The Mutt

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/8815765.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Fandoms: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Hunger Games Series - All
Media Types
Relationship: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Characters: Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark
Additional Tags: Peeta's POV
Language: English
Series: Part 3 of Peeta's Games
Collections: kudos, Hunger Games - Katniss/Peeta
Stats: Published: 2016-12-17 Completed: 2021-07-07 Words: 94,193 Chapters:
26/26
 The Mutt
by igsygrace

Summary

Mockingjay from Peeta's point of view. Much of the dialogue is taken from the original work
and is the property of Suzanne Collins. This is rated Mature for language and depictions of
torture (individual chapters containing depictions of torture are labelled).
 Chapter One

Chapter One

"What's the last thing you remember?"

The question drops into the dark stillness of my brain, disturbing ripples of memory. I'm
always being asked this question. Or similar ones. What's the first thing you remember? And
then what happened? And then what happened? And then what? Do you remember anything
at all?

As if memory was linear. As if it could be listed, first to last. Just the question puts me in two
or three time periods at once, none of them very distinct from each other because, fuck if all
hospital rooms and cells and torture chambers don't look almost exactly the same. At least as
far as I remember.

The last thing? This is the question, isn't it? Time in the silvery world is meaningless. I blink
three times and I might be in three different places, one right after the other. With my eyes
closed, I could be in a grave, in a cave, in a cell. What does it mean - the last thing? Does it
mean the most recent or really does it mean the oldest thing - the final memory in a string of
memories, that I might have dropped behind me? Maybe not in the order of when they
actually occurred, but in the order I dropped them - what is the last thing?

"She hit me," I say, trying not to let the saliva gathering in my mouth distort the words.

"Why did she hit you?"

I blink.

One. I bend on one knee, my fist balled shut and pressed against my mouth, as rain pours
down my face.

Two. I bend on one knee, my arm stretched out before me - my pale skin mottled by the criss-
crossing branches and the soft green light that filters through the leaves. I am tempting fate
by tempting the wolf … but ...

Three. I am on two knees, hard on the floor, my head ringing, while the oven roars next to me
and the water pours over the rim of the gutters and down the spout.

Is that it? The last thing I remember?

There is a long silence.

I open my eyes, and the light is a silver ball above me. I visualize it as a memory - a glowing
orb containing some measure of enlightenment, if I can just reach for it. I put my hand up to
it and my fingers break the light into pieces. Another one gone.
Then there is a sigh.

I shade my eyes, so that I can block the glare and focus on my questioner. I see the gray
uniform, the chopped hair and dull expression, and by that I know - vaguely - where I am.
"All around District 12 -." I begin, but it is impossible to continue. I can't figure out how to
tell this particular story - what about it is real, and what I only imagined. There are
roadblocks on the way to the truth: the stories they told to deceive me - and the creatures that
guard the shadows, swallow the paths, burn everything alive. I swallow, then start coughing,
my saliva having slid down my windpipe.

My coughs echo in the blank, white room. I look down at my left arm. At the three tubes
sticking out of it. At the numerous needle tracks up and down the inside of the arm. And I am
reminded that when I am questioned, I - must - answer.

"Can you go on?"

I nod. "There was always this one mutt. It wouldn't stay in the woods. It kept sneaking in,
slipping through the fence. I … I always wanted to see it, to see that it was real. Then one
day." I stop, squint, and try to pull up the memory. I can feel my heart start to race. "One day,
it was in the backyard, rooting for trash. And I - and I - I fed it bread."

A long silence. I tense, anticipating the blows to come - or the stabs or the stings; when my
answers don't satisfy, pain comes shortly after, in one form or another.

My breathing quickens. I blink and I am somewhere else. Somewhere similar. But the man
bending over me wears white and his hair is like a thick, silver mane. "I've told you already, a
million times! It looks like ... sometimes it looks like … sometimes … why won't you listen
to me? You think you're safe here, but you're not, you're not - not if it's roaming around here,
free!"

I feel the saliva rise in my mouth again and hear the beeping sound that mimics the racing
beat of my heart. A cold, pinching sensation on my left arm and the cold flow of the drug
they use to keep me sedated, easy prey for the mutt, who I can't seem to get rid of no matter
where I go.

"Why did she hit you?"

My head feels heavy, my eyelids droop. "For feeding the mutt," I confess.

The strands falling around me steadily lose their form and texture, droplets elongating and
lightening, and soon enough I am showered in shimmering threads of silver, touching my
skin but lightly. There is almost no sensation - I barely feel anything - no temperature, no
pain - no emotion.
I am vaguely aware that I am outside and the landscape around me is broken and damaged:
perfectly preserved destruction. Jagged piles of rocks, mounds of ashes. One skeleton stands
erect in the earth, alone among the rubble. An omen. A landmark.

As the world around me fills with the sparkling silver threads, I can no longer navigate, so I
stop and bend down, putting my fingers to the dust. It is hardening now, solidifying into
permanence, but I break away a handful of it. I close my fist over the dirt, close my eyes.
Then, after a moment in which I reflect that I know of nothing to say or even to think - no
mourning cry, no benediction comes to me - I put my fist to my mouth and kiss my own
fingers, 1, 2, 3, 4. Then I let the dirt and ashes fall to the earth, and that is when it comes to
me - a lullaby from so deep down inside my own past that the voice singing it is strange and
unfamiliar.

Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

I shake this away - this song mocks me with the reminder of a world that is no more. And,
vaguely, the associative emotions stir below the surface - guilt and sorrow, anger and blame.
Muffled, faint.

I lift my face up to the storm of silver strings. And slowly, steadily, sensation returns - the
swirls of the cool wind, the drops of water streaming down my face. The pain. A sore knee.
Burnt fingers.

Burnt fingers.

There is a crash and a flash - thunder and lightning so close they are nearly on top of each
other. Time to settle in, to hide away from the other Tributes and let innocent things blossom
in the darkness … time to move, to get out of the rain; to take shelter from the weather - and
from emotions, too, and memories. I don't know. I don't know. It's not possible to live in all
these times at once, and yet, when the sky shimmers with silver, the barriers fall - present,
past, future - and it's impossible to tell.

Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you ...

"Stop!"

.
.

Wake up, Peeta.

I jolt awake at the sound of a disembodied voice. There's no privacy in this place. The lights
go on and off on a timer. The dark glass on the wall facing me is clearly a one-way window
so that I can be observed at any time, by anyone. They keep saying they've rescued me.
People say things.

Yes, I'm no longer in a Capitol cell, but if I've been rescued, why am I also being punished?
Strapped to this bed almost constantly; fed drugs all day long, without consent, let alone
understanding. Three times a day, they let me out of the bed, my hands cuffed, and take me to
a sad, green-tiled bathroom, to shit and shower on their schedule. This is familiar and the
sight of the tiles and the silver knobs triggers - something. It makes me resist them,
screaming. I find that I am strong - stronger than I ever was. I can feel the muscles in my
arms harden, like tree roots they are and I could kill them, effortlessly, if they didn't keep
stabbing me with needles. They swarm me and there are too many of them. The stingers jab.
Jab - jab - jab - and everything swirls, slows down and stops.

Then, when I'm lucid enough to listen, I am made to talk. Again. Just like before, they want
stories from me - but stories in reverse. This time, it is not that the girl transforms into the
mutt and my perspective shifts - this time, it is that my perspective needs to shift and the mutt
transform back into the girl.

But they misunderstand the power of persuasion. My heart had given me these warnings long
before I was taken - the Capitol forced me to face them, that is all. One can avoid the truth for
a long time - glance sidelong at it so that you don't have to look it in the eye. But once it is
seen - once it is acknowledged - no honest force can send it back into the shadows. So they
use drugs and under the influence they try to make me recant my "lies" about the mutt. Make
me admit to the sickening attraction I used to have for it. But I am done with that, and for
good. Though I have left some loose ends ….

"You have a visitor this morning, Peeta," says the voice.

I clench my hands in frustration. I both fear and desire that they will bring it to me, again. It
hasn't revealed its true form to them yet, so all my arguments and protestations fall on deaf
ears. But I am helpless and so I nod, and wait for the worst.

The girl who enters the room is not what I'm expecting. At first I just see the braid, and I
panic for a moment before I realize the color is all wrong. The braid is wrong, too, though, so
I stare and stare.

"Peeta?" says the girl in a voice as familiar as her face - that is, somehow known to me, but
not quite remembered. "Peeta, it's Delly. From home."

Abruptly, memories sharp as needles flood my head. They are not whole memories, but they
feel so much more real than the shiny droplets that confuse me. I see a round little girl with
bright curls, making a face at me across the classroom. Twisting her curls and smiling up at
my dad until she got the extra cookie that her mother would never need to know about.
Insisting that Mr. Alecorn's math problems - about the amount of extracted coal passing this
way and that on trains - were not hard or boring at all. Admitting to kissing Sammy behind
the shed near the track. Sobbing in a room with me before I was sent off to the Capitol the
first time.

"Delly," I gasp. "Delly, it's you."

She's thinner and paler, and her curls are gone. But she's here.

"Yes!" she says, smiling and edging closer to my bed. "How do you feel?"

"Awful," I say. "Where are we? What's happened?"

She pauses to lick her lips. "Well … we're in District 13."

This again. It can't be real. I know that there are only 12 districts and the Capitol - that is all
that makes up Panem. Anything more than that is therefore false and sinister - designed to
deceive and confuse me. "That's what those people have been saying. But it makes no sense.
Why aren't we home?"

The girl's face clouds and I can see her struggle to decide how much of the truth to tell me.
Anger - cold and acidic - starts to flow through me in response to her hesitation. I am so very,
very done with all the lies.

"There was … an accident," she says at last. "I miss home badly, too. I was only just thinking
about those chalk drawings we used to do on the paving stones. Yours were so wonderful.
Remember when you made each one a different animal?"

The images flicker through my head, but they are not of drawings. I see a pig in a pen, a
yellow cat perched on a porch railing. "Yeah," I say, dismissively. "You said … about an
accident?" This part makes no sense. The worst "accident" that could befall 12 is a mine
accident, and that could hardly devastate the whole district, small and fragile though it might
be.

"It was bad. No one - could stay."

Fear strikes me now, and it is a companion to the anger, entwining itself with it, merging to it.
I hear the echo of a voice. District 12 is gone. The Capitol destroyed it, as soon as the Quell
ended.

And a darker, contradictory voice. Katniss Everdeen destroyed it ...

As my lips start to tremble, Delly continues, "But I know you're going to like it here, Peeta.
The people have been really nice to us. There's always food and clean clothes, and school's
much more interesting."

School. More memories, not as sharp. The window lit up like a glowing square over the
singing child. NO, not that one …. As my mind tries to detach from it, I just barely catch the
memory of a blond boy, taller than me. He's dressed in gym shorts and a tank top. He
crouches in the starting stance and smirks at me as the coach begins the countdown …1, 2, 3,
4.

"Why hasn't my family come to see me?" I ask.

"They can't," says Delly, tears now starting in her eyes. "A lot of people didn't get out of 12.
So we'll have to make a new life here. I'm sure they could use a good baker. Do you
remember when your father used to let us make dough girls and boys?"

Another fuzzy memory. The camera swoops over the smoking, broken remains of what once
had been a town. For just a second, I see with my own eyes what my torturers had promised
me would come to pass. And then the mutt appears, standing tall among the ruins, surveying
what she - what it - what she had done.

"There was a fire," I say, and this memory - this knowledge - is crystal clear. In my dreams -
both waking and sleeping - I have not only seen it, but I have been there: I have held the
ashes of my home in my hands. There is no escaping this truth - the very worst truth of all.

"Yes," she whispers.

I cling to anger, because without it there is nothing but a horrible void. "Twelve burned down,
didn't it?" I demand. "Because of her. Because of Katniss!" I spit out the name, and my mind
loops around in confused circles. The two predominant forms of the mutt merge and separate
almost before my eyes. My heart rate starts to rise again, and my leg muscles stiffen so that I
know that the right leg - the whole leg, the one that wasn't chewed off by the mutt - will seize
up with cramps soon.

"Oh, no, Peeta. It wasn't her fault."

"Did she tell you that?" I scoff.

"She didn't have to. I was -."

"Because she's lying! She's a liar! You can't believe anything she says! She's some kind of
mutt the Capitol created to use against the rest of us!"

Delly starts backing away from me, back towards the door. "No, Peeta, she's not a-."

"Don't trust her, Delly," I say, hearing the rise of my voice, but powerless to control it. "I did,
and she tried to kill me. She killed my friends, my family. Don't even go near her! She's a
mutt!"

Delly vanishes out the door, but I keep on yelling out the truth, anyway. Hoping that someone
- someone not deaf to it - will finally pay heed to the warning, the one thing I brought back,
intact, from the Capitol.

I scream and scream until the inevitable happens: my arm grows cold, and the blackness
washes over my eyes. But this is nothing. Nothing to what I have already been through.
 Chapter 2

Chapter Two

I sit on the low bed and pull off my prosthetic leg. I lie down and stare up at the camera on
the ceiling, wondering who exactly is watching me - this time. The metal frame is uneven and
the mattress is lumpy. But physical comfort is inconsequential. My anxiety, which has been
dialed up to the maximum since Katniss walked away from me in the jungle just a few hours
ago, turns out to have no upper limit. I don't know whether she lives or is dead. I may never
know. They may kill me before I know.

