A/n: Sorry for the long wait! Been struggling with writer's block and a busy schedule. Thank you so much to those who are reading and for the reviews!

I return home with my heart dragging me down like an anchor.

"What's wrong?" Mags asks at once.

I think about the way Annie smiled, the way she smoothed her fingers over the blanket, the way I smiled back.

"Nothing," I say to Mags, my throat thick. "And everything."

I think, too, about the surprised looks the doctors exchanged. What will they tell the people in their social circles? What rumors will spread? What will Snow think of them?

I toe out of my shoes and leave them by the door.

"We kept your plate in the oven," Mags says, right as I'm hanging my coat up. I hear the couch shift. "I'll get it—"

"No, don't worry about it," I tell her quickly. I don't want her tiring herself, and anyway, I'm not hungry. I walk over and sit beside her on the couch, setting my hand on her shoulder to ease her back down. "I'll get it later. I'm not hungry."

Mags scoffs at this. "Not hungry? You've got to be hungry."

"I ate at the Recovery Center," I half-lie. I didn't have my own meal, but I did pick at Annie's dinner tray with her when the doctors weren't looking, trying to help her finish it so she wouldn't get yelled at later. Those small pieces of food weigh heavily in my gut now, and I don't know if there's some special quality to them that makes them feel that way— maybe they're crafted special to encourage weight gain— or if my worry over what the doctors undoubtedly think has just made me ill. It's probably a combination of the two. Either way, if this is how Annie feels after she eats each meal, it's no wonder she finds being forced to eat an entire tray so excruciating.

"At least eat a bit," Mags implores. She doesn't accuse me of lying, but I can tell she's not buying it, either. "For your old mentor, yeah?"

I decided years ago that I wouldn't deny Mags anything wherever possible so I'm not about to break that promise now. Anyway, I think something light might be okay. I stand from the couch and shuffle into the kitchen. The plate is where Mags said, left in the warming compartment of the fancy Capitol oven, and I carefully remove it with potholders as Mags calls a question towards me.

"How's Annie?"

"Good," I answer on reflex, the memory of her smile still blanketing my thoughts. But then— as I set the plate down on the counter— I remember that good probably isn't the right word (will probably never be the right word; am I to blame for that?). "She smiled today."

Mags is quiet. She doesn't respond until I'm back at her side, picking away at the food piled high on my dinner plate.

"I can't tell you how happy that makes me," she says, and when I look at her, I can see joyful tears in her eyes.

Again, I want to protect Mags from the danger of hope. "She's still—"

"Finn. I know. But she smiled."

And then I smile. It creeps up on me. "Yeah, she did."

Mags' look is deeply fond and proud. It chokes me up for a moment. I'm not used to people being proud of me, and Mags' approval is always what I crave above all else.

"She's so lucky that you're you."

I blink. It wasn't what I was expecting. And I don't agree at all. She's not lucky that I'm me. Me being me has brought her trouble already and will continue to do so. No, if anything, I'm lucky Annie is Annie. She's always carried something I've been missing— I can see that now. Even if I can't articulate exactly what that something is.

Though later, once I've scrubbed my skin raw and crawled aching beneath my covers, it occurs to me that maybe I carry something she's been missing, too.

I wake to the shrill ringing of the phone in my room. During the actual Games, it's sometimes fellow victors. After, though, it's typically Gamemakers or Snow. I don't want to talk to either, but the last thing I want to do is enrage Snow, so I roll over and lift the receiver up.

"Hello?" I ask groggily. I sit up so the blanket pools at my waist and rub at my sleep-caked eyes. A quick glance at the clock tells me it's very early— too early for this to be a work call from the Gamemakers.

But when the person responds, it's not Snow, either.

"Do you still want to be patched through to District 4?" It's the technician from the Telecommunications Building. I lower my hand from my eyes and sit up straighter, my heart jumping.

"Yes, if you can. I do," I say. "Are they expecting my call?"

"They are. I told them it'd be within the week. I'm patching you through now. Don't disconnect."

"Okay," I say.

There's a brief fuzzy sound, then I hear a melodic tune. I wait what feels like a full minute, and then the tune is replaced by a few long, even notes. On the third such note, I hear somebody pick up.

"Hello?" Tired, hopeful. A feminine voice. I recognize it easier than I thought I would.

"Hi, Cora. This is Finnick."

I hear her breath catch in surprise. Did she not think I'd be the one calling? Maybe she expected Capitol doctors or Annora to be the one making the call. I don't know, but to me, it's obvious that I'm the only one who could. Then again, though, Cora has no idea how close her sister and I are.

"Hi," she finally manages. "Annie?"

Straight to the point; I can respect that.

"She's still at the Recovery Center," I tell her, first and foremost. It's easier to give her easy facts. Now that I've actually got her on the line, I'm not sure how to tell her the things I need to. "Her physical health has improved a good bit since the arena. She's gaining weight and the doctors don't anticipate any lifelong physical effects or complications from her time in the arena."

"Physically," Cora echoes bluntly. "And her mind? What of that?" No-nonsense, I think, after a moment of initial surprise. I can work with that.

It's against my nature, though. I've been poetic long before being forced to be that way for appearances. I dance around harsh truths, make things prettier than they are, dress up tragedies. I told such tall tales as a boy that my mother used to joke that I'd be a famous storyteller. But I know Cora won't appreciate tall tales, half-truths, or exaggerations.

"She's unstable," I force myself to say. It's true. "She can't talk to anybody but me. She has flashbacks to the arena all the time. She's…she's lost somewhere in her own mind for blocks of time, like she's zoned out and seeing something else. Not all the time, but it's hard to say when it will happen, or how long until she comes back. She gets extremely upset whenever the arena is mentioned. She's terrified of certain things…water, things that look like blood— even the color of it—and certain sounds. The Capitol doctors are trying to help get her ready for the post-Games interview, but Annie's making very slow progress."

"That's because she's there and not here," Cora snaps. "You get her here and I'll take care of her. This is ridiculous! It's been over a month since she's won— if she hasn't gotten better enough for them by now, she's not going to! Can't they just cancel the interview and the recap and send her home?"

"No. They can't— they won't. I'm sorry."

"You should be. You could get her home if you really tried. You're mythical there. You're mythical here."

She's so assertive and sure of herself that she has me feeling guilty for a moment before I remember reality. If only the world she thought we lived in was real.

"It doesn't work like that. I wish that it did. Believe me, I really do. I'm doing everything I can for your sister. I wish it was more," I admit. I don't have to feign pain. I do wish that it was more. With everything I have.

"How can I help her?" Cora begs.

You can't.

I decide to give her an illusion of control. "You can get things ready there for her. Get her room set up like her old room so it feels familiar, safe. Maybe you can plan on having her favorite meal the night she returns home. Make sure the showers work in the new house— she is scared of baths now. And make sure the bed has plenty of warm blankets," I suggest.

I can hear that she's frowning when she replies. "Annie loves baths. Annie gets hot at night."

"Maybe she did before, but not anymore," I say wearily.

Has she realized it yet?

Has she realized that I know this new version of Annie better than she does?

Is she going to resist my advice, resist my place in Annie's new life?

There are so many unanswered questions. This is the first time I've ever brought a tribute home; I don't know what happens once we're back in District 4. But I hope, no matter what it is, that it involves happiness for Annie.

"She's smiling again," I tell Cora, because I need to give her something. "Don't lose hope. She's still Annie, she's just been through something so huge that it's changed some things."

"I know she's still Annie," Cora says shortly. "I just need to know how to take care of her."

"We'll figure it out together," I say, without thinking of it. Without considering how strange that would sound to her.

"Together?" she repeats quizzically.

I ignore the heat rising to my face. "Yeah. I'm her mentor, aren't I? And we're neighbors now, too. We'll take care of her."

"I suppose so," she says, hesitant, suspicious. And why wouldn't she be? To her, I must seem the opposite of trustworthy.

I'm determined to change her mind about that.

Before we end our call, Cora begs me to tell Annie that she loves her, and Arnav crones a silly lullaby into my ear that he insists I then crone into Annie's. I'm still laughing when I hang up.

I leave of my own accord, fuck the person I'm meant to fuck today, and then head towards the Recovery Center. I'm smiling at the memory of little Arnav's lullaby— mostly just because I have a good suspicion it'll make Annie smile, too, and the thought of that makes me feel giddy— but my smile soon slips from my face.

"Hello, Finnick," Dougal greets. He leers at me from the entrance of the Recovery Center. My eyes skate from him to the dozen Peacekeepers blocking the entrance.

Dougal jerks his head to the right. "Care for a walk?"

I clench my fists at my sides, but my face remains impassive as I nod. Dougal and I walk silently for two blocks before he says a word.

"President Snow has decided it's no longer in the Capitol's best interests for you to see Annie Cresta."

I find I knew what he was going to say before he said it. There's no thrill of shock or outrage. Just familiar exhaustion.

"Why?" I ask.

"The President is worried about your unhealthy relationship with our new victor. People are beginning to gossip, and we can't have that. He also thinks you'll do more good as an incentive for Ms. Cresta. We need her talking to more people than just you. The Capitol doctors suspect you're no longer an asset to her mental health; they think you're holding her back from improving."

"And I think they're idiots," I snap.

What now? What now?

"I want to talk to Snow."

"We've been through this before, haven't we? You said 'i want to talk to Snow' and I said 'too bad'?"

Something inside me snaps. It's a fast, clean break, and before I can think of anything, I've turned abruptly into an alleyway. I walk towards the end of the alleyway, and Dougal follows me.

