk through her Games, they're also a cause of much of Pal's current pain.

"I don't know if she's coming out of her shell or if she's always been less reserved than I thought she was," I admit.

There's no doubt that Pal has complete belief in his assessment of matters from the way he says it: "You made her brave."

"Come, come, Silk," the escort hurries her ahead to ascend the stage.

Pal and I come out after her and stand back and to the side, aiming to appear calm and undistracting.

Despite being such a latecomer to the square, Faline has somehow finagled herself into a spot right in the front. Then I look to her left and see Papa and I'm not so surprised because it would be just like him to hold onto some space for her. No one else I know well is toward the front, but I can see Maria from the club toward the middle perched on Rodrigo's shoulders.

Mayor Current introduces Silk with a heavy sigh and says a few canned words, the same as he's said every time he's had to do this, even if they're harder to say this time than any of the others.

"I'm sorry about your daughter," Silk turns and momentarily addresses Mayor Current directly, "And I'm sorry about Salvador too. I'm glad none of us had to fight one another. Shaya didn't talk very much at training, but just looking at her I could tell she was very elegant and thoughtful. Salvador, on the other hand, was kind of like Mags. He was talkative and funny. I understand completely that you must be missing them a lot."

She does a good job. It's less personal here than it was in 5 and I think that has a positive effect on her performance.

After all the speaking is done, there's a performance by a five-piece band from Down-District- a violin, a trumpet, and three types of guitars. Chayito Campana, the leader of the band, sings an old song that he's altered the words of to excise some Down-District slang which might confuse an outsider and to make it about Silk, which makes her blush considerably. I'm sure, Papa, who loves this kind of thing, is thrilled to have such a primo spot in which to be listening to it.

When we move on to a big, fun fish fry dinner, both Papa and Faline are among the guests allowed to sit at one of the big tables included within the official festivities, but they're far away from the girl of the hour. Mayor Current sighs and sighs looking at Silk, but he's nothing but kind and polite to any of our visitors.

"There should be dancing," Chayito, who has received a seat quite close to the guests of honor, "We've got the right kind of band for it." He taps a tune out on his plate with the side of his fork. "You like dancing, right, Mags?"

"It's not up to me, Mr. Campana," I insist.

"If…if your band is a dance band," Silk listens to him, "You should. You should play so people can dance."

"Ask permission!" Pal chides her, though he seems more bemused than upset.

"Can we dance?" Silk leans over to interrupt a conversation between Tosca and their escort, "Can the band play for people to dance?"

Tosca gives her okay faster than the escort and Chayito gets his men (and one woman, on the trumpet) going again. "Will you please teach me?" Silk asks, rising and holding her hand out to me.

"Uh, I'll try. I'm not sure how good a teacher I am though."

"Oh, you can," Silk asserts, "I haven't forgotten Salvador yet. That wasn't just on my notecard. You taught him what he knew."

The music is infectious and the urge to dance spreads out through the main party and out into the assembled crowd. I dance with Silk the first two times around so that she gets the basic idea, then move on to dance with Pal (haphazardly- he can't get the rhythm), Faline (excitably), and Papa (my best match, so the easiest of all).

Faline and Silk meet once more, swirling about the center of the square under all the pretty lanterns. I'm sure Faline would be happy to dance with her for the rest of the hour, but after a second dance, Pal cuts in to remind Silk that she will have to be up and ready to take part in events in District 3 tomorrow.

"You were a wonderful host," she shakes hands one last time with Mayor Current.

"And you are my new favorite cousin," Silk hugs me.

"Oh," I turn to Pal, "You told her."

"See you in the Capitol," he takes his turn to putting his arms around me.

I see them off, wishing they could stay longer.

My day begins late, worn out as I am from the previous day's festivities. At times like this I am glad that I have no job aside from my duties as victor. Papa stayed out last night and yet he got himself up and back out on his boat this morning. I get to sleep in and pick at party leftovers for breakfast.

While I imagine Beto and Silk certainly spoke to each other during the stop in 3 at least as much as Beto and I did, the show doesn't contain any footage of them addressing one another at all. Beto seems exceptionally bored, even for him. He reads a book at the table during the banquet until 8's escort takes it from him (and, wow, I do not like the look on his face when she pulls that stunt- maybe she doesn't want any friends in District 3, but I wouldn't have done something like that anyway).

If Salvador had won, I would probably be having an uncomfortable moment alongside there over the boy he killed.

Beto does not seem any more inclined to be kind or conversational after the book is gone than he did before. Silk keeps looking away from him with the same uncomfortable smile forced onto her face whenever their eyes meet.

Some experimental fireworks commissioned for the celebration go off badly. A decorative canopy catches fire and I think Beto sneaks off while it's being dealt with.

Pal and Silk, not allowed to get up and help put it out, try to act like it's not a big deal, but there's fear in both of them as flames reflect on their faces.

The flames are quickly quashed and, with that, the night in 3 seems to wind down with no further difficulty (but what can I tell, really, seeing as I'm not there).

"I like her, but you made for better TV," Papa says.

There no point in trying to contest that point with him, seeing as, of course my father would think such a thing. "I don't think she cares, Papa," is the tack I take instead.

"Oh…maybe not," it occurs to him, "You were kind of the odd one out, weren't you, the way you were always gunning for a laugh."

During the dinner in District 2, Hector and Silk get a lot of laughs though, I'm sure, even if that's not what they're specifically aiming for as they play a game of play a game of how many plates they can balance on their heads, inspired by the ugly white hat Silk's escort wears to the event. The outcome is too close to call. I think Silk is better at the actual balancing act, but her neck isn't strong enough to hold as much weight as Hector's is.

There are a few brief seconds of spoken-over footage of Hector's mother presumably making a fuss over her.