This - more than anything else - I need. Water? I've honestly forgotten the sensation of thirst.
Hunger? Freedom? Safety? I don't give a fuck. I planned to be dead now, anyway. Katniss. I
need to know.

I hear the soft snores coming from the cell next to me. Johanna sleeps. I wish she would have
said something, anything about what she knows is going on. But she shut up on the
hovercraft and advised me to do the same, though I have absolutely nothing to tell. I only
have one question.

I'm startled to be woken up by a crashing, clattering noise. Clang. Clang-clang-clang. Clang-

clang. I don't remember falling asleep and I remember no dreams. A Capitol Peacekeeper
stands in front of the cell, dragging his gun along the bars.

"What?" I ask.

"You're with me," he says. "Put on your leg, then stand up, put your back up against the far
wall, and your hands up in the air.

I do as he says. With my arms up, I'm hit by the reek of my own armpits. After three days in
the jungle, I smell like warm fungus.

"Keep your hands up and walk slowly out," says the guard, pointing his gun at me.

Outside the cell, I'm in a long room with whitewashed brick walls and rows of fluorescent
lights. My cell is the first in a row of cells that line one wall. The other wall is like a kind of
industrial kitchen, with steel counters and cupboards, a couple of sinks. Last night, I also
noticed some displays of knives, needles and forceps - and other instruments I don't
recognize. There are beakers, vials, coils of ropes and rubber hoses. It has an ominous look.

I'm taken to a locker room remarkably similar to the ones that launch the tributes into the
arena. There, a couple of Avoxes are ordered to strip me and take me to the shower. After the
shower, I am dressed in a clean gray tee and sweatpants, and some kind of paper slippers,
then marched to an office.

The people waiting for me make me almost literally jump. One is Romulus Thread, the hard-
nosed man who is the Head Peacekeeper of District 12. The other is President Snow.
Coriolanus Snow, who has been President of Panem for more than forty years, is a small man,
almost wispy. There are no obvious Capitolite enhancements to his body, but there is an
unnatural quality to his coloring - his hair and skin almost bleached in their whiteness. His
face is so white that his puffy lips look bright red, like blood, even though there's no evidence
he wears makeup. (And I guess I am susceptible to suggestion, as I faintly smell blood, too.
Blood - and a thick floral scent. A strange combination - probably my panicked brain just
crossing its wires.) He's dressed, as I've always seen him, in layers of thick, expensive-
looking clothes. Despite the season - it's high summer now, probably mid-July - he wears a
heavy jewel-toned brocade coat over a white suit.

I've been in close proximity to him twice before - once when I was crowned co-Victor of the
74th Hunger Games; the second time when I made a public proposal to Katniss at the end of
the 74th Victory Tour. In both cases, we were on a stage in front of thousands of live
witnesses, and our interactions were perfunctory. Now, real fear accompanies our proximity,
and my heartbeat quickens as my mouth goes dry.

I sit down on one side of a large metal desk, and the gun barrel is on my back. I swallow, and
wait for somebody to say something, but there's a long, strange silence at first.

Finally, Snow stirs and puts his fingers together so that his hands form a thoughtful peak.
"So," he says, "look who was left behind." One side of his mouth twitches, as if in an aborted
half-smile. "I have to say, I'm surprised. I would have assumed you'd be a little too important
to their plans. But perhaps they don't understand - the way she operates."

She. It's clear who he means. The rest of what he says is not as clear. But there is only one
word spinning through my head - so insistent, so all-encompassing, that I say it out loud.
"Katniss?" I rasp.

He regards me for a moment. "Who else? Or the Mockingjay, as they are calling her now."

Relief floods me, drowning confusion, even fear. I sink back in my chair. "Where is she?"

He gives a short laugh. "That, dear boy, is what you are going to tell us. At least, if we can't
break it out of Miss Mason. To save us a lot of trouble, and your friend a lot of pain, we are
giving you the first opportunity."

I gape at him. "I don't know where she is. And I don't know how Johanna would. I-." My
mind whirls; now that relief has washed over me, it retreats like a wave, and fear and
confusion return. I remember the first of the two hovercrafts I saw last night in the arena;
how it seemed to be fired upon by the second, and fled away. Did the first hovercraft take
Katniss out of the arena and rescue her? Take her somewhere safe? But who? What? Who in
Panem, besides the Capitol, could possibly have the access to a craft? Where could they take
her that the Capitol could not find her?

"Come, now, Mr. Mellark. That there was a conspiracy to subvert the Games is now clear,
even to the most gullible viewer. You don't expect us to believe that you have no idea where
they might have gone."
I lick my lips. There is, in fact, only one place that I can think of. District 13. But - well, for
one thing, it seems so far fetched - the continued existence of that place had always seemed
unlikely to me, even when Katniss floated the idea in the spring. For another thing - and this
is thanks to the Capitol - I am so completely ignorant about the geography of Panem that I
have no idea - how big it really is, how much of it actually falls under the Capitol's
surveillance. Katniss could have been taken nearly anywhere. "I don't know," I say, finally. "I
don't know. The last I saw Katniss, she was laying Beetee's wire. The last I heard her, she was
at the lightning tree just before the lightning struck. I knew of no conspiracy. And if I thought
there was something going on in the arena, it was just the normal strategizing between allies.
Where's Haymitch?" I ask, in sudden fear.

"Missing," Snow says briefly, his dark little eyes watching me intently.

I'm not sure whether to take this as a good omen or not. "I really don't know anything else."

Thread cracks his knuckles.

"Not yet," Snow tells him. "We have no reason to hurt Mr. Mellark. He's oh-so-good at
connecting with a Capitol audience, after all. There are questions that need answering, and he
would be a perfect - mouthpiece - for that. But think carefully about your current stance. We
have no reason to protect Miss Mason. She's said some things that deserve - punishment -
anyway. And … Think of District 12. Twelve can be sacrificed to the larger cause."

I look at him, trying to decipher whether or not this is a legitimate threat.

I'm sent back to my cell and find breakfast waiting for me on a cardboard tray, along with a
deck of playing cards. "Johanna?" I ask softly.

"Still here, Lover boy," she says wearily.

"Have they - talked to you, yet?"

There's a long silence. "Yeah."

"I don't know what to tell them or not tell them."

"Count yourself lucky, then," she snorts.

I'm left alone for the rest of the day, and any attempts at further conversation with Johanna
fail miserably. I try to play solitaire with the cards, but the deck is incomplete, so I just stack
them into fragile houses. It's hard to tell the passage of hours in a room with nothing but a
bright constant fluorescent light, but after I'm served my third meal of the day, I stop trying to
work out what happened at the end of the game, and take off my prosthetic and go to sleep.

That night my dreams are haunted by Snow's hissing voice and his threatening words. I
dream of hovercrafts descending on 12. Hovercrafts lifting into the air, leaving me behind. As
the lights flash away, I am left alone in the darkness, and I hear them - the snuffles and wet
breath of the mutts. The wolf mutts that took my leg. I run, but keep tripping on vines.
The next day (presumably), I'm awakened in the same fashion as before, but this time, as I
wake and yawn, I see, behind the Peacekeeper banging on my cell, Johanna being led back to
hers, and her face is puffy with bruises.

"Johanna!" I cry, automatically trying to rise, forgetting that my prosthesis is off. I stumble
around for it and put it on, just as her cell door is clanging shut.

Another shower, another change of clothes, another office. This time, I'm in a small room that
has several rows of chairs, facing a screen built into the wall. I'm urged into one of the seats
and look at the blank screen curiously. After my guard leaves, I'm joined by Thread. I tense,
wondering if it was his fists that abused Johanna. Also, increasingly alarmed that he is here,
instead of in 12.

"Watch."

I turn toward the screen as it lights up and then my attention is captured as Katniss fills it.

It's that last night in the jungle, and now I see what happened in the twelve o'clock wedge. It
starts with Katniss following Johanna down the slope as she uncoils the wire, and then I see
them stop, Katniss hitch up her bow and take the wire from Johanna. I see the shaking of the
wire and their sudden realization that it has been cut. Then - Johanna bashes Katniss in the
head. Then takes out a knife and cuts open her arm.

"No!"

But then I see what Johanna is doing. She's removing the tracker from her arm.

I push down on my forearm and am reminded that mine is still installed, just under my skin.

My heart races as Katniss lies on the ground, motionless, while Enobaria chases Johanna into
the trees and Brutus sprints in the opposite direction – hearing Chaff, I suppose. Then I see
her rise, confused and bleeding. Pale in the darkness, she moans my name, then starts back up
the hill. She trips into the coil of wire and I silently urge her on, not knowing exactly how
much time is left until midnight. Fearful that what they are about to show me, despite what
they said before, is Katniss' death by lightning.

I see her hide from Finnick as he comes racing down to find her; I watch her stagger to the
clearing around the tree. (Shit - and by then I was in the 1 o'clock sector, fighting Brutus. If I
had stayed … but it was impossible to know...) She only finds Beetee there, who is lying on
the ground, apparently already having been attacked. But the only wound I can see, in the
brief time the camera focuses in on him, is a cut on his forearm, similar to the one Johanna
gave to Katniss. She looks up above where Beetee lies and sees a clear disturbance in the
force field, as if something has just hit it.

She straightens out and calls my name. "I'm here! Peeta!"

Then she crouches down, her arrows out. Finnick returns to the clearing and he doesn't see
her at first. And she is prepared to kill him, clearly believing that he and Johanna have turned.
And maybe they did? Why would Johanna draw off the Careers, though? Or cut out Katniss'
tracker? What is going on? And she pauses.

Katniss notices the line of wire coiled around the stick and laid aside before Beetee started
wiring the tree. When she picks it up, I see that a knife has been tied around the end. Katniss
looks at it intently, the confusion clear on her face. She looks to Beetee, and to the place on
the force field that is still shimmering where the weak spot was. She looks overhead, where
the crackle of the coming lightning can now be heard.

She wraps the wire around her arrow and shoots it into the force field. The arrow disappears,
dragging the wire through the force field with it. Then there's a flash as the lightning strikes -
and the video ends in static.

"No, wait," I say. "What about the rest of it? What happened next?"

"Your Mockingjay shorted out the force field around the arena, and cut off the cameras with
it."

Then I see how she might have - how she could possibly have - survived. If the lightning hit
the tree, but the charge was pulled through Beetee's wire to the force field … Wait, wait. Did
Beetee change the plan when the coil was cut and TRY to set up the wire to destroy the force
field? He must have tried to throw the stick with the knife and the wire into the field, but
maybe without enough force? But … But. Something is bothering me. The wire and the stick
were set aside before all that. Were there two simultaneous plans? Or was the coil in the salt
lake just a ruse … For the Careers? For the watching viewers?

Who else knew Beetee's plan? Johanna, for sure. Finnick - most likely. Chaff, running up
toward the lightning tree at just the right time, pursued by Brutus.

Katniss?

No, not Katniss. But that's not necessarily how it looks. She's too quick to grasp Beetee's true
intent. And if she might be in on it, so might I be - stumbling around in the darkness though I
was. And this is what I am supposed to confirm, I guess. To admit to a plan I knew nothing
about, and to indict Katniss, too.

That will make it easy enough for the Capitol to execute a couple of popular Victors. To
rebrand us as traitors.

"Traitor? what do you mean by 'traitor?'"

I look up into the dead stare of yet another camera. For a fraction of a second, a lucid thought
- not even a whole thought, just a sudden sense of clarity - illuminates the fog of my mind
and I think how absurd this all is - me, a kid from District 12, where electricity was a fragile
privilege, poverty the default way of life, sitting here in whatever fancy room, wearing
makeup and fine clothes - fine shoes, for that matter, an unattainable luxury, once (one
summer, I went without any shoes because my feet were growing so rapidly it wasn't worth
the cobbler expense) - waiting for my cues and memorizing lines. Delivering
pronouncements to a Capitol audience as though there was any consequence to it all. Ever
since the Reaping abruptly ended my childhood, I have struggled with this sense of unreality
- of everything I wear now being a costume, instead of my clothes; every intimate thought a
public speech; every true thing about me a carefully-crafted fiction, and my own pre-tribute
biography a dream, at best.

Someone coughs and the moment passes.

"What you don't understand is that what she did - it is larger than what you think." My voice
is curious, flat. It is in the cadence of morphling, muffled - dead.

"Go on." A friendly but unctuous voice. My eyes are dazzled by the bright stage lights, so I
can't quite see who I am addressing. If there is an audience, it is still as the dead.

"It's much larger than anything I thought she tried to do to me. She betrayed the rebels - she
betrayed all of us."

"This is quite an indictment of our beloved girl on fire. How do you mean?"

I feel my cheek twitch. There is a script to follow. There is always an audience, expecting
certain words. I perform for them - I'm always performing. I always have been. Obedient son.
Wrestling medalist. Tribute, tribute, tribute. (A tribute, says the textbook, is a smaller and less
important waterway. It feeds the sea and its water merges with the salt.)

"She was everything we had been raised not to be - she was not restrained by fences or rules.
She was skilled with weapons - like a Career, training for it all her life."

"When she formed alliances in the arena, the trick worked - the rebellion was triggered, just
as expected. The wrinkle - the danger - was me. The Capitol found us too interesting. You
were in danger of bursting into flames yourselves. And that would have been catastrophic. So
- under the lie that it was meant to quell the Districts, we were sent off to satisfy the Capitol
that our love story was strong and government-sanctioned. A party. A public engagement -
her idea, of course.