"Where the hell are you going?" he demands. I keep walking. "You've got other clients now that you no longer have mentoring du—"

I stop walking. My hand is on the front of Dougal's throat and his body shoved against the side of a building. His eyes are wide with shock; the yellow snakes tattooed around them seem to slither away from them towards his hairline, like they're trying to escape. I don't know what I'm doing, but I know it feels nice. I squeeze my hand tighter, tighter— Dougal's eyes are wide and reddening rapidly— tighter— he makes a satisfying gagging sound— (tighter…)

"I want to speak with Snow," I repeat quietly.

I can tell Dougal's recovered from the initial shock so I let go of him and step back before he strikes me. His eyes are watering, and his throat is already bruising where my hand was.

"And you'll see him," Dougal wheezes. Despite how raspy his voice is, I can hear the clear threat in his tone. "Right now."

I flash him an easygoing grin. "Well, that's all I wanted. You could have just said that before I went to all this trouble."

The look he gives me makes it clear he hates me more than anybody else in the world.—

"You think this is how you'll get your way?"

Snow's question is uttered with the slightest hint of amusement. He's looking at me like I'm a daft, misbehaving child he can't decide whether to strike or laugh at.

"Well, I certainly hoped it'd be that simple," I shoot back. "Wouldn't it be nice to have such a straightforward outcome for once?"

Snow leans forward at his desk. He steeples his fingers together and rests his wrists on the surface. "I won't be intimidated by you. What exactly did you hope to achieve by physically threatening my Peacekeeper?"

I gesture around myself. "This. I've asked to meet with you twice. Twice he's told me I can't."

"Peacekeeper Dougal is not in charge of my daily schedules. He has no say over who I meet with when."

"I'm aware of that. He could have told you I wanted a meeting with you, though. Aren't we supposed to be a team, President?"

Snow laughs dryly. "Oh, Finnick. We ceased being a team when you went rogue. And it's that same reckless desperation that is keeping you from seeing Ms. Cresta now."

We ceased being a team the moment I realized victors were nothing but slaves to him. But this is not the right argument to have right now.

"I thought we were helping each other when it came to her," I say instead, calmly, even though my heart is pounding and the stakes have never felt higher. "I've been seeing every one of my buyers without fail. What's the problem?"

"The problem is the rumor spreading about you and your attachment to Ms. Cresta. The problem is that she's still no closer to being ready for the post-Games events than she was before. It's been weeks and she still won't answer the simplest of questions from anybody but you, and as we've already discussed, that doesn't help us."

Calm. Calm. I already had my moment of temperamental recklessness. I won't gain anything from Snow by acting that way now.

"And what exactly will barring me from her achieve?" I challenge.

"Oh, it serves many purposes. I don't do things just to do them, Mr. Odair. By keeping you apart, I'm first and foremost giving Ms. Cresta quite the massive incentive. We've told her she can see you again once she's deemed 'ready' for her interviews— that means talking coherently to anyone who speaks to her, acting semi-sane, and finding some shred of the delightful girl she was in her first interview. Secondly, it keeps you away from her. Haven't had time for any light reading lately, Finnick?"

His question confuses me. Until he slides a Capitol tabloid across the surface of the desk. I stare at my own photo. It's nighttime, I'm coming out of the Recovery Center, disheveled and exhausted. The headline of the article reads FINNICK'S FREQUENT VISITS: IS THERE SOMETHING BETWEEN FINNICK ODAIR AND NEW VICTOR ANNIE CRESTA?

I push the tabloid away.

"All mentors visit their tributes."

"All mentors don't spend hours at a time with them every single day. All mentors don't yell at the Capitol doctors, cuddle under the covers with the tribute, give them charming little mementos from home."

I wonder which doctor told Snow about the blanket. Or maybe he's got surveillance set up in the room.

"So?"

"So, as I've told you before, these kinds of rumors are unacceptable. Some time away from Ms. Cresta and quite a few public outings with some of the Capitol's most charming bachelorettes should help dispel them."

The thought of going back to the way things were before— never seeing Annie, not knowing how she's doing, being forced into more beds per day that I can physically stand— fills me with a despair so deep I think to myself that maybe I feel nothing at all.

"And how does that help with Annie?" I ask flatly.

"It gives her something to work towards, something to fight for."

"It's not like that. It's not that simple. It's not like she's choosing to be like this…it's not as if you can threaten and intimidate her into just returning to the way she was before—"

"Isn't it, though?" Snow counters. "She chose every day to talk to you."

"I— that's different!"

"How so?"

"It's…we're…I understand her better than your doctors do. They're awful to her: cruel, dismissive, mocking—"

"And so she's chosen not to speak to them for those reasons. Chosen. I'm not an idiot; I know everything isn't in that poor mad girl's control. But some things are. And allowing you to see her has only reaped benefits for you, not for the Capitol. However, I am not cruel, Mr. Odair. I will be glad to allow you back into the Recovery Center to see her as soon as she's functioning well enough for the Final Interview, and as soon as we quell the worries of your prospective lovers."

I can sense a foreboding sense of ultimatum in his words. It's clear to me as I look back at his cold eyes that I have two choices: do this his way or start a war.

Is that what I want? Do I want a war?

Most days, I think the answer would be yes. Most days— particularly after I've left the bed of yet another person who has purchased me like I'm nothing more than a commodity to be bought and passed from hand to hand— the answer is a resounding yes. Most days, I'm filled with a slow-festering rage that would like nothing more than to get into a war with the intention of letting it take me.

But now? At the expense of Annie Cresta? I'm not so sure. Any war I start now will affect her. What does Annie need? Certainly not what the Capitol doctors think she does. She needs home. She needs salty air, the loving embraces of her family members, space to breathe and heal. She needs understanding, the kind fellow victors bring. How can I get her these things? How can I keep her safe, help make her happy? By fighting with Snow? Or by complying with him?

He's never given me anything but misery before. But waging wars against his plans has given me plenty of misery, too.

I think he can see the dilemma in my eyes. His smile is slow and ominous.

"Conflicted?" he asks lightly. I don't respond. I watch as he touches the rose on his lapel, adjusting it slightly. He looks back up a few moments later. "Let me provide some guidance. You can do as I say for the good of Panem or you can act as foolishly and recklessly as you did today and suffer the consequences. Mags— dear Ms. Flanagan— is in quite a delicate place with her recent health problems. I should hate for her to have an accident. And Annie, poor Ms. Cresta, I should hate to think of how confused and hurt she'd be if you never saw her ever again. She's quite disposable, too, you know. Oh, we hate to see victors perish, but I think Ms. Cresta will end up being quite forgettable. The Capitol would recover." Snow leans back in his chair. He steeples his fingers and rests his hands atop his stomach. He arches a snowy eyebrow slowly, pointedly. "Could you?"

Mags and Annie. Mags and Annie. The only things I have left. The only bargaining chips he has. The only family I have. Is this what the rest of my life will be like? Watching Snow dangle them above my head?

There's no other answer to give. He's got me cornered again. And again. And again. Over and over without cessation. I'll die cornered, hunted, out of options, out of choices. Best to go ahead and accept that and get on with it.

"How long do you anticipate it'll be until I can see her again?" I ask tonelessly.

He smiles coldly. "Oh, that's entirely up to the both of you. How quickly can you dispel these Capitol rumors? How quickly can she turn her behavior around? From what I've observed, and what I've heard, I think it will be much sooner than we both think."

I think he's speaking of my ability to sway the press and Annie's ability to heal up until the moment I'm escorted out of his meeting room. As I'm driven back to the Training Center, I realize he was speaking of our mutual desire to see each other. He thinks that incentive will be strong enough to drive both of us to extremes.

And as I feel the way my own heart is pounding, my stomach twisting in knots, my fists clenched at my sides, I feel inclined to agree with him.

I don't know whether I'm comforted by that or frightened.

Step by step by
stumble
I slip and I watch it
crumble

is this what I built up?
crafted and swept up?
is this what it is to be
humble?

Sea green sea
honey-sweet glee
have I ever lived
un-jumbled?

I don't know what to do
there's no poetry in that
no shiny words of diplomats
I have never been whole

What would it feel like to be cohesive?
Full, alive, a piece of
home?

I say I'm of the sea
you and me and we
but I could lay under stones
let it crush my bones
feel myself turn into sand of every tone
and I still wouldn't be at peace

give me the grace to carry this
give me the grace to carry this
give me the strength to carry this

I have never been given anything.

Days pass slowly when you're waiting for something. It's a purgatory of its own kind. As backwards as it is, in the days that pass I think if I didn't have a goal I would have surely gone mad. Snow's task to assuage the Capitol audience's concerns about my interest in Annie keeps me busy. I feel as if I'm being shoved from hand to hand all day; there's little time to sit and dwell and worry about Annie.

But at night, once I've been allowed to return home, all I can do is worry. They aren't letting Mags see her, either, so I have absolutely no news, no updates. I pace, I tie knot after knot, I write until my hand aches. I sleep very little.

"I'm so glad you agreed to meet with me, Finnick. I've been hoping to speak to you my entire career," the reporter gushes.

I smile broadly. Reach across the table, take her hand in mine. She's only a couple years older than me— young by Capitol standards— and her periwinkle skin turns an interesting shade of boysenberry when she blushes.

"Thank you for meeting with me, honey," I say lowly. "I've been wanting to speak with the press, but I find many of them so…" I trail off, leaving her space to fill it so that I won't be mis-quoted.

