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For a few moments, Peeta and I take in the scene of our
mentor trying to rise out of the slippery vile stuff from his
stomach. The reek of vomit and raw spirits almost brings my
dinner up. We exchange a glance. Obviously Haymitch isn’t
much, but Effie Trinket is right about one thing, once we’re in
the arena he’s all we’ve got. As if by some unspoken agreement,
Peeta and I each take one of Haymitch’s arms and help
him to his feet.
“I tripped?” Haymitch asks. “Smells bad.” He wipes his hand
on his nose, smearing his face with vomit.
“Let’s get you back to your room,” says Peeta. “Clean you up
a bit.”
We half-lead half-carry Haymitch back to his compartment.
Since we can’t exactly set him down on the embroidered bedspread,
we haul him into the bathtub and turn the shower on
him. He hardly notices.
“It’s okay,” Peeta says to me. “I’ll take it from here.”
I can’t help feeling a little grateful since the last thing I want
to do is strip down Haymitch, wash the vomit out of his chest
hair, and tuck him into bed. Possibly Peeta is trying to make a
good impression on him, to be his favorite once the Games be-
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