"But then, her use done, she had to be eliminated in the Quell. And me with her - Haymitch
made sure of that - and others with us. Unfortunate, but unavoidable. Written into the system.
Sealed by time. And that was how they used her. To expose the rebels, so they could be
squashed."

"Deliberately?"

I shrug. "As deliberately as a mutt possibly could."

"Mr. Mellark." The voice has changed, and I blink, find myself looking up into the bright
silver light from the ceiling.

"Who are you, again?" I ask the man sitting across from me. "Who are you?!" I struggle
against bonds - the physical ones on my arms, the psychic ones of the drugs. Anger - sweet
fucking anger - gives me energy again. "Who are you!?"

He is dull of expression and simply raises his eyebrows and the tubes swell and my arms
grow cold, and all of me follows.
 Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Left behind.

It's the visceral power of the words, which have snaked down and lodged themselves inside
me, that the morons in 13 do not understand. It doesn't matter that it was Snow who said
them; he was only drawing them out from where they have lived ever since Katniss Everdeen
turned away from me, on train tracks in the middle of nowhere. Oh, they took other forms -
harsher, perhaps, but it all comes down to the same thing. Ignored.

Discarded.

"Peeta!"

I pivot on the disk and see her - her silhouette against the bright sky. It is as it always was. I
turn to her in hope only to see the arrow pointed at me, her arm drawing back the string.

I hear the water splashing at my feet, and vaguely I see it shimmering all around me. I feel
unbalanced and dizzy as everything around me writhes, silver and shining.

Beep. Beep.

"His vitals are rising!"

My heart stops.

Some period of great and peaceful fuzziness follows. It is colorless and quiet, and incredibly
restful. Then I blink and the bright room keeps changing. 1, 2, 3 ...

"She was trying to save me."

"She was trying to kill me."

"What are the Hunger Games?"

I look up and see the blond boy perched in a tree and the leaves dazzle all around him,
reflecting the sun. I am anxious for him and also surprised - I never climbed trees. "You
should get down, boy," I tell him. "It's not safe."

"You never answered my question."

I shake my head. "I answered you - several times."

"If you answered me, I wouldn't have to ask."

"If you didn't ask me, I wouldn't have to answer."

At this he laughs - and vanishes. And I hear … it's the same pattern, so of course I hear … the
footsteps approaching. I bend down on one knee and stretch my hand out. And I count to
myself. This time, I think. This time. 1, 2, 3 ….

"...What did you do?" I ask Dr. Molina, the nondescript chief psychiatrist of District 13.

"You had an episode when we were attempting to show you some footage from the Quell."

Oh, yes, this. They are attempting to recreate the Capitol's mind-control techniques, and once
again I must relive the arenas on film. "I don't need to rewatch the Quell," I tell him. I
perfectly remember the snakes in the trees, the monsters bubbling out of the sand. I remember
a sky with stars falling around me, and a burning sensation - a sizzle of electricity igniting my
skin the first time she tried to kill me.

I remember being in her thrall one night, and that it was only Finnick Odair waking up just in
time that saved me from the violation.

"You gave me drugs - to make me see the videos differently," I add. I shiver, remembering
the injections. The shiny cloud of terror that followed me like a death mist. Only there was no
running from this one.

"No, that is what the Capitol did," says Molina. He has no patience for me - and for a
psychiatrist he's strangely uninterested in anything that I say. "Mr. Mellark, your venom
levels are now minute. There is no reason that you should not be able to view the raw footage
of the Quell and see what is actually happening."

("You can't - you can't look at that Game - and not see how she feels about you.")

Idiot. Everything can be manipulated. Everything is up for interpretation. Raw and

"unedited," the arena shows the truth, anyway. That I was the sacrificial tribute. That she was
the Girl on Fire, and I was her accessory. That I admitted, not just to her, but to the entire
country, my longest-held secrets, and she gave me nothing back but lies. In fact, it looks even
more damning than it felt at the time. I see it, so clearly, now that I have been enlightened.
The look on her face when she is forced to kiss me. The exasperation at having to tend to me,
when she could have been out in the arena, climbing trees and felling her opponents with her
arrows.

If my heart can't take it - well. It never was up for much.

("You can't be mad at Katniss. Not for this.")

Haymitch.

When and how he appeared in Molina's place I don't know. I just turn my head - and at first I
do register him as one would a dream. For one thing, he doesn't look like the Haymitch I
remember, at least not much. He's thin and yellow, his gray 13 uniform loose and baggy on
him everywhere except for at his throat. He keeps fingering his collar, as if it is choking him.
His appearance brings a confusing jolt of elation, but it doesn't last long. Immediately, rage
and fear course through me as if dispensed through the tubes in my arms. I take a few deep
breaths, try to control my heart rate, because once it starts making the machines beep, they
knock me out. But saliva rises to my mouth and I can actually feel my nostrils flare.

"Peeta," he says, voice heavy with ... pity? It doesn't sit well on him.

"Get out," I say, thinly. I'm really rather proud of myself when the words don't come out in a
raw-throated shout. But he still winces.

"Look, boy -" he begins, and that is a more familiar tone, oh, yes. The tone that signals his
exasperation with me - that I just didn't understand, that it just wasn't worth telling me.

"Get out! I don't want to hear it! I don't want to talk to you! I don't want to see you!"

"So, it's not just Katniss," he muses.

I can almost hear the machines whir, as they prepare to sound the alarm. "Don't say her
fucking name! How could you - how could you - send me in to die, then leave me behind for
them to - to …!"

"To what?" he asks slowly.

That's all they want to know, isn't it? To live vicariously through my memories the beatings
and humiliation, the surgical application of pain, the forced witness of the suffering of the
helpless people around me. Entertainment for them. Just like when I was a Tribute. I look up
at the ceiling and breathe, breathe. "I have nothing to say to you, Haymitch. Now or ever."

"Do the nightmares ever go away?"

"You're alive to have them."

It takes two days of talks to finalize my interview with Caesar. During that time, I'm still
treated with consideration - if you ignore the fact that I'm jailed without having committed a
crime, without the opportunity to talk to anyone - without being able to send any word to my
family about where I am now. Twice during that time, they come in for Johanna, though. I
can't see what is happening to her, but I hear the blows land on her body, her defiant yells
gradually evolving into screams and then cold whimpers. It's horrifying, but I can hardly just
set out to betray the thing - whatever it is - she is taking such abuse to protect. So, when I'm
told to go on camera to denounce the Rebellion, I balk.
When they counter with more threats to District 12, I swallow my fear and refuse to meet
their bluff.

It's Katniss' fate which, as usual, unwinds me. Snow handles this discussion himself.

"Miss Everdeen is in a very precarious position here, son. Everyone watching has just seen
her destroy an arena and run away with people now identified as traitors."

We've been over this list before. Finnick, Beetee, even Plutarch Heavensbee, the Head
Gamemaker himself. That one must really hurt.

And Haymitch, apparently even Haymitch. Of the extent of his involvement, I can only
guess. But there is no escaping the fact that he sent Finnick, Johanna and Beetee to us in the
arena, which means he had foreknowledge of something going down, and was in deep
enough to be included in the escape plans. Whenever I think of myself begging him to let me
go into the arena instead of him, I am overcome by a sense of betrayal that I can't quite keep
at bay.

"It's open to interpretation," I say stubbornly.

"Yes - mine," he replies, with an unpleasant smile. "But - I might be willing to let you plead
her case."

My breath catches. "What do you mean?"

"Why don't we schedule an interview with Flickerman - you'd be comfortable in that setting,
wouldn't you? He'll ask about the end of the game and you give your interpretation. Make
sure it is clear that Katniss Everdeen was captured by the Rebellion and is not working for
them. And then - demand a cease fire. If you are successful, it will be easier to spare Miss
Everdeen the fate of traitors. In fact, enough sympathy for her would practically guarantee
her - not only safety, but a place in the Capitol, after."

Cease fire? As if we really are at war. I try to hold my expression steady. So, the uprisings are
still taking place, perhaps have even spread. Well, what is my calling for a cease fire really
going to do, anyway? Everyone will just assume that I am acting under duress. It seems like
the Capitol would know this - and there must be some other game Snow is playing here.

But I nod and agree.

I'm allowed to wait in the office while things are set in motion. I'm even sent a cold drink -
lemonade, I think, though I can barely taste it.

When the door opens again, I am shocked to see Portia.

I stumble to my feet and am about to ask her a thousand questions, but I just go to her and
give her a hug. When I can see her face, I see she's been crying. Her eyes are fearful and red.
When I start to speak, she hushes me.

"Have they hurt you?" she asks, touching the bruise on my face I got on the first night.
"Not much, really," I say. "Are you here to … prep me?" I ask.

"Yes, the girls are on the way with your outfit and makeup."

I sit down again, shaking my head. Of all the bizarre things I never thought to hear again. "I
don't even know what's going on," I say.

"Better that way," she murmurs.

I look at her sharply. It seems like a million years ago now, but really is only a week or so
since the night of the tribute interviews, when Cinna turned Katniss into a Mockingjay, live
on television. I haven't heard him mentioned, and now I do not dare to ask. But I was fearful
for Portia then, and I am doubly so now.

When Calla, Julia and Antonia arrive, there is a long, strained silence, and we all look at each
other. Portia stirs and breaks the silence. "The girls have been advised against conversation,"
she says.

I smile at them. "Probably for the best," I agree.

After the girls perform their ritualistic magic on my hair, nails and skin, I watch them depart
for what I assume will be the last time - but then, that's been the case so often, so who really
knows? As dire as my circumstances are now, they've been even worse before. I've left two
arenas alive, despite all historical precedent.

Portia dresses me in a very formal suit with a white jacket, so that I do not look like a
prisoner at all, but a Victor - a well-groomed mutt who half belongs to the Capitol, and half to
the Districts. There is no mirror in the room, but Portia holds up a small hand mirror so I can
look myself over. The games were so short this time, I really look no different than I did on
the night of the last interviews. But I touch my fingers to my lips, thinking of Katniss. About
how she planned to sacrifice herself for me. I wonder if she knows where I am, and how she's
dealing with it, whether or not she does know. I wonder where she is - how far away she
might be, how safe she is from the Capitol. I suppose as long as they need me to say
whatever they want me to say, they'll keep that information tantalizingly away from me.

"Any advice?" I ask Portia.

She blinks and looks up at me as if she's coming out of her own reverie. Her eyes look distant
and sad. "You know how to handle Caesar," she says softly. "Start with the truth. You and I
know that Katniss had nothing to do with what happened in the arena - you can make the
audience believe that, too - no problem. As for the rest of it …." She pauses and licks her
lips. I've never seen her this nervous before. "Speak the truth about that, too. I know how
much you abhor violence."

I try to think of a response to this, but the door opens on some Peacekeepers and instead I
give Portia an effusive good-bye. I always assume any given time will be the last time with
Portia. She's too precious to me to leave without a farewell.
But I do think about her words as I wind my way through the series of corridors that lead
back to the elevators. She's right. It's not just the physical act of ending another person's life.
Which, now that I've finally committed the act - even in defense of myself and Chaff - I can't
think about without feeling sick. The thought of widespread slaughter - especially in Katniss'
name - is unbearable. If there's anything to be learned from the pageant of death that is the
Hunger Games, it is that using violence as oppression only breeds resentment and, eventually,
violent defiance - which is met with violent oppression. An inescapable circle. But the history
of Panem - the Capitol's own version of it - holds an even darker lesson. That we as a species
- the last thousands of the race that once numbered millions, if not more - are prone to
retaliatory violence, all the way down to the very brink of extinction. And it could be
happening again now.

Does it matter that the Capitol is in the wrong, if there is no one left to tally a moral winner?

I'm not sure. But I could never incite violence, anyway. For better or worse, that is why the
rebellion chose the Girl on Fire. From the very beginning. My job has always been to soften
her image; let the audience gasp at her fiery costumes and then remind them all that she's just
a girl, with every right and reason to live. And, in asserting her humanity, cast doubts in the
audience on the morality of the Games.

Same here. Same as always. But trickier this time.

It's really no surprise to me when I'm taken up the elevator to the 12th floor of the tribute
center. Abandoned now, this place where I spent such intimate time with Katniss is so awash
in memories, I nearly choke on them.

They've pulled two of the chairs into the center of the sitting room and place a few lights and
two cameras around it. While we wait for Caesar to arrive, one of the studio personnel hands
me a script, which I read, and almost snort out loud.

"No one will believe me if I use these answers," I say.

The glory and stability of Panem must be preserved through rigorous defense of the Capitol.

"That's just a blueprint, Mr. Mellark," says Snow, entering the room with a wan and wary-
looking Caesar Flickerman in tow. "But what would you suggest?"

"I don't know, precisely - things tend to come to me spontaneously. But if I say this, it will
sound like I've been drugged or brainwashed." I pause to congratulate myself on being so
forthright, even to President Snow, though I imagine I might pay for it later. "Not even the
Capitol audience will believe this. It doesn't sound like me."

"We're not airing live, so anything can be re-shot or edited, if need be," says Caesar, in a soft,
wavery kind of voice not really like his own, at all. He's probably been having a bad time of
it since the catastrophic night of the Quarter Quell interviews. But Caesar is more aware than
anyone how well I do unscripted.