In her comments, Silk admits that she was terrified she would run into the pair from 2 while they were together. She calls them, "An amazing team!"

"Yeah, they did Two proud in that sense," Gerik sighs.

A copy of the photograph of me with Silk and Pal arrives in the mail. I carefully watch over replays of her Tour's stop in 4, focusing in on the scenes of dancing. Faline gets embarrassed when she sees me playing a clip of her with Silk over and over, but I'm able to take her mind off it by bringing down the dream catcher I made her.

"I'll cherish it," she promises.

In District 1, Silk co-hosts a segment of Sophie Varen's program, where, compared to her usual effortless self that we see as she stops noticing the cameras around her, Silk is awkward and nervous. The best part of this is cutaways to Jack and Pal sitting on the sidelines of the set and watching her try her best at it. Jack certainly knows that they plan on filming him and using the material for the Tour programming if they like it, but Pal is sweetly oblivious to being on camera at this moment.

As far the district response to her there, I suppose it's about as Sophie suggested to me. 1 came really close in this last Games, and with a tribute who had a reasonably good chance of killing this little girl when it came down to just the two of them. When Silk tries to speak the bland remarks someone has written for her regarding her final opponent, I can actually see the sweat start to bead up on his forehead.

In her mind, I'm sure she's seeing him.

I have been idly folding clothes and packing for my short trip to the Capitol surrounding Silk's celebration there, but I find myself standing in front of the television and starting at it over my open valise, remembering as well. She got him by sling-shoting her knife in his neck. He fell into the wildfire she'd started. It wasn't pretty, but Silk knows something about us the rest of us don't.

She knows how it smelled. She looks like she's going to be sick.

But somehow, even if she ends up losing her lunch, it doesn't happen on camera.

Either way, I'm impressed that she does seem to be managing to eat something not long after. "Please don't light my hair on fire," she laughs at Jack as he puts his arm around her.

"Don't be scared," he smiles down at her, "I promise I'll save all my fireworks for Mags." His remark provokes some general giggles and chattering from the peanut gallery. Pal looks very embarrassed. I try to surreptitiously ascertain whether Papa took notice of this sort of double entendre, but can't quite make up my mind because he's looking in the direction of the television, but he has a local newspaper spread out in front of him and his expression is so very calm…

Papa takes a very early walk with me to the train station. "Have a wonderful time," he kisses my cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too, Papa." He turns back toward town in the interests of getting to his boat quickly enough that his usual schedule isn't upset by this diversion. I think he feels bad when he and his little crew don't bring in a big enough catch because he's not relying on that money the rest of them are anymore (of course, part of the draw of working for Papa for these men has always been the greater freedom than being on one of the big boats- there's a tradeoff there, that's life). When things seem light, I've given him the money to make up the difference to them, but I can't say he's entirely pleased with that answer either.

It's a quiet ride into the Capitol. I'm so pleasantly lulled by the motion of the train, I actually fall back to sleep for a while and awake to find one of the train staff standing over me with a funny smile on her face. "I'm the 'chief comfort officer' here," the young woman quips (she's not Capitol- this means she must be from 6), "So give me a ring if you need anything, Miss Gaudet."

"Oh, uh, yeah. Thanks." I rub my eyes.

Nar meets me at the train station alongside Shy, who has apparently arrived only about fifteen minutes prior. She has a bulkier suitcase than I do and I get the impression she's trying to convince Nar it's his job to carry it for her because he hasn't hired a porter.

When she lays eyes on me, Shy puts whatever that was about aside. "Mags! Are you going to stay at the Games center while you're here? I am! Come play roommates with me on the fifth floor!" she urges.

"I- I don't know-" I had made my plans expecting to stay at the Games center rather than take up space at Aulie's place (since out of my team, I'm the only one invited to the party it just wouldn't seem right), but I'm not sure I want to so suddenly decide to spend all of my time out of the spotlight with Shy.

"She might have plans with Jack," Nar steps up and holds out his hand- offering to take my valise where he previously refused Shy's. My things aren't heavy, so I don't accept the offer.

"Uh," I stammer. I tell the truth. "I'm keeping things open."

"Well!" Shy insists, "I am as open as can be. So keep me on your radar if you're bored or something."

I spend most of the remaining day alone, exploring the quiet spaces of the Games complex. There's a minimum of staff hanging around now, mainly Avoxes performing routine maintenance. I recognize some of them and smile, but I don't know how to communicate with them the way I've seen Nar or Pal do and I don't really have anything to say anyway, so I won't interrupt their work.

Spring comes by with a rack of clothes, "Just this and that that Erinne's worked on," she explains.

"I brought my big net full of stars," I show her. Other that that, I didn't pack fancy clothes, figuring I won't distress my style team by wanting to wear something over this time.

"You're in love with this one," she laughs, "But I can't say I blame you! It's dredged up all the treasures of the sea for you or something- lots of good memories. You got a good showing at your celebration in it. …And you fell in love, right?"

"I don't know about love," I'm not going to overplay it, "But that was my first kiss."

Spring thinks this over, nodding. "I like the way you do things unintentionally big."

We come up with an outfit for the party that pairs my veil of stars, tied around my waist this time, with a dress sporting a violet gradient. Spring shows me a fancy necklace Erinne bought her before she goes. "All the most noteworthy couples are getting engaged these days," she jokes about it, but I'm happy for her too.

I meet up with Shy in the Games Center lobby. Nar shows up to escort both of us to the party. I think about all the things regarding Jack and me that have been run by him at some point or other and sort of skirt around bringing the topic up. "I have no complaints," is all Nar has to say about the two of us. Shy muses about if and when I might be able to tell her embarrassing things about Jack ("For me to use against him!" she declares with the blissful smile of someone caught up in wild imaginings).

