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Summary
“I can’t sleep,” Haymitch ends up fumbling. “There.”
He points emphatically down the hallway he came from, trusting, if not his tone, then the two decades and a half they spent as accomplices of the same fiasco to convey the rest.
Plutarch looks at him with the bleary gaze of the insomniac through a crack in the doorway. After a long pause, he says, “Alright.”