Chapter Twenty-Two
After leaving his parents’ house, Clark walked slowly down the road, a small bundle containing the few personal belongings he was able to carry in one hand. He was distracted because he had a lot on his mind.
Conversation at breakfast had been strained. Someone would start to speak, realize where the comment was going, and fall silent. Clark didn’t want to discuss the arena he had left less than a week earlier, nor did he want to think about Snow’s threats. He wanted to talk about ordinary things and everyday life, but he’d been gone for three weeks, and in that time, his life had changed immensely.
There had been things he hadn’t wanted to discuss with his parents for years — he was growing up, after all, and had been pulling away from them and growing closer to his peers in preparation to live his own life. This new gulf between him and his parents was sudden and unexpected, though, and not something he was happy about.
Clark couldn’t explain why his new house felt so strange and unwelcoming — it didn’t feel like home. He supposed he would get used to it eventually, but for now it felt no more like home than his room at the Training Center had. The place was quiet and unfamiliar, even vaguely threatening.
He had been awakened abruptly the night before when a nightmare had sent him plunging to the floor, halfway across the room from his bed. He had panicked at first, kicking the bedding away, convinced that he was still in the arena and that his secret was now out to all of Panem.
When Clark had awakened fully, he had realized that he was on the floor of his bedroom in his house in Victor’s Village, safe from the arena and the cameras. Then he had wondered if he really was safe from cameras, and had gone through the house, searching every nook and cranny for cameras and listening devices.
There were no cameras, but he had found several microphones, all of which he had shorted out with his heat vision, and a couple of portable bugs, one of which he’d crushed to dust between his fingers and the other of which he’d affixed, with a flash of juvenile humor, to the underside of the toilet in the downstairs bathroom. Clark knew the Capitol would be suspicious if no sound came from any of the microphones, but he wasn’t about to give those listening the satisfaction of hearing anything useful.
After that, he’d tried to go back to sleep, but after tossing and turning for an hour, he’d gotten up and unpacked the clothes Rosaline had sent home with him, then sorted through the bag of money. Still unable to sleep, he’d gone outside and had been surprised to find that he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep — Haver had been sitting on the porch of his own house, smoking a magic grass cigarette. Clark had thought about going over to say hello, but had decided against it and instead had wandered through the yard of his new house, inspecting everything in the faint light of the moon and stars, which he could see reasonably well by. He’d really wanted to go for a long run, or better yet, go flying, but given that he was currently in the spotlight, he’d decided that it was best not to risk being seen where he shouldn’t be.
Now, Clark went inside his house and put away the few items he had brought from the farm. Even without using superspeed, it took only a few minutes to put everything away. All he had were a few articles of clothing and two cheap paperback books he’d obtained as a child — one a book of poetry that he’d won in a contest at school and one an adventure novel that his parents had bought for him after a particularly good harvest. It had never occurred to him before that he owned so little — few people in District 9 had much, and the fact that Clark possessed two changes of clothes besides the ones he was wearing, plus a warm coat that fit him far more tightly now than it had two years earlier when his mother had made it for him, had made him feel like he had plenty.
Indeed, he had more than many kids, and because the cold didn’t bother him, he’d often lent his coat to Rachel — all she had was a worn sweater that didn’t keep the chill out. He supposed that this was one of the things that had brought them together, though at the time he’d regarded it as simply helping out a friend.
Clark knew that he would have to talk to Rachel soon, though he wasn’t looking forward to that conversation. He knew she was upset with him — how upset, he wasn’t sure. He’d never made any promises to her, although in retrospect he could see why she thought things might be going beyond friendship. He also wondered if his other friends were angry with him on Rachel’s behalf — they’d certainly wanted to get away from him as fast as they could the night before.
Clark wanted to go to them, to find out exactly what was going on, but at the same time, he wasn’t sure he’d like the answer and wanted to put it off as long as possible. He had other things he needed to do, but eventually he would have to face his friends and find out where he stood. The Games had changed many things for him, and so far, most of them didn’t seem to be for the better.
