In a strange way, there's always been something reassuring about Beverly's horror. In Panem, most people were too afraid to show their feelings as openly as she does. It had been different the last few months before he'd come here, when people were angrier, more rebellious, but Beverly's anger is something that wouldn't have been spoken publicly for fear of the Peacekeepers, of Capitol spies.

It makes it a little easier to accept some of the things he's still struggling with: that what Snow had done to him was a horrific betrayal, that it's natural for it to have harmed him. Of course, he hasn't told her about the shame, the self-loathing that come from what he's done and what's been done to him and what he's allowed to happen, the darkness that his experiences have stirred in his mind, but ... her outrage and her sympathy make him feel a little less like he has to pretend around her.

So the harshness in her voice is reassuring, and he trusts that it's real, more than he would have done all those months ago when he first met her.

The corners of his mouth turn up, just a little.

"You'd take us with you back to your ... reality?"