I wake up on the train. My head hurts more than normal after an excessive amount of drinking, and it takes several minutes of staring at the thread count of my pillow for it all to come back to me. I fell off the stage and hit my head, which more than explains it.

Still, better a concussion than someone getting shot. The Capitol's medicine only heals one of those things.

I leave my private compartment, searching for a bar cart in fairly short order. Remembering the fall also means coping with the reality of sending one of Burdock and Asterid's girls into the Hunger Games, and, well… I don't cope. That is to say, the past two decades at the bottom of a bottle have been my version of it. I'm not about to stop now.

Except I am stopped. There's a blond boy in the corridor who nearly slams into me when the door to the next train car slides open.

My brow furrows. He's not dressed like any of the train attendants or Avoxes at the Training Center. His clothes are a plain white shirt and some carefully mended tan slacks, a common Reaping outfit for District 12.

Ah, fuck… don't tell me…

"And who are you supposed to be?" I ask anyway.

The boy looks confused at the question. "I'm… Peeta Mellark." He's hesitant, unsure of my angle. Unfortunately for him, I don't have an angle. I'm just the drunkard victor of Twelve who missed the Reaping of his second tribute.

I brace my hand against one wall as the train rocks and my vision sways. "You don't seem sure of it, Peeta Mellark." The name feels heavy on my tongue. "Mel-lark. Y'all make the bread?"

I damn well know the Mellarks own the bakery. I still remember how the look on Otho Mellark's face when Burdock knee-capped him to safety at my Reaping, and how he pined after Asterid March from afar. We'd had bets to see if he'd say anything before she and Burdie got hitched.

I'm pretty sure the boy nods. "It might help if you eat something," he chirps, far too energetic for my head to handle right now. "With the alcohol? It'll help soak it up in your stomach."

I narrow my eyes and raise my other arm to point accusingly at the boy, but the movement makes everything start spinning, so I settle for slumping against the wall.

"I've been drinking longer than you've been alive, kid, but sure, I'll listen to your 'expertise,'" I crook my fingers into quotation marks, even though he likely can't see them at my sides. Hopefully, he's bright enough to hear my annoyance. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" I push myself back upright, giving myself a second or two to make sure I don't fall flat on my face. "I'm gonna take a nap and let this be a later problem."

I don't hear the boy speak up behind me as I go back to my room and sprawl out across the embroidered sheets. It's not the most comfortable position, but I've slept through worse.

Burdock joins his cousin Lenore Dove in my fitful rest this time. Their eyes are the same, in color, shape, and emotion. I feel small under their scorn, and then I wake up.

By the weak light shining through the train window, I can tell it's well past Effie's routine supper time despite my bleariness. Contrary to popular belief, I don't purposefully disrupt Effie's schedule because of any dislike towards her. I won't say she's a friend because all of mine are dead for a reason, but she's damn good at her job. She treats 12 with the most respect I've seen from anyone in the Capitol, and that's saying something.

That doesn't excuse her actions, but I've finally learned to pick and choose my battles.

That said, I still arm myself before this next skirmish by downing the rest of my flask before leaving my compartment. It becomes quickly clear that this was a mistake as my stomach begins to churn after my first few steps, but I force myself to continue on. I find the girl and boy with Effie in the lounge compartment, gathered in front of the television. They must've watched the Reapings without me.

I'm glad for it. I usually make one excuse or another to watch them in private. There are a lot of acts I put on in public, but not for this. This is always my last reprieve before reliving hell in front of the entire nation.

I catch the tail end of Effie's scolding when the door slides open. "…dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymtich can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

A part of me is stunned at her fierce defense. So far, I haven't made any damn difference to anyone's life other than ensuring their death, but… it's nice to hear someone thinks otherwise. Quaint even, like District 12.

I push past the threshold and approach them. It's funny how they all slightly jump at my entrance, as if the mere mention of me has caused my appearance.

"I miss supper?" I interrupt. It's worded to annoy Effie by reminding her of the diversion from her meticulous scheduling. I'm a bastard for it, but can't stop my instinctual need to put more distance between us.

Speaking has loosened the bit of control I had in clenching the muscles in my throat, however, and now there is nothing to stop my roiling stomach contents from evacuating up my esophagus and out of my mouth. I vomit all over the carpet, the exhaustion and lightheadedness that slam me afterwards causing me to topple forward into the mess.

I'll take laying in vomit over blood any day. The smell overrides any potential of my mind tricking me and thinking it's Maysilee's blood soaking me, or my own.

"So laugh away!" Effie shrieks to the kids before she dashes out of the compartment. I don't blame her. She'd cleaned me up once that day already. Twice was pushing it.

A/N: Short chapter this time to match up with THG chapter 3. A lot of the earlier chapters in the book are Katniss explaining about her life/past in District 12. Interesting to notice Haymitch actually missed the last true Reaping of District 12 in canon.