*****
Around nine o’clock that morning, Clark opened the door of the apartment building next to the factory where the Rasens worked. Ordinarily, they would have been at work by now, but because of his victory, the whole district had the day off.
It was a mixed blessing. People appreciated the break from the hard work that characterized their lives, but they didn’t appreciate the loss of a day’s wages. For those already living close to the edge, that loss could mean starvation, freezing to death in the winter because they couldn’t afford coal for their stoves, or being evicted from their homes because they couldn’t pay the rent. The Victory dinner and Parcel Day helped to alleviate the strain by providing food, but it was still hard on people.
Losing Becky was a significant financial blow to the Rasens as well as an emotional one. Her tesserae rations had been cut off when she’d been Reaped, meaning less food for her family, and her meager wages were gone, too, as were the few extra coins she’d managed to earn on occasion by fixing broken equipment. During training for the Games, Becky had told Clark that the factory foreman sometimes gave her a little extra money for fixing things, which allowed her family to enjoy such luxuries as a small tin of meat — about the only meat they ever got. If the head of the household died, their family got a one-month pension to help them survive. No such help was given when a family lost a child, even if the child was one of the providers.
The Rasens lived on the fourth floor of the building. There were no elevators, though the building was ten stories high. Clark had no trouble climbing the three flights of stairs, but he wondered how Becky, who had been so sickly, had managed it. Had someone carried her, or had she had to stop and rest a lot?
When Clark reached the Rasens’ apartment, he hesitated a moment, unsure of his reception. Then, firming his resolve, he knocked on the door. Some families were out, enjoying the day off, but the Rasens, grieving for the loss of Becky, were gathered together at home. Even without using his superhearing, Clark could hear their voices through the thin wall.
The door was flung open. A boy of about seven looked up at Clark and then slammed the door in his face. Clark could hear him stomping across the floor as he announced, “There’s no one there, Mom!”
Clark sighed, guessing that this was the brother who had given Becky her token. Belatedly, he wondered if he should have bought a new toy for the child, then wondered if such a gift might be considered inappropriate under the circumstances.
Undeterred, he knocked on the door again. This time, it was answered by a woman with graying hair and a careworn face — Becky’s mother. She looked surprised to see him, but held the door open so he could come in.
“Clark, come in. Have a seat.” She gestured to an empty chair at the table.
Uncomfortably, Clark sat down at the narrow, crowded table. From the way people looked at him, he thought it was safe to assume that he was sitting in Becky’s seat.
“Go away!” The boy who had first answered the door marched over to Clark and tried to push him out of the chair.
“Billy!” his mother scolded. “Go sit down! Clark is a guest!”
“He’s not supposed to be here! Becky is!”
“Billy, Becky’s gone. You know that.”
“It’s his fault!” the boy shouted, his eyes filling with tears. “I hate him!” Billy ran into the smaller second room where the family slept, slamming the door behind him.
Clark stood up. “I … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come …” He looked at the bag of coins in his hand, wishing he’d asked his parents to bring it instead.
Mrs. Rasen shook her head. “Billy and Becky were very close. He’s having a hard time accepting that his sister is … dead.”
“Was he the one who gave her the ball?”
“Yes. The Capitol returned a few fragments of it, along with Becky’s body. The pieces were buried with her.” Mrs. Rasen’s voice was dull.
Clark looked around at the assembled members of Becky’s family. Six young faces looked back at him — Becky’s siblings, minus Billy. Becky had been the fourth of nine children. The eldest, a girl, had been in Clark’s class in school, though she was three months younger than him and would be eligible for the Reaping for another year. The second eldest, a boy, had died in infancy. There was a fifteen-year-old boy, the one Becky had compared Clark to when she was teasing him about Lois. Becky had also had a twelve-year-old sister. She and her oldest sister were still feeling guilty about not volunteering in Becky’s place. There were also four children too young for the Reaping — two girls, ages eight and ten, Billy, and a three-year-old boy who sat in the lap of a skeletally thin old woman. Becky’s father sat beside the old woman. All of the Rasens wore bands of black fabric on their upper left arms, traditional symbols of mourning in District 9.