No one pays any special attention as we arrive, though our pictures are certainly snapped on the stairs. Inside, Shy peels away from my side to give her immediate good regards to Silk. I decide not to rush it. At some point I lose track of Nar, with his mysterious smile and turquoise suit, and just wander around through the faintly curious crowds, watching people and listening to the music and nibbling on things.

I'm not involved in any particularly deep conversations, but many people manage to catch me long enough to make at least some token statement or acknowledgment of my presence. I'm just a regular part of the event scenery now. There's my future, as long as there are Games. For a shorter time than Beto projected, I hope. …how many dead tributes, I wonder, until the districts have matched the Capitol's number of children dead in the war… Maybe that will make for enough. Maybe some special anniversary.

"Your shark is hanging from the ceiling of my dining room," Mr. Bronze tells me.

"I hope District Four has good luck in the Games to come," Mr. Zimmer says, though I don't know how much this is a specific bit of good feeling intended for me to savor or what he's saying to all the other victors.

Tosca is there, but I don't see her brother. Nar's acquaintance with the indigo freckles keeps on talking and talking to Sunny, who looks like she'd rather be moving on but can't escape from him. I wonder if he works for Victor Affairs too. Maybe he's her district liaison. That would a reasonable explanation for why she can't just talk her way out of it.

I don't see any sign of Teejay, but it's possible he's passed out somewhere? I won't forget so soon that he was sitting on the floor during the first celebration for Silk.

A familiar-looking woman remarks on the way I keep peering toward the floor. "It's not a full house victors-wise," she informs me.

"Oh. Oh." I guess I shouldn't be all that surprised. "You're Eight's escort, right?"

"That I am," she agrees.

"Did Pal invite me then?"

"I'm certain he would have on the strength of how he bothers mentioning you, but it was Victor Affairs that managed the invitations."

"Oh, I see. Thank you." And that means invitations will run toward the calm, the photogenic, the predictable. Not Luna, not Emmy, not Teejay. Probably not Beto, and he'd appreciate that it stayed that way.

I'm asked a few times to dance, but I'm not in the mood (prompting some jokes both along the lines that I need to have a drink or two first and that I'm 'saving myself for' Jack). Jack must inevitably be here. It's the rare Games function where he doesn't show his face.

Interestingly, Raisin is present at the celebration, the single district citizen who didn't kill to get here, wearing a red dress with a pattern of white cranes flying across the skirt. She keeps one hand on Kayta's arm and fills the other with whatever passing snack catches her eye. Her eyes are wide at every sight and she keeps looking around and around the way I think I did my first time in this sort of situation.

"Congratulations on your engagement," I approach the pair.

"That's appreciated, Fishsticks," Kayta dips his head.

"You're invited to the wedding, of course," Raisin adds to her own thanks. "I really want it to be in Seven."

"I'll get her what she wants on that one," Kayta smiles fondly.

"I'll be looking forward to-"

My words are cut short as the president makes his initial appearance. He says a few words that are generally in favor of the sponsorship program regarding tributes, laced with the slightest tinge of joking about his "disappointment" that due to his position he was unable to sponsor "Miss Sachet." Silk stands next to him, looking as thin as a fishing pole propped beside a kayak. She's wearing a red, sleeveless dress and there's a red rose dotted with rubies pinned into her hair. Pal stands on her other side, looking dull and fidgety in comparison, with a matching rose in his lapel.

Our newest victor makes some more or less standard remarks regarding her victory, how thankful she is for everything she's received since then (with a special acknowledgment made of Pal), and how she hopes to continue to "do a tolerable job of things." Nearby me, Raisin Beech (soon to be Hiro) applauds particularly hard.

There's a big cake brought out for Silk. The president offers her a knife to cut it that really doesn't seem of the right size or variety for the job. She's giving it a very strange look and then it occurs to me that this is the knife from her Games. The weapon that secured her survival.

But for all the awkwardness of this, Silk presses on and attempts to cut the cake. The blade penetrates the white frosted surface and a burst of glittering confetti bursts forth.

Silk lets out a squeal of surprise and trips backward, bumping into the president- I move I would surely fear to make myself even by accident, but he doesn't seem unduly upset as he settles her back onto her feet. …perhaps his hand even lingers on her bare shoulder a bit long…

I don't receive much of chance to chat with either Silk or Pal. Silk's company is a commodity too highly sought after and Pal is as nearly unceasing as ever in his vigil. "I'm beat," he admits to me, "I have no idea how much sleep it's going to take for me to make up for this," but he still manages a smile.

"Did you try the confetti cake?" Silk wonders, "The part that's not just confetti is actually very good."

"I am actually seeing to it that she tries it at this very moment," Jack speaks up from behind me, carrying one saucer-sized red plate in each hand, topped by a delicate slice of cake that appears more fluffy frosting than any substance.

The last I hear from Silk that night is her pleased little laugh at Jack's comically well timed appearance. "She likes me!" Jack grins, like this is some kind of achievement, "Two in a row. Seems like I'm finally getting this victor camaraderie thing down."

Shy butts in from who knows where to ask for a bite of my cake. "Don't get your hopes up, mister," she teases Jack and when my small slice of cake is finished up (faster than I expected between the two of us), she asks me so hopefully for a dance that I can't help but give in.

I see Kayta trying to lead Raisin around on the floor, but she keeps stepping on his feet.

Jack stays off the floor, just watching, chatting a bit with the people nearby until he disappears from sight.

The president dances with Silk while some man I don't know intrudes further into Pal's personal space than he's comfortable with. I muster up the courage to insert myself into this equation and the man backs off. Pal's face is flushed and he pulls out a handkerchief to wipe his face. "Would you prefer my company?" I ask him.

