Sunrise on the Reaping

“So, if it’s a machine, it can be broken, right?”

I give up on being covert and approach him. “You’re Ampert’s father?”
“I am. And no doubt you’re wondering why I’m here, Haymitch.” Beetee removes his glasses and polishes them on his shirt. “It’s because I’m being punished for coming up with a plan to sabotage the Capitol’s communication system. I’m too valuable to kill, but my son is disposable.”
That pretty much answers my question. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. He’s a great kid.”
“He is.” Beetee’s eyes find Ampert, sitting across from Maysilee on the bleachers, chattering away while she weaves the cord into patterns.
“And they made you be his mentor?” I ask.
“It’s part of the punishment. Watching what are almost certainly the last hours of my son’s life. They even gave me a booth in training, which mentors don’t traditionally attend, so I wouldn’t miss a minute. If I wasn’t here to witness it, there would be no point.”

I remember the joy on Lenore Dove’s face when I gave her the poetry, the kisses that followed, and feel stronger. They can’t destroy what really matters

The walls come into focus. They’re not lined with instruments of pain but towering shelves of books. Thousands and thousands of volumes, floor to ceiling. In the corner, a golden staircase spirals up a column of white marble and leads to a balcony that runs around the room. A gold eagle perches on the railing at the top of the stairs.

This room is Lenore Dove’s dream come true. A world of words to wrap herself up in. Each book’s as precious as a person, she says, as it preserves someone’s thoughts and feelings long after they’re gone. The Covey have a collection of them, ancient things with cracked leather bindings and paper delicate as moth’s wings. The family treasure

One of the ghosts that inhabit Lenore Dove’s songs. She once told me about being arrested by the Peacekeepers back home, how frightened she was at first. Then she remembered she’d read that sometimes the only thing you can control is your attitude to a situation

A fragile collection of muscles and bones, a few quarts of blood, wrapped up in a paper-thin package of skin. That’s all I am. As I pass through the doors of this marble fortress, I have never felt more breakable.

The four tributes from 6 stick to me like glue.

Ampert strokes it in admiration. “It’s beautiful. And perfectly symmetrical. I wouldn’t believe it’s all one strand. You’re really clever!”

“And you have good taste,” she says, slipping it over his head.

“I wish you were my sister,” he says simply.

A funny look crosses her face. Bet she’s never heard those words before. I wait for a cutting remark, but she only says, “I’ll be your sister.”

You’re Ampert’s father?”

“I am. And no doubt you’re wondering why I’m here, Haymitch.” Beetee removes his glasses and polishes them on his shirt. “It’s because I’m being punished for coming up with a plan to sabotage the Capitol’s communication system. I’m too valuable to kill, but my son is disposable.”

It’s Beetee, a victor from District 3.

A cold dread washes over me as the puzzle pieces come together. Ampert is neither a lunatic nor a liar. His father has accompanied him to the Capitol because he’s a victor. And therefore a mentor, assigned to coach his own child to his death in the Fiftieth Hunger Games.