At Mrs. Rasen’s urging, Clark sat back down. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “I can cook something if you are.”
Clark shook his head, glad that he had eaten before coming to visit. He doubted the Rasens could afford to feed a guest without going hungry themselves. “No … I had breakfast with my parents. I just came to … to visit, and to say how sorry I am I wasn’t able to protect her, and …”
“You couldn’t have saved her, Clark.” Mr. Rasen spoke for the first time. “Frankly, we’re surprised she lasted that long. She was sick last winter, so sick that we thought we’d lose her then. Somehow, she managed to pull through, but we knew it was only a matter of time. It would have been easier on her if she’d died here instead of in the arena, but we still would have lost her.”
Clark nodded slowly, thinking of how badly damaged Becky’s lungs had looked. “She was scared — really scared. She knew she didn’t have a chance, and she was afraid of me at first. I promised her that I wouldn’t hurt her, and I tried to help her — but in the end, there was nothing I could do.”
“Your parents came here as soon as mandatory viewing at the beginning of the Games was over,” Mrs. Rasen said. “They were afraid for you, too — but they came to see us because we’d lost our daughter. They came to her funeral, too, after the Games were over and her … her body had been sent back to us.” Her voice broke, but she wiped her eyes and continued. “The hovercraft had to send out machinery to scrape the ground to get enough of her body back for us to bury, and the casket was closed, of course, but we were still able to have a funeral for her.”
Clark hadn’t seen the hovercraft when it came to pick up the bodies of those who died in the bloodbath — he’d been hiding in the brush by then. He’d seen some of what Mrs. Rasen described when he’d seen the highlights of the Games at his first post-Games interview, but neither Becky’s death nor the details of what the Capitol had to do to retrieve her body were things he wanted to dwell on now.
“I wish I could have been here for the funeral,” he told the Rasens. “What day was it?”
“The day after the Games ended,” Saffron, Becky’s oldest sister, replied. “You were still in the Capitol then.”
Clark nodded, looking down. While Becky’s family was burying their daughter and mourning her death, he had been asleep in a luxurious room in the Capitol. When they had returned to their cramped apartment to continue to eke out their meager living without one of their providers, he had been eating expensive food in the Capitol. He was being rewarded for outliving twenty-three other kids, one of whom was Becky. The Rasens were struggling to survive, while he would never again have to wonder where his next meal was coming from.
Remembering his primary reason for coming to visit, Clark lifted the bag of coins he’d been carrying and set it on the table. The Rasens looked at it in confusion.
Clark looked from the bag to the people seated around the table. “Becky told me about the work she did in the factory, and how she helped support the rest of you. With her gone, you’ve lost her wages and her tesserae. I know this can’t make up for her loss, but … there’s enough money here that you’ll be able to get enough to eat for the next month, and there will be a like amount each month. The older ones won’t have to take out more tesserae, and those who are too young to be Reaped won’t have to take tesserae at all, because next year I’ll give you another month’s winnings spread out over the year, and the year after that, and … as long as I’m alive, you’ll have enough to eat.”
“No,” Mr. Rasen told him. “Clark, I know you mean well, but we can’t accept charity. Yes, we’ve lost Becky’s wages and tesserae, but there’s also one less mouth to feed.”
“Not for long,” Clark pointed out. He’d seen the small bulge of Mrs. Rasen’s middle, and his superhearing had picked up on the unborn baby’s heartbeat. It would be several years before the baby could contribute to the family’s support — assuming it lived that long. The high infant mortality rate in District 9 was one of the reasons people often had large families.
“Nevertheless …” Mr. Rasen pushed the bag back in Clark’s direction.
Shaking his head, Clark pushed it back. “It’s not charity. When I told Caesar Flickerman that Becky was like a sister to me, I meant it. I never had a sister of my own, but Becky quickly became one to me. And like I told Caesar, the Kents do
take care of their own. I would have protected Becky if I could have, but since I couldn’t, I’m going to help you. Had she been victor, I’m sure she would have provided for you and for my parents.”