I swallow. "All these questions about the end of the Quell - I can walk through them. I've
seen that tape three times, now. I know what to say. But as far as the cease fire … I'll ask for
that, of course. I don't want to see the districts wipe themselves out. But it would make no
sense to the districts for a tribute to say these things about the Capitol. It just won't. It didn't
do a lot of good on the Victory Tour," I add. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if watching
Katniss and I puppet-talk our way through the Capitol's provided speeches actually inflamed
the rebels the more.

Snow eyes me for a long time. I try to maintain my poise, but it gets harder with every
passing moment, and I can start to feel myself sweat. Finally, he nods and turns to go. But I
burst out, not able to help myself, before he vanishes:

"Wherever she is, will she actually see this?"

He turns around. "Oh - believe me. Almost the whole object of this exercise is to make sure
Katniss Everdeen sees exactly where you are."
 Chapter 4

Chapter Four

When the white-uniformed orderlies wheel the TV into my room again, I start struggling
against my restraints. After the last session, I can't believe that they are going to make the
attempt again. Or - why should I be surprised? Do I actually think they care if I live or die?

Haymitch appears after the TV, and that just increases my battle with the hospital bed, until
the oh-so-familiar cold rush of the sedative pulses into my arm and knocks me back against
my pillows.

"Get the fuck out," I manage, blurrily.

"Shut up," he returns. "I'm here to make sure they don't try to kill you off again."

Taken aback by his tone - so, pity didn't last long - I gape at him for a while. Try to call up
any evidence from my past that would support the idea that he would actually care one way
or the other. "Your mentoring duties are done with," I say, coldly.

"Mentoring, my ass, boy. I'm your legal guardian at the moment, so …." He takes a seat
against the wall and eyes me, wearily. I notice that he's got long, faint scratch marks down his
yellow face.

"Oh, great," I spit. "The mutt's best friend. I see the odds are still in my favor."

He actually chuckles at that.

"OK, Mr. Abernathy, that's enough." Dr. Molina strides into the room and frowns at
Haymitch. Contrarily, I'm annoyed with him for cutting off our conversation. But my feelings
about Haymitch are so conflicted. "While we've been forced to concede to your demands to
being present for these sessions, we do not need you to disrupt them. Mr. Mellark is in a
delicate state and needs careful handling."

I roll my eyes at this, but turn away from Haymitch and look wearily at the ceiling. "I won't
watch any more tapes. It's not helping."

"This isn't a tape of the games. How much do you remember of your interviews with Caesar
Flickerman - after your capture?"

I frown. "I guess … Nothing? Oh, I guess there was one, early on? I remember … Portia. She
was - crying. What?!" I demand, in response to weighted glances between Molina and
Haymitch.

"It's very positive that you can remember that much without prompting."

"So?"
His very exacting and annoying sigh greets this question. "You do want to control these -
outbursts - do you not, Mr. Mellark?"

"Mmm - no. I wake up in this place, which could be anywhere, as far as I know, and I'm
restrained and drugged and I just want - out. Should I be passive about that - or what?"

"Your delusion that Katniss Everdeen is a …."

"I didn't need the Capitol for that," I say. "I don't remember what they did to me. I don't want
to know what they did to me. I'll be better when you let me out of this place where - she - is
roaming around."

"Katniss is not in 13," says Haymitch.

"What?" Again, my emotions spike in two different directions.

"She's in District 2, ending the war. Or something."

I shake my head. More images fly at me - something strange and different. Nothing that I
remember - nothing that they showed me. I'm running through a narrow corridor between
wood-paneled walls. Away from a sound. Or toward a sound? It's somehow connected to her.
And District 2. But I can't figure it out.

Dr. Molina finally switches on the TV. I see myself. That's nothing new. But it's true I've
never seen this before: me and Caesar, sitting close together in armchairs. There's something
vaguely familiar about the setting, but since the cameras focus in tight on our faces, there's
little clue to where it is. Caesar is in a lavender suit to match his hair and eyebrows. I'm in
white. My hair is slicked back, my face is glowing with expertly-applied make-up. I'm a
healthy weight. With healthy, clear eyes. Very unlike the emaciated, bruised and downbeat
wreck of today.

"So … Peeta … welcome back."

The healthy boy smiles. "I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar."

"I confess I did. The night before the Quarter Quell … well, who ever thought we'd see you
again?"

"It wasn't part of my plan, that's for sure."

Caesar leans in, and if I could retreat, I would. Something bad is about to happen. "I think it
was clear to all of us what your plan was. To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss
Everdeen and your child could survive."

My hands start to tremble. I can't wring them together; I can just clutch the sides of the bed
until my knuckles go numb.

"That was it," I say on film, not even denying that disgusting assertion. And, despite my
claim that I remember nothing about the Capitol's torture of me - this does ring a bell. I know
that they made me first admit, then receive punishment for, my perverse attraction to the
mutt. I can't believe I made it this easy for them. "Clear and simple," I continue. "But other
people had plans as well."

"Why don't you tell us about that last night in the arena? Help us sort a few things out."

The Peeta on TV - shameless and calm - nods. I want to throw things at him - shatter the
screen - make him go away forever. My neck is starting to hurt from the strain. "That last
night … to tell you about that last night. Well, first of all - you have to imagine how it felt in
the arena. It was like being an insect trapped under a bowl filled with steaming air. And all
around you, jungle … green and alive and ticking. That giant clock ticking away your life."

Strangely, as I hear my own unmolested voice saying these words - as the pictures spring to
my mind; pictures of an arena that are normally difficult for me to conjure clearly - I find
myself a bit calmer. And curious. "Every hour promising some new horror. You have to
imagine that in the past two days, sixteen people have died - some of them defending you. At
the rate things are going, the last eight will be dead by morning. Save one. The victor. And
your plan is that it won't be you."

My neck relaxes. I hold my breath, waiting for this unfamiliar version of myself to continue.
It is better than morphling - listening to this person who can string coherent thoughts together
with no apparent difficulty. "Once you're in the arena, the rest of the world becomes very
distant. All the people and things you loved and cared about almost cease to exist. The pink
sky and the monsters in the jungle and the tributes who want your blood become your final
reality, the only one that ever mattered. As bad as it makes you feel, you're going to have to
do some killing, because in the arena, you only get one wish. And it's very costly."

"It costs your life," says Caesar, softly.

I shake my head in frustration and the me who is on the screen mirrors my action. "Oh, no. It
costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people? It costs everything you are."

"Everything you are," repeats Caesar.

It occurs to me that this might be edited, like everything else, because it seems unlikely that
the Capitol would have allowed the words "murder innocent people" in association with the
Games. Except that - I do really, on some level, remember saying these words.

"So you hold on to your wish. And that last night, yes, my wish was to save Katniss. But
even without knowing about the rebels, it didn't feel right. Everything was too complicated. I
found myself regretting I hadn't run off with her earlier in the day, as she had suggested. But
there was no getting out of it at that point."

"You were too caught up in Beetee's plan to electrify the salt lake."

"Too busy playing allies with the others. I should have never let them separate us! That's
when I lost her."

I blink, disappointed at this mention of the mutt, which weakens his - my - case.
"When you stayed at the lightning tree and she and Johanna Mason took the coil of wire
down to the water."

"I didn't want to! But I couldn't argue with Beetee without indicating we were about to break
away from the alliance. When that wire was cut, everything just went insane. I can only
remember bits and pieces. Trying to find her. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Killing Brutus
myself. I know she was calling my name. Then the lightning bolt hit the tree, and the force
field around the arena - blew out."

"Katniss blew it out, Peeta," says Caesar. "You've seen the footage."

The Peeta on the screen suddenly snaps in a way that is all too familiar to me. "She didn't
know what she was doing. None of us could follow Beetee's plan. You can see her trying to
figure out what to do with that wire."

"All right. It just looks suspicious. As if she was part of the rebels' plan all along."

"Really?" I say, jumping suddenly to my feet and leaning in to Caesar as if ready to attack
him. "And was it part of her plan for Johanna to nearly kill her? For that electric shock to
paralyze her? To trigger the bombing? She didn't know, Caesar! Neither of us knew anything
except that we were trying to keep each other alive!"

My snort at this is so audible that Dr. Molina freezes the tape. "What is it, Mr. Mellark?"

I shrug. "Well, I mean - it's obvious here, isn't it, that I'm lying?"

"Lying about what?"

I squirm. "That last bit. I mean, I'm sure I intended to save her. That sounds like me. But what
made me say that she was trying to save me? The Capitol probably just wanted me to pretend
that she was on no one's side, right? Not theirs or the rebels' - just mine."

"How do you explain her actions at the end, then? I mean, when she was calling for you."

"You mean - calling me to the lightning tree with the lightning about to strike?"

"Which ended up being the rendezvous point for the rescue."

"So she DID know that?"

Haymitch stirs. "No, Peeta. And it wasn't - initially. It was supposed to be the one o'clock
sector - which, quite clearly, she didn't know. You've seen her call out for you when Johanna
knocked her down. With the alliance broken, as far as she knew, she just wanted to make sure
you were still alive."

"Right."

Haymitch slumps back in his seat with a resigned expression. The tape resumes.

"OK, Peeta, I believe you," says Caesar, slightly pushing me back.

"OK."

"What about your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy?"

On screen, my face hardens. "I don't know what Haymitch knew."

"Could he have been part of the conspiracy?"

"He never mentioned it."

"What does your heart tell you?" Caesar says insistently.

I'm conflicted for the boy on the screen. He's struggling not to say it - but it's clear that
whatever deal he has made to put this interview out, it involves only Katniss. And he's mad at
Haymitch - almost as mad as I am now. I can only assume that between then and now, the
torments he underwent only served to deepen this anger. But it's with enormous reluctance,
anyway, that he says, "That I shouldn't have trusted him. That's all."

I venture a glance over to Haymitch, who is looking down at his feet. When I look back to
the screen, I see myself doing almost the exact same thing. But before I can feel too sorry for
Haymitch, I remember all those lonely days I spent with him, after the first Games - too
morose, too self-pitying for anyone else's company - and I still just can't believe he left me
there in that arena. That he didn't find some way to clue me in. He promised.

From now on, you'll be fully informed.

"We can stop now if you want," Caesar says, consolingly.

"Was there more to discuss?"

"I was going to ask your thoughts on the war, but if you're too upset …"

My heart beat starts picking up again as the Peeta on screen turns to the camera and I am
looking into his unclouded eyes. He takes a deep breath. "Oh, I'm not too upset to answer
that. I want everyone watching - whether you're on the Capitol or rebel side - to stop for just a
moment and think about what this war could mean for human beings. We almost went extinct
fighting one another before. Now our numbers are even fewer. Our conditions more tenuous.
Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves off completely? In the hopes that - what?
Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?"

Caesar looks taken aback. I have to admit I'm puzzled myself - not by the words, but that I
would have even bothered trying them on the Capitol, which I know is beyond caring. "I
don't really … I'm not sure I'm following …"

"We can't fight one another, Caesar. There won't be enough of us left to keep going. If
everybody doesn't lay down their weapons - and I mean, as in very soon - it's all over,
anyway."

"So … you're calling for a cease-fire?"

"Yes, I'm calling for a cease-fire." My ears detect a put-upon tone, a weariness that doesn't
ring true. It was Caesar who drew out the word, and I can tell - this must have been the deal
that I must have made. This word was the reason for the entire performance. But it seems
reluctant. Although - what was said before? About the war and our potential extinction? That
does ring true, as if they are ideas I've been contemplating for a long time.

"Now why don't we ask the guards to take me back to my quarters so I can build another
hundred card houses?"

That's it. And as the image fades away, I realize all of a sudden that that boy is gone - forever.
He exists now only on film. All his healthy innocence - and all his perilous naivete - is gone
with him. Perhaps I understand a little better, through the viewing, my baffling relationship
with - her. Beyond the act - and I can see him putting on an act for the audience; it's so clear -
he really did believe what he way saying. The poor fool. The idiotic fool.

"Well, I guess now I know," I say, having found strength in the comparison - I may be broken
compared to the boy on TV, but I am so much wiser. "I guess I know why you all are still
restraining me. I suppose there must be a high price to pay for speaking against the rebellion.
But why even bother rescuing me? I'm sure they were days away from killing me
themselves."

"Peeta," starts Haymitch.

"Haymitch," I cut in, hastily. "Nobody has come to see me. Nobody. Does that really mean
…?"

He works his jaw a moment, but his glance at me doesn't waver. "Not many made it from
town. A few. A few. No one … from the bakery."

I bless the morphling. This confirmation hits me hard in a place that I can't really feel right
now. "But - my mother's family? Do you know? You remember the kids. The Porters?"

His mouth twists. "I'm - not sure." He glances up toward the dark glass. "Your visitors are
restricted, of course, and I'm not sure who has tried to see you."

"In all this time," I ask him, scowling, "you never bothered to check?"

"All this time?" he shoots back. "I spent the first thirty days here confined to a little piece of
hell called detox. I've barely had the run of District 13 for two weeks."

Oh - that explains some things, I guess. In particular, his frighteningly sallow complexion.
His own imprisonment - his own form of torture. I mean - it doesn't compare to mine. But at
least I can't really remember mine.

"I'll ask around," he says, but I can tell by his voice there is no cause for much hope on that
end.