"Intimidating?"

I smile. I squeeze her hand gently; she leans so far into the table that I think she's probably going to bruise her stomach.

"I wanted to speak with you about some things the Capitol Crusader has been printing about me and the new victor," I tell her.

She scoffs at once. "The Capitol Crusader is crooked!" She smiles to herself a moment later. "Hmm, that would make a nice headline…Crooked Capitol Crusader Corrupts Confessions…"

I smile warmly at her. "I do think there's a story to tell there. I adore that."

She blushes again, jam-colored and immediate.

"So the Capitol Crusader got it wrong? Your relationship with Annie Cresta?"

I twist my expression into something between disgust and pity. "Oh, I'm afraid so. It made me sick to read. It's unfair to our new victor, and it's unfair to me. Is that how the Capitol sees me? A womanizing creep who would take advantage of a damaged girl? The speculations…it breaks my heart to see them twisting something like that and deceiving the wonderful citizens of the Capitol. I'd like to set the record straight, and then I would love to speak with you about the recent Benefit Ball I attended with Mulberry Prickett."

The reporter's eyes are sparkling. She perks up. "Mulberry Prickett of Prickett Cosmetics?"

I grin cockily. "The very same. First, though, may I speak candidly with you about our new victor?"

She's practically squirming with excitement. "Of course."

"Thank you," I tell her sincerely. I want to drop my eyes from hers, but I know better. Lying well involves transparency. "Annie Cresta is the first tribute I've ever brought home. I feel incredibly proud as a citizen of District 4 to have played a part in returning her home to our community, but I also feel a certain level of guilt, too."

She nods slowly. "Because she's gone insane."

"I can think of many moments where I could have been a better mentor. I'm learning every year— I'm relatively new at this mentoring thing; we can't all be experts like Mags— and I anticipate next year I'll do a better job. But right now, my duty for the Capitol and for my district is to be the best mentor I can be. That's all I've been doing. There's nothing romantic about it, nothing inappropriate: I've simply been checking in on my tribute, helping to prepare her for the Final Interview, and doing my very best to help her. Unfortunately, because she's such a tragic case, it's taking much more time than other cases might. But I'm willing to do whatever it takes to help the Capitol and my district."

I know I've achieved the tone I was going for when I see tears spring up in the reporter's eyes.

"Oh, Finnick," she says, setting her hand over her heart. "How awful of the Capitol Crusader to twist it into something else. You're only trying to take care of that poor mad girl! As any good mentor would!"

I sigh and turn to look pensively out the window.

"We'll set the public straight. Don't you worry," she promises me passionately. Her hand sets on mine once more. "Now, you mentioned Mulberry Prickett…?"

Libra Dowridge can gossip about anything, but her gossip is nearly always true. For years, she has been a wonderful source of secrets; I've found out many strange things about the Capitol elite, particularly those who work around Snow, and I find those secrets— in a very small way— make up for her and her husband's strange sexual appetites.

The secret she gives me tonight, whispered over stained silk, is not one I'm expecting at all.

"Did you know," she begins as she always does, her lips curving up into a smile, her sharp-nailed hand scratching painfully up my spine, "that the new victor vomited all over President Snow yesterday?"

As far as secrets go, it's undignified. But Libra and her husband burst into laughter on either side of me. It's clear they're darkly humored by the mental image, and for someone like me, who genuinely does despise Snow, it should be humorous. But when I'm so far away from Annie with no real way to make sure she's okay, it's not funny at all. All I can think is what was he doing there? What did he do to her? What happened to her?

"I didn't know that," I tell Libra honestly. "What happened?"

"Well," she says, "Not much. She is mad, after all. Frankly, you couldn't get me within twenty feet of her!"

Finishing with them is its own type of hell.

I'm having lunch with Mags while my prep team flitters around me nonstop when I receive the call.

I take the offered phone from an Avox. My prep team moves the brushes and combs back from my hair so I can hold the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Finnick," Snow greets. My stomach churns. "We had an agreement, and you have fulfilled your side of it. I'm calling to inform you that Ms. Cresta has fulfilled hers. You will be permitted into the Recovery Center from this point on. The Final Interview will take place tomorrow. In light of recommendations by the team of psychologists working on Annie's case, the Gamemakers and I have decided to permit Annie to miss the Victory Banquet. They feel it will be too much stress for her on top of everything else. The Final Interview and Recap are, however, still mandatory, though Caesar has agreed to do the interview portion first before the replay. Do your best to help Ms. Cresta prepare in what time remains."

I don't trust it for a moment. I stare forward as the words bounce around my head.

"I can go there now?" I ask.

"Yes. I told you before: I'm a man of my word."

I don't trust him in the slightest, but I'm not going to second-guess anything. I end the call, rise at once, and look over at Mags.

"I'm going to see Annie," I tell her.

She smiles.

The hordes of Peacekeepers are absent from the front of the Recovery Center. It's as if they were never there. I'm allowed in without a single word, escorted directly to the hall outside of Annie's room, and then I'm left alone, not a Peacekeeper in sight.

The hall is quiet. The constant chatter of doctors and Peacekeepers is eerily missing, but I find I don't long for it at all. Annie's door is closed, but that won't stop me. As I approach it, I spot a clear bag labeled PERSONAL BELONGINGS sitting on a metal cart pushed against the wall beside Annie's door. The blue of my— her— blanket is easy to see. I frown. I turn to demand why it was taken from her, but there's nobody to ask. I reach into the bag and remove it, tossing it over my arm, and then I open her door. Everybody in the room looks up as I step in. I spare a few seconds to look at the doctors near the end of Annie's bed.

"Snow says you can leave while I'm here now," I lie easily.

A few of them buy it and a few don't, but they shuffle from the room anyway, leaving Annie and I alone. The way it should be. The way I prefer it. As soon as the door shuts after them, the pressure in my chest unwinds, and I can't help but let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"Did he really? Snow?" she asks me.

I walk over and perch carefully on the edge of the bed. I won't get any closer without permission, but just being this close— close enough to see that she's unmarked and coherent— is enough.

"Nope," I tell her. My eyes study her face, sweeping from her smooth forehead to her delicate chin, and then I study what I can see of her elegant neck and shoulders, searching for evidence that she was mishandled or punished for what Libra told me happened yesterday. I see nothing, though. No indication that anything bad came of it. And as soon as I know that, I feel laughter bubbling up inside of me. I look into her soft eyes and I try to imagine Snow's face when she vomited all over him. I wish I could have seen it.

"The real question, my dear Annie, is whether or not it's true that you threw up all over President Snow," I ask, my lips twitching against laughter.

She shakes a bit, and I don't know if it's from being cold or just from the memory of being so close to somebody as horrid as Snow, but I shake the blanket out and tuck it over her anyway. She meets my eyes as soon as I set my hands back in my lap.

"Where did you hear that from?" she wonders. She plays with the soft edges of the blanket, rubbing it mindlessly between her fingers as she studies my eyes and waits. I'm thinking about Libra and her husband and trying to figure out how to explain that to Annie while my stomach churns like a sea-tossed sailboat at the memory, and in my silence, Annie must assume she wasn't clear enough. She backtracks. "I mean who did you hear that from?"

I knew what she meant the first time. I just wasn't sure how to answer it. I can't burden her with this. I can't burden her with anything more.

"Oh, I hear things," I settle with, purposefully remaining vague. "So is it true?"

I hope it's true. I hope he got vomited on. It's probably the only act of revenge Annie will ever be able to make against him, the only one any victor will, and I wish I'd been here to see it.

Annie's so quiet for a few moments that I think she might be sinking back into her own head, but when I look at her, I see something that sends a shock from the pit of my stomach to my toes. Her smile. And a moment later, her laughter permeates the air, light and carefree. As soon as I hear that, my own laughter bursts from me as if it was just waiting for her approval. We laugh together, and laugh, and laugh. I keep imagining Snow making an undignified squeal akin to one of a fat white pig and I can't stop cackling.

It's hilarious until it's not. It's hilarious until I remember what a small act of revenge that really is when one considers all he things he's done to us, to the victors. It's hilarious until I remember that yes, he may have been puked on, but I'm defiled, raped, and abused multiple times a day every time I'm in the Capitol, and there's nothing I can do about that at all.

Around the time I feel my eyes burning, I hear Annie's peals of laughter turn into quiet sobs, and it doesn't throw me at all. Like always, I'm right there with her, riding along the same shift of emotion that she is. She presses her hands over her ears as her laughter gives way to sobbing, and when I reach out and rub her back, I feel as if I could cry with her.

"It's too much, it's too much, it's too much," she whispers, over and over. And a few seconds later, her mind snaps away to wherever it goes for respite. I drop my hand from her back and sit beside her and wait. I press my hands over my own eyes until the tears dry up. If I started crying now, I don't think I would ever stop.

She's gone a while, but I don't try to drag her back. If I could run away, I would, too. Instead, I lean back against the headboard and set my notebook in my lap and write about where I think she goes when she goes away. I imagine she goes home.

Her hand bumps against mine as she returns back to our horrible world. I turn to look at her and watch as her eyes grow sharper, more alert. I can't help but smile. Here is not a good place to be, but I'm here. And if she's with me, I don't miss her.

"Here to stay for a while?" I ask her.

Her eyes lock on mine. They're red-rimmed and swollen, but her soft smile is still breathtaking despite.

"If you are," she says, almost shyly. I have to smile back at that. Of course I am. Of course.

