Chapter 41 : The Math
The math was simple and terrible.
"One male, one female from each district," Haymitch repeated for the third time, as if saying it would change the numbers. "District 12 has three victors. One woman. Two men."
We'd gathered in his house—a disaster of empty bottles and unwashed dishes, but the only space where all three of us fit comfortably. The Victory Tour had made us closer, bound by shared performance and shared threat. Now we were bound by something worse.
"Katniss is going no matter what." I kept my voice level. "She's our only option for the female slot."
"Unless I die before the Reaping." Haymitch's dark humor wasn't really humor. "Save everyone some trouble."
"Don't joke about that." Katniss's voice was sharp. "We're not doing this without you."
"One of us has to mentor. Can't do that from inside the arena."
The argument had been circling for an hour. Haymitch wanted to volunteer, claiming his life was worth less than ours. I wanted to volunteer, claiming my abilities gave me better survival odds. Neither of us wanted the other to die.
Neither of us wanted to admit the real problem: someone was going to die. Maybe all of us. The odds of three District 12 victors surviving a second Games were essentially zero.
"Stop." Katniss slammed her palm on the table. "Both of you. Stop arguing about who gets to sacrifice themselves."
"It's not sacrifice—"
"It's exactly sacrifice. And we have weeks before the Reaping." Her eyes moved between us. "Weeks to prepare. Weeks to plan. Weeks to figure out something better than who dies first."
We established a routine.
Mornings: training. Not the desperate preparation of pre-Games nerves, but methodical skill-building. Katniss improved my archery from terrible to mediocre. I taught her the edges of close combat I'd learned in the arena. Haymitch watched, offering criticism that was occasionally useful.
Afternoons: research. Haymitch had files on every living victor—names, Games years, specialties, weaknesses. We studied them like textbooks, memorizing faces and fighting styles.
Evenings: planning. What alliances could we form? What strategies might work against opponents who'd survived the same trial we had? What would the arena look like when the tributes were adults instead of children?
And nights: the nightmares. Worse now, knowing what was coming. I woke reaching for weapons that weren't there, heart pounding from dreams of mutts and fire and the faces of people I couldn't save.
Katniss came to me on the third night, unable to sleep.
"I keep seeing Rue," she said. "In the arena again. Younger than before. Scared."
"She's a victor now. She's not scared."
"She's twelve. She's terrified."
"Then we protect her again." I pulled her onto the bed beside me—not romantic, just present. Two people who'd learned to sleep better when they weren't alone. "Like before. Whatever it takes."
"What if it's not enough?"
"Then we make it enough." I stared at the ceiling. "We survived once. We'll survive again."
"You sound very confident."
"I'm very scared. Confidence is just fear with better marketing."
She almost laughed. Almost.
The letter to Rue took three drafts.
Letters were monitored—we knew this, accepted it. Anything we wrote would be read by Capitol censors before delivery. So we used coded phrases established during the Victory Tour, hidden meanings in innocent words.
Dear Rue,
We've seen the announcement. We're thinking of you. Remember what we talked about on the train—how the best berries grow where the trees are thickest? That's still true. Some things don't change.
We'll see you soon. Stay strong. Stay together.
Your family, N & K
The response took two days. Rue's handwriting was shakier than I remembered—the confident script of victory replaced by something more fragile.
Dear family,
I'm the only one. The only girl who survived from my district. So I'm going back.
I remember the berries. I remember everything. I won't forget.
Stay strong too.
R
I read the letter three times, parsing the words for hidden meanings. I'm the only one. She was definitely being reaped—District 11's only female victor. I remember everything. The alliance still held. Stay strong too. She was scared but not broken.
Katniss read over my shoulder. "She's going."
"She was always going. The question is whether we can protect her again."
"Can we?"
I thought about the arena. Twenty-four victors instead of twenty-four children. Killers who'd survived decades. Careers who'd trained their entire lives for exactly this kind of fight.
"We'll find out."
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