Oh. Now I get it. President Snow. I overdid it in the interview and I’m about to hear about my gory demise. And Plutarch, who likes to think of himself as a decent guy, is upset about throwing me to the wolves again. Figures. With trepidation, I lift the receiver to my ear, brace myself, and manage to get out a “Yeah?” “Haymitch? Is that really you?” The breathless voice, rough with recent tears, cuts right through to my heart. Lenore Dove.
