“I thought he wanted it, anyway," I say. "Not like this," Haymitch says. "He wanted it to be real.”

“When I ask Plutarch about his absence, he just shakes his head and says, "He couldnt face it.""Haymitch? Not able to face something? Wanted a day off, more likely," I say."I think his actual words were 'I couldn't face it without a bottle,'" says Plutarch.”

“I know we promised Haymitch, we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle.' 'Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?' says Peeta. 'With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame,' I say.”

“What do you want to want to be, anyway?""I don't know; I guess what I want to be is a good Catholic.""What you should say"--he told me--"what you should say is that you want to be a saint.”

“Got it," I say. "Did you tell Peeta this?""Don't have to," says Haymitch. "He's already there.”

“Any other questions?""Just one," I say. "What color are your eyes?" I want to know what he thinks, how he sees himself - the real Ky - when he dares to look."Blue," he says sounding surprised, "they've always been blue.""Not to me.""What do they look like to you?" he says puzzled, amused. Not looking at my mouth anymore, looking into my eyes."Lots of colors," I say. "At first I thought they were brown. Once I thought they were green...""What are they now?" he asks. He widens his eyes a little, leans closer, lets me look as long and deep as I want."Well?""Everything," I tell him, "They're everything.”