Midnight escorts us into the Justice Building, and before I know it two peacekeepers have grabbed me by either shoulder.

"Get… off… of… me," I choke out, trying to wiggle free.

"Calm down, kid," one of them shouts. Though his voice is muffled by his helmet I have no trouble making out his tone. Not a trace of kindness anywhere.

There are two rooms at the back of the Justice Building that are normally used as holding places for the tributes during the hour their loved ones can come and say goodbye. The thing is, with four tributes rather than two they've had to make a few alterations. The peacekeepers pull me down an obscure side hallway that's dark and lit by a single lightbulb. Dusty and flickering, of course, like everything else in District 12.

Just before the peacekeepers thrust me into the room, I catch a glimpse of something gold-colored. Maysilee Donner. It's a moment before I realize she's fighting back just like me, but in a different way. Maysilee stares at the peacekeepers holding her with the most poisonous gaze I've ever seen, sharper than daggers. A look that spells out a million different kinds of hatred. If someone stared at me like that I think I would piss myself on the spot.

The next two seconds pass in a blur. One of the two peacekeepers pulls away, and the one remaining practically tosses me onto a pristine yellow sofa. I land face-down on the smooth, shiny material. A loud banging sound echoes around the room, and the lock clicks.

Stomach churning, I walk to the door and turn the handle. It doesn't budge.

The first thing I notice when I turn around are the cameras. There must be at least twenty of them, though there are probably more I can't see. One in each of the four corners of the ceiling. One on top of the couch. One mounted into the coffee table.

The next thing I notice is the cookie machine in the corner. The memories flood back, and I almost feel submerged in that scene of five years ago.

I was eleven then, and we were in the middle of a unit about coal by-products. A then ten-year-old Carlo sat to my right. Valentina Silver was at the front of the class, admittedly very pretty despite how prissy and brash she could be. Then a knock came on the door and Ms. Rubina stopped in the middle of her sentence.

In District 12, knocks were never a good thing.

She called for the knocker to come in, and the school cook walked in with a plate covered in steaming hot cookies. I still remember the silence that enveloped the room then—a silence of disbelief, a silence of wonder at the heavenly display of culinary art that sat before us. The cook said something, but it was largely drowned out by the excited laugher of the kids, myself and Carlo included. I think she said it was a birthday present from Valentina's father, but it didn't matter. A line had been formed in two seconds and we ate the cookies carefully to keep from wasting a single crumb. Mine tasted like lemon.

The door burst open and somebody stumbles inside. Mom.

"Haymitch!" she shouts, her face red from tears. "You're… you're actually…"

"Yes, the Hunger Games," I say. "Let's face the good side of it all. I won't have to go to school on Monday."

"Just remember that ends always bring new beginnings," she says. "When one door closes, another door opens. Don't be…"

"I'm not afraid."

She smiles slightly. "Of course you're not. And I know you can make it home. I know it in here."

She puts her hand on her chest, and I don't mention that I'm up against 47 others who are equally pined on going home. That would just make a heavy situation even heavier.

When Mom leaves, Carlo staggers inside. Wearing the same clothes he wore at school yesterday. And the same grim expression.

"This isn't going to be easy, dude," he says.

"I know."

"Find water as soon as you can."

"I know."

"Don't trust the careers. Ever. They'll be more dangerous than ever this year."

"I know."

"And I think Maysilee likes you, by the way."

"I know."

Mr. Pick comes in next, and I can easily make out his features despite the layer of dark coal dust on his face, built up particularly deep in the crevices of age.

"Got a tribute token, son?" he asks.

"No," I say. "I never brought one to the reaping. Because I was never expecting to be…"

"Understandable," he says. "Nobody thinks it's going to happen to them. But it's important to remember that you're not getting out of this. Life dealt you a shit hand and now you'll have to play with it. I'm really sorry, Haymitch. I really am. Keep this on you while you're away."

When I see the object sitting in his open palm, my heart skips a beat. It's the locket I was going to give Esther, the locket I used to bribe that peacekeeper into letting me go.

"How did you get that?" I can hardly hear myself saying the words.

"It wasn't easy," Mr. Pick responds. "I had to give him ten whole loaves of bread and a day's wages before he handed it back to me. But I know how much it means to you and it was all worth it."

"Thanks!" I shout. The other three tributes might be able to hear me, but I don't care. "Thanks so much! Really, really, you're the best."

I tackle him in a bear hug. Like I'll die in an instant if I let go.

This man is officially my favorite in the entire universe.

"That's enough, son," he says. "I should probably be going, now."

After Mr. Pick leaves, the only person I can imagine coming to see me is Esther. I know a lot more people than just my four closest friends, but from my experience people tend to avoid the goodbyes unless the tribute is super close to them because they don't like getting any more involved with the Capitol than they have to. Which is understandable.

"Haymitch! Cutie pie!" I recognize her voice before I even see her.

"Esther. Sorry about yesterday, I was just…"

"Never mind yesterday. You're going into the freaking Hunger Games! We need one last romantic kiss!"

"I already told you, we broke up."

"You'll have plenty of time to snog that Maysilee girl in the arena. I might never see you again!"

She pulls me in for a kiss and it's hard to admit that I feel literally nothing inside. The awkwardness is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"Well, good luck!" she says as the peacekeepers pull her away. "And remember what you've got to go home to!"

No more visitors come after that. I just lie back on the couch and close my eyes, savoring the long, sweet grace note of silence.