"An island," I repeat myself, in case he hasn't heard me or believes that he's hallucinating. If the painkillers he was given were anything like the morphling Madge brought over, then it's a feeling I know well. Floating, as if on water or foam. Opening doors to both the living and the dead. It's hard to know what's real or not when you can't trust your senses.

"It's..." Peeta should be doing this, not me. Peeta would know exactly which words to say. The most I can do is attempt to make sense. I'm the worst person for this job. "I don't know how we got here. But it isn't even in Panem."