Mocking Jay

for a witness, but I'm going to have to face him sooner or later.
Haymitch leans forward and dangles something on a thin white wire in front of my nose. It's hard to focus
on, but I'm pretty sure what it is. He drops it to the sheets. "That is your earpiece. I will give you exactly one more
chance to wear it. If you remove it from your ear again, I'll have you fitted with this." He holds up some sort of
metal headgear that I instantly name the head shackle. "It's an alternative audio unit that locks around your skull
and under your chin until it's opened with a key. And I'll have the only key. If for some reason you're clever enough
to disable it"--Haymitch dumps the head shackle on the bed and whips out a tiny silver chip--"I'll authorize them
to surgically implant this transmitter into your ear so that I may speak to you twenty-four hours a day."
Haymitch in my head full-time. Horrifying. "I'll keep the earpiece in," I mutter.
"Excuse me?" he says.
"I'll keep the earpiece in!" I say, loud enough to wake up half the hospital.
"You sure? Because I'm equally happy with any of the three options," he tells me.
"I'm sure," I say. I scrunch up the earpiece wire protectively in my fist and fling the head shackle back in his
face with my free hand, but he catches it easily. Probably was expecting me to throw it. "Anything else?"
Haymitch rises to go. "While I was waiting...I ate your lunch."
My eyes take in the empty stew bowl and tray on my bed table. "I'm going to report you," I mumble into my
pillow.
"You do that, sweetheart." He goes out, safe in the knowledge that I'm not the reporting kind.
I want to go back to sleep, but I'm restless. Images from yesterday begin to flood into the present. The
bombing, the fiery plane crashes, the faces of the wounded who no longer exist. I imagine death from all sides.
The last moment before seeing a shell hit the ground, feeling the wing blown from my plane and the dizzying
nosedive into oblivion, the warehouse roof falling down at me while I'm pinned helplessly to my cot. Things I saw,
in person or on the tape. Things I caused with a pull of my bowstring. Things I will never be able to erase from my
memory.
At dinner, Finnick brings his tray to my bed so we can watch the newest propo together on television. He
was assigned quarters on my old floor, but he has so many mental relapses, he still basically lives in the hospital.
The rebels air the "Because you know who they are and what they do" propo that Messalla edited. The footage
is intercut with short studio clips of Gale, Boggs, and Cressida describing the incident. It's hard to watch my
reception in the hospital in 8 since I know what's coming. When the bombs rain down on the roof, I bury my face
in my pillow, looking up again at a brief clip of me at the end, after all the victims are dead.
At least Finnick doesn't applaud or act all happy when it's done. He just says, "People should know that
happened. And now they do."
"Let's turn it off, Finnick, before they run it again," I urge him. But as Finnick's hand moves toward the
remote control, I cry, "Wait!" The Capitol is introducing a special segment and something about it looks familiar.
Yes, it's Caesar Flickerman. And I can guess who his guest will be.
Peeta's physical transformation shocks me. The healthy, clear-eyed boy I saw a few days ago has lost at
least fifteen pounds and developed a nervous tremor in his hands. They've still got him groomed. But underneath
the paint that cannot cover the bags under his eyes, and the fine clothes that cannot conceal the pain he feels
when he moves, is a person badly damaged.
My mind reels, trying to make sense of it. I just saw him! Four--no, five--I think it was five days ago. How has
he deteriorated so rapidly? What could they possibly have done to him in such a short time? Then it hits me. I
replay in my mind as much as I can of his first interview with Caesar, searching for anything that would place it in
time. There is nothing. They could have taped that interview a day or two after I blew up the arena, then done
whatever they wanted to do to him ever since. "Oh, Peeta..." I whisper.
Caesar and Peeta have a few empty exchanges before Caesar asks him about rumors that I'm taping
propos for the districts. "They're using her, obviously," says Peeta. "To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really
knows what's going on in the war. What's at stake."
"Is there anything you'd like to tell her?" asks Caesar.
"There is," says Peeta. He looks directly into the camera, right into my eyes. "Don't be a fool, Katniss.
Think for yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If
you've got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it's too late. Ask
yourself, do you really trust the people you're working with? Do you really know what's going on? And if you
don't...find out."
Black screen. Seal of Panem. Show over.