I understand her words, but they don't make sense. Alternate dimensions, lost in space— it's like she's speaking a different language. Like when I'm drunk (even though right now I know I'm not) nothing's getting through.

I can tell I'm glaring at her, and I'd like to feel bad, but I can't spare any sympathy for her when I need it all for me. "Damn right it does. But since I don't have a better explanation for this, I'm clearly not in a position to argue with you." I glance around, my gaze catching on the baby in her arms before sliding away again.

"You said something about the doors," I remind her. "Tell me more." If she's somehow right and I have gotten away from Panem, there's no chance I'll be going back if there's anything I can do to avoid it.