第118章

  did the element of surprise throw them? had they no defenses left? children are precious to 13, or so it has always seemed. well, not me, maybe. once i had outlived my usefulness, i was expendable. although i think it's been a long time since i've been considered a child in this war. and why would they do it knowing their own medics would likely respond and be taken out by the second blast? they wouldn't. they couldn't. snow's lying. manipulating me as he always has. hoping to turn me against the rebels and possibly destroy them. yes. of course.
  then what's nagging at me? those double-exploding bombs, for one. it's not that the capitol couldn't have the same weapon, it's just that i'm sure the rebels did. gale and beetee's brainchild. then there's the fact that snow made no escape attempt, when i know him to be the consummate survivor. it seems hard to believe he didn't have a retreat somewhere, some bunker stocked with provisions where he could live out the rest of his snaky little life. and finally, there's his assessment of coin. what's irrefutable is that she's done exactly what he said. let the capitol and the districts run one another into the ground and then sauntered in to take power. even if that was her plan, it doesn't mean she dropped those parachutes. victory was already in her grasp. everything was in her grasp.
  except me.
  i recall boggs's response when i admitted i hadn't put much thought into snow's successor. "if your immediate answer isn't coin, then you're a threat. you're the face of the rebellion. you may have more influence than any other single person. outwardly, the most you've ever done is tolerated her."
  suddenly, i'm thinking of prim, who was not yet fourteen, not yet old enough to be granted the title of soldier, but somehow working on the front lines. how did such a thing happen? that my sister would have wanted to be there, i have no doubt. that she would be more capable than many older than she is a given. but for all that, someone very high up would have had to approve putting a thirteen-year-old in combat. did coin do it, hoping that losing prim would push me completely over the edge? or, at least, firmly on her side? i wouldn't even have had to witness it in person. numerous cameras would be covering the city circle. capturing the moment forever.
  no, now i am going crazy, slipping into some state of paranoia. too many people would know of the mission. word would get out. or would it? who would have to know besides coin, plutarch, and a small, loyal or easily disposable crew?
  i badly need help working this out, only everyone i trust is dead. cinna. boggs. finnick. prim. there's peeta, but he couldn't do any more than speculate, and who knows what state his mind's in, anyway. and that leaves only gale. he's far away, but even if he were beside me, could i confide in him? what could i say, how could i phrase it, without implying that it was his bomb that killed prim? the impossibility of that idea, more than any, is why snow must be lying.
  ultimately, there's only one person to turn to who might know what happened and might still be on my side. to broach the subject at all will be a risk. but while i think haymitch might gamble with my life in the arena, i don't think he'd rat me out to coin. whatever problems we may have with each other, we prefer resolving our differences one-on-one.
  i scramble off the tiles, out the door, and across the hall to his room. when there's no response to my knock, i push inside. ugh. it's amazing how quickly he can defile a space. half-eaten plates of food, shattered liquor bottles, and pieces of broken furniture from a drunken rampage scatter his quarters. he lies, unkempt and unwashed, in a tangle of sheets on the bed, passed out.
  "haymitch," i say, shaking his leg. of course, that's insufficient. but i give it a few more tries before i dump the pitcher of water in his face. he comes to with a gasp, slashing blindly with his knife. apparently, the end of snow's reign didn't equal the end of his terror.
  "oh. you," he says. i can tell by his voice that he's still loaded.
  "haymitch," i begin.
  "listen to that. the mockingjay found her voice." he laughs. "well, plutarch's going to be happy." he takes a swig from a bottle. "why am i soaking wet?"