At the mention of the word 'tracker', Annie's eyes dart from Finnick's arm where the tracker would have been to Julian and then, briefly, to her own arm where her own tracker had been placed and removed five years ago. There isn't a single mark on her pale skin and her gaze goes back to Julian.

He's the unknown variable here.

He's also the one who is making no damn sense, and Annie's inability to comprehend anything Julian has said about where the hell she is writes it plainly across her face.

Simple things, that she can do.

He asks how she is. She can answer that.

"Like I've been keelhauled," Annie says, after a moment. "Is there...um. Could, could I have anything to drink? W-water?"

She doesn't ask if she can sleep, even though she badly needs to. She doesn't even lean in against Finnick, because the temptation to just drop her head against his shoulder and fall asleep is too high.

The important thing to know is that you're safe, the doctor adds, and she scoffs.

She can't help it.

The last time she was safe in any real meaning of the word, she was eleven.

The leader of her country wants to kill her. And the man sitting next to her, who for nearly all intents and purposes is her husband.

Mags already died in agony.

Annie's not afraid, her emotions are too bruised and sedated for that, but her scoff turns into a soft, bitter laugh.

Safe in what sense? she wants to say.

She settles for: "Oh. Okay."