Haymitch laughs, as dry and bitter as someone who's had to participate in and then observe the Games for a few decades has a right to be.

"Tap out? Oh, no -- you're in this one until the end. Literally, really -- although I've never seen this crowd together before." He pulls a slim knife from his boot and palms it, still clutching his organs.

"Might want to start throwing those rocks instead of kicking them. Just a thought." He's still dizzy, but he doesn't feel as much as if he'll collapse. Maybe it's because he's older or maybe it's because it wouldn't be much fun to thread with Haymitch after he's passed out on the ground from blood loss.