Yet, I grab at it anyway. I have to. I have to. I think I would weep to see even my uncle's face
right now.
"Ahem," says Dr. Molina, impatient. He has loaded a second tape.

This next video is unlike any other one I've seen yet. It's grainy - a recording from a long
distance of a woman on a stage in an ill-lit theatre. Crowds of gray-uniformed spectators fill
the room up to the stage, and the balconies all around it.

"Thank you for adjusting your schedules for this special announcement. I am here to update
you on the progress of the war. I am pleased to inform you that, after careful deliberation and
of course a lengthy recovery from her injuries, Katniss Everdeen has consented to assist our
efforts and join the Rebellion as the Mockingjay, the primary messenger of our war effort to
rouse the cooperation of the districts.

"Miss Everdeen's commitment to us is under the proviso that the other victors currently held
in captivity by the Capitol - Peeta Mellark, Johanna Mason, Enobaria Stone and Annie Cresta
- will be granted full pardon for any damage they do, in word or deed, to the rebel cause."

I blink at the screen, trying and failing to come up with reasonable explanations for this turn
of events.

"But in return for the unprecedented request, Soldier Everdeen has promised to devote herself
to our cause. It follows that any deviance from her mission, in either motive or deed, will be
viewed as a break in this agreement. The immunity would be terminated and the fate of the
four victors determined by the law of District 13. As would her own. Thank you."
 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes

A/N: Warning: depiction of torture

Chapter Five

After I'm re-dressed in prison garb, my face scrubbed of makeup, I'm returned to my cell,
where, I notice, my stacks of cards have been cleared away. But the chamber pot hasn't, and
the rancid smell of urine and shit has filled the cell.

After a while, there is that incessant clanging sound and a group of Peacekeepers, their visors
down so that their eyes are covered, come into the room, running their heavy sticks across the
bars. They've got another prisoner with them - a slender girl with reddish-brown hair. I'm just
trying to remember where I've seen her before, when Johanna cries out, "Annie?"

Annie Cresta … The girl whose voice tormented Finnick in the arena. I hear the crash of a
cell door down the row - maybe at the far end of the room. The Peacekeepers come back
down to the end of the row. Then they stop.

"Mellark - up against the wall, put your hands up."

I lick my dry lips.

Two of them hold my arms and legs as I'm stunned by some kind of electric charge from a
baton held by a third. My muscles collapse, but I'm held up against the wall, powerless to
even try to kick or wiggle in protest when I'm punched - in the gut until my breath almost
stops. In my shoulders, until I think I hear something pop. In my face, the back of my head
hitting the brick wall behind me until my ears ring. I'm helpless to even shout, to cry out or
scream.

Just before I pass out, they let go of me, and I fall at once to the floor. My fingers clutch the
cement. On their way out, someone kicks the chamber pot and the waste splashes around me
and pools all over the floor. I hold my breath and don't move my head, hoping they think I've
blacked out. Their laughter echoes around the cell, recedes; the steel door of the cell shuts
behind them. Still, I hold my position, trying not to retch.

"Peeta?" Johanna's voice, low, but frightened. "Peeta?"

I push off the floor, but get no further, as the world spins dramatically. I take in a deep breath
- which is a huge mistake, as I do nearly pass out now from the smell. "I …" I say, then start
coughing uncontrollably. "I…."
I try shorter breaths and that helps. I push myself over to the low bed and sit down on it, but
carefully. I yank the soiled t-shirt off of me and scrub off my face and neck with a clean
section of it. It comes off brown, yellow and a little red. I throw the shirt away from me. I
collapse on the lumpy mattress. The light on the ceiling becomes five or six lights.

"Peeta?"

"I'm fine," I croak.

"Nice stench," she says sarcastically, but with relief. "What did you do, anyway?"

"What they told me to do."

There's a long pause. "What was that?"

"Told Panem that Katniss and I had nothing to do with the rebellion blowing out the arena.
Called for a cease fire."

"Oh."

"What the fuck does it matter? Katniss and I had nothing to do with it. And no one is going to
pay attention to me calling for a cease fire."

"You'd be surprised how much the people here, even the people in the districts - might.
You've got a way with words. But I guess … with you, it's always going to be that girl first,
isn't it?"

I close my eyes, and the colors from the lights dance around the inside of my eyelids. "Yes," I
say bluntly. "I don't know what's going on out there. I don't know who took her, where she is,
what they want from her, what they plan to do. Nothing. I only know Katniss. So, yeah."

Fuck, I think. The spinning won't stop.

"So, why'd they hit you?"

"I don't know."

Johanna is quiet for a long time, then she shouts, "Annie! Annie! What the hell are you doing
here?"

"Johanna?"

"Yeah, it's me, and Peeta Mellark."

"Where's … Finnick?"

"Safe," says Johanna, without elaboration. "Why are you here?"

"I don't know."

"That's your answer, Lover Boy. They're going to use Annie as bait for Finnick, and you -
bait for Katniss. That means they won't kill you right away. So that's good news!"

"Shit," I reply, realizing that she's right. And it won't be my last time on camera, either. The
next time Katniss sees me, I'll be beaten and bruised. And if Katniss has one weakness, it is
her pity for the wounded. They probably do know that. "Do they really not know where -
wherever they went? Or is that all just part of the game?"

"I don't know. For us? - I'm not sure that it matters."

The screams are so strange – they come in feminine choruses. Or in shrill, bird-like shrieks
that cut across the normal birdsong, sounding alarm. Or in my own voice, hoarse and
unfamiliar as my personality is ground down and down and down. Or in the little girl's cries
for her sister. Or her sister's answering call: Prim! Prim!

Something deep and primal, the shriek that occurs at the rip of separation. I can feel my knees
collapsing in on me, just as they did on the day of the Reaping when her voice echoed around
the square. Please, please, please ...

"Stop!"

One morning, I see a blond girl enter the room behind my breakfast tray, and at first I'm
expecting to see Delly again, but instead it's Primrose Everdeen, her mother's touch in the
complicated braid. She wears a white medic outfit, so I go through the whole range of
emotions - annoyance, aggravation, fear, confusion - before settling on the calm feeling that I
somehow still associate with her. I know she is Katniss' sister. But I also know she is Prim.

And this might be the first moment they begin to separate in my mind, Katniss and the mutt.
Just a little.

"Prim!" I say. "I - didn't know you were alive," I finish awkwardly.

She comes over and sits down next to me. "Hi, Peeta," she says. "It's good to see you again."

I'm startled; she seems sincere, despite the fact that I tried to kill her sister just days ago. "Did
your mother make it, too?"

"Yes, she's here, too. We're both working here - in the medical ward. I'd like to help you,
Peeta, if I can."

I narrow my eyes at her, suspicious now. But she reaches over and releases both my hands
from their restraints. She removes the tubes from my arms. I'm still restrained at the waist,
and she doesn't remove that, but I stare at her delicate face in surprise, then rub my arms.

"Why?" I ask her.

I don't think that I would trust her if she gave some bullshit answer about it being the right
thing to do, or that I'm worth saving, or altering, or whatever. "Because you saved my life,"
she says, simply. "If you hadn't warned us of the bombing, I wouldn't be here now. I got to
safety just in time."

"What bombing?" I ask.

"When the Capitol sent bombers here, to silence Katniss, you warned us, so we had time to
fully evacuate. No one was hurt - except for you. Besides, we were friends once, Peeta,
whether you remember or not. I hope we will be friends again."

I have no memory of any of this, and I stare at my breakfast tray, sullenly. "What - does that
depend on something? Like - me changing my mind about - about Katniss?"

She shakes her head. "No, it only depends on if you want to be friends with me, once you get
to know me better. Now, eat breakfast, and we'll talk about some ideas that we've had."

I start to eat the tasteless porridge and applesauce that is on the tray in front of me, but I can't
stop looking at her. She seems kind. She seems trusting. I haven't run into anyone like this in
a very long time. I've almost finished, when I have a sudden thought. "You and me - we were
reaped together, yes?"

She smiles a little. "Yes, I guess that's true. But I didn't go into the arena with you."

Yes - Katniss went instead. I don't remember exactly how, but there can be only one way that
she could have. She volunteered to take her sister's place. But why? To save Prim? To hunt
me? To rejoin the Capitol? To fight the Capitol? All equally possible, though I know which
explanation is the most likely. She has been stalking me since I was a child.

"So …" I push away my tray. "What is it that you want to - try on me?"

She smiles gently. "I want you to know that we won't do this without your consent. We don't
know how or if it will work. You understand what happened to you in the Capitol?"

"Sort of. They injected me with tracker jacker venom," I say automatically - I've been told
this often enough. "And they showed me tapes of Katniss - in the arena, in the Capitol - and
made me - afraid."

She stares at me with unblinking eyes. "Do you believe that? You don't sound convinced."

I shrug.

"Fair enough," she smiles. "But just try to remember, when you have what feels like irrational
terror or fear over the little things - that that might be a memory or an association that they
altered with fear conditioning. I understand – that there are things about Katniss that you had
cause to resent, even before they took you. I know there was a part of you that was already
mad at her. And that's OK. You don't have to get rid of that. We just want to help you have
full access to your memories again - to be able to remember things without fear."

I swallow and find that my throat is dry.

"I know you don't like watching the tapes of the games..."

"No. No … they don't do any good."

"Yes, well our idea is to try to - hijack you back, Peeta. We'll give you a special dosage of
morphling while you watch certain parts of the tapes - parts we think were altered."

"Not morphling. No."

"It will be specially formulated and injected not to sedate you, but just to - calm you. And
hopefully, that will eventually help you to be able to watch the tapes without fear."

I want to argue with her. I want to shout at the one-way window, where there is no doubt a
curious audience all holding their collective breath. But - I don't want to anger or frighten
Prim. This, for some reason, is very important. So, I close my eyes and control the breaths
that are starting to grow shallow. And I nod my assent.

"When?" I whisper, anxiously. "Today?"

She lifts her hand and, after a very small hesitation, reaches out and wipes my damp hair off
my forehead.

"Not if you don't want to," she says.

 Chapter 6
Chapter Notes

A/N: Warning - depiction of torture.

Chapter Six

"People took sides in the argument, but I took the goat."

As usual, when I hear her voice - especially when I see a recording from the Games - my
heart races like crazy. This time, no sooner it does, even a little bit, than the morphling
courses through my veins - but it's different, definitely different. Something about the dosage
makes me feel light-limbed instead of heavy, and pleasantly detached from my surroundings.
So, even though I wonder why they have chosen to show this clip - with its dismal ending - I
approach it with indifference just barely approaching curiosity.

It seems so - sharp. There is no music and the camera doesn't really cut around very much, as
it did when the Capitol showed it to us after the Games. It's darker than it was when we
watched it then, too - our faces are shadowed so expressions are hard to read. I can hear
things I shouldn't hear - the sound of movements too close to the hidden microphones, so
when she moves, just an inch, the sound of it roars through the screen. I can hear my heavy
breath. And I'm missing something, something barely remembered - something fuzzy about
the edges of the screen ….

"So, Gale offered to carry her. I think he wanted to see the look on Prim's face as much as I
did. As a total impulse, I bought a pink ribbon and tied it around her neck. Then we hurried
back to my house. You should have seen Prim's reaction when we walked in with that goat!
She was so excited, crying and laughing all at once. My mother was less sure, seeing the
injury, but the pair of them went to work on it, grinding up herbs, and coaxing brews down
the animal's throat."

"They sound like you," says the white-faced boy on the screen. His rapt face is focused on the
mutt in a sickening expression that shines through even the dimness of the scene. I wince,
waiting for the final blow - I remember it so precisely, Katniss telling me about how Gale
craved the goat meat so badly that she killed it and told her sister that it had died overnight.
Then she gave the meat to Gale, hoping to coax him into one of his more agreeable moods.

"Meaning what?" I will ask her.

And she'll bend low and put her warm mouth near my ear. And whisper some things that I
can't remember, but which made me blush in embarrassment. I can already almost see the
bright silver light start on the edges of the screen - I remember it now - that video blip that
always precedes this part.

But that's not what happens.

"Oh, no," says the girl on the screen. "They work magic. That thing couldn't have died if it
tried."

I close my mind, trying to reset it - trying to make the false images go away. I trusted Prim. I
trusted her. But, as I suspected all along, 13 is trying to fill my mind with the sickness, again.
To make me forget she is my enemy…

The drug courses through me, like fingers relaxing me, one limb at a time. I can't help but
smile, which seems wrong, somehow. My eyes go in and out of focus, and then everything
goes sideways. …

… And I jolt awake, with no memory of having slept. My arms are restrained, and the light
has changed. It's brighter, more unnatural. My muscles are tense, my tendons stretched out
like rubber bands. What happened, and why? Out of the corner of my eye, I see a large
screen, flickering with an image that is so familiar to me. It's the cave, the cave where she
kept me safe. I see our silhouettes in shadows on the wall - she bending over my prone figure
with her braid over her shoulder. Katniss.

"It's hard to keep his attention," she's saying to me. "He's so popular with the girls."

There's something wrong with the audio - her voice has a slight, unnatural echo. And there is
something wrong with her words.

"I know he is," I choke out.

"But he likes my kills. Oh, he likes my kills. Just like you do, don't you Peeta? What would
you trade for kisses? Would it take a full goat? Or are you easier than Gale?"

Wait. What is going on? This isn't how it went. Not even in my most self-loathing fantasies
about what she was really thinking in the arena - this is not how it went.

