Haymitch Abernathy was drunk. Not an uncommon occurrence. But tonight he was especially drunk it was a special occasion. He only got this drunk one night every year. On one specific night, every year, for the past twenty-three years. Because every year for the past twenty-three years, he had watched two children from his district killed in the arena. Forty-six. Forty-six children killed in the Hunger Games, forty-six children killed by the Capitol. Tomorrow, he would meet number forty-seven and number forty-eight. He poured another shot, raised the glass and to the empty room said, "To forty-seven and forty-eight."

He tossed back the glass, swallowed the foul liquid, then set the glass on the table and poured himself another shot.