He was so small. So small, but so real. It occurred to her suddenly that all the space around him was fluid. Her baby, swimming forever. Well, not forever. In about six months he would slide out of her, open his mouth to air. And in the meantime, he wasn't swimming for his life, the way she had.
Annie's mind slid away, and she was in a lake, a flood. A dark place, not the arena, but full of water. Her legs kicked, keeping her afloat, but her arms were still, cradled around her son, and the dark place felt safe. She realized her feet could touch the ground. She could lean against the wall, the same way the baby was resting against the inside of her. There was fluid inside of her, but it wasn't just water. It fed him and cradled him and cushioned him against anything her body might go through, kept him from getting jostled and hurt when she walked.
She remembered the way she'd run, fled, when the man had tried to stab Emerson. Crouched down, curled around her son. Had he even noticed? Or did her body protect him from that?
It occurred to her that Finnick was probably waiting for her to say something, but she had no more words. Her body was fluid, especially her insides, which also meant her throat, even her tongue. But she turned to look at him, and knew he would see everything in her face. All the wonder and delight and knowing of things that she couldn't even begin to express to him.
She took his hand and pressed it to her belly, covering it with both of hers.