"He'd have to drag me away," I tell her honestly. I know I'm risking her slipping away again by asking my next question, but it's important to know. "What did he want, Annie? Snow. Do you remember what he talked to you about?"

She frowns at once. Her eyes drop from mine as she looks down at the blanket in her lap. She smooths it nervously over her legs.

"He was telling me why I couldn't see you anymore. He said we were unhealthy for each other. But it doesn't make sense, Finnick, because everything is unhealthy."

I'm not following that comment— and I am. I feel it in my heart even if I couldn't explain it to anyone else. She's right. Everything is unhealthy. Everything about this life is corrupt.

"What else did he say?" I press gently.

She keeps smoothing that blanket over and over. I think it must calm her. I hope it reminds her of home, of the sea. "He told me…he said I was distracting you from your responsibilities."

I bite nervously at my lower lip for a few moments before I even realize I'm doing it. I stop, knowing my prep team will light into me over the damage.

"Don't you worry about that," I tell her firmly. She doesn't need to worry about me and my responsibilities. That's my job.

"He told me I was putting the Capitol out. He said…he said if I didn't do what the Capitol wanted that they couldn't support me and I would disappear, me and my loved ones, or maybe me or my loved ones, I can't remember exactly what he said. He was saying things but he wasn't really saying them."

I think of Arnav's chubby cheeks, her sister's dark, focused eyes. "He's good at doing that."

"Finnick?"

I glance back at her. "Hm?"

Her eyes study mine again. She looks worried, confused. "What does Snow mean?"

I think about telling her the truth. I think about telling her that he's threatening to kill her family or her or maybe both if she doesn't bend to his will exactly the way he wants. But again, I can't burden her with that. Maybe that was a mistake.

I intertwine our hands and I say: "It doesn't matter because it will never happen."

I've been wrong many times in my life, but few haunt me as much as that moment does.

She pulls promises from me as easily as she can pull smiles.

"You will be okay, Annie," I tell her softly, the words easy and immediate. I believe them when I say them, but I don't know why or how. I guess I just know that I'm going to do whatever it takes to make it happen. At the end of the day, I guess I still believe in myself. "I promise. I knew from the moment I talked to you that you were wonderful, and you still are." So few people are. So few. I can't think of any right now looking at her and her ocean eyes. Who else in this entire world is wonderful? Who could possibly be like her? "You're the best friend I have, you're the purest soul I know, and you give me hope."

It's the most honest I've been in years. It's the type of honest that's so deep and raw that the words seem to pull from somewhere deep inside my chest, some secret place I wasn't aware of.

When I finish speaking, my hands are trembling. And every time I think of those words or the way they made me feel in the days following, I can't help but shake in fright.

I can't fear what I can't lose
is that why I'm afraid?
What if I've come this far
only to watch it fade?

If we're the same
that means I'm like you and you're like me
if we're the same
how can I protect you from what I became?

I stop writing as Mags leans over to pass me my cup of tea. She casts a curious look over the notebook, but she doesn't question it when I shut it.

"What are you writing about?" she asks curiously.

"I don't know," I evade.

She asks another question as she stirs honey into her tea. "Annie?"

Her voice is light, hopeful. It makes the back of my neck burn.

"No. I mean— just friends."

She looks up at me. "You're writing about friends?"

"Friendship," I say. I dump three sugarcubes into my coffee. I think about the half-lie I've told. I look up at her. "I've never had a friend before," I tell Mags.

Mags frowns at me.

"Of course you have, Finnick. Your friends before your Games still count."

"No they don't," I say at once. I mean that. Those friends might as well have been friends with another person entirely. I'm not that Finnick and I haven't been that Finnick for five years now. They weren't my friends.

"I'm not your friend?" she asks, her voice teasing.

"You're my family," I answer.

"Haymitch isn't your friend? The other victors aren't your friends?"

"They're my allies."

"Hmm," she comments. It's the same tone she takes on whenever she wants to say something but won't. I sip at my tea as she sips at hers, an odd smile on her face.

"What?" I finally demand. It's odd to have my mentor keeping something from me. If ever there were a pair on earth that complete transparency is expected, it's mentors and tributes. Victors and victors.

"I think you're using the word 'friend' to stand in for something else. Maybe you don't even know what yet."

Her words make me feel worried, insecure. Uncertain. I don't like it. I look down at the murky surface of my tea and struggle against the feelings of panic and self-loathing rising within me.

"It's not like that, Mags. You know that, right?" I finally ask.

"I know you think that. I'm content with whatever it's like as long as you two are happy."

Happy. Given the overall circumstances, it should seem like such a ludicrous word, such a ludicrous concept. But I think of her smile. And it doesn't.

Snow doesn't give me any names the following day. Instead, Mags and I are instructed to meet with Annie's prep team, Annora— who has made herself so scarce since Annie was pulled from the arena that I've only seen her twice— and her stylist. Mags and I sit at a table laden with food we hardly touch and pore over the stylist's color palettes, Mauve's dress choices for tonight, and Annora's ideas on 'presentation'. We double and triple check everything from Annie's nail polish color to the way Annora wants her to shake Caesar's hand. When we feel like everything is prepared as well as it possibly can be, we leave as a group and head to the Recovery Center to begin preparing Annie for tonight.

She's quiet and trembling for most of Annora's coaching session. I know she misses at least half of what Annora says. I set my arm over her shoulders and walk her to the bathroom where her prep team and stylist are waiting to dress her up for tonight. She clings to my hand as I go to step away.

"Finnick—"

"They won't," I assure her, already understanding the fear churning in her green eyes. "No baths. I promise. I talked to Mauve and explained everything. No baths."

She relaxes. Her fingers squeeze mine softly.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

"It's going to be just fine," I tell her for what must be the hundredth time. I force a smile. "Have fun. I'll be out here waiting."

She glances back over her shoulder into the steamy bathroom. They've already got the shower running.

"Promise?" Annie asks.

"Swear."

I mean it and I stand by that. I sit in a chair outside the bathroom door for over an hour, listening to the prep team chattering, Mauve's forced, stilted conversation with Annie, the occasional knocking of glass perfume bottles against the granite counters or the capping and uncapping of lipstick tubes. I'm dozing off with my head against Mags' shoulder when the door clicks open. I look up to see Annie in the doorway in a satin dressing gown, her hair still unmade, her skin polished and shaded, her eyes defined and sparkling, her nails filed and polished. When I beam at her, she smiles back.

"Okay?" Mauve checks.

I nod. Her lip color is pretty and subdued. Her eyeshadow is light and shimmery. They aren't flaunting her or turning her into a spectacle. They've made her pretty, lovely, but unthreatening and unassuming. It's all I could hope for.

"Perfect," I answer.

"Good. Now shoo," Mauve orders. "It's not proper for you to be in a young woman's dressing room, and we're moving out here to dress her."

I obey because Mauve is correct— it isn't appropriate for me to be in the room while they dress Annie— though I have to admit it feels a bit ridiculous that I think that. After all I've seen her go through, why would it be so strange to see her in her undergarments? I don't know, but it would be. It feels wrong, wrong enough that I feel heat spread across my face at the mere idea. I vow to keep that to myself, though.

Mags and I head towards a meeting room down the hall. We take advantage of the time we must wait for Annie by calling the Gamemakers and Caesar to make sure everybody is up to date and prepared for tonight. Mags deals with the logistics, the scheduling, the things Annora would normally be handling if she hadn't checked out as soon as Annie showed any signs of mental illness within that arena. I deal with making sure Caesar and his crew know what to expect tonight. Don't push her if she covers her ears, I tell Caesar. It means you've pushed her too far. Just leave her be.

We're on our way back to Annie's room to check on her progress when I hear a doctor calling my name. They so rarely speak to me that it gets my attention immediately. One comes out of Annie's room, makes a beeline for me, and says: "Annie's upset."

Neither Mags nor I point out that he's the mental health specialist. It seems to be understood by everybody that Annie and I understand each other better than these doctors could ever understand her. My heart drops and I step past him and hurry into the room at once, not thinking about anything but making sure she's okay. When I enter, she's curled up on the floor in a slip, her arms over her head, gasping. I go to rush over to her, but the amount of skin exposed stops me out of fear of crossing some sort of line and making her uncomfortable.

"What's happened?" I ask instead, turning to face Mauve.

Mauve's holding a red polka-dotted dress. "I don't know…I pulled this out and she just…she got very upset."

Mauve's hands are trembling. She's clearly beyond uncomfortable being this close to Annie while she's so hysterical. I look between Annie and the dress, and after a brief moment of puzzlement, I think I know what set her off. The red dress. Blood-red. The large white circles. To Annie, maybe that reminded her of Chiron's mangled neck, the stump that was left behind, the white of bone, the red of blood and muscle.

I feel immensely guilty. I saw a tiny photo of this dress earlier today when Mauve gave me the choices to look over, but from so far away, it never occurred to me that it could remind Annie of that.

"The dress is no good. The red and the white circles— it's not going to work. Did you bring the other designs?"

"I— yes, of course, but what's wrong with this one?"

"I think it reminds her of something. Show me the others," I request.

I feel guilty, too, for not crouching down and taking Annie into my arms. But I'm afraid to touch her when she's undressed. I don't know what it means— maybe it's just as simple as not wanting to upset her— but I know the thought makes my heart jolt and my neck burn.

Instead, I carefully looking through the dresses hanging up in the portable wardrobe Mauve brought along. I remove each hanger from the rack and hold the dress out in front of me, inspecting it from the neckline to the hem, making sure it won't upset Annie again.