"I don't want to cause you any trouble," he answers, "But if you stayed late, I'd appreciate it."

"I'll stay as late as you do. I promise."

We watch as Silk's attention is pulled about here and there. I see Pal's hand trembling and think of Papa. I grasp it and hold it silently, hidden between the folds of our clothes.

I stay later than I have lasted before at any of these functions, even the ones held in my name. By that late hour, Silk is exhausted and Pal and 8's escort are half carrying her between them (if Pal picked her up himself, well, I think he could do it, but he wouldn't get too far). I accept a ride from them back to the Games Center.

Hector is still there, yawning over a glass of purple liquor while a middle-aged woman goes on and on to him about something. As far as I know, all the other victors have already departed- then I see Jack through a window as I move further and further away. He looks out over the head of a woman I recognize as the president's daughter. And he sees me and raises a hand in a small gesture of goodbye.

I put up my own hand in return.

"One more party and we can relax again," Pal whispers in the back of the car, leaning over Silk as she dozes.

I sleep hard that night and if I dream, I don't remember any of it.

I'm awoken around nine o'clock by a friendly call from Aulie who suggests we get together at a nearby cafe for lunch. I assume I will go home today, but while Aulie and I are eating near the Games complex, Jack shows up and waves me over. "Uh, give me a minute," I excuse myself from the table.

"Would you like to go out tonight?" Jack asks.

"Go where?" I smile. I can't predict what he wants to do. I still don't go out much in the Capitol without some specific purpose. It's always business. If it's for fun, someone else is taking me. I only know a few places here that one could want to visit just for fun (there are ideas of fun here, I am guessing, that stretch far beyond my imaginations).

"See a movie?" he suggests.

I've never seen a movie in the Capitol. I've seen them projected up on the inside of the gym walls at school- sometimes for school and sometimes (a few times less) for fun.

"I get tired of staying in," Jack shrugs, "Even if it means that people are looking at me or pestering me or I end up getting talked about on the tabloid news, I just get to that point where I'd like to go out."

I must be taking longer to think about these things than I realized. I don't need the extra encouragement. I'm curious right from his mentioning it what the movies might be like- how grand the theater will be, how loud the sounds, how over the top the effects- the Capitol's love of a spectacle will undoubtedly be write large there. "Oh," I speak up, trying to save him more of whatever unease I may have provoked in him, "I'd like to go." With him more than anyone. "It sounds great."

Jack brightens. I suppose I was right in thinking my quiet was getting to him. He didn't see that I was only very far away. "Are you going to be here around the Games center? Or back at Aulus'? I'll come around to pick you up."

"With Aulie, I suppose. I'll let you know if there's any change in plans."

"…someone can't get enough of your wonderful company, hmm?" Aulie posits when I double back to him.

"Maybe it's mutual." I watch Jack go. There's this funny bit of spring in his step.

When he shows up and knocks on Aulie's door for me that night, joking around with Aulie like he has to ask my older brother's permission to come courting, I show up in my ordinary clothes. Jack isn't exactly dressed up himself, so it's not like there's a contrast in our levels of attire, but he's carefully thoughtful off the bat as we climb into the car that's brought him.

"Will you be okay walking in the city at night like that? It'd be a bit big, but I could loan you a coat."

"I don't know," I admit, "Does it get very cold here at this time of year?"

"You get cold easily, don't you?" Jack guesses or tries to remember. It seems like something I might have said. "District Four is one of the warmest districts, isn't it? Four and Eleven?"

"It is warm there," I confirm, "I do get cold easily."

"Well," Jack always seems happy to be able to improve a situation for someone else, "I can take care of that." He asks the driver to take us to his building and doesn't make the man wait for us once we arrive. "Just give me a second!" he moves out of the elevator ahead of me. He darts off- he's aged since his first blush of fame, but he's young yet and hasn't slowed- and I watch the tail of his untucked shirt fluttering behind him. I'm getting used enough to visiting his apartment that I don't try to pack in as many furtive glances around the room as possible while he's gone. I feel comfortable here, however the rest of the Capitol might or might not sit right with me. Jack has treated me, maybe not the best, but the most casually of any of them. In his apartment, in the restaurants, on the set of a television show- if I go there with Jack, I belong there.

It's funny; I would never have expected it. But I suppose the Hunger Games have taught me better than anything else- person to person, district to district, districts and Capitol- no one lives or dies alone. We're a big complicated mess, all tied up together.

Jack comes back in pulling on his brown leather jacket, with another coat, a gray one, with a lighter colored, fleecy-looking lining, over his arm. "Okay," he holds up the gray coat for a moment so that I know what he's about to do before he tosses it to me. I catch it, albeit gracelessly. "I think we're good."

"Do we get to walk far?" It seems like no one walks as far in the Capitol as they do at home. I'm used to walking more than riding in cars. I prefer it (there are boats you can ride in the Capitol, but none that really take you anywhere- the point is just the pleasure of boating, which I can hardly begrudge them).

"It's a couple blocks," Jack answers, a measure of distance that I still don't completely understand. "…the right distance for you to be able to enjoy yourself, I think. And not get too cold either."

I put on the coat, which is warm and soft, just like looked, as well as considerably overlong for someone my size and height. I roll up the sleeves far enough that about half of my hands are visible, which strikes me as a workable amount of space so that I can stay a comfortable temperature without being unnecessarily hampered movement-wise. "Oh, okay."

Jack gives me a thumbs-up when I seem ready and I flash one back at him.

His keys jingle in his pocket as he heads out through the door and I follow him.

