Finnick doesn't react defensively, though it's still his instinct. His hands are full of the box with Star in it, his knife inaccessible in his pocket without abandoning the baby bird that's so dependent on him (and apparently fond of him). So Finnick doesn't make any move in response to the man's words other than to turn enough to see who's there.

His body, though, has tensed for someone who knows how to read it to see, in his shoulders, his legs, so that if he has to defend himself, he can.

The man doesn't approach, though, just seems to be looking over, less at Finnick than at Star's box.

A peacock, he says, and Finnick looks down at Star. There is, when he knows to look for it, something like the showy, ostentatious birds that are popular as pets in the Capitol in the little creature: the tuft of feathers on the head, the shape of the feathers in its tail, but there is far more that looks very unlike the animals he's seen in Capitol gardens.

"They look different when they're babies," he admits, and pauses for a moment to consider whether he should let the man look.

But Finnick and Annie have only been doing what they think will be best, they don't know anything about raising geese or peacocks, and maybe someone who does can help.

Star, looking up at him, gives a couple of cheeps.

Finnick nods. "Of course."