By morning, I’ll be able to wash the damage done by the tears 

from my face. But no tears come. I’m too tired or too numb to 

cry. The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else. So I 

let the train rock me into oblivion.

Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping

rouses me. I hear Effie Trinket’s voice, calling me to rise. “Up,

up, up! It’s going to be a big, big, big day!” I try and imagine,

for a moment, what it must be like inside that woman’s head.

What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to

her at night? I have no idea.

I put the green outfit back on since it’s not really dirty, just

slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor. My

fingers trace the circle around the little gold mockingjay and I

think of the woods, and of my father, and of my mother and

Prim waking up, having to get on with things.

I slept in the elaborate braided hair my mother did for the

reaping and it doesn’t look too bad, so I just leave it up. It

doesn’t matter. We can’t be far from the Capitol now. And

once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the

opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I just hope I get one who

doesn’t think nudity is the last word in fashion.

As I enter the dining car, Effie Trinket brushes by me with a

cup of black coffee. She’s muttering obscenities under her

breath. Haymitch, his face puffy and red from the previous

day’s indulgences, is chuckling. Peeta holds a roll and looks

somewhat embarrassed.

“Sit down! Sit down!” says Haymitch, waving me over. The

moment I slide into my chair I’m served an enormous platter

of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits

in ice to keep it chilled. The basket of rolls they set before me

would keep my family going for a week. There’s an elegant

glass of orange juice. At least, I think it’s orange juice. I’ve only

even tasted an orange once, at New Year’s when my father

bought one as a special treat. A cup of coffee. My mother

adores coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only

tastes bitter and thin to me. A rich brown cup of something

I’ve never seen.

“They call it hot chocolate,” says Peeta. “It’s good.”

I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shudder

runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, I

ignore it until I’ve drained my cup. Then I stuff down every

mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount, being careful

to not overdo it on the richest stuff. One time, my mother

told me that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. And I

said, “I won’t unless I bring it home.” That shut her up.

When my stomach feels like it’s about to split open, I lean

back and take in my breakfast companions. Peeta is still eating,

breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate.

Haymitch hasn’t paid much attention to his platter, but he’s

knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning with

a clear liquid from a bottle. Judging by the fumes, it’s some

kind of spirit. I don’t know Haymitch, but I’ve seen him often

enough in the Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter

of the woman who sells white liquor. He’ll be incoherent by

the time we reach the Capitol.

I realize I detest Haymitch. No wonder the District 12 tributes

never stand a chance. It isn’t just that we’ve been underfed

and lack training. Some of our tributes have still been

strong enough to make a go of it. But we rarely get sponsors

and he’s a big part of the reason why. The rich people who

back tributes — either because they’re betting on them or

simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner — expect

someone classier than Haymitch to deal with.

“So, you’re supposed to give us advice,” I say to Haymitch.

“Here’s some advice. Stay alive,” says Haymitch, and then

bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Peeta before I remember

I’m having nothing more to do with him. I’m surprised

to see the hardness in his eyes. He generally seems so

mild.

“That’s very funny,” says Peeta. Suddenly he lashes out at

the glass in Haymitch’s hand. It shatters on the floor, sending

the bloodred liquid running toward the back of the train. “Only

not to us.”

Haymitch considers this a moment, then punches Peeta in

the jaw, knocking him from his chair. When he turns back to

reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between

his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers. I brace myself

to deflect his hit, but it doesn’t come. Instead he sits back

and squints at us.

“Well, what’s this?” says Haymitch. “Did I actually get a pair

of fighters this year?”

Peeta rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice

from under the fruit tureen. He starts to raise it to the red

mark on his jaw.

“No,” says Haymitch, stopping him. “Let the bruise show.

The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tribute

before you’ve even made it to the arena.”

“That’s against the rules,” says Peeta.