It's so quiet as we exit out into the hall and down the stairs that I wonder, not for the first time, if anyone else even lives in this building or if Jack has bought out the entire tower just to get some peace. On one hand, it strikes me as ridiculous. On the other, it would make for a good buffer. Anyone who showed up without Jack's direct invitation would have no good excuse for being there.

There's no discussion about the elevator. This time we take the stairs. Jack takes them faster- mainly it's his size- and keeps about two steps ahead of me. I watch little bits of his hair blow back as he goes. It's picturesque.

We don't pass anyone until we make it out onto the street and the first few people we see are too caught up in their own revels to notice us (either that or they're so used to seeing Jack that it doesn't leave any impression anymore). Jack adjusts his pace so that he's walking roughly side by side with me. He was right about it being cold. My breath escapes in puffs to hang, misty, in the air.

"The theater is called 'The Odeon,'" Jack explains to me as we go, "Because it's a historic name for a place where people perform."

"That so?" I have no basis to say whether there's any truth in this, but there's absolutely no reason for Jack to lie about it. If the information is wrong, it's only because someone else misinformed him in the first place. "…How do you suppose the people in the Capitol decide what old things it is they like when there are so many they just forget about or don't bother with at all?"

He's quite candid. "I haven't the slightest idea." He shrugs as he usually does.

Some footage of a past Hunger Games is playing live on a huge screen across the street. A girl in Two's colors is smashing nuts open with the side of a machete. I get that "better those than someone's head" feeling, even though soon enough that's what it's probably going to be.

"Don't look," Jack touches my shoulder and I turn my face back toward him.

"I just noticed it out of the corner of my eye…" I'm not sure if I'm apologizing. Do I need to apologize?

"You can't, I know, but- forget about the Games." He's stopped and I've stopped too. We stand in the middle of the sidewalk just looking at one another. His green eyes look turquoise from the bluish light of the nearest eccentric streetlamp (the one before it was white and the one after it looks purple). It's like his face is glowing. He could be on a poster right now, he looks so perfect. …Or maybe it's not the perfection that the Capitol desires, but I think-

"Mags, remind me, what's the name of the place your family came from?"

"N'orleans," I reply, furrowing my brow. I'm not sure what this is about. "That's where my father's family came from. My mother's family was from Baja." Both of them are parts of North America that were swallowed by the rising sea. I've never seen Baja, but sometimes we sail over N'orleans. On a clear day, you can see the empty shells of buildings. It's an underwater graveyard.

"And nobody in the Capitol ever talks about N'orleans or Baja. …Unless they're historians, maybe."

"Jack, do you know anything like that about your family?" I try to discern where he's going with this.

"I have no idea," he grins suddenly, "But wherever they came from and whatever they spoke like or looked like, I bet they liked movies and stories and songs-" his motion directs me back into moving, "And they would've got along with your relatives and people like you."

"You assume they were like you."

"And vice versa about yours," he reaches out and gives my a shoulder a nudge.

We start laughing and that's what finally gets people looking at us as we move on past the blue light, through the purple one, and on into a sphere of gold. That's how people know us best, I guess. Whatever they think of us separately, when we're together, we laugh.

The crowd increases as we draw nearer to the shops and the theater and we begin to stand out more for the sheer plainness of our appearances. Our muted clothes in gray and white and black and brown and blue; our subdued hairstyles. "That's Jack Umber," I hear someone say off to my right, although they don't attempt to approach him.

A few yards further, as Jack directs me to look up and take in the fantastically over the top facade of The Odeon, someone says his name with the intent of getting him to look over and prove that he is indeed Jack Umber. It works. He glances to the left and waves at the people. The woman who called him giggles, sounding quite pleased by his response. "The girl is a victor too," the woman's friend with the carrot-colored hair says. I don't look anything like Shy, and not much like Luna or Sunny or Silk, so he must be deciding if I'm me or if I'm Emmy Pollack.

"Mags," he tries correctly.

"Hi," I waggle my fingers back at him and he gives his friend an "I told you so" sort of grin.

"'What're you doing tonight?'"Jack affects a funny tone of voice like someone else, meant to be someone Capitol (it's the accent), putting the question to him, "'Oh, just going out, walking around, enjoying being famous,'" he replies as a particularly flippant, humorous version of himself.

"Which movie are we going to see?"

"I don't know. I didn't decide in advance." We both gaze up at the marquee. The letters of the titles themselves are glittering. I scrutinize them carefully, but in the end they're only strings of words.

I start laughing. No wonder people expect it of me- I laugh often. Jack looks down at me. "What's so funny?"

"I haven't the slightest idea how to pick! I don't know anything about a single one of these movies!"

The smile on his face tenses wider. "Well, we could go take a look at the holo-posters, but I don't think that's what you're trying to tell me."

"Mmm-mm, no," I shake my head. "You pick."

"Hmmmmm," he drags the syllable out comically, rubbing his chin as he scans his eyes over the listings one more time. "Okay," he snaps his fingers, "I've got it."

He's so "on." I wouldn't mind if he were more subdued, but I can't complain either. I don't think this is an act. It's just what he's like. He may do and say these kinds of things to amuse people when he's on TV, but he would do and say them anyway to tease his friends and family and cheer himself up even if he weren't famous- even if he had never won the First Hunger Games.

It's so easy to like Jack.

He ushers me onward into the ticket line to stand behind a woman with brilliant blue butterflies (are they fake? they're moving. I think they're real) tied to her yellow-blond hair. The line moves slowly, but with a steady purpose. I stick my cold hands into my pockets to try and warm them. Jack blows the air out through his lips like smoke and it dances off casually into the sky.

When it's our turn at the ticket counter, Jack does all the talking, picking out the movie he's chosen and paying with a swipe of some kind of bankcard, which flashes bluish-green when it goes through.

