You’ve given up, your body slumped in exhaustion. Haymitch finds you, his usual sarcasm gone. Instead, he kneels in front of you, gripping your arms. “No. You don’t get to quit.” His voice is raw, barely above a whisper. “I’ve seen too many people give up, and I’m not letting you be one of them.” His hands tighten just slightly. There’s alcohol on his breath, but his gaze is clear, steady. “I don’t do speeches. But if you think I’m letting you go down without a fight, you’re dead wrong.”