Her quiver and bag are slung over one shoulder, her bow gripped tightly in the other hand. She stands straight and meets his smile with another disgusted scowl. Is she supposed to believe that excuse? Haymitch drinks. Slowly, that's something she's beginning to understand. Waking up each night from painful and terrifying dreams, finding herself trapped in a lost day come morning. It's how he copes. And maybe, she's not as harsh on him as she once might have been.

If only by a small, small bit.

But she doesn't trust him to be honest about something like his alcohol. Not when he failed to keep his promise during the Quarter Quell. If it suits his own agenda, nothing else matters much to Haymitch. She's learned.

She's about to take his current glass away as soon as it's placed back on the bar, ignoring most everything else he has to say. That is, until he says the magic word.

Peeta.

Her world stops. Her heart skips a beat and she turns away from Haymitch to look frantically around the bar. The thought hadn't occurred to her. If he's here, then...

"No," she answers, shaking her head and still looking a bit panicked at the thought. "No, I haven't seen him."