The very tall young man sitting next to the slim, curly-haired brunette, Annie studies him for a long moment.

He's the only one mentioning a physical injury being healed. That, that seems important. Trauma, she's not touching that. She can't. Everyone knows - or everyone knows in Panem. About some of it. Others, she can't talk about it. She can't be brave like Finnick and raise her hand. She doesn't want to be called upon to answer anything about the bombings.

She doesn't even want to think about it.

Instead of raising her hand, instead of managing to hold the blonde woman's words in her mind, the one who spoke of being monitored, instead of keeping a damn watch, Annie looks down.

Down at her hands. Uncared hands. Not a blemish on them, except what she's pick up here. No knicks from a knife. No burns.

It's like she's been polished by the Capitol. Polished to blank perfection.

Is that what happened with the young man's injuries?

But Annie can't speak, certainly not when everyone's all disagreeing with each other. She'll stumble over her words, panic. She'll just.

She'll think about it. That's what she'll do.