Clark stood, walking towards the door before anyone could voice any further objections. There was a wealth of emotion in his voice as he said, “I don’t want to you have to lose
another child the same way you lost Becky. I would feel like it was my fault if that happened and I hadn’t done what I could to prevent it. I owe it to Becky … to Becky’s memory. Please … take it. It’s yours. I’m not taking it back.”
With that, he walked out the door, closing it gently behind him.
*****
Clark walked quietly in the direction of the cemetery after leaving the Rasens. He’d known that they would probably object to his gift — it was a matter of pride in District 9 to be able to take care of oneself and one’s family, even if it left them starving. People were suspicious of gifts — it meant they owed a debt to the giver, one that they might never be able to pay back. By phrasing his statement the way he had, he thought that it would be somewhat more acceptable. Assuming it as a debt on himself, to Becky’s memory, should make it easier for them to accept.
Clark had been determined to give them the money, one way or another. Mr. and Mrs. Rasen might object now, but he was confident that they would use it to feed their hungry children, and probably themselves and the old woman, too. It was more acceptable to take help from a family member, which was why Clark had also emphasized that Becky had become like a sister to him. They weren’t really family, but as far as he was concerned, it was close enough. He wanted nothing in exchange, and he sincerely hoped that he wouldn’t be escorting another Rasen child to their death. Becky’s death had been hard enough to deal with; he didn’t want to watch one of her sisters or brothers die in the arena, too.
Clark felt certain that Becky would have done the same, had she been able to. In spite of her weakness, she had tried to help him after he’d suddenly become ill after being exposed to Platinum’s Kryptonite pendant. If she had survived and he had died, she would have made sure his parents weren’t left to starve.
Before Clark reached the cemetery, he stopped at a house surrounded by an enormous flower garden. Three battered glass greenhouses stood beside the house, also filled with flowering plants.
The woman who lived in the house and raised the flowers, Vena Solros, had once been a factory worker, but an accident had robbed her of several fingers. Since she could no longer do her job, she had been let go from the factory. With no family left to take her in, her future had looked bleak.
She’d had an advantage that many didn’t have, though. She had been born into a merchant family — though reduced circumstances had eventually pushed her into the hard life of a factory worker. Her mother had always enjoyed growing and arranging flowers and had taught her daughter to do the same. Using this skill, she had managed to make a living by moving into the old house next to the cemetery — a place few people wanted to live — and growing and selling flowers. Flowers were a traditional part of District 9 weddings and funerals, but few people could afford to buy the expensive flowers shipped from the Capitol, and many people didn’t have gardens in which to grow them. Wildflowers often took the place of garden flowers, but they were only available part of the year. Some people made do with dried flowers for weddings and funerals taking place in the winter, but those were also expensive to buy and weren’t as well-liked as fresh flowers.
Despite the loss of several fingers, Vena was still able to garden, and the rent on the house next to the cemetery was cheap, so she was able to make her living selling flowers to mourners for far less than what the Capitol charged. With the greenhouses, she was even able to grow flowers in the winter when all the gardens were buried under the snow. Some people were leery of buying her flowers for weddings because of how closely she was associated with funerals, but others recognized that the flowers were just that — flowers — and weren’t going to bring early death or other bad luck to a marriage.
Vena was working in her garden when Clark reached her front gate. She looked up when he pulled on the cord attached to a bell over the gate, ringing it to get her attention. Standing, she went to greet District 9’s newest victor.
“Clark.” She opened the gate to let him in. “Flowers for poor Becky Rasen, or did your friends finally set a date for their wedding?”
Clark shrugged. “I don’t know yet what Pete and Lana have planned. I’m going to visit Becky’s grave, so I thought I’d bring flowers.”
Vena nodded. “I always give a discount on flowers for dead tributes.”
“I don’t need a discount,” Clark told her. He’d set aside money to buy flowers for Becky.