"This one," I murmur to Mauve. I hold up the white, glittery dress. It seems to emit a soft, gentle version of every color of the rainbow: lavenders, periwinkles, rose pinks, spring greens, yellow-oranges, raspberry reds. It's innocuous. It's soft. And the full skirt is long and concealing.

"Okay," Mauve agrees. She frowns. "I'll need to redo her makeup to complement the new color scheme of this dress, though."

"No. It's fine. She's going to look fine. We don't have time for all that."

I walk over and lean over long enough to set my hand gently on Annie's shoulder. "We've got a different dress," I tell her.

She's still trembling. It's almost like she can't hear my words. I ignore the way my heart is pounding and move to sit beside her on the floor, unsure of what to say or do but needing to help her. She surprises me when she turns and leans into me, her face pressing against my neck. Her tears are hot and wet against my skin. I feel my heart lodge itself in my throat.

"I'm sorry," she weeps.

I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around her and hold her, but I'm scared, and I know then what I'm afraid of. I'm scared that I'll like it. I'm scared that I'll feel that thing I felt again before her Games, when I touched her neck. I'm scared. I can't be like that. I can't.

So I take her hand in mine and help pull her to her feet instead. I squeeze her hand gently.

"You aren't the one who should be sorry, Annie," I say, hating myself, and the reasons for that go on and on.

She looks at me and shakes her head firmly. As if to say you've got nothing to be sorry for. But don't I?

Mags helps Annie into her dress because Mauve and her prep team are still looking at her like she might go mad and strangle them at any moment. I turn my back to them politely while Annie and Mags chat. Their quiet voices, the soft rustle of Annie's full skirt, and the quiet drag of the zipper are oddly soothing.

"Done," Mags tells me.

I turn around. My heart does that weird thing again where it feels as if it's turned into liquid. Gushing, warm.

"You can tell it's a winner from that smile," Mags whispers to Annie.

I hadn't realized I was smiling until that comment, and I try to force the smile off my face, but it's difficult. It doesn't matter anyway; a second later, Annie smiles shyly, and I can only smile wider.

"You look lovely," I tell her.

I get the suspicion she doesn't give a shit about how she looks going by her indifferent reaction to the mirror when Mauve moves her in front of it, but I'm spellbound. Every time she moves, she glows.

I feel so strongly about Annie's loveliness that I react aggressively towards any negative comments I hear from the people sitting around me.

"They've drowned her in fabric," a photographer comments snidely to the reporter sitting beside him.

I turn and look at him. I don't know what my expression shows. But he quickly looks away from me and shifts closer to the reporter in response.

Annie looks remarkably composed on stage, shimmering and patient as Caesar begins the interview with his typical spiel to the audience. His first comment to her is a compliment on her dress, one Annie only seems to halfway hear. After a long moment, it seems to register, and she thanks him politely. I wonder what she's thinking so intently of that it blocks out Caesar's words.

"It's no problem at all, Annie. Are you feeling better?" Caesar asks gently. This is clearly his way of addressing the elephant in the room— Annie's madness— without putting her on the spot more than she already is. But it's an odd question for Annie. It's an odd question for me. I wouldn't know how to answer that, either. Better? In comparison to what?

"I don't know," Annie finally tells him.

He smiles quickly. "Well, that's perfectly okay," he allows. He doesn't seem to know where to take it after that. It's clear that this is Caesar out of his element for the first time in a long while, maybe ever. How do you interview someone everybody takes to be mad?

He settles on generic questions. "How do you feel about being the victor?"

She winces. Her eyes rove over the audience members, settling finally on me for a heavy moment. She seems to have a difficult time breaking our glance, and when she finally does, it's to look back at Caesar and attempt to give him some sort of answer.

"It feels…" she begins. She trails off for one minute, two, three. Finally, she says: "I'm being punished for something. Like I am."

I wince internally. I glance towards the end of the row; Mags and I exchange a worried look. But Caesar was prepared for this moment; he knew things might not go well, that she might say something he'd have to gloss over. He has a small remote in his pocket, ready to cue the start of the replay as soon as it's necessary, and he deems it necessary then. It does what he intended, anyway: it gets the focus off Annie's comment— one that would seem so odd that it's the very definition of mad to the Capitol citizens who see winning the Games as the ultimate reward— and it gets the focus back on the brutality of the Games.

It's what the audience needed, what the Capitol felt all of Panem needed, but it's not what Annie needed. I watch her wither from the first few moments that play. And I'm so focused on watching Annie that I hardly register her Games at all. Annie folds in on herself and clamps her hands over her ears when Twine begins yelling at her to stitch Kaya's leg up, and she doesn't remove her hands after that.

She bites through her lip around the time she and Chiron find each other. I watch the blood soak her lips. It makes me feel sick. I want to rise and hurry to her, to press a cloth to her lips, to stop this never-ending cycle of injury. But I can't. I can't. I can't—

When Chiron and Osmium begin fighting, Chiron's death only seconds away, Annie trembles so hard she falls from her chair. She's hysterical, upset— she takes off running and tries to leave the stage, but a Peacekeeper forces her back on, and she's looking around herself wildly, panicked, her hands pressed over her ears like she wants to press them right into her own brain and I— I can't. Can't stand it anymore, that is.

I leap up onto the stage and hurry over to Annie. She's so hysterical I doubt she even knows I'm there. In the pandemonium, I act on pure instinct, and I reach my arms beneath her and sweep her up into my arms. After that, I yell and shove my way through the Peacekeepers, and nobody stops me.

Not one person.

That should have been my first warning.

Watching her shatter and retreat into herself again is more painful than I imagined it'd be. I'm wracked with guilt and pain the entire journey to the train. Again, I expect to be stopped, yelled at, punished somehow by Snow. But my punishment comes later. We're let onto the train without any argument at all. I carry Annie straight to the bedroom she had on the journey here. She's so locked in her own mind that I doubt she even knows where we are.

"We're going home," I remind her quietly. It sounds like I'm begging, though I'm not sure what I'm begging for. A respite from my own guilt? A respite from her suffering? "We're almost home, Annie."

She doesn't answer because she can't answer because she's not here. She's tucked into some recess of her mind, unreachable and untouchable, hiding from the trauma of what she saw and just had to see once more. And I don't want to pull her out. For once, I want her to stay right where she is. It's got to be better there. Who would I be to take that from her?

I help her down on top of her bed, pull the beaded hair tie from her hair so it falls out of its restrictive bun, brush my fingers quickly through it so it lays in soft waves around her face. She stares forward unseeingly as I pick up that blue blanket from her small pile of belongings on the nightstand that the Avoxes brought in and drape it over her.

We'll have to pay for what I did. The weight of that knowledge weighs heavily on my heart because I have no way to know who he'll punish: Annie or me. The weight of that knowledge presses and presses over my heart until Annie starts to cry, and then I cry, too.

What could I have done differently? I never should have lifted her up and took her from that stage right in the middle of the recap. But what other choice did I have? I couldn't sit there and watch as they destroyed her again. I couldn't sit and watch that happen. What else could I have done?

I realize then, all at once and with a wave of terror, that I'm in too deep. I don't even know precisely what I'm in— this friendship? This mentorship? This alliance?— but whatever it is, I've let it get ahead of me, away from me. So when Annie says, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm crazy— I don't know why— Finnick, don't leave me." I say, "You're not crazy, you're Annie. And I'm never going to leave you."

My heart pounds like it did the night before my Games.

Mags is left to clean up the mess Annie and I left. An hour or so later, I walk to the sitting room so I can check the damage on the TV, and she's on stage, giving a 'backstage look' at the Games to try and sate the audience. I'm sure it's difficult for her to do that without giving away my secrets and act of treason, but Mags is the strongest person alive— followed closely by Haymitch, if I had to rank them— and she handles it with grace and apparent ease.

I write and write until my hand is sore and all the words blur. Around my second poem, I look up to the sound of approaching footsteps. Annie's holding the blue blanket around her shoulders, and for a moment, she's here— but then she catches sight of the TV and the images of her Games, and she's slipping away again. She wanders to the couch, curls up on it, doesn't say a word. I turn the TV off first, and then I walk over and drape the blanket back over her and sit back in my chair.

Who will carry this blame?
Razor-sharp and acid-filled
Who will carry this guilt?

Who will feel the pierce
Of the executioner's blade?
Who will bleed for this?

It would be best if it were me
but what could he possibly take?
No cards left to play, no hand undealt
No invaluable blood left to spill

She sleeps and I wait
I wait and she sleeps
how many years will we live this moment?
on and on, imprisonment's token

What will be there when we arrive?
What will be there when we're home?

When Mags finally makes it to the train, we're both too exhausted to speak. We sip coffee in silence and watch the recap of Annie's Games they're re-airing (and will air nonstop all night long). I don't think either of us really take any of it in.

Finally, after our exhaustion has turned into something so bone-deep it's as much a part of us as our own names, Mags faces me.

"What now?" she asks.

And it feels so strange, so wrong, to have my mentor asking me what happens next that it renders me speechless.

"I don't know," I finally admit. I glance once at Annie. She still looks deep in sleep. I turn back to Mags. "We're in trouble, you know. I can't tell for sure right now, but I think we're in a lot of it."

"We're always in trouble," Mags dismisses.

I think of the desperation that rose up in my throat like vomit when I saw Annie in pain. And she's right, we're always in trouble. But not like this.

"Yeah, well, what I did last night didn't make things any better. I'm surprised he even let us on the train." Why did he do that? Why? I can't help but feel like it's a trap.