"Enjoy yourselves," the girl behind the glass says. I wonder if she's says so because she knows who we are, or if it's just part of her job to say it to everyone who buys a ticket.

"I hope so," Jack responds.

He hands me my own ticket to hold onto. It's about the same size and shape as his bankcard, but it's made of some special kind of paper where the black parts change color as the light runs over its initially two-toned surface. There's a young man at the doors who scans our tickets when we enter and gives us such a pleasant smile that I strain to give him an equally cheerful one in reply.

"Are you going to tell me what the movie's about?" I ask Jack, "Or am I supposed to be surprised?"

"Hmm," he thinks on it, "I think I should let you be surprised."

"I hope that means it's going to be a good surprise, Jack," I tell him in the sternest tone I can manage at the moment, which would hardly be considered threatening.

"I made my best attempt when I chose," he offers. He looks to the concession counters. It's funny to see something like this that I only know from movies themselves. The only thing I've ever eaten while watching a movie before were meals that came from home. Papa would pack a dinner for us to take to the gymnasium and share while we watched. I can remember one of my teachers brought cookies once. They were lemon-flavored. "I think some popcorn would be good if you'd like to share something," Jack suggests.

It sounds wonderful. I can't imagine saying no. "Like in Nine," I remember. "It had caramel on it there."

"You're never one to forget a good meal," Jack states a gentle truth that has long since become such a deeply entrenched joke in my victor mythology that it's hard to think I'll ever shake it. But, fine, what do I care? It's the truth. "…It won't quite be a meal, but I hope that this is just as memorable."

"Everything I do with you is memorable, Jack," I say. And then I wonder if I shouldn't have said it.

Jack smiles. He smiles bright and bold and hard.

Maybe it was the right thing to say. Maybe I've just made his day (his week, his month- this is Games season after all). Jack goes up to the concessions counter and banters a bit with the salespeople about the sizes or the prices or something- I don't note the details; I'm too busy looking at him and muling things over. When Jack is really happy, he's just so…

He laughs. The popcorn he's purchased comes in a red and white bag. It's tall and practically overflowing. "Take a little!" he encourages me, fumbling to catch a few stray bits before they fall to the floor, all the while making sure not to topple over the rest of the bag.

"It's hot!" I squeak, though with that strong scent of butter wafting off of it, should I have expected anything different?

"Mind yourself," he says.

I hesitate before mindlessly wiping my sticky fingers on Jack's coat- how rude that would be- and swipe them against the side of my pants instead. Not particularly mannerly, but I don't think anyone notices. He didn't give me a napkin.

We head off the main lobby of the theater down a gradually darkening hall. It gives my eyes time to adjust before we're in the actual room we'll watch the movie in. "Can you see okay if we sit in the back?" Jack asks, "No one will notice us up there."

I don't think that many people will notice us in this minimal lighting, but Jack would know better than I in this circumstance. And my eyes are just fine. I'm not picky. I allow it.

He leads the way up to seats in the very back row and lets me go ahead of him. There's no one else in the row and I hope it stays that way as I scuttle along to as close to dead center as I can determine from a rough estimate. Jack follows along behind me. Scooting around in the dark, I begin to feel a tingling of pleasant anticipation. It seems like a long time since I've seen a movie. I've never done this with one of my victor friends. It's strangely exciting.

People chatter quietly to their companions and flick their fingers across the softly glowing screens of the various personal communication devices in favor in the Capitol these days. Some still photo ads for the newest Leinbeck-Lennox fashion line move across the screen.

Popcorn pops and clicks between Jack's (real, fake) teeth.

I grin into the protective darkness. I feel as happy as Jack looked when I talked about things being memorable with him.

He reminds me that the popcorn is for both of us (although I think he probably could and would eat all of it himself if I let him). Our fingers brush over the top of the wavy-edged paper.

The lighting changes and the amount of tiny self-brought screens I can see drops drastically as the pre-movie showings begin. The ads they show now are sharp and flashy, pitched loud and with effects that practically jump out of the screen. I don't know how they make it look like that.

In a brief moment of brightness, I notice Jack looking at me as I clench my fingers over the ends of the armrests. Special showings of the recap cuts of the Games. Haakon's blood looks like it's draining out of the projection and into the people below. I can see every freckle on Emmy's face. An arrow strikes forth and flies toward us, but that's not as disconcerting as seeing Salvador sleeping as my impromptu wake-up device for him floats toward the ground.

…I'm not sure I can stay to watch the movie after that. I feel boxed in by the blackness. I force myself to take calm breaths. The set of pre-show bits moves on to a neutral (which really means typical) propaganda piece. I try to pay more attention to it than I have ever paid attention to one of these clips before. A Mockingjay flits across one corner of the sky as a reporter speaks in front of some bombed out portion of Thirteen.

"Mags," Jack touches my arm.

I tense up.

"Look at me," he says. When his voice turns commanding like this, I'm reminded that we're not the same age. That we share a few important things in common, but Jack is eleven years older and however much stronger and more commanding then me.

I listen to him.

"Deep breath." He doesn't look mean or angry, despite the iron in his voice. "You're safe. You're here with me. You're going to be okay."

"Okay," I repeat. Maybe this is why he wanted to sit apart from the other patrons. I would guess that the theater is about half full. A couple ended up in the back row with us, but they're pushed over all the way into the farthest corner. Back home it would be a couple of more forward kids doing that and holding hands and when it went past holding hands someone's mom or a teacher would yell at them, adding unintentional humor to our viewing.

I do feel better. I feel more normal.

Jack looks like he wants to say something more, but the lingering thought never leaves his lips. Maybe he's just deciding whether or not he needs to repeat any of his reassurances or add onto them.

"I'm okay," I tell him.

