By the River & At the Inn, January 8th

Finnick's aware that there's now electric lights and a refrigerator for perishable food in the Inn, but nobody seems to know why the electricity suddenly works there. That's not an entirely unfamiliar feeling to someone from Panem, where in the districts, blackouts are so common that most people learn not to rely on electricity. When not having electricity is more reliable than actually having it, people learn to live without it. The victors, of course, have a variety of electrical appliances in their mansions, as a luxury. But it's just that, a luxury, a nicer way to be able to cook, and to keep food cool and heat water, to watch the television that the Capitol mandates. Not like in the Capitol, where nothing goes short, where they have enough of everything to waste while the districts go without.

It hasn't been much of an adjustment here not to use electricity. It takes time to even notice that there's electricity in the house, when Finnick notices the changes in the kitchen: a refrigerator and an electric stove. It's only after finding the electricity in the refrigerator running that he tries the lights.

There's a box, too, another of the strange maybe-sponsor gifts that have proved to be such a strange mix of helpful things and luxuries. Today, it's a mixture of both: new shoes for hiking and for running, a pair of sturdy pants, but perhaps most precious of all, a blank bound book, in this place where paper is such a scarcity, and some pencils, and the rest of the box full of chocolate.

He takes some of the chocolate with him when he heads to the Inn, one bar to drop off as a gift for Kate Kelly, and a couple of others in case he winds up needing something to offer. He's aware that he's been the recipient of unexpected generosity from people who've received similar gifts, remembering Cougar's candy and the delight it had given to be able to bring the man's gift to Annie. But he's also aware that a scarce resource is not to be given away lightly here.

He takes longer about his fishing that morning, because he stops a little way north of the bridge over the river, not to check his traps, but to sit on his backpack and pull out one of the pencils. He's careful as he works his pocketknife around the wood, wanting to sharpen the pencil without wasting any of it. It's probably foolish not to use the journal to take notes on this place, but that's not what he has in mind. He's gotten good, over the years, at committing the things he needs to know to his memory. He knows things that would be a death sentence if anyone in Panem knew that he knew them: the dangerous deals that could ruin many careers, the depravities of people who think they're untouchable, the President's secrets that only his confidants know.

He doesn't need to write anything down to remember it. What he needs is an outlet, the same secret outlet he'd allowed himself in Panem, wrapped up as a victor's talent and sold to the Capitol along with everything else. He'd chosen poetry for a lack of anything else to choose, and he'd used it to play into the image Snow had chosen for him: perpetually in and out of love, living the life granted to the victors to the fullest. But it had become more to him, a way to reach into the parts of himself that had broken with his victory, to give voice to the things that could never be said openly.

He sits, quietly, head bowed over the early blank pages of the notebook, and he tries to find that voice again.

Not that he can stay outside long, as cold as it is. Eventually, he has to get moving, put the journal away and finish his trap-checking.

Later in the day, he heads into the electric-lit Inn, and waits around in the main room for longer than usual. When someone new comes into the room, he smiles, stepping a little away from the fire to make room.

"Nice change having electricity," he offers, tilting his head towards the nearest lightbulb.

House 57, January 13th

It's already been cold and snowy for weeks, but Finnick's still not experienced with snowstorms. It's been snowing overnight, though, and as the wind picks up and starts rattling and howling around the old house Finnick and Annie live in, he thinks he knows enough to tell this is going to be something bad. There aren't storms like these in District Four, but the snow is already carpeting the ground and Finnick knows they could wind up stuck if it keeps up. He should head out early if he's going to do anything at all today.

The bite in the air when he steps outside changes his mind. The birds seem to agree; he's greeted by a chorus of startled honking and flapping as several startled birds make their displeasure known, fleeing down the porch steps and back into the yard. There's already a lot of snow on the ground, and Finnick quickly realizes he's not going anywhere today, except to fetch the rest of the birds in out of the storm.

He heads back for the door.

"We're going to have to get the birds in."