Mags makes a sound in agreement. All I can think about as I look at her is that I might have cost her her life. What else could they take from me? They won't kill Annie, not yet; they need their Victory Tour. And as Snow's told me time and time again, it would be so easy to make Mags' death look natural. She's older. She's had recent health problems. What if my foolishness costs me Mags? I can't lose her. I can't. I can't lose my mother again, especially not due to my own selfishness again. I swore I would never let that happen again. What am I doing? How could I do it? For a moment, with my emotions surging wildly within my heart, I wish I had never mentored Annie. If I had never mentored her, I never would have put Mags at risk. Annie would be better off, too. She'd be dead, and she probably never would've had to see the things she did.

(But then she would be dead—)

I can't listen to that voice right now.

"Why did you do it, Mags?" I hear myself ask. My voice is small, broken. "Why were you so insistent that Annie and I become friends? You had to have known that it would only result in pain for the both of us. How could you do that to me— to her?"

It pisses her off. I anticipated that reaction. I've learned by now that Mags doesn't take too kindly to me lamenting the bond Annie and I have formed. Cowardly, she called it before.

"Everything results in pain, Finn," she tells me now. "For everyone on this planet who ever lived or ever will. And especially for victors. Anything good you have will eventually be ripped away from you. Anything that gives you joy will eventually disappear. But that does not mean we refuse good things or we refuse joy just because we know it won't last. It means we cherish it more when we have it, we clutch it tightly for as long as we can, we smile wider and laugh louder and love harder. Haven't I taught you that yet, boy?"

"Maybe it's a hard lesson to learn," I say bitterly.

"Well, at least I know I'm not dying anytime soon, then. I've got a lot left to teach you, apparently," Mags says.

My laugh is short and humorless. "That's my master plan, Mags. I'm going to refuse to learn anything you try to teach me for the purpose of keeping you here with me for a long as possible."

I mean it to be blithely, cold, but the words come out much more emotional than I would have hoped. Mags' expression softens because of it. I look away. I'm not ready to acknowledge the many anxieties knotted around my heart. I'm not ready to voice my worries about how I might be punished for what I did at that recap.

She knows this because she knows me.

"She looks cold," Mags comments, switching our focus to Annie. She leans over and drapes a blanket back over Annie. She is trembling. I frown. Another worry: what if she's been traumatized all over again, this time beyond repair? What if I lose them both?

As if she's heard my thoughts, Mags says: "You can't have me forever, Finnick."

I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about. I don't want to even acknowledge it.

"I'm Finnick Odair: I can have anything I want," I argue.

Mags smiles slightly. She smoothes the blankets over Annie. "We both know that's not true."

There's so much in that simple sentence. So much that makes me sick.

"Please don't say it. At least not today," I beg. I can't bear to sit here and have her push me towards something (this vulnerability, this fondness for Annie) that might end up destroying me. Not when I already feel so destroyed already.

"I wasn't going to," she reassures me. No, I want to say, you didn't have to because I already knew what you meant just from that.

We're quiet. Annie's trembling settles.

"I did know it would hurt you," Mags says suddenly. She looks from Annie to me. "But you want to know what else I knew, what else I still know?"

This makes more sense to me: Mags telling me what to do, Mags giving me advice, knowledge, wisdom. I prefer this so much to her asking me "What now?" I don't know how to guide my mentor. A victor should never have to. But this? My mentor guiding me? That's all I've known.

"What?" I ask, and I realize it sounds a bit pleading.

She looks back at Annie. We both watch as she shifts a bit, her soft hair slipping over her shoulder as she moves.

"That it will all be worth it."

I wonder: does she think I've been worth it? Have I brought any joy to her life at all or have I only brought anxiety and pain? I hope I've made her life better. She's told me before that I'm the only child she's ever been blessed to have, her only family. I know she loves me, and she knows that I love her. Does she think I'm worth it?

She rises from the sofa— with great difficulty, her hands grabbing onto the armrest for support— and walks over to me. She leans over and kisses my hair, and when her hand pats my cheek, I feel like she's saying yes. You are.

"You'll see," she tells me softly.

I'm not sure if I'm hoping she's right or wrong.

I don't know if Annie's still sleeping due to the exhaustion from the trauma of last night or gone, but she doesn't stir for another hour or so. We're nearing home by this point, and I miss her. It doesn't surprise me much that I do: save the days Snow refused to allow it, I've been spending hours every day with her, chatting or just holding her hand. I find myself wanting to comment on the passing scenery to her, to share the sparse pretty sights, to hear her opinion on passing landmarks and districts. I almost go to shake her shoulder a few times, but I feel that's selfish; she'll wake when she's ready.

When she is, she wakes and peers at me so softly that it makes a lump rise to my throat. I don't understand the softness in her gaze; what could I have done to deserve that? Doesn't she understand what I've done?

"Hey," I greet.

She glances around herself and then peers out the train window at the blurring scenery. It looks as if she's trying to make sense of where she is.

"Finnick. Hi," she finally says.

I wonder how much she remembers from before. I hope none of it. I rise and walk over to sit beside her, feeling like the distance is too far between us now that she's here, and as soon as I do, she leans into me and wraps her arms around my waist. And it's strange: my body relaxes at the same time I feel my heart tighten and rise into my throat. She's here again, and she's talking, and she still likes me— I'm so relieved that I laugh, and then I'm holding her, too.

I'm about to apologize, but she starts talking before I do.

"I miss you when I go away," she admits.

I can't help but smile. I've spent the past few hours feeling the same exact way. I hug her tighter for a moment, letting my cheek rest against the top of her head.

"I miss you too, Annie," I tell her. And then, an escaped thought: "I wish I could go with you."

She's quiet after that statement. I worry I've said the wrong thing, but it's the truth. Can the truth ever be wrong? I don't know. But it's true, real. My life would be infinitely lovelier if I had some place I could disappear to, some safe place away from the trauma of the Capitol, of my life. If I could be where she is.

I lean back from her and peer down at her face to see if I've upset her. Her cheeks are wet from tears, but I don't think it's because of me. Maybe it's because of the soft way she's still looking at me.

"Where do you go when you leave?" I ask her.

I don't know if she's ready to talk about it, but now feels like the right moment to try. She peers at me as if she's trying to decide how to reply.

"There's another world in my head, kind of," she finally tells me, her voice shaky. "When Chiron—"

Her mind slips again. Something disappears behind her eyes. I take her hand in mine and squeeze it gently, and then her eyes meet mine again.

"When…when he was hurt, I didn't want to be alive anymore. Don't," she continues. "And I couldn't kill myself, but I tried, but I couldn't, and so I told myself that none of it was real, and I made it where it wasn't. I made a world where I was never reaped and that's where I go when this world is too much. Life is normal there, you're there, too, and Cora is there, and Arnav, and my dad, but not my mom, and it's summer there and it rains and the apples are in season."

Our eyes stayed locked as I take that in, as Annie studies my response. All I'm sure of is relief. I was right: that world inside her head is nicer. Safer. I'm glad she has it. I'm glad she can find safety somewhere.

But if she's there with them, she isn't here with me. I'm not ready to dissect how that makes me feel.

"What am I like there?" I wonder.

Pleased as I am that I was important enough to her to recreate in that world, I'm suddenly terrified of what that version of me might do. I can't control him. What if he hurt her or put her in danger?

"Happy. Free. Safe," she tells me softly.

Those words make tears spring into my eyes. I turn and look at the chair beside us so Annie can't see them. It takes me a moment to force the tears down.

"And do I take care of you?" I ask. I can't help the way my voice is trembling.

Annie blinks in surprise. "You don't need to. I'm not mad there, you know. I'm like I used to be."

I say my thoughts as I think them. "You're not mad. And that's not really me, then, because I have wanted to take care of you since I met you."

I can't imagine a reality in which I wouldn't feel drawn to protect Annie Cresta. It's too absurd.

"It's not really me, either," Annie finally admits. "Because I don't need to be taken care of there. How do I know, Finnick? How do I know which is real and which isn't? How do I know for sure that the Finnick in the other world isn't the real Finnick and you aren't the one I've made up inside my head?"

I can tell this question weighs heavily on her mind. The thought of losing her grip on reality must terrify her. I think about saying well, I can't imagine your made-up version of me would involve forced prostitution so I think we're safe saying this is the real me and the happy version is yours, but she doesn't know about that yet.

I can tell she's getting panicked, upset. I take her hand again and give her the only answer I can.

"You ask me, Annie. I won't lie to you there and I won't lie to you here. I'm real and I'm sorry, but this world is real, too. Everything that has happened really happened, but that doesn't mean this world isn't worth living. It's okay to disappear to handle things when they're hard, but don't disappear forever. Don't let the other world consume you, okay?"

Don't go where I can't follow. But I can't say that, either.

She nods, but she still looks burdened. I set out to lighten her mood. She shouldn't have to carry anything else.

"Now, on a scale from 'why is this happening, now I have less time to spend with Finnick!' To 'I will never be sad ever again!', how excited are you to see your family soon?" I ask.

And it is soon. I've made this journey from the Capitol to 4 enough to recognize the passing landmarks that indicate home is near. Soon, we'll be able to see the sea winding along beside us.

She smiles (and that's what I hoped for). I grin back immediately. Even here, where there are significantly more colors than in her Capitol hospital room, her smile puts everything else to shame.

"Where does 'terrified' fall on that scale?" she asks me.