"What the fuck?" I say, and there is a flash - a small flash of pain - and a shock goes through
my body….

"Peeta? Peeta? Hey, he's awake! He's awake." Prim's insistent voice breaks through my
black-out and I blink up into the bright, silvery light that floods the ceiling. I flop my head
around, and I see Haymitch yawning in a chair next to me.

"Whu …" I say groggily.

"For fuck's sake, you need to stop scaring us like that."

I wipe saliva off my mouth and cheek. "Where am I?"

"Same place," grunts Haymitch, as medics rush into the room, checking on my monitors and
my fluid levels. Keeping the machine of my body running even as my scrambled brain fades
in and out. "Sunny, beautiful District 13."

I sigh. The morphling dose still is a lovely, soft little pillow, suffocating my anxiety. "I would
love to see the sun," I say. "When will it stop raining?"

"What do you remember?" asks Prim, waving away Dr. Molina, who is sauntering over to
take her place by my bedside.

I blink as competing storylines come to me. I can hear her voice saying two things at once
and I can't tell - I can't - which one is real. Only one thing, maybe, will prove which story is
real. I clutch Prim's arm. "Did she survive? Lady - the goat. Did she survive?"

Prim looks at me, confused - a little sad. "No, Peeta," she says. "When -."

But I fall back down hard on my pillows, squeezing my eyes tight.

"OK," says Dr. Molina. "Let's give him some space, here, and bring his dinner. That doesn't -
seem to have worked quite as we hoped, but maybe with a little more time to process, we'll
see a change."

Someone is screaming in the background - screaming. But I ignore it. It is bleeding over from
something else, somewhere else, sometime else. I'm alone in the wide open of a place that
used to be a prison, but which has been blasted open. The fences flattened. The guards gone.

It is all broken and dissolved - buildings, bodies. The remains of a single tree - dead but still
standing. The layer of ashes that covers the lumps in the earth is like a shroud over the
corpse. I could have been spared this. Had the cannon ever sounded for me - as it should have
- I could have been spared this.

The sky is gray, nearly colorless, though in the seam between two dark clouds there is a
bright silver streak - the sun that hides behind the incoming storm. For a moment, staring at
the light, I wonder if I'm going to slip into further levels of unreality.

Your venom levels are minute.

What a laugh. District 13 - hard to tell what was incompetence - what were outright lies. At a
certain point, the chemical structure of your brain is irrevocably altered. There are some
things you can't unlearn. There are some things you can't relearn.

I bend down on one knee and take the dust in my hand. I have relived this dream so often, it
has a ritualistic quality now. As I press my fist to my mouth, the flashes come - the quick cuts
of the lightning, followed immediately by the grumble of the thunder. The storm is just
overhead. But my face is already wet. Water drops all around me.

I kiss my fingers - 1, 2, 3, 4.

Deep in the meadow, under the willow.

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow.

Lay down your head, and close your eyes,

And when you wake up …

Annie's screams rouse me from sleep and I rub my eyes.

This is the morning ritual. I watch, blearily, while she is dragged from the room, between two
Peacekeepers who absolutely dwarf her. The dread in her screams lights up a reciprocal dread
within me, but I've learned by now to preserve my energy. Outrage on her behalf does
nothing but leave me more exhausted and vulnerable.

Anyway, she'll be back in forty-five minutes. Quieter. Perhaps damaged in some way - or
perhaps they are just taping messages for Finnick Odair, wherever he is. But still alive. This
is the only victory, right now - to still be alive at the end of the day.

After she comes back - and then Johanna gets up, restless and anxious, and mutters to herself,
pacing in her cell - we have a couple of hours of quiet reflection until lunch arrives. This is
one of the highlights of the day, and not just because it is now our only meal. It's a bit of an
adventure. We are now getting leftovers from somewhere. Maybe the President's mansion,
even, who knows? It's good food - sweet curried chicken with rice, honied lamb and tiny little
potatoes, beef steak. The problem is, sometimes the food is quite old. And sometimes you
can tell, but have to risk it anyway. A couple of days ago, I got violently ill off of some
creamy soup, and I've scraped mold off of bread more than once.

But again - I need energy. Every ounce of it. From wherever it comes.

"Peeta!" Johanna says suddenly, in the weary urgency I've become used to now. She frets too
much about what I say to our captors. I've tried to explain that they don't ask me much. They
tell me things.

That Katniss has betrayed me. That she betrayed the rebellion. That she tried to kill me. It's
an odd way to try to persuade me to cooperate.

"Yeah?"

"Didn't hear much from you after they brought you back last night," she says.

"I think I went to sleep."

"What did they do? What did they ask you?"

I frown at the white-painted brick wall between me and Johanna and try not to be annoyed
with her. "They didn't really ask me anything. They showed me video - from the Games."

"What?"

I try to recover the memories and am vaguely alarmed that, even though it was just maybe
twenty hours ago or so, I am having a hard time recalling what happened. "They injected me
with something. It felt - strange. I felt like my body was going rigid. And they played some
tape from the first time I was in the arena. But it was wrong. It looked wrong - it sounded
wrong. The words were wrong. Katniss told a story I think - I'm pretty sure - went a different
way. I don't know, though," I add, doubt shivering in front of me, silver-misty - I can actually
see it. "I was feverish then, I guess."

I shake my head, trying to remember if Prim has a goat, but for some reason, I can't.

"Peeta," says Johanna in a low voice.

"What?"

"It sounds like maybe - they're trying to brainwash you."

"Really?" I sit up suddenly, but that makes me dizzy and I clutch my head. "But - why?"

"It's - one of his favorite things to do. Use people we love - against us. Maybe it's just for his
own amusement, but if he's trying to make you forget her - or plant false memories of her …
no good can come of that."

Trying to keep myself from hyperventilating, I reach out and clutch the wall beside my bed.
Forget Katniss? That would involve forgetting all the important things in my life. "What - do
I - do?"

"Fuck if I know," she says shortly. Then, after a moment, "Try to keep thinking about the
memories you have of her that they don't have on tape, I guess."

On balance, that's not most of them - not by a long shot. Easily three-quarters of my
interactions with her have been recorded for posterity, and that's not even counting if we were
bugged - as we suspected - in our houses back home. In my panic, it's not easy to concentrate,
but - even if Johanna isn't right - I find myself eager to counteract the unpleasant session
from yesterday with memories of her.

Her singing in school on the first day of kindergarten … no, I told that story in the arena; it's
compromised.

The bread - that would be next. Not counting years of observing her at school, but these are
snippets without real emotional context. We referred to the bread in the arena, but not in any
detail. But when I call up this memory, even it is painful. There's the rain, the heat of the
bread against my arms. The gaunt face of the girl. And my mother's slap - the pain, the anger
later, the punishment. Worth it - yes, absolutely. But connected to bad memories. Still, largely
safe from the Capitol, right? I took a beating to give her the bread that kept her alive. Yes,
OK.

All my next sequence of memories about her seem tied in with Gale. Catching a glimpse of
them heading toward the fence. Watching them negotiate with my father for bread. Judging
from the direction they were going in yesterday, with the ludicrous hints of Katniss trying to
lure kisses out of a reluctant Gale, it's probably best to stay away from those - and I don't
want to dwell on them, anyway.

The rooftop of the Training Center. That last night before the Games, when I tried to tell her
how I felt about remaining true to myself in the arena. But there was a fight, and anyway, it's
not unlikely the Capitol saw or heard that conversation, as well.

I tug at my hair. This is impossible.

"Green," she says. "What's yours?"

I almost gasp out loud - her voice, her true voice, seems to be whispering in my ear.

"Orange."

"Like Effie's hair?"

Green, I think. Orange. Green. Orange. So simple - and so easy. Green - and I see her, sitting
in the grass by the train tracks, alone without any cameras or witnesses. And I sit beside her.
Green.

Orange. "A bit more muted. More like … sunset."

A mantra I can say, over and over, the next time they touch me. Green. Orange. Green. Her
favorite color is green. Orange. An orange dress in District 11.

Lunch comes. It's meager today. Chicken wings and a smear of mashed potatoes. I nibble the
meat off of the delicate bones, and try to imagine cold groosling in a cave. My fingertips turn
orange, and I remind myself. Orange. Green.

Then, after a few more hours, they come for Johanna. Johanna is laid out on the metal
counters on the far wall of the room, and she's usually put where I can see her. Her struggling
- her sarcastic tongue - is subdued by drugs, and she's locked down on the counter with some
kind of magnetic cuffs. They ask her, again, where the rebellion's headquarters is. Who in the
Quell was involved. Where they have taken the Mockingjay. Then a hose. Metal clamps. A
jolt of electricity that makes her scream out. She's useless for answering now, she just
screams and screams until they put her back in her cell. Then she screams some more.
Everything is in this scream - rage and defiance, pain and enormous fear.

I take all the days I can remember and string them together in a row so I can count them. I
think it's been about two weeks since the Quell ended.
"Gale is so good-looking, don't you think?" she asks, in a curiously frail voice.

I sit up abruptly and find myself tangled in sheets, half naked. The room is dim, windowless.
There is wood paneling on the walls. There is a gentle sway. It feels … a bit like being on the
train?

"What?"

She's sitting on the edge of the bed, back to me, brushing out her long brown hair. She's
wearing a robe loosely over her bare shoulders and I am startled by the guilty feeling that
floods me. What happened? What did I do? Where are we? Did I drink last night at the feast?
In District 6 they had … but I always tried to stay away from alcohol … after that one time.

[Fingers drumming on my thigh, and my blood was light as white liquor and as warm and
heady. Did I imagine, just for a second, her fingers trailing up and up and up? Did I imagine,
just for a second, moving my mouth to meet her whispers and saying yes, yes, please make
me forget?]

"Katniss?"

She half turns to me, but her hair falls over her face so I can't quite see her. "Don't you think?
Oh, I know you can't help it - being crippled. But there is something so appealing in his
strength and his wholeness. You can appreciate that, at least."

Her voice is thin like a long, shivery thread. There is no timbre, no depth, nothing in her
voice that resonates in my head. But it won't stop, so I have no choice but to respond to it.

"But I'm so much easier for you to crack," I say.

She shrugs and starts weaving her hair into its long braid. "There is something appealing
about your weakness, I have to admit." Two powerful - but contradictory - emotions strike
me. I want to get up and help her put her hair back in place. (I'm practicing my knots, I will
say, in lieu of the apology I owe her. Katniss will understand this.) I also want to get up and
stop her, unbraid and loosen her hair. Not gently. Violently. Violently.

When I move, I'm not actually sure which impulse has won. But I'm stopped short, anyway,
by my missing prosthetic. I may not understand what about this is real - what is a dream - a
drug-induced trick - but I know this empty, helpless feeling.

"Where's my leg?" I demand. "Where is it? What have you done?"

She laughs. "Don't be silly. You know that is the condition of the transaction. You get me
when you give up the leg. You'll get it back - later. Later."

My breath starts to hurt. Its speed is starting to increase and my chest to heave. I have to
control it - to not show them - her - whomever - that they are getting to me.

"STOP!"
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

A/N: Warning - depiction of torture.

Chapter Seven

One day, I wake to the sound of an electric buzzing and I stir, fuzzily looking around for the
source. I squint through the fifteen bars of my cell door and see they've set Johanna up on the
table again. But something is horribly different this time. She's completely naked.

I clutch my stomach - the meal today was probably not good - the chicken looked a little gray
around the edges - and I'm probably going to be throwing it up violently before too long. But
I try to concentrate on the girl, who is staring up at the ceiling. Her usual defiant cries are
silenced. Her eyes are dark with tears as they shave her head.

Dread courses through me. "Hey," I call out, as casually as I can. This is a technique I've been
trying without success - to engage the Peacekeepers in some kind of conversation, to force
them to talk to me like a human being. It usually makes Johanna laugh - it's a bitter laugh, but
still. "Nice day today," I continue conversationally. "What day is it again?"

Johanna turns her head to glance at me. It's just for a moment, as her head is jerked back into
place, roughly. But it's enough to know that she is - finally - broken. I watch them tape some
wires or something to her head. Then to various points on her emaciated body, including
some humiliatingly private ones.

"It's time to talk, Sawdust." This is, honestly, the best they could come up with in humiliating
nicknames for her. The girl who utterly slaughtered her opponents in the Games until her axe
ran red. "You don't want to die like this, naked and exposed in here. Not in front of a bunch of
lads sworn to years of service without pussy."

"Please, no, please!" I scream.

Johanna starts to whimper and squirm, but she's trapped. Someone brings out the hose and, as
they always do before they shock her, wet her down so that it will hurt that much worse.

"Johanna - please!" I beg. I can't watch this. I can't. I'm already weakening: Weeks with
hardly any food. With beatings every other day. With the screams from the girls. With
whatever they do to Annie - fragile, defenseless Annie - when they take her out every
morning. With NO idea what is going on outside these walls - if Panem is burning with war,
if the rebellion has been squashed and everyone is dead. If someone, somewhere, is treating
Katniss like we're being treated.
There's a zap and an unearthly yell from the table.

"Johanna!"

"Shut up!"

Before I see what's about to happen, someone turns the hose on me, and with the power
gushed up, the blast of water knocks me backward. My head hits the floor - it's not the
heaviest blow I've ever received, but I'm basically a semi-permanent concussion now, and my
brain swims around as I try to crawl away from the water.

