"Tim," he says, only just managing to make the word not sound like a grunt. Peeta. Daine. Yuri. What is with the names here? It feels like his name stands out by virtue of being one of the few remotely normal-sounding ones he's heard since he got here. His hand unconsciously plunges into his pocket, thumbnail tracing the rim of a tiny orange bottle, before it withdraws.

"I dunno. Can't drink in the real world," he says, earnest confusion rippling over his clouded expression before it closes on skepticism. "D'you think that matters?"