Mags knocked on the bathroom door. "Everything okay? You haven't torn your stitches?" The sound of the faucets had gone silent twenty minutes ago.

"I'm fine," said Finnick. "I'm taking a bath."

Mags paused. "I didn't know the showers had that setting." And after several decades of annual sojourns to the Capitol, she was confident she knew all the options.

"I clogged the drain," said Finnick, followed by a loud slosh, deep enough in pitch to prove that he was indeed in several inches of water. "Do I have to get out? Do I have an interview or something?"

"No," said Mags, "take your time." Finnick did have a late afternoon appointment to record some voiceovers for yet another retrospective on his games, but that was hours away, and Mags could probably postpone it further if need be. She returned to calling sponsors, trying to get them to affirmatively promise they would re-up next year. The more time passed, the more obvious it would become that Four was going to be badly handicapped in the 66th games unless they had a spectacular lone hunter ready to volunteer (they didn't). One and Two had been humiliated by Finnick's victory. They would be wary. They might not even let Four into the career pack. Luckily, the public's enthusiasm for Finnick was still at a fever pitch and sponsors were only too happy to pledge their support for Four.

Over an hour passed before Mags heard Finnick emerge from the bathroom. Judging by the noises that followed, the boy at least partially dressed and then flopped onto his bed. There was no tell-tale hitch in his breathing, but neither was it precisely the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. Mags looked over her shoulder to see that Finnick had left his bedroom door open. That was an invitation.

Finnick was lying on his belly, face turned toward the side of the bed, a sheet pulled haphazardly up to his waist. Mags sat down on the edge, close but not touching. Although she could see his face by looking down, she fixed her gaze on the wall. She waited.

"It didn't hurt," mumbled Finnick. "Don't make a big deal about it."

"I didn't expect it to hurt you physically."

"It's fine. I mean, I liked it. I got to have sex. It was good."

"Lots of things are good when you want them and bad when you don't. You wouldn't like your favorite food if I crammed it down your throat."

"Because if you forced it into my throat, I wouldn't get to taste it," said Finnick reasonably.

Mags decided to change tactics. "I suppose you'll brag to all your friends in Four."

"No, I won't," said Finnick, a bit too quickly.

"Why not? Boys haven't changed that much since I was young. It's a bit of a competition to be first and you may well have won."

"It doesn't count."

"It doesn't?"

"You brag about it because you accomplished something. Because you were cool enough to convince a girl to sleep with you. It doesn't count if you didn't, you know, do any romance."

"I think that woman was very taken with you whether you 'did any romance' or not."

"It'd be rude for me to talk about her like that."

Mags rolled her eyes. Finnick Odair was many things, but he was not prudish. "I assure you, that woman will talk about you to all her friends."

Finnick almost, almost hid his wince. "She can't do that."

"She can't be too public about it because of your age, but she can certainly tell her close associates."

"She can't do that."

"Why is it bad for her to tell?"

Mags didn't have to see Finnick's face to know he was frowning. "You know why."

"Yes, I do. But I want to make sure that you know."

"It's…against the law?"

"She broke the law, not you. Why would it bother you for her to admit to a crime?"

"Because I don't want anyone to know!" snapped Finnick.

Mags looked away to hide her pitying expression. "Why not?"

"Because…it wasn't regular sex."

"It wasn't sex at all."

"No, it was definitely sex. We did, you know, all of it."

Mags sighed. There was something very sad about the way Finnick talked about the act with all the natural awkwardness and ignorance of a fourteen-year-old. "If you're in the water, moving your arms and legs, but you didn't choose it and you don't have control, that's not swimming. It's drowning."

Now it was Finnick's turn to look away. "It felt a little like drowning."

Mags put her hand on his back.

"I don't want to do it again."

She rubbed his back in soft circles.

"Mags," whispered Finnick, voice higher-pitched than normal, "it hurt."