INTERMISSION (BONUS CHAPTER) three months after the 66th games content: underage drug use (alcohol), anxiety attack, general angst.
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"We will be approaching District Four in five minutes," says the conductor through the ceiling speaker. Madaket startles awake and lifts her head from the couch. "Please prepare for arrival."
The compartment goes quiet once more, and that's when Madaket realizes that she's gripping her knife. She looks down at the blade, unable to remember when she had unsheathed it. It must have been as she woke. But there's no danger to be found. She's alone in the back of the train, just as she had been when she dozed off. Some tension eases out of her shoulders.With her ring finger, she gingerly tucks the knife back into the sheath in her sleeve.
Out the window, the sandy hills blur by, tall grass waving hello at the passing train. She's thankful to not be dreaming anymore. The nightmare she was having is already fading fast in her memory, something about an old friend and a blood-slicked sword. . . Yes, she'd much rather be awake. Her mind could conjure the most disturbing dreams. . .
It was a different nightmare that had brought her to District 6's only train station yesterday at 2AM. The memory of it makes her hand twitch toward her hip, where the warm flask digs into her skin. She can still hear Kaimana's angry ghost yelling at her from the back of her mind: "You forgot the promise you made! You stole my bracelet, my district token! You FORGOT me!"
No, Kaimana, Madaket wants to tell her. I don't think I'll ever forget you. All I can remember is your face. She downs a couple swallows from her flask just to get rid of the shaking in her hands, then screws the cap back on. Spiced whiskey spreads warmth down her throat and through her whole body.
After Madaket hides the flask again, her hand is drawn to her jacket pocket, where she's hidden Kaimana's braided bracelet. She laces the braid through her fingers, rubs a thumb over the five tally marks etched into the cowrie shell, lets out a sigh.
Over the past three months, Madaket's traced these etchings thousands of times. The weight of the bracelet in her pocket has grown comfortingly familiar. . . And now she has to give it away. Her breath hitches at the thought of not having it anymore, then a wave of guilt makes her withdraw her hand in disgust. "Stupid," she declares, empty-handed.
Kaimana's voice screams out again in her mind: You STOLE my token!
Her family is surely devastated, looking for closure or some reminder of their daughter. And here Madaket is hoarding Kaimana's token—the last thing her family gifted her before watching their daughter, sister, be shipped away for the slaughter. Madaket can't imagine their pain, the grief they went through having to watch Kaimana's agonizing, drawn-out death. It's the least Madaket can do to give them the token. Maybe it will give them comfort, like it had done for her. (Or maybe it will make Kaimana's ghost stop screaming.)
