The sun is not shining.

No, it is glowing with a powerful radiance that melts yellow into white in a way that would give a light bulb wet dreams. And it is this little star that harshly illuminates the ocean, making the water look like it is covered in diamonds.

It is here, with his feet nested in the sand, that Finnick the child finds it most wonderful to dream.

He looks to his left, and he sees a budding beauty, still too young to be called anything more than pretty. Two of her fingers are absentmindedly twirling a broken shell. He doesn't bother to tell her to be careful; she wouldn't listen to him. Her hair grows long and the sand climbs up the bottom of each strand, and the mesh of colors reminds him of the expensive coffee his father is allowed to drink on the morning of his birthday each year.

To his right is a large rock the size of a small hill. He runs his fingers across it and he imagines all of the crabs who might have scuttled across the very place, and how many barnacles had made their home on this very big world of a rock of theirs, and how many lovebirds have lain on top of the other of their pair, taking part in this huge miracle.

"C'mon, it's time for the reaping," Annie whispers. She pulls him off the sand.