She'd so aptly summed up everything he'd felt about their situation. Everyone had always so readily labeled their home world as terrible. And it was. There was no denying that. They couldn't dare go back, because they'd been put back into the arena or tortured or killed -- or all of those things, probably in that order.

But still. It was the place they came from. It might have destroyed them, but it also made them first. He'd grown up diving into the ocean of Four, running along the beaches. It was the first place he'd met Annie, kissed Annie, built their entire life upon what they could hide there. Even when he was in the Capitol, he'd always expected to go back there, a waiting game each time. It was strange to think that he wasn't ever going back. It's strange to think his son would never see where they came from. Reassuring, yes. But strange nonetheless.

"Wouldn't trust anyone else to teach him how to wield an axe," Finnick answers fondly.