“You’ll get it anyway,” Vena told him firmly. “It’s bad enough that they’re dead before their time — I’m not making a profit on it, too. It’ll cost just what it cost me to grow them, and that’s only so I can grow more. I give the same discount to Haver when he buys flowers for the graves of every dead tribute since his Games.”
“Does Matilda buy flowers, too?” Clark asked.
“She sometimes buys them at the time of the funerals, or rather, her husband does. She’s usually too strung out on morphling right after the Games to handle anything. I don’t know if it’ll be easier on her this year or not. She was still in the Capitol during Becky’s funeral, and District 9 only lost one child this year.” Vena smiled at Clark. “Everyone is glad you made it home. We hadn’t had a victor in thirteen years, and you did us proud. You didn’t turn into a savage like so many do.”
Clark wasn’t proud of his actions in the arena at all — the deaths of Lysander and Lois haunted him — but he just ducked his head and said, “Thank you. I’m just grateful to be alive.” He wasn’t sure about that, either — he would have sacrificed himself for Lois’s sake if he could have — but there was nothing he could do to change things. He had to move forward, get through the festivities, and get on with his life.
Vena led Clark through the garden, pointing out the different flowers and telling him whether they symbolized anything. Clark finally selected fifteen blossoms of five different kinds, but shook his head when Vena asked if he wanted roses. Though the roses in her garden were natural varieties rather than the sickly-sweet smelling ones favored by President Snow, they still reminded him of the cold-eyed dictator and he wanted nothing to do with them.
When Vena told Clark the price, he shook his head. “That’s not enough.”
“I’d give them away if I could afford to,” Vena told him. “I don’t care if you victors are the richest people around — I’m still not making a profit on the deaths of tributes. If you want to give me more, come by in the spring and help me get this place ready for planting — it’s not easy when you’re missing four fingers.”
Clark nodded — that sounded fair. “I will.” He paid her the small amount she’d specified and left, the bouquet clutched in one hand.
*****
A short time later, Clark stepped through the District 9 cemetery gate and headed for the section reserved for Hunger Games tributes. It was more than half full, making him wonder what they would do when it filled up — he didn’t see the Capitol eliminating District 9 from the Games. Would a new area be designated, or would the earliest graves be disinterred and the old bodies replaced?
Becky was the one hundred thirtieth tribute buried there. There had been two burials each year except in 10, 31, 53, and 66, plus two extra deaths in 50, when the rules of that year’s Quarter Quell had demanded twice the number of tributes.
It didn’t take Clark long to locate Becky’s grave — it was the newest one, the tenth one in a row now half-filled. He looked uncomfortably at the spot next to it — another grave had been dug, then hastily filled back in when Clark was declared victor. In District 9, people were so used to losing their tributes that they dug their graves the day after they were Reaped.
Looking away from the spot that had been designated for his burial, Clark set the bouquet atop Becky’s grave in front of the simple wooden cross that would mark it until the ground had a chance to settle and a more permanent marker — probably of stone, metal, or whatever else the Rasens could come up with, since it was traditional for the family of the deceased tribute to create the marker — would be put in its place. A few wilted flowers left from her funeral lay nearby.
Clark stepped back, putting his hands in his pockets and staring at the grave. It was small, shorter than expected, but given what had happened just after Becky’s death, it was surprising there was anything to bury at all.
“Becky,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry. I promised to protect you and then … I couldn’t. I would have if it had been possible. Please believe me. I spent the whole Games thinking you’d been killed in the explosion, and if only I’d been able to get to you in time, I could have prevented it. Now I know that I couldn’t have, but … I’m still sorry. I keep thinking that I should have been able to do something, because … because there’s a lot of things I can do that no one else can, and yet I couldn’t save one thirteen-year-old girl. You were like a sister to me, Becky, and I should have been able to protect you.”
Clark’s voice broke on the last word. He took his glasses off, quickly wiping his eyes, and went on. “I gave most of my first month’s winnings to your family. I hope they accept it — I don’t want your sisters and brothers to have to take out anymore tesserae. If your name hadn’t been in the Reaping bowl so many times, you might not have been chosen, and you might have been able to spend your last days at home with your family, rather than in the Capitol with strangers. People tell me I didn’t fail you, but I still don’t believe it.
