Memory Lane (Chap 10)

Summary : Two years after the war, Haymitch feels they have earned their peaceful life in Twelve. That is until Plutarch comes barging back into his life with news of a terrorist group, Effie Trinket in tow. Now, as always when Effie is involved, everything gets complicated.

We’re closing in people! Only three chapters left! =)



Haymitch ventured outside with his bag of crumbs and grains under the pretence of feeding the birds he had neglected during the past few days. In truth, he wanted to keep an eye on what was happening in his neighbors’ backyard.

Finn was running around between the pen and the house, his chubby little arms extended on either side of his body – playing at being a hovecraft maybe – under Johanna’s watchful gaze. Or, at least, Haymitch mused as he reached the pen, it would have been watchful if she hadn’t been so busy spying on the Everdeen/Mellark household just like he had planned on doing. He dumped the content of his bag in the pen, rolling his eyes at the cacophony of reproachful honking, before joining Johanna who was casually leaning against the corner of the house – best angle to see Katniss and Peeta’s garden.

He watched as Peeta shook Gale’s hand and then went back in the house without a backward glance. Katniss lingered longer, exchanging a few words with her former best friend before hugging him. Haymitch narrowed his eyes but there was nothing suspicious to the hug. Gale’s hands remained wisely on her shoulders and the embrace itself was short if not brisk. The girl flashed him a curt smile and walked back inside, leaving the soldier to climb into the black truck waiting for him.

Haymitch couldn’t say he was sorry to see him go.



I hear my name rippling through the hot air, spreading out into the hospital. “Katniss! Katniss Everdeen!” The sounds of pain and grief begin to recede, to be replaced by words of anticipation. From all sides, voices beckon me. I begin to move … saying hello, how are you, good to meet you. Nothing of importance, no amazing words of inspiration. But it doesn’t matter. Boggs is right. It’s the sight of me, alive, that is the inspiration. (x)