“Anyhow,” he says. The fire is coals in the grate, long forgotten, along with their supper. He clears his throat. “It’s late.”
He chances a glance at the pair on the couch, something he hasn’t been able to do for the past hour, and wishes he hadn’t.
Her eyes are wide, and she’s still as a stone, knees drawn to her chest. The boy’s fingers, laid on an open page of the memorial book, dig into his palms, then release, over and over, compulsively and involuntarily.
“Well,” their mentor says, standing slowly, that old scar twinging around his midsection. He wants to make some sort of deflecting remark, something about “Same time tomorrow?” — but he can’t.
Truth be told, he feels about as exposed as he did with his guts out.
“Haymitch …” She whispers it, and it’s all she seems able to say. Then the furniture springs creak and her arms are around him.
The boy is up too, colored pencils spilling onto the floor.
Big hands grip his shoulders; small hands fist in the fabric of his jacket. Haymitch doesn’t remember the last time someone held him like this. It makes him feel sick and shaky, like withdrawal symptoms.
“Don’t you two get sappy on me,” he manages, but there’s a distinct catch on the last word, and he shuts up.
They don’t say anything. They don’t thank him for sharing his story. He’s grateful for that.
He was a lot better at sharing before the fire, before the gumdrops, before the eternal train rides, before the coffins. Sharing is something Sid’s brother and Louella’s sweetheart would do. Could do. Not him. Not until now.
It doesn’t seem fair that this is the first thing he’s learned to share again, the weight of his grief. But then again, he reminds himself, these two once held the weight of a country’s hope in the palms of their hands — so maybe the burden of one man’s memories isn’t too much to ask.