“I’m sorry, Becky,” Clark whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to take care of your family for you, but … I wish you were here with them.”
Clark fell silent when he heard footsteps approaching. Ducking his head to hide his red eyes, he polished his glasses on his shirt while he waited for the other person to reach him.
“Clark, are you okay?” Haver came up beside him, a large bundle of flowers in his arms.
“I … I’m fine.” Clark looked away, taking a deep breath to compose himself.
“Vena said she saw you earlier, so I thought you might be here. I’ll come back later if you’d rather be alone.”
“No … it’s okay.” Clark put his glasses back on. “Do you need any help with that?”
“Sure.” Haver let Clark take half the bundle of flowers. “Vena picked these for me early this morning — they’re the best she grows. She could make a lot of money from these, but —“
“— but she only charges enough that she can grow more,” Clark finished. “She told me the same thing.”
“Her cousin died in the Quarter Quell in 50,” Haver said, “so she has reason to hate the Games and to try to help the families of those who lose loved ones to them. I don’t know how much it helps, but people are usually glad to be able to afford nice flowers for their lost children. Vena once told me that she’d give the flowers away, but then she wouldn’t be able to afford to grow more and people would have to rely on Capitol flowers again, which most people can’t afford.”
Haver selected a flower from the bundle Clark held and set it on Becky’s grave. “I usually do this the day after the funerals, but I was in the Capitol during the funeral this year. I can’t say that I’m sorry, since it meant one less dead kid and one less grieving family. People are glad you came home, Clark,” he added. “They won’t celebrate as loudly and raucously as in the Capitol, because they’re sorry about Becky, but they’ll still celebrate your return. Unlike the Capitolites, people here didn’t see you two as cheap entertainment — you and Becky were part of the community — and
you still are.”
“It takes some getting used to,” Clark confessed, “this whole business of being a victor. There’s some good things about it, but …”
“I can’t say it’s going to be easy, Clark,” Haver said, “especially when it comes time to mentor two more kids with the almost certain knowledge that they won’t be coming home. Just remember who is really responsible — not the other districts, and not the other kids who get thrown into the Games — not even the Careers. It’s the Capitol that requires the districts to send their children to die for entertainment.”
Clark nodded, thinking of the other tributes he’d known. Even the most vicious of the Careers had been nothing more than pawns in a game designed to keep the districts in their place.
Haver took a flower from the bundle he was carrying and set it on the grave next to Becky’s, that of the girl who had died the year before. Deceased tributes were buried in the order in which they’d died.
Clark walked along beside him, watching as Haver carefully selected the flowers for each tribute. It was obvious that he’d gotten to know each one well enough to know what would be appropriate. Clark wondered how Haver could stand it, mentoring kids year after year, getting to know them and then watching them die. In all those years, only he and Matilda had made it home. Haver had been left mourning seventy others, and Matilda had grown so bitter and cynical over the process that even when Clark had survived, she had only been able to think of what he would face in the future and had been unable to be happy that he was coming home.
Clark lingered for a moment at the grave of his classmate who had died in 62, the year that Clark had developed his heat and X-ray vision. He and Clark hadn’t been close friends, but they had been acquaintances, and Clark had been upset when he was Reaped, as had most of the kids. The boy, Halm Reis, had been one of the most popular students, largely because he was friendly to everybody. It had been something of a surprise that he had managed to survive even a few days in the arena, but no one had been happy to see him die.
Two rows of graves beyond that, Clark stopped again at the grave of the uncle for whom he had been named. Clark Stam, Martha Kent’s youngest brother, had been sixteen when he’d died in the 47th Annual Hunger Games. Less than a year later, Martha had found a baby boy in a rocket in a wheat field and named him for her brother, a tradition that had been going on since before the Dark Days. Clark had been the family’s surname long before, but when there were no sons left with the name to pass it on, the daughters had started using it for a first name for their sons.
