"Agreed," I say. "It's going to be a long hour."
"Maybe not that long," says Peeta. "What was that you were saying just before the food arrived?
Something about me ... no competition ... best thing that ever happened to you ..."
"I don't remember that last part," I say, hoping it's too dim in here for the cameras to pick up my blush.
"Oh, that's right. That's what I was thinking," he says.
"Scoot over, I'm freezing."
I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. I can feel Haymitch nudging me to keep up the act. "So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?" I ask him.
"No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you," he says.
"I'm sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam," I say.
"Hardly. But I couldn't care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam, you'll be a girl from the Victor's Village," he says.
That's right. If we win, we'll each get a house in the part of town reserved for Hunger Games' victors. Long ago, when the Games began, the Capitol had built a dozen fine houses in each district. Of course, in ours only one is occupied. Most of the others have never been lived in at all.
A disturbing thought hits me. "But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!"
"Ah, that'll be nice," says Peeta, tightening his arms around me. "You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy.
Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games'tales."
"I told you, he hates me!" I say, but I can't help laughing at the image of Haymitch becoming my new pal.
"Only sometimes. When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you," says Peeta.
"He's never sober!" I protest.
"That's right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you. But that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you on fire," says Peeta.
"On the other hand, Haymitch ... well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you."
"I thought you said I was his favorite," I say.
"He hates me more," says Peeta. "I don't think people in general are his sort of thing."
I know the audience will enjoy our having fun at Haymitch's expense. He has been around so long, he's practically an old friend to some of them. And after his head-dive off the stage at the reaping, everybody knows him. By this time, they'll have dragged him out of the control room for interviews about us. No telling what sort of lies he's made up.
He's at something of a disadvantage because most mentors have a partner, another victor to help them whereas Haymitch has to be ready to go into action at any moment. Kind of like me when I was alone in the arena. I wonder how he's holding up, with the drinking, the attention, and the stress of trying to keep us alive.
It's funny. Haymitch and I don't get along well in person, but maybe Peeta is right about us being alike because he seems able to communicate with me by the timing of his gifts. Like how I knew I must be close to water when he withheld it and how I knew the sleep syrup just wasn't something to ease Peeta's pain and how I know now that I have to play up the romance. He hasn't made much effort to connect with Peeta really. Perhaps he thinks a bowl of broth would just be a bowl of broth to Peeta, whereas I'll see the strings attached to it.
A thought hits me, and I'm amazed the question's taken so long to surface. Maybe it's because I've only recently begun to view Haymitch with a degree of curiosity. "How do you think he did it?"
"Who? Did what?" Peeta asks.
"Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?" I say.
Peeta considers this quite a while before he answers.
Haymitch is sturdily built, but no physical wonder like Cato or Thresh. He's not particularly handsome.
Not in the way that causes sponsors to rain gifts on you. And he's so surly, it's hard to imagine anyone teaming up with him. There's only one way Haymitch could have won, and Peeta says it just as I'm reaching this conclusion myself.