Another scream. Then: "Thirteen! They went to 13! The rebellion is based in 13!"

The water stops.

"There you go," says Thread into the silence. So he's still here, not in 12. "It pays to be
honest, doesn't it?"

"You knew," she hisses, some of her defiance returning.

I stagger to my feet and slither over the wet concrete to clutch the cell doors.

"Don't touch me!" she screams as someone - it's not Thread - puts a finger on her stomach.

Thread slaps the offending hand away, and my knuckles go white as I watch with tension as
he and the four Peacekeepers stand still, their eyes and expressions hidden behind their
masks. Johanna's chest rises and falls heavily with the panic and fear and rage.

"Put her back in the cage," Thread says at last. "Not sure what the President wants to do with
her now that she's squealed." He looks up from the table and, I think, right at me.

It's when they've all gone that Johanna breaks down into wild, keening sobs.

I bite down on my impulse to question her, and instead strip off my wet clothes, wring them
out, and spread them out on the driest part of my bed. I glance up at the camera on the ceiling
and put my middle finger up into the air. Then I retch, and stagger over to the noxious
chamber pot to vomit. Then Annie starts to scream.

I climb over to my bed, put my face down on the wet mattress, and squeeze my temples,
trying to make the spinning stop.

"What?" Haymitch asks, noticing me stare at him.

"What's wrong with you?" I ask him. I was brought back into my room after my morning
shower to find him already waiting for me. Today, I was finally allowed to shower without
being cuffed to the wall. Since Prim removed my arm shackles, I have not been restrained to
the bed, anymore, either, though my door is locked and when I have visitors, I'm hooked up
to the pipelines of knock-out drugs, just in case. Still, it's better than nothing. Even being able
to pace around and around the white-walled room is something.

"What's wrong with me?" he huffs.

"You're - off-color," I stammer, trying not to say yellow-green, which is what he really is. He
looks as sickly now as he did the day he first visited me, and - now that I'm tolerating him, at
least - I'm afraid that he is genuinely ill. "And - your face is scratched up."

He puts a hand up and traces the scabby lines down his face. "That would be Kat -." He stops
abruptly on her name. "When she found out we left you in the arena, she - didn't take it well."

I narrow my eyes, trying to read his mind to determine whether or not this is a lie. Then my
mind is flooded with an image - the image that calls me a liar. The mutt with dark fur and
silver eyes, her claws sharp and deadly. Jumping softly from the trees and swiping at my leg.

"Peeta?"

It's Prim's voice. She's entering - with Delly. Contrarily, the presence of these three people
who are really the only ones I trust in the world right now puts me on edge. "What's going
on?" I ask nervously.

The TV is being wheeled in on its cart again and I sigh at the sight of Dr. Molina following
behind it.

"You people just won't give up, will you?" I say, holding out my arm resignedly. Dr. Molina
inserts the tubes into the injection ports that have taken up permanent residence along the
veins of my arm. "This won't work."

But they don't go back to the arena. Instead, the black screen is artfully lit up with a spark
that grows into a fire, burning the blackness away until it congeals into an image of Katniss'
mockingjay pin. I roll my eyes - propaganda. Even the music swelling up behind the images
sounds exactly like an advertisement the Capitol would run on TV for an upcoming Hunger
Games. Even the voice - Claudius Templesmith - is a Capitol voice. "Katniss Everdeen, the
girl who was on fire, burns on."

They really do all believe their own hype, don't they?

Abruptly, Katniss appears on the screen. She's wearing some kind of craftily-designed black
armor, but apart from that, she looks rugged and real, her face smudged, her hair falling loose
from its braid. She's standing in ruins and a fire burns behind her.

"I want to tell the rebels that I'm alive. That I'm right here in District 8 …."

.
"...where the Capitol has just bombed a hospital full of unarmed men, women and children.
There will be no survivors."

At first, I don't hear the words she says, I just hobble up to the large screen in the theatre
room, reaching out with a hand as if I could physically touch her. She is alive. Alive.

Then she vanishes from the screen - replaced by scenes of rampant destruction. A building
collapses and her voice continues over the shots of people reacting in horror. "I want to tell
people that if you think for one second the Capitol will treat us fairly if there's a cease-fire
you're deluding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do."

She appears again and my hands tremble as she gestures around her, to the destroyed district.
Not ours, it looks nothing like District 12 - but somewhere vulnerable - lumps of concrete
and fragmented steel and shattered glass, backlit by orange light. "This is what they do!" she
cries to the camera, lifting her arms, as if she did have wings. "And we must fight back!"

After that, the video shows a montage of what I guess is a true battle scene. Bombs falling
from hovercraft. Katniss and a group of soldiers running through streets of rubble, being
blown to the ground. The camera closes in on a gash in her leg. Then cuts to her climbing a
ladder to a rooftop, shooting arrows into the sky that take down actual aircraft. There's a brief
shot of Gale, also shooting arrows, and that gives me pause. How is it that he joined the
rebellion? I conjure an image of him being scooped up by the rogue hovercraft, taking the
seat made available by my vacancy.

"President Snow says he's sending us a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us
and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that? Fire is catching! And if
we burn, you burn with us!" Graphics close out the video, but I've been barely paying
attention since Katniss said "torture." The word rattles around in my head. By the time I'm
cognizant of anything around me, she's gone and the screen is blank.

"Well," says Snow, from his seat at the back of the room. "Care to rephrase your testimony
regarding Katniss Everdeen and the rebellion?"

I put a hand to my temple. My head is spinning. I don't know what to say, I don't even know
how I feel. Confused. Left out. Betrayed? So soothed to have seen her, with my own eyes, no
matter what the circumstances. It's been so long - longer than it's ever been - since I saw her
last. I shake my head, to clear it. It's still my job to defend her, or at least her reputation. "She
didn't know anything about it in the arena. I don't know what has happened since then."

"Her - cousin's - influence, perhaps. If I'm not mistaken, our intelligence had him pegged as
sympathetic to the rebels."

I know that Snow knows that Gale is not her cousin. It's a taunt, and it lands more or less on
target. Despite the fact that I planned it - to die in the arena and leave her free to eventually
return Gale's love for her - it still hurts - again - to see it. Maybe she thinks I am dead? That
could be. Still, the girl who seemed so eager to sacrifice herself for me - the girl who kissed
me like she did on that one night - seems to have moved on quickly, and in spectacular
fashion.
Perspective, I think to myself, desperately. That was a prepared piece, encapsulating a small
moment in time. The fact is - this is what she wanted - a rebellion - and what I wanted for her
- for someone to remove her from the reach of the Capitol. So, what's my problem?

When I blink, I'm back in 13. Everyone's looking at me for a response, but I'm just trying to
get my bearings. Is it willful or accidental that this is making me substantially worse? I don't
want to flash back to the Capitol - these things I forgot do not need to be remembered. But
the morphling that floods my system every time they show me a tape seems to dismantle the
walls between the past and present, so that I float in confusion among the fragments of my
memories. Nothing but confusion can ultimately come from this.

"I saw that before," I say, at last.

"You remember?" asks Dr. Molina.

I lick my lips. "Some."

"Is it any different from how you remember?"

"Not really. No."

Molina starts writing a bunch of stuff down on his clipboard. I have a sudden, unaccountable
memory of Effie, furiously writing and striking things out on a clipboard. And Katniss' anger.

"No one cares, Effie!"

Green. Orange. Green. Orange.

Suddenly my mind is taking off on its own, and the words click - I can see them, like beads
of alternating colors, clacking together as I string them. Green. Orange. Green. Orange.

I wiggle around, trying to remember.

"Peeta?" someone asks - whoever it is, the voice is sexless, drained of color.

I shake my head. "Wait. Wait. Something …. No, it's going. I can't-." I close my eyes tightly
on the image, willing it to stay, but the color bleeds away and the moment is gone.

I feel slightly nauseous as District 13 fades in around me. I look at the four faces that
surround my bed - wait until their features clarify and they become familiar again.

"What did you remember, Peeta?" asks Delly, breathlessly.

I swallow. "Nothing - really. Colors - I - it seemed like it might be important, but I don't know
why." I stare at my arms, thin, weak and ugly with needle tracks and scars, especially the
long, grizzly scar from when they finally removed my arena tracker.

I'm tired of not feeling like myself - whoever that happens to be. And I'm sick of their
insistence in concentrating on Katniss, as if restoring my old feelings for her - the ones that
got me into trouble in the first place - is the only thing that needs to be fixed. I wish they'd at
least be honest with me and admit that all this isn't really to help me. It's to make sure I don't
try to kill her again.

And not only that. If I understand how these people work - and I think I do, there seems to be
very little difference between them and my last captors - they want to use it again: that sick,
twisted relationship that inflamed everyone in the first place. To make me admit on camera,
again, my feelings for her - infinite, boundless - fruitless, barren.

That will never, never happen again.

"OK, this is good," says Dr. Molina. "We'll talk about that later, see if we can stimulate any
memories. But now - we can move forward in time - I think this would have been made
almost immediately after Miss Everdeen's propo."

I sigh audibly, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see Haymitch smile wryly to himself.
Delly looks concerned. Prim looks calm and unflappable. "Wait," I say. "Just a second.
Where's Effie? Is Effie OK?"

All eyes turn to Haymitch, and I follow them, to see his mouth drop into a frown. "Did you
see her at all there - that you remember?"

I shake my head. "No."

"We're not sure. Word is she was imprisoned, but we don't know."

Gloomily sorry for asking, I follow up with, "How's Johanna doing? Annie? Are they OK?"

"Not bad. Finnick's used to handling Annie's - moods. Johanna's in treatment, as well."

"Does she remember what they did to her?"

Molina nods. "She seems to."

I wait for elaboration on this point, but get nothing; I suppose it's none of my business. But
Johanna's torture is burned into my brain, clearer than almost anything else, my own torture
included. I kind of need newer memories of her to replace those.

"Is - Gale also in District 2?"

This brings raised eyebrows. "No, he's here."

Gale is a puzzle to me. The sound of his name, even on my own tongue, causes a quick
frisson of anger - but it fizzles out. I think I might feel sorry for him, but I'm not sure why. It
seems like he went open-eyed into Katniss' snares, but he was never prey enough to keep her
attention off of me.

"Any other questions?"

"I guess not." And the TV flickers back on.

Once again, I'm looking at myself, sitting across from Caesar Flickerman. We're sitting in a
large, ornate room - fancy chairs, everywhere - fountains and trees. It rings a bell. My
imagination peoples it with well-dressed Capitolites, tables bursting with food. But in this
instance, there just seems to be me and Caesar, facing each other across a coffee table. In
contrast to my previous interview, I seem gaunt and anxious.

I'm again wearing a fancy suit - it's a darker white, maybe a light beige. My curls frame my
face, falling down to almost conceal my eyes. I can only really see my eyes when I tilt my
head up, and they seem troubled and somehow paler than they are supposed to be.

In a grotesque parody of reality, Caesar asks me a few light questions about how I'm enjoying
my extended stay in the Capitol, if I've discovered any new favorite dishes. He assures the
audience that soon - soon - once all the misinformation has been cleared up and paperwork
completed - I'll be free to return to District 12. Bureaucracy, right?

"Now, on to a more delicate matter," says Caesar, and I detect the strain in his voice. I feel -
strangely enough - incredibly sorry for the man. For years - and I mean years - he had the
best job in the Capitol: the smiling, friendly face of the ratings bonanza that was the Hunger
Games. And it's all gone to hell. "There are some rumors that Katniss Everdeen is taping
propaganda messages for the rebellion in the districts. How do you feel about that? You know
her, after all, better than anyone. Does this ring true?"

I test my memories - but come up blank. Caesar's words ring no bells, my response is not
predictable. "They're using her, obviously. To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really
knows what's going on in the war. What's at stake."

"Is there anything you'd like to tell her?"

"There is." The boy on the screen twitches a little before looking right into the camera,
nervously brushing his hair out of his face. Uncovered, his eyes conceal nothing - I see them
there, the beatings, the shocks, all of the indignities. "Don't be a fool, Katniss. Think for
yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of
humanity. If you've got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop
the war before it's too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you're working with?
Do you really know what's going on? And if you don't … find out."

And that's it. I'm almost diabolically pleased to have cast doubts on District 13, sight unseen,
because I really do hate this place - nor do I trust anyone here who did not first come from
District 12. Apart from that, I have no mental associations with the interview. The only detail
that has captured my attention is the state of my hair. It's not up to Calla's usual standards,
which was to spray it stiffly away from my face so I wouldn't have to worry about it while on
stage.
I try to call up some memory of Portia and my prep team in relationship to this tape, but
nothing seems to come. Saying good-bye to Portia before the previous interview is the last
thing I can remember of her.

"Nothing?" asks Prim, looking at me as if she can read the struggle in my mind.

"No, nothing at all," I say.

"Is it possible that they drugged him before the interview?" asks Delly. "He seemed - off."

I meet Dr. Molina's eyes. They are pale gray - a little tired looking. "Perhaps," he says.
"Thank you, Mr. Mellark. We've got some avenues to start down. You should get some rest
today. I think that we'll try this again tomorrow, Miss Everdeen," he adds, looking down at
Prim. "Before we go back to any arena tapes. The last two propos - we'll see if there's a
similar response."

"Looking forward to it," I say sarcastically to his retreating back.

