I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips.

We could do it, you know." "What?" "Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it.

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know me from the Hob, or knew my father, or have encountered Prim, who no one could help loving. So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

How much better my life has been for knowing him. For loving him, even if it's only in the limited way that I can manage. But I never get the chance.

Anyway, even if she's sugarcoating my good points, I appreciate it. Frankly, I could use a little sugarcoating.

When I ask Plutarch about his absence, he just shakes his head and says, "He couldnt face it." "Haymitch? Not able to face something? Wanted a day off, more likely," I say. "I think his actual words were 'I couldn't face it without a bottle,'" says Plutarch.

Five years later I still wake up screaming for him to run