I squeeze her hand because I understand. I was terrified to see my mother after my Games, too. There's that instinctual fear that you've changed in their eyes because of the things you've done, the things they've watched you do. It must come from the shame we feel about those things. We worry we'll see that shame reflected in our family's eyes.

"It doesn't. Because everything will be perfectly fine," I tell her. I smile again to reassure her.

(What I meant, of course, is that her family will still love her all the same. And I suppose I wasn't wrong about that, though I'll never know now. But I was wrong in the generalized sense.)

For a moment, though, things are as fine as they can get. It's the stillness before a storm, the rally before death.

"An ten of spades, a three of hearts, and an ace of spades," Mags says confidently.

Annora snickers. She shakes her head gleefully.

"Wrong!" She turns to see who's next, and her smile falls short. Annie doesn't seem to notice. She's too busy studying the backs of Annora's cards. I watch with a soft smile as Annie examines the exposed cards set in front of every other player, the cards set in the middle of the table, the cards in her own hand, Annora's smug expression…

"You can do it," Mags hisses. Annora scowls at her in response.

"Mags, we're a team!" Annora scolds. "Don't help them!"

"Annie," I stage-whisper. Her eyes move to mine. I make a show of trying to stand behind Annora to peek at her cards; she huffs in affront and contorts her body wildly in an effort to cover her cards from me as I dance around her and peek over her hair, under her arm, around her shoulder—

Annie laughs. The sound makes my heart feeling light and bubbly. I keep up my and Annora's playful dance for as long as I can, for as long as she's laughing. Finally, Annora shoves her cards down her shirt, and I set my hands on my hips and scoff.

"Do you think I'm afraid of breasts, Annora?"

Mags laughs along with Annie now, and when I see the both of them laughing and laughing, the only thing I want in the world is to keep it that way. Keep them happy. Safe.

Annora crosses her arms over her chest and blushes brightly. "No cheating, Finnick! It's not proper! And don't look at my bosom!"

"But your cards are in your bosom."

"Well, stop looking at my cards, then! Annie, go on! Take your guess," Annora prompts.

She still has a difficult time meeting Annie's eyes, but it's the first time she's properly acknowledged her during our game, and that's something, at least.

Annie's still smiling, and I'm not doing anything particularly funny, so I take it to mean Annie's figured it out.

"I think I know," she tells Annora.

Annora crosses her arms tighter over her breasts. She looks worried. I'm sure she remembers how well Annie and I beat her the first time we were on this train.

"You have the king of spades, the two of hearts, and the ace of clubs," she declares.

Annora's expression sinks at once. Mine brightens.

"YES! HA! REINING CHAMPIONS TWO GAMES IN A ROW!" I celebrate. I circle around the table, pull Annie's chair back, and she twists and reaches up to throw her arms around my neck. I yank her up and spin her around in a quick, giggly circle. I forget everything except our small victory until Mags says: "Finnick, Annie— look!"

We're both so used to bad news that our faces fall. I lower Annie back onto her feet and peer out the window, where Mags is pointing. But it isn't bad at all. I smile at the first sight of the glittering sea, of home.

"Oh," Annie says quietly. I look down at her. Her cheeks are flushed from our exuberant hug, and her hair is wild, and the smile that overtakes her face is different from every smile I've ever seen in my entire life. I can't look away. And when I feel something odd in my gut— tingly, warm— I have to walk over to the beverage cart to get myself to look away.

My hands tremble a bit as I pour myself some coffee. The back of my neck burns.

"It never gets boring," Mags tells all of us. "That's always the most beautiful sight of all."

I glance back at Annie over the top of my coffee mug. She's at the window now, her eyes on home, that same smile painting her face, and I have to disagree with Mags.

Annie and I are all smiles as we step out of the train onto the platform. The warm, salty breeze greets us first and foremost, and I can hear the distant sound of seagulls just below the shrieking of the crowd. I take Annie's hand in mine and gesture towards the far shore.

"There's home," I tell her. "That's Victors' Shore."

She's too busy looking for her family to hear what I've said, and a quick, urgent nudge from Mags alerts me to their strange absence. Ordinarily, they'd be standing at the front where the victor's family always stands— but there's nobody there. My smile plummets.

"Where are they?" Annie asks us. She looks from face to face— and there are plenty to look at; it seems as if every person has come to greet her but the people she's looking— and then she looks at Mags and I. I can see her mind flipping to what she believes is the worst case scenario. "Don't they love me anymore?"

In an ordinary world, that would be the worst case scenario. But Annie doesn't yet know what Snow is truly capable of. She doesn't know there's a worse case to consider.

Mags and I do, though.

It takes every bit of my self-control to keep myself calm and steady. I tighten my hold on Annie's hand and Mags makes a path for us through the crowd, headed towards the road leading to Victors' Shore. Annie doesn't pull against my hand, but she looks hard at every face we pass, as if she fears she's just forgotten what her family looks like.

He'd have no reason to. He'd have no reason to. He wouldn't do it. He'd have no reason to.

I tell myself that over and over again as we walk, but the words are nothing more than a temporary shield against my panic. Snow would do whatever he felt he had to, and I know that better than I know anything else.

Mags keeps us all calm by telling Annie all about Victors' Shore in a neutral voice. I interject every few minutes with comments, but neither Mags nor I say things like I'm sure they're just busy moving into your home, I'm sure they lost track of time, I'm sure they just wanted to see you again away from prying eyes. We don't say these things because we aren't sure of anything.

When I see the Peacekeepers spilling out of Annie's new home, I stop walking at once. But I'm not really me. I'm a curse.

Annie pulls against my hand as she tries to continue forward, but I tighten my hand until she can't pull free. She looks back at me, confused.

"Finnick, I need to see my family. Why are they holding them inside?" she asks. She considers something. Whatever it is seems to bring her relief because her face relaxes at once. "It's because it's so crowded at the train station, isn't it? They never would have gotten to see me there, not really."

She sets off to walk again, but I grab onto her hand with my other hand, too. She can't go over there. She can't. I know she can't because I know what they're going to say.

My eyes feel hot. Mags sags under the weight of it.

"Stay here, Annie," I plead. My voice shakes. It tears through her determination; her hair flies around her as she spins her head to look at me.

"What's wrong?" she asks, panicked. She fights against my hold on her wrist, and I told myself I would never let my body imprison anybody else's, so I let go of her. Mags reaches out and folds her into her embrace right afterwards, though, and Annie's trembling too hard now to care. I can tell Mags feels the same desperation I do to keep Annie away from whatever those Peacekeepers are going to say.

"It's okay, Annie," I say, but I sound dead, and I can't feel much of anything, either. Nothing beyond the burning of my eyes.

I'm her mentor. I have to make this right. So I make the walk down the sandy path towards her house, towards those Peacekeepers, towards what I'm certain must be the end. How can she live through this if it's what I think it is? How can she?

I stop in front of the group of Peacekeepers. I don't greet them or say a thing. I stare at them and listen as they tell me about a 'tragic' boat accident this morning.

"Ms. Cresta's family perished," one says. "They drowned."

Drowned?

An entire family that grew up in 4 drowned?

I look at them and they know I don't believe them.

They look at me and I can see they know the truth, too.

But nobody outright says it. Nobody says Snow had her family killed. We know better.

I have no desire to scream at them; these are our District 4 peacekeepers, they're only the messengers. But when they take a step towards Annie, that changes. I know realistically that who tells her doesn't change the reality of the situation— they're dead, they're gone, it doesn't matter who tells her— but I don't want these Peacekeepers to be the ones. I don't want them to somehow makes it hurt even worse than it already will.

"No, you leave her alone," I tell them, stepping in front of them, blocking their path to Annie. "I'll tell her. You don't get to."

They exchange a quick, wary look.

"We were ordered to deliver the message to her," one of them says.

"I don't care what you were ordered!" I boom. They move to step around me, but I intercept them again. "You cannot talk to her— you can't be the one to tell her— the Capitol has done enough! Leave!"

I realize I'm hoping they'll fight back. I'm hoping they'll go to shove past me, to give me a reason to swing. I'm filled suddenly with a brimming rage— I want to wrap my hands around their throats and squeeze. I want to throw them to the ground. I want to punish them for this, even if it's not their fault, because someone should be punished. Someone should be held accountable for this misery, for Annie's misery. Someone should do something. Why is no one doing something?

I'm tensed, my hands clenched tightly into fists, but they don't rise to the bait. They exchange another look, step past me, and leave me there. In the ruins of Annie's future life.

I knew they couldn't be the ones to tell her, but I don't want to be the one, either. I don't want to look into her eyes and tell her her entire family is dead. I don't want to look into her eyes and tell her that she's alone.

(But she's not alone— she's got us. We're a family, aren't we?)

I've got no choice, though. If I don't tell her, who will? And keeping it from her isn't an option. It isn't right to hoard information about her own family from her. It isn't fair. That would be something those horrible Capitol doctors would do, not something a mentor would do. And I'm her mentor. I'm the one who is supposed to help her, to guide her. Even through things like this.

The problem is that I only barely made it through this the first time, when it happened to me.

I'm trying to think up the best possible way to break the worst possible news when I hear her call out to me. I can tell she knows something is very wrong. I turn to look at her, and she's flying across the sandy path towards me, and when she stops, I can see all her hope breaking and shattering inside of her. A light goes out. She turns blurry as tears swell in my eyes.

"Your family was on their boat before the train arrived. Something happened…it began to sink—" I stop and look away, taking a moment to breathe and control myself because suddenly all i want to do is fall into the sand and weep. But that's not my job, not my right. I didn't even know them. But I know Annie. And I have to do right by her; I have to tell her the truth, I have to be here for her, I have to risk her hating me for being the one to tell her this.

