Three
Mags pulls herself out from under the haze of whatever drugs they've given her and clutches my hand with all the strength she has. She's trying to say something.
I want to beg her not to die.
I don't know how to live, not without Mags guiding me.
It'd be selfish to beg her not to die, though, so I hold her hand and lean close in case I can catch the words she's trying to say.
The doctors told me her left side is partially paralyzed by the stroke. She should be able to rehabilitate that almost back to normal. They're more worried about her ability to speak.
Frustrated that I'm not understanding her, she settles on something else and uses the fingers of her right hand to trace letters on the palm of my hand.
P-R-O-U-D O-F Y-O-U
There's nothing for her to be proud of me about. That's what I'd say if she could tell me I was wrong, just like she always had. She can't, though, and it's a lot to spell out so I keep my self-doubt quietly locked away in my mind so it can eat only at me, not at her.
B-E G-O-O-D
It isn't that she thinks I'll be bad. She knows I think I am bad. She's telling me I'm wrong and that I need to remember I'm wrong, even when she's not around to tell me so.
"Mags," I sigh, pressing her hand against my face.
Since she can't trace letters on my palm as easily now, she writes her final words on my cheek.
L-O-V-E Y-O-U
I blink back tears and whisper that I love her too, more.
She smiles and shakes her head. And I know she noticed my tears because she spells out one final word, one that makes my battered spirit soar.
S-T-A-Y-I-N-G
"You better," I tell her thickly. It's time to go back to the Training Center to help Annie prepare for her interview with Caesar. I don't want to go, but I can't let Mags down. I stand up and lean over her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She's asleep before I leave the room.
Annie greets me by asking how Mags is.
I refuse to cry in front of her again, certainly not the day before she goes into the arena, so I tell her as little as possible and move on to the business at hand - preparing for her interview. "Did Calpurnia already go over how to act on stage with you already?"
She nods and sits on the purple velvet armchair by the fish tank, primly crossing her legs at the ankles and folding her hands in her lap. Her back is straight and she keeps her eyes lowered demurely. It's obvious that our district chaperone has worked with her but, for once, I don't hate what she's done. Annie is just the right mix of shy young girl and confident young woman. I can work with it because it's what she is and she won't have any trouble matching her words to that.
"What do you remember about watching Caesar Flickerman's interviews with tributes over the last couple years?" I ask her. "Is there anything you've noticed about them?"
She thinks about this for a brief moment and nods. "He always tries to make every tribute sound the best that they can, no matter if they're Careers or from District Twelve."
She's pays attention. It's a good thing. "Exactly. He does it because the audience wants to love the tributes and wants to root for them. It doesn't really matter why he does it, though. It's enough that he does. The trick is to start off with your strength and let him help you build it up."
"But what's my strength?" she says softly, making it clear she's not certain she has one. "I'm not anything special, Finnick. I think everyone knows that."
"Wrong answer." I know it sounds like I'm snapping at her, and maybe I am, but it's true. "Not only is it the wrong answer, but it is the wrong way of thinking. You cannot go into the arena thinking you're nothing special, not if you want to have any chance of coming out. You do want to have a chance of coming out, don't you?"
She looks at me for a long time before she says a word. "Are you glad you came out?"
I can't answer that question. I can't tell a tribute my answer to that question. "This isn't about me, Annie," I say instead, with no doubt in my mind that she's smart enough to figure out what I'm not saying. "You are special if for no other reason, and this is not the only reason, than that you don't think you're special. Do you think there have been any other Career tributes who weren't so cocky that they had no doubt they'd win?"
"But they haven't all won," she says.
I pace behind the matching purple sofa four times and then sit down as close to as I can, as close as Caesar will be to her. "Don't argue with me, Annie. I'm older than you, I won the Hunger Games, and I learned how to mentor from Mags. I know what I'm talking about."
She leans back in the chair, not really away from me - she looks more like she's relaxing into a conversation. It's exactly what she needs to do on stage. "I may not be the best there is but as long as I am the best I can be the end, I can live with that. Or die with that."
She ignored me and answered the question Caesar will ask, and she answered it just how I want her to answer it because it's how she should answer it. I can't change who she is, and I wouldn't want to, so I have to make her the best she can be.
Annie Cresta is a girl who needs to be able to live with herself in the end. Whether or not that means she can, or should, emerge from the arena as a victor of the Hunger Games doesn't matter a damn bit. If she's going to die, which there's a good chance she is, and if I have anything to say about, she will do it with dignity and the knowledge that she died as herself.
We spend the next few hours practicing her answers.
It's all business until Calpurnia calls us for dinner.
After Muscida and I eat with Annie and Reef, we leave them to go to bed while we go to a Mentor Meeting. There aren't any new mentors this year so no one really needs to be instructed about how to use sponsor funds, track tributes, or send parachutes. It means the meeting will be just another gathering of mentors. I'd rather sleep.
Chaff grabs my elbow as soon as I step off the elevator and steers me into a corner of the room. "You know Plutarch Heavensbee, Pretty Boy? He was the Head Gamemaker during your Games then he retired. Apparently he decided he would never do as good as he did for you."
Good for me, yeah. No. I plaster on a smile somewhere between my Capitol smile and my among-victors smile and shake the pale man's hand. "No, I don't think we've met in person. Not even on my Victory Tour, did we?"
He shakes his head and lets go of my hand. "Unfortunately, we did not. President Snow decided that since I'd already given my resignation that there wasn't a reason for me to be there. It's good to meet you now, Finnick."
"How's Mags?" Haymitch asks, appearing beside Chaff with a wine glass in his hand.
"She can't speak and her left side is partially paralyzed but the doctors say there's no reason to think she won't survive or that she'll have another one soon."
"I still have connections in the government," Plutarch says, "if she's stable enough, would you like me to see if I can arrange for her to be moved back to Four as soon as possible?"
Mags would like to be at home, I know that. But I can't exist in the Capitol without her, and she knows that. It doesn't seem too selfish to keep her close to me. "No, thank you. I think the doctors want to keep a close eye on her until the Games are over."
If he, or Chaff and Haymitch, notice my stretching of the truth none of them say a word.
And none of them say a word when I make my excuses and leave the meeting early.
I still want to sleep and it's exactly what I do when I reach my room. I've still got my shoes on and my mouth tastes like the spicy fish stew I ate for dinner but I'm asleep seconds after I mash my face into my pillow.