Howard pulls out his credit card for his meal (the four entrees, the two milkshakes, the baskets of fries), hoping in some way that it'll deplete his kill money. Three hundred credits. He's almost eager to get rid of it, to be able to pretend to anyone who sees the balance that he didn't kill three people. Of course, that only spurred him to binge-eat more, knowing he'd have to pay for it; the last few days, he's swung wildly between bingeing and losing his appetite entirely, eating only what's placed in front of him by the Avoxes if he touches it at all.

In a way he's almost disappointed to be told it's been paid off by an anonymous benefactor. He's surprised - he didn't think he was a particular popular player, although apparently getting as far as he did paid off with revival. But the Capitol has strange whims, so he accepts it and, stomach cramping, leaves, shoulders hunched and book jammed into a messenger bag he grabbed at the Tribute Center.

He trips a little on the way out the door - he isn't drunk, he doesn't drink alcohol, but he is a little slow on reaction time, a little easily distracted from exhaustion. As such he reminds himself to watch his feet, and is within ten feet of Aunamee before he recognizes who he is or that they're now looking at each other.

And he wants to run but he can't. It's as if his feet have been fused to the floor. He feels his heart pounding, hears a ringing in his ears, feels his breath speed up, double in pace. His hand flexes to reach for the knife he wants to believe is still in his pocket, the one that he carried back in the arena.

He tries to say something but it just comes out a strangled squeak of a noise.