I look back at her. "They drowned," I say.

She stares at me. And then she shakes her head back and forth, back and forth.

"No. No, they know how to swim— they wouldn't— they wouldn't take their boat out when I was about to be home— they know how to drive a boat— they— they wouldn't— no, they can't— no! Finnick, I won! Finnick, I won!"

She's trembling now, trembling so hard she collapses into the sand, and her words bring me to my knees, too. I feel each of them like a punch to the lungs, and each makes me more breathless than before. I reach out and hold her, but I don't have a thing to say to make this better. I can't make this better. I can't give her anything.

Mags joins us. Despite her poor joints, she kneels down in the sand, too, and her hand shivers as she strokes Annie's hair. Annie grips my shirt in her fists and sobs into my neck. Her tears are cold against my skin as the sea breeze hits them.

"It's not your fault," I tell her. For a moment, I'm here and I'm there. For a moment, I'm me and I'm my younger self. For a moment, I'm an adult and I'm an orphan. What I would have given to have heard these words after my own mother was killed. "It's not your fault."

I'm genuinely shocked and hurt when Annie shoves me away. I think she's realized that I'm right: it's not her fault, it's mine. I'm expecting her to punch me, to blame me, to tell me to go and never speak to her ever again.

But she doesn't. She turns and vomits into the sand, so upset she's sick, and I know I can't leave her out here. I can't leave her here in the sand, heartbroken and ill. So I stand, lean back over, and lift her into my arms. When she screams for me to put her down and fights against my touch like I'm hurting her, I feel like I may vomit, too.

"Carry her to my house," Mags orders.

I feel a wave of relief to have her guidance. I'm so upset that I can hardly focus on the ground as I take each step. All I can hear is Annie crying and begging me to put her down (and I hear don't touch me! within that plea), and all I can think about are her fists slamming weakly into my shoulders and back.

I expect to feel unburdened when I set her gently on one of Mags's guest beds, but I don't. Instead, my guilt anchors me to the floor. I stand there on the brink of sobbing, my eyes on her far away ones, on the tear-stains on her cheeks, until Mags touches my hand. I wrench out of her touch so quickly that I startle the both of us.

"I've got it," she tells me. Her eyes are wet with tears, too. "I'll get her settled. Go on."

Does she know I'm seconds from crying? I don't know. She probably does; she's one of the only people in the world who knows me at all. I nod automatically and follow her suggestion, leaving Annie's room and wandering down to the sitting room I spend more time in than I spend in my own. I sit on the sofa, my head in my hands, and all I can think about is how I restrained Annie and ignored her pleas. All I can think about is her little brother being shot or poisoned or whatever they really did to kill him. All I can think about is Annie and how I destroyed her.

I want to cry, but it never comes.

"It's not your fault," Mags greets, but those words have ceased to mean anything when directed at me. Everything is almost always my fault.

"Don't lie to me. Don't do that," I snap, taking another drink from the glass in my hand.

I'm thinking that Haymitch was onto something with this liquor thing when Mags reaches out and snatches the glass from my hand. The elderberry rum inside splashes out and onto her hand. She slams the glass down onto the table, shakes her hand dry, and then reaches for my face. I peer unsteadily back at her.

"I have never lied to you and I'm not going to start now. It's not your fault."

"See, Mags, I just don't believe you," I tell her, and then I laugh and it's cold and humorless and it hurts. "I did this—"

"You didn't."

"I DID THIS! I did it! I did! I fucked up, I've been fucking up this entire time! I never should have…I never should've…"

But I stop. My head is spinning and I feel sick and I don't know where to backtrack to; I don't know what my first mistake was, where the source of this infection lies, where the root is buried. I don't know, if I could turn back time, where I would first change things. Was it carrying Annie off that stage? No, Snow was mad before then. That made things worse, certainly, but he was threatening Annie's family well before then. Was it sneaking into the Recovery Center to see her? No, he was mad before that due to my meddling. Was it manipulating the Games and causing that earthquake? No, I was skipping out on clients before I even did that. So what was it? Caring about Annie? Meeting Annie? Where did I go wrong?

I can only decide that it was all of it, everything I did. Everything I did damned her and her family. I damned her. I'm a body and I'm a curse. I can't stay here and doom her any more— I can't hurt her again— I can't hurt her.

"I have to go, Mags," I realize. My lips are dry and my eyes are still burning. I don't know if it's from tears or lack of sleep at this point. I turn and I meet Mags's eyes. "If I go to the Capitol, I can change this. I can get Snow to leave Annie alone. I'll stay there and I'll do what Snow says and he won't mess with you or Annie, I know he won't."

Mags' hand tightens slightly on my chin, turning my eyes back to hers.

"Go to the Capitol? Full-time? Are you hearing yourself?!"

"It's the only thing I can do now. If I stay, I'll just hurt her more."

"And what else do you think he could possibly do to her now, Finnick?! You're not thinking clearly, you've been drinking; you need to get some sleep and we'll figure out what to do in the morning."

"No. I can't stay here. I have to fix this—"

"You can't fix this. They're dead. Going to the Capitol and torturing yourself won't do anything—"

I wrench out of her grasp and stand. "Sitting here won't either!"

"Yes it will! Don't you leave, Finnick!"

Her voice rises with panic. And I don't want to hurt Mags. I don't. I know that without a doubt.

But I don't want to hurt Annie, either.

"I can't do this to her, Mags. Look how much I've already done. I don't want to hurt her anymore."

Mags shakes her head. Her gaze is unrelenting, unforgiving. I'm not used to seeing that sort of gaze from her aimed at me.

"If you walk out of this house now, don't you ever expect her to let you walk back in."

My heart lurches and tightens with pain. The burning behind my eyes grows more insistent. I imagine never seeing Annie ever again, never talking to her ever again. We never even got to go to the beach together like we said we would. What if we never do? What if we lose each other for good?

"I don't want to leave," I say, my voice wavering now. "But look at what has happened, and all because of me."

"This wasn't your fault," Mags repeats, her voice tight. "If you think abandoning her now will help her in any way or form, you're not as smart as I always thought you were."

I have to laugh again. "I'm not smart at all, Mags." I gesture around the room. "Look at my life, look at hers, look at all that I've done."

"All that you've done? Sure, Finn, let's look at all that you've done. One—" she holds a finger up— "you've saved Annie's life. Two, you've kept her sane in the Capitol. Three, you've kept her from being sold like a slave! You didn't kill her family! You didn't do a thing!"

"Do you truly think Snow would have done a damn thing to her if I hadn't— if I hadn't…" I trail off, my throat tightening. The words I was about to say crumble and scatter. "If I had never decided to be Annie's friend, he wouldn't have done this."

"Maybe not. But he would have done something else. He would have sold her like he sells you. Is that what you want for her? Or she'd be dead. Is that what you want?"

"No. You know that isn't what I want. That's why I have to go."

"You were the only one who brought her comfort in the Capitol. Don't go now, not when she needs you most."

It explodes from me. I can't stop it. "She doesn't need me! She doesn't want me here! She told me to put her down—she told me to leave her alone— and I didn't listen, Mags! I didn't listen!"

I don't think I could explain the horrible, sickening rage churning inside myself, rage aimed at me. I'm terrified. I'm scared that I'm in some way doing to Annie what others do to me. Logically, I know she was upset, and I know I couldn't very well leave her sobbing on the sand— especially when I knew she was going to go away to her own world and wouldn't be there anymore— but feeling her struggle against my touch, hearing her beg me to put her down…it devastated something in me that I can't put a name to, some fear or worry I didn't even know I had.

"What are you talking about?" Mags demands, puzzled. It takes her a moment. "When she was upset? When you carried her inside? Finn, she was hysterical, and she had every right to be!"

"I know, but I should have—"

"What? Left her there?"

"Waited until she was calmer or— or…"

"All I hear is you blaming yourself for things out of your control. Can we, for once, focus on the things that are in your control? Like choosing to save Annie. Like being there for her as often as Snow would allow it. Like having the strength to look her in her eyes and tell her what happened to her family."

The tears finally crest. I can't stop them. Mags frowns as the first few slip down my cheeks.

"You're not hurting her, Finnick. And you can't stop the hurt from happening, either. It's out of your control. I know that's difficult. All you can do is—"

"What I can?" I complete. I'm tired of hearing that. It feels like a cop out. If I could ever have any dream fulfilled, it'd be to one day be able to do more than just 'what I can'. To one day have the power to actually change things (to actually protect the people I love in a real, lasting way). I'm tired of these half-acts and half-answers — this half-life.

"What you can," Mags echoes affirmatively. "And what you can do now, Finn, is be here."

"And do what?"

"Be you. Be here and be you."

Somehow that feels like the hardest thing in the world to do. Perhaps because it's the very thing I've been forbidden from doing since I won my own Games. I think I'm out of practice when it comes to being home and being Finn.

And, most importantly, how do those things help Annie?

Mags hears the question before I voice it. She reaches out and touches my hand. This time, I don't yank it back.

"She hears you, Finn. You understand each other. Don't throw that away."

It might already be gone. This might have been enough to shatter Annie beyond repair. It would be enough to shatter me. It did once.

Pained, quiet: "What if I hurt her?"

Mags' hand tightens around mine. She peers at me with an expression I can only think to call brave.

"What if you help her?"

That question is too complicated to answer.