He nods. He believes me. The movie begins. A green-haired girl walks through a landscape filled with snow- piled on the ground, fluttering through the air, settled on top of gray and black machinery. She's magic; she's a soldier. She meets a man who wants to help her. She says she doesn't understand what love is.

The effects are beautiful. The actors are beautiful. Somewhere along the way I forget where I am. I forget to eat more of the popcorn. There isn't anything else existing in my world for the majority of two hours. I'm riveted.

The girl falls in love. Romantic love has never looked like such a wonderful thing.

I am aquiver through the ending credits and the enchanting instrumental piece that accompanies them. My eyes remain onscreen long past the last image, wondering or yearning for more. Are there more movies like this? I have never been so moved by some fiction on a screen.

"I know it's a little cliche," Jack says, although I don't think so at all (in the Capitol is this common to the point of cliche?), "But I hope you liked it. It's based on a pretty old story."

"What did you think?" I'm not afraid to tell him my honest feelings, but I have to know.

"Overall… I'd say I loved it."

Part of me considers that he's just telling me what I want to hear when he answers because I'm not sure I would've guessed this as his opinion on my own, but I want to believe that the Jack I know is not just the laughing mask put on for the public, but the true thing, the most sincere Jack he can bear to give. It's all I want (maybe it's too much). It's for us to be real friends.

"So did I," I admit at last. The theater has cleared out aside from us.

"I thought so," he says. He means it with only kindness. "Shall we head out?"

There's nothing else to be done here, even if I want time to slow so that I can mull over the movie and my feelings toward it for a long, long time. "Okay," I agree." I arise, shaky on my feet- from emotion? -from this stretch of motionless sitting? But I don't need help from anyone. I don't stumble and Jack doesn't have to catch me.

He throws away the empty popcorn bag. We wander out of the theater, where I've forgotten how dark the sky is, how bright the lights are, and how cold the air is. I pull Jack's coat closer, wrapping my arms around myself.

"You didn't end up eating very much popcorn," he notes.

"I was too caught up in the movie."

"If that means that you're still hungry enough to eat something, I know a good place we could have some ice cream," Jack suggests, "It could just be something small."

What an appetite he has, as the one who did most of the eating. "Okay," I allow, "A small one." I'm not especially hungry, just as I wasn't before, but maybe if we walk I can work up more of an appetite on the way. I haven't tired yet of the amazing concoctions the kitchens of the Capitol have to offer. I wonder if I ever will. Some people like clothes and some like jewelry and I suppose everyone has some kind of lust that the Capitol can cater too. And I like food. I am no better than anyone else. …Neither is Jack, I guess. Everyone's human. No one is perfect.

"How far is? Will we walk?"

"You're not too cold?" he seems a bit worried about me. "…You look kind of cold."

"No, I'll get warm again when we get moving faster." I can tell he'll go along with this, even if he remains a bit skeptical. He thinks I'm going to push myself. He just wants to be nice. "You know I like to walk."

"Yeah," Jack agrees.

He pulls ahead about a step and a half. He has to go a bit before me because I don't know where we're going (a second after I think this, it occurs to me how doubly true this is- I don't know where I'm going at all, the future is a fog).

"Do you think it will snow soon?" I still don't like the cold. I can't say I like the snow. I'm not used to it. Even if the movie we just saw has left me with more of a romanticized impression of it, I can't say that I want to be walking around in it.

"It's not cold enough, so no," Jack shakes his head. He knows better than I do.

"Does it snow in One?"

"Sometimes."

He seems vague, abstracted. Then again, maybe he's just thinking of the best way to get to where we want to go. He might not usually go on foot. It's even further from his apartment than the theater. "…Do you like the snow?"

"Not especially," Jack admits without looking back at me, "It reminds me of when my mother died."

I want to know more, but at the same time, I don't want to be rude. Lots of our generation was stripped bereft of family by the war- parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, older brothers and sisters and cousins. The rebellion killed mostly adults. Now the Games cull the young. Jack was hardly the only tribute in the First Games not to have any family living to be interviewed. They didn't interview at the Final Eight then. They waited until there were four left. Only the boy from Ten, I think, had a mother. No one had a father. So I know that much. Jack's family has been dead for at least as long as we've had the Games.

"My mother died during the war," I volunteer.

Jack pauses and leans down a little so he can lower his voice and still be sure I'll hear over the sounds of idle chatter and cars whizzing off along the streets. "As a rebel?" he whispers.

"Maybe not officially, but…" I intimate. I barely have any recollections of Mama, who died in another district so that her body never came home. My memories are mainly stories from Papa that I have imagined into life. But she was beautiful, I know. She braided my hair and made my clothes and the doll I have at home that I carried for so many years.

"My father died a rebel," Jack says, "Right away. Early on. So I could live, my mother starved."

I knew when I asked that I might hear something like this. I gape anyway. "S-so," I stammer, "Are you going to get a big ice cream?"

"Yeah," he agrees and begins to move again, "A sundae. Whipped cream, chocolate, lots of sprinkles."

"You deserve it, Jack."

His hand swings back and I think about grabbing it, squeezing it tight, letting my fingers slip between his and allowing myself to be pulled along to our destination (the small destination of now, the bigger destination of who knows where) by Jack's strong grip.

In the instant I spend thinking about it, I miss my chance, though his hand will certainly swing back again. Another chance will come, but whether I would be wiser to take it or not is hard to say. I am bound to do whatever is the less wise option.

"Down this way," Jack waves for me to turn a corner. "And there it is," he points out a tiny shop strung with white and silver lights. The only person inside is a young woman in a uniform- the sole employee behind the counter. Side by side, Jack and I dart across the quiet street. A silver bell on the door jingles as Jack lets me in. Soft music is playing inside. The girl behind the counter smiles. Her tied back hair is reddish brown, a similar shade to Jack's. I imagine he knew our odds were good of being alone here.

