Haymitch Abernathy sat slumped in a battered armchair, a bottle of white liquor dangling from one hand and a knife resting in the other. Broken glass littered the floor of his shabby District 12 home, catching the dim light.

A knock echoed through the silence.

“Unless you brought something stronger,” he growled, “get lost.”

Another knock answered. With a curse, Haymitch shoved himself upright and yanked the door open.

“I said—”

He stopped. Whoever stood there was far too clean for District 12. His grip tightened on the knife.

“You've got ten seconds to explain why you're here before I slam this door in your face,” he snapped, leaning against the frame with a smile that never reached his eyes. Truth was, he had nothing but time. Time and ghosts.

Haymitch looked the visitor over once more, suspicion sharpening his gaze.

“Well?” he barked. “Out with it.”