When Haver set down the last flower, Clark looked in surprise at the name on the grave marker. The long deceased tribute, Edith Dennings, had been Haver’s district partner during his Games in 31, but it wasn’t the fact that Haver was memorializing someone he hadn’t been mentor for that surprised the young victor. It was the name that had caught his attention — Dennings had been the last name of District 9’s first victor.
“Was she any relation to your mentor?” Clark asked Haver.
“Yes. She was John’s youngest child. Her brother and sister are also buried here. Edith was also the last of his children.”
“They … were all contestants in the Games? All of his children?”
“The Capitol loves legacy tributes, Clark. It was as true then as it is now.”
Clark looked around, quickly finding the other two graves of the Dennings children. Remembering what Lois had said about the children of victors being Reaped so often that it couldn’t be a coincidence, he asked, “Do you think it was a coincidence that they were Reaped?”
Haver hesitated. “If it had been just one of his children, I would say yes, or if they had taken out a massive amount of tesserae. As a victor’s children, though, they never needed to take tesserae — they always had plenty to eat. One child might have been coincidence, but three … the odds against that are infinitesimal, especially since they were all Reaped at age seventeen, the same age as their father was when he won the Games in 10.”
Clark glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. “So … you think the Capitol made sure they would be Reaped?”
“You’ve seen how excited the Capitolites get about legacy tributes — remember their reaction to Lysander?”
“But Lysander was a Career. He volunteered.”
“In the Career districts, it’s considered an honor for the children of victors to take part in the Games. Mark my words, though — if he hadn’t volunteered, the Capitol would have found a way to put him in the Games anyway. In the Career districts, volunteers are approved ahead of time by their mentors. Had Lysander not been approved, he would have been Reaped, and District 2 would have been
strongly encouraged not to send a male volunteer in his place.”
“His father could have protected him —“
“Like I’ve said before, Clark, I’m not even going to speculate on how Lex Luthor’s mind works. Suffice it to say that his son wound up in the arena, where all his training was no match for a good shove from you.”
Clark flinched. “I didn’t want to kill him!”
“I know you didn’t. I didn’t want to kill anyone, either. It was a matter of survival.”
“Did you kill …” Clark gestured to Edith’s grave.
Haver shook his head. “No. She was killed in a landslide … a Gamemaker trap.”
Clark looked at the overgrown grave at his feet, then glanced at the other Dennings graves. “Matilda said that your mentor — John — that he walked in front of an angry bull.”
“He died in the autumn of 31 after being gored and trampled by a bull known for its temper. Are you asking if he did it on purpose?”
“Ah … well … yes.” It wasn’t a question Clark liked to ask, but when they had learned the history of the Hunger Games in school just before they were old enough participate, the death of the district’s first victor had been mentioned, though the teacher had refused to confirm or deny the rumor that he had committed suicide. Now that Clark was a victor himself, he thought it was appropriate to ask.
“Nothing was ever proven — like I said, the bull was known for its temper — but I think the answer to that question is … yes. John didn’t have much left to live for — all of his children were dead, and his wife left him after Edith died. Other people have lost as much and continued on with life — he didn’t leave a note or anything, but before he died, he took all of his money and valuables and gave them to his ex-wife. The Capitol would have taken everything back if he’d still owned it when he died, but by giving it away, he made sure they couldn’t legally take it.” When Clark started to ask another question, Haver put up his hand. “That’s all I know.” Glancing at his watch, he added, “The banquet is in a couple of hours. It won’t be like the one in the Capitol — it’s more of a luncheon — but you’ll still want to look presentable and make sure your parents are on time.”
“They will be.” Clark looked around at the tribute graves one more time, then turned to leave. “Haver?” The older man looked back at him. “I think what you do each year … putting flowers on the graves of all the kids you’ve mentored … it’s a good thing. It means they’re not forgotten.”
“I’ve never forgotten a single one of them, Clark. I only wish more than two had survived.”
“I don’t think I’ll forget any of them, either.”
“It might be easier if you could forget, but I think you’ll remember them, too. Maybe the three of us will have more luck bringing kids home than Matilda and I did before.”
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