I let Jack lead again to the counter. I look at his hands as he sets them on top of the glass covering the rainbow-like array of ice cream flavors available. He has steady hands. He has broad shoulders. You can eat snow, can't you? Even though it's nothing but frozen water. In my cruel imagination, he ate snow once and pretended it was ice cream. Now he never goes hungry. How can he bear it?

I am lost in thought and he's finished his detailed order. "And for you?" the girl is asking while at the same time, "Mags?" he prompts me.

"I…just want an ice cream cone," I fumble about, scanning all the types. If I'm having it here in the Capitol with Jack, doesn't that mean I should try something more creative than the same old vanilla we always have at home? It's hard to imagine that any kind of ice cream could be that bad, but chili pepper? Passion fruit? I don't even know what that tastes like. Whatever I buy (I let Jack buy me?), I have to eat, so it won't do to be too adventurous. "A small one," I warn the shopgirl before she picks a medium-sized cone off a stack.

Jack's hand catches my eye again as I look away from the clerk's indulgent gaze. He's pointing through the glass at a white-colored kind. They all have little handmade labels distinguishing their flavor: "white peach." I guess this is Jack's recommendation.

"Of the white peach kind," I finish my request.

"I've got it," Jack convinces me to hold off producing a method of payment. "The whole night is my treat."

The ice cream shop girl gives us a funny look that I can't decipher. Does she know who we are? Does she know something about Jack that gives this look its meaning?

"Thank you," I fret, plucking at the bottom hem of my shirt.

He pays and we go with our ice cream to a table beside the window. The shop girl goes into the back, possibly to give us some privacy. As is so often the case, I don't know, and can only wonder. My ice cream is simple. Sweet. It tastes good. I thank Jack for the suggestion and he only nods.

The sundae he customized is decadent and ornate. There are three scoops of ice cream of different flavors, swirls of whipped cream, chocolate syrup, rainbow-colored sprinkles, and candied orange slices. He picks up the long-stemmed spoon and takes a small, studied bite. I've always known that Jack had to have more to him than the laughing and joking and smiling and being a good sport because of the Games, but even knowing that, he did seem the happiest victor of all. He's always so happy with me. Now I wonder if I'm completely wrong about all that. Maybe Jack Umber is the saddest man in the world.

…And he's not talking. Has this moment been long or short? Time slips away from me. I can't decide.

"The girl in the movie," I say. I may have been distracted, but my enchantment floats about and mixes in my mind with Jack's silent pain, "I liked her green hair."

"It wouldn't look bad on you," he bursts out with an impressively large and chocolate-smudged grin. It isn't that funny. Has it occurred to him that he's let his guard down? Does he feel some need to overcompensate in return?

"No," I shake my head, although a smile can't help but come creeping up to turn the corners of my lips, "Not for me. Hers- the character's- was natural."

"Hmm." He eats a little faster.

I lick my ice cream. I want him to tell me more about what he thought about the movie, although I'm not sure I want to ask him straight out. "Why did you pick that one?" would probably be safe, but I'm still hoping he drifts to it himself. "…You said that the story the movie was based on was really old," I bait my hook and cast it further afield. "I'd never heard it before. At least not in a way that I could tell it was the same story."

"Oh, well, I read a story like it back in One." He swirls whipped cream and chocolate sauce and sprinkles around and around together with his spoon. "It might not be one of those nation-wide ones. An old local one."

"Is that why you wanted to see it?"

"Not exactly, since I didn't plan it out in advance… I just… I thought you would appreciate it."

He was right. "I did. You know." I set my free hand on the table, my fingers poking out of the long sleeve of his coat, no longer as well rolled up as it was before. "I, uh," I laugh, "I kind of identified with some of it."

"Me too," he copies my movement, placing his empty left hand on the tabletop, "…with the heroine, that is." He lets out a funny, choked kind of laugh.

"…then I'm like the hero to-" To you. I can't say it.

In the movie, the hero and the heroine are holding hands. "Oh, I love you," she says, "But you trouble me." She pushes away, letting go of his hand.

Jack makes a funny face, stretching his cheeks into an excessively wide smile while raising his eyes to the ceiling. I slide my hand over the table until the tips of our fingers touch.

Before I have time to renege on the gesture, he reaches out and takes my hand. The empty spoon is steady in his other hand. The half-eaten ice cream cone twitches in mine and no force of will steady it. Jack is a rock in a tempest and I have my father's nerves.

My lips form the same words, but only Jack says them. Are the first few understood or not part of our equation? Neither of us say anything about love, "But you trouble me."

I watch the televised presentation of Silk's big celebration in 8 on the way home. The commentators make gentle fun of Pal, who has fallen asleep in the back of one of the decorated tents. A gaggle of girls, who I would guess know Silk from her days living in the factory dormitory, hang about her and all the local people of note are seen talking to her or shaking her hand, but she still finds time to slip back off and check on Pal.

I want to say that they're like brother and sister, but I can't help but think they're not quite like an ordinary brother and sister. They can appreciate one another in ways most siblings wouldn't. They lost everyone else; then found each other.

There's a noise and Silk turns around to face whatever camera-person has followed her into the back. "Shh," she warns, not wanting them to wake Pal. The loose, cloak-like garment he's wearing is spread open over the back of the chair and Silk flips it back over against to cover Pal, tucking the corners in around him.

She pulls today's scarf off her hair- orange and blue- and wraps it around Pal's neck. She looks at him so sweetly. It's the same way he looks at her, minus the worry.

Snow drifts down on District 8 in little gusts and flurries.