Haymitch chuckles and I'm beginning to think that I might actually like him. That's a
dangerous road to go down, though, considering his alliance with Katniss.

… Katniss, whose motives I can't quite understand. Everything I've seen, everything I can
remember now seems to disagree with the singular thought in my head, the one that insists
she is a Capitol mutt. So - why did she hurt me so much? It doesn't make any sense.

"You loved her."

Flashes go off in my eyes.

I blink at the rows of cameras. For what seems like forever, I'm stuck behind the microphone,
trying to remember where I am and what I'm supposed to be saying.

"Not everything was true," I admit to the crowd of onlookers. "But …."

"You loved her."

I close my eyes on the flickering, swaying light bulb. What is the point to this? What is the
point? Everyone knows. I laid out everything inside me and more for public consumption.
And they were hungry for it ….

"Mr. Mellark."

The cold push of fluid in my veins. The rush of it - silver-bright behind my eyelids. I can see
it - descending on me like a poisonous mist. I start to shiver. When I try to hold my body still,
the shivers become spastic and my limbs jerk. Where it comes from - the fear - the sharp,
potent anxiety - the slow, creeping paranoia - where it comes from is only inside of me, but
the knowing is not enough.

"I loved her."

"A mutt."

"Sure - yeah - a mutt," I respond. Green. Green. Green.

"She didn't love you in return."

I open my eyes. And now, as they've done before, the withdrawal. Fear recedes. But it leaves
some residue behind. "I - don't - I -."

"She isn't capable. She was bred for betrayal. She was not built for love."

Two choices here: to agree or to accept the drugs. Very straightforward. Very matter-of-fact.
To preserve your life in the arena, you have to hurt other people. In small ways as well as in
large ones. In small ways as well as in … you have to kill a part of yourself in order to do it.

(To give myself, finally, to death.)

"But - she did. She did."

 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes

A/N: Warning - depiction of torture.

Chapter Eight

"So I understand you refuse to make a statement on the war," Thread says.

I put my head down and hunch myself into a ball on the bed. I don't care what happens now,
just that I will no longer cooperate. Not after the last time - not after - whatever it was … I
can't remember. Something - happened. The lights flickered and there was a loud electric
pop. Something they didn't plan, and it was somehow my fault when things went wrong.

Stop!

Don't cry for the dead, someone told me. Do you know how many she killed? The girl you
are attempting to protect? The mutt? Do you know she destroyed it - District 12? Do you
understand this?

The cell door opens and I brace myself, clutching my knees. There's also a clatter in the next
cell and Johanna starts yelling out - "He doesn't care about me, fuckers, so don't even
bother!"

I could move - I could make a move and maybe it would spare her. But spare her for what?
We. Are. Dead. Dead. At this point, our lives' continuation is only at their pleasure and for
their sick and deranged entertainment.

"Get up, Mellark!"

"Get up!"

"Just finish it," I say. And to think - I could have flittered away, quietly and gently, on my
own terms - a victim of infection, dying peacefully in the earth of the arena. The mutt - the -
Katniss, no, Katniss - saved me then, but only for this in the end.

Thread laughs. "Just don't kill him, boys," he says.

Then they start hitting me - hard - on my exposed back. Within moments, I'm in the fetal
position on my bed, just making weak, thin animal sounds as they pummel my back and my
legs. When I make some desperate - instinctive - move to crawl away from the beatings, they
hit my head and I'm out.
I wake to sheer exhaustion. There is no pain. I can look down - stiffly - to see that my arms
are covered in needles again. There is a numbing effect to whatever they use to subdue me.
But that just means they use even stronger drugs to induce pain.

I glance around at the weirdly stained tiles of this room - a hospital room in that section of
this underground labyrinth where I first woke up, a victor, a little more than a year ago. I have
a feeling that I've been here before, several times - two, three, four, five? But I'm losing my
ability to form memories in this place, and I'm not sure. Only that it smells like blood in here,
wires burning, sweat and screams.

What do they want from me? There must be some purpose to my life for the Capitol, but I
just can't figure it out - there sure isn't one for me. The only thing that worries me about my
death is how no one will know that I'm gone. They'll wonder - hope for a while, maybe,
eventually assume the worst. I'll die anonymously, underground, having achieved nothing,
really, except for being abandoned by Haymitch and the rebellion.

The fear of death, which sustained me through the arena, even though I was prepared to die
for my cause - the fear of death has left me. I feel my brain detaching much as it did when I
buried myself in the earth, but this time there is no rational voice slapping me awake, making
me hold on, hold on, until help came. Until she came. This time, she's not coming.

My eyes cross, and I start, my heart jumping dangerously. Katniss? There's a girl in the room
with me, wearing a dark jacket, and her dark brown braid falls down her back. She's facing
the wall and I can't see her face. My mouth makes a sound, but I can't even form the word.

There's a whir as the machines start up and, all at once, two of the tubes swell and the liquid
flows into me, but now I'm struggling against the stupor of my mind, trying to understand if
I'm seeing her, or an illusion again. Of what would it mean for her to be here.

The room goes black, and then one of the walls lights up with projected images, scattering
the shadow of the girl with the braid across all the walls and corners of the room.

"We're on the same team, now, you know," her voice echoes in the darkness.

"So I heard. Nice of you to find what's left of me."

I stare at the projection; maybe it's the quality of the projector, but there's something strange
about the images, they seem blurry around the edges, and washed out - or maybe it's my
dizzy eyes.

I feel the tubes expand, and this time I know for sure that they are pushing some sort of
hallucinogenic through me - it feels so strange and sideways, so shiny, just like the tracker
jacker venom. And the images on the screen start to dissociate themselves from each other,
shattering into a dizzying montage that, in its fragmented way, tells its own story. Katniss
glaring at me from the high branches of a tree. The bursting nest of tracker jackers. An arrow
just missing me and hitting a tree instead, and her face, livid with anger and distrust. Katniss,
whistling four notes into the air, notes that dissolve into screams. Shooting her arrow. Two
dead tributes are at her feet.

"We call them nightlock."

Her face, gray, skeletal - a little distorted, holding out a handful of poisonous berries to me.

Her eyes, wide and wild, while she clamps her hand over my nose and throat, and I choke on
the poison she fed me.

The evening sun glimmers off the surface of the lake and she whistles again - the same four
notes - and this time, the mutts come at me. I see them snapping at my feet while she runs
confidently ahead of them. I feel the bite on my leg.

I hear the sound of a strange, mocking laughter.

Then a burst of sunlight pierces the room as two figures approach the fence-line of District
12. They stand there for a moment - Katniss and Gale - talking, and then he kisses her.

At this point, the images in my own head take over; the mutt version of Katniss that sprang to
life on the train ride home somehow merging with this new image of her. Deceitful and
manipulative. Dangerous.

I feel a hand on mine, and the delicate end of the braid brushes across my face. I try to look at
her - quivering as if she was a raindrop about to fall from a blade of grass and dissolve
forever. Sparkly, as if she was a creation of Cinna's, a trick of the light. Her face isn't right -
too round. Her eyes aren't right, either. But nothing I am seeing is right. She puts a needle
into the delicate veins of my left hand and plunges it.

"What are you -?" And then a fire flows into my blood, spreads up my arms and shoots
through my body, lighting up my nerves from the inside. Pain so intense my body lifts up
with the sudden rigidity of all my muscles. And I scream, but screaming makes everything
hurt even more.

She grabs my head and forces me to look toward the projections on the wall. My eyelids are
glued open, so the flickering pictures are forced onto my retinas. It's a swirling recap of the
second arena, but now the pictures are melting in a terrifying manner. The moon drips into
the lake and ignites it, and my eyes burn.

She keeps trying to get close to me - the girl in the arena - and all I can feel is fear. Grabbing
my hand, leaning into me, kissing me. Then she splits into her two forms - the wolf rising,
tearing into the braided girl who is poised over me, holding her needle. Her blood splatters
the walls all around me - sparkly, silver sprays of blood. And I scream and scream.

My face is tilted up towards the light by two dark and delicate fingers and I feel the hot drops
of water fall on my cheeks, one, two. The fingers quickly move to wipe the tears from my
face and I smell a sweet, evening-flower scent, and a low voice whispers, "I'm sorry."
I hold myself still, in a routine so familiar now that I don't have to be told what to do, just
follow the gentle directions of her fingers. I feel the stinging first layer of thin liquid, worked
gently into my cheeks. Then the slick lotion, finger-painted over my face. Then the scented
powder, the musky fine dust motes billowing around me.

Then soft, moist fingers smooth through my hair, and I feel her flattening out my curls, and
then twisting them back in again.

I open my eyes in the pause and she swims in front of them, familiar but strange. Her large
brown eyes glitter with her tears. She leans over me with a small brush and paints my lips. I
blink at myself in the mirror behind her, and it's only by the reciprocal motions in the mirror -
the eyelids fluttering, the twitch of the mouth - that I know that the person there is me. My
pale face - death-white-blue under the powder - looks ghostly over the black suit I am
wearing.

"One last thing." She lifts my left wrist and slips on a thin gold bracelet. It sparkles with the
glint of some orange gem placed dead center. A word rattles around my empty brain. Orange.
Orange. Orange.

"What do I do again?"

Her lips come in close to my ear. "Just read the words on the screen. And - Peeta..." Then a
flood of words in my ear, barely distinguishable, a number here and there.

I'm helped to my feet and then she grabs my hand and holds it, tight, even as rougher hands
pull me away from her by the shoulders. Out into another space. Cameras - again. A podium.
Plush chairs, carpets, gold inlay in the woodwork. Marble. Heavy, brocade curtains. I'm
helped up to a chair with a high seat, my feet on a metal rung. Pointed toward a monitor, on
which I can see myself, looking confused and worried.

"When the words come on the screen, you read them. Understand?"

I nod.

District 12 is gone. The Capitol destroyed it, as soon as the Quell ended.

I look around in confusion for the source of the whispered words. But they are inside my
head. I slump down, disappointed.

"3, 2, 1 …"

A slow, slithering voice starts up on my right hand side, but I continue to stare straight ahead,
waiting for the words. My image has been replaced by that of President Snow, standing at the
podium, smilingly benevolent. "Greetings, citizens of Panem. Tonight, I come to you with
another update on the state of the uprisings by the districts. Once again, I want to assure you,
we will be victorious in this fight, as we were before. In the meanwhile, here are some
important updates, which will explain the recent shortages."

The rebels have taken her to District 13.

Now I'm back on the monitor and the words start blinking at me. "There must be a cease
fire," I read out loud. "The damage - the damage done to the infrastructure hurts you in the
districts, just as much as the Capitol." The monitor shows an electronic map behind me, and I
see - for the first time - the shape and layout of the country of Panem. I am almost
mesmerized as the screen zooms in and the map lights up, intercut with videos - a dam
buckling after an explosion. A derailed train. Fires. And with each video, a new scroll of
words. The rebels blew up …. The rebels destroyed the tracks …. It's strange to be reading
these words, as if I know what I'm talking about, just as I am seeing these things for the first
time myself.

And then the words abruptly disappear. I see instead the wreckage of stone buildings - great
broken boulders of stone and marble, piles of brick. There are no landmarks, but nonetheless
it is strangely familiar to me - maybe it's the burnt, ashy remains of a small tree, the skeleton
of which has a recognizable shape. There's a girl with a braid, back to the camera, standing in
the rubble, surveying it. She hops from one broken stone to another, and finally turns around.
Her face, this time, is the right one.

And if the whispers were right about District 12, what else were they right about?

Suddenly, I see myself again, my own puzzled face. The words are back on the screen, and I
open my mouth - "The rebels bombed a water purification plant in District …"

Then I stop again. There's another face on the screen. Whole and healthy, but sad. I vaguely
recognize the young man, but not enough to put a name to the face. "... when she died, Rue
was only …"

There are angry voices rising all around me, but what can I do? There are no more words to
read. It's become a montage every bit as disconnected and confusing as the ones they show
me when I'm strapped to the table. I frown down at my lap, and the orange glint from my
bracelet distracts me. Orange. Orange. Orange.

Green.

My head shifts sideways. Orange. Green. Orange. Green.

They're going to attack District 13 tonight.

"We're back! We got it back! They're gone!" someone says.

I stare at the monitor, but there's only Snow, caught off guard, staring off to the side. He
jumps a little when he hears the voice and turns again to face the camera. "Clearly, the rebels
are now attempting to disrupt the dissemination of information they find incriminating, but
both truth and justice will reign. The full broadcast will resume when security has been
reinstated. Mr. Mellark, given tonight's demonstration, do you have any parting thoughts for
Katniss Everdeen?"

Parting thoughts. The sound of her name is like a small jolt of adrenaline. It is the echo of
memories that used to fill my head. Parting thoughts. A girl, crouched and dying, under the
bare-branched apple tree in a long ago winter.
They'll destroy it like they did District 12.

"Katniss," I rasp. I'm staring only at myself, but I can almost see the silver eyes. "How do you
think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe." I can feel my breath growing short. I
know that this will bring punishment. But, as I did long ago, understanding that my actions
would bring my mother's hand down on me, I plow on, desperately, almost without a choice.
"Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you … in 13 … dead by morning!"

"End it!" shouts Snow.

A still image of Katniss fills the monitor and, for a moment, I can see my eyes reflected
behind hers, and then a blow to my head. And then a second. And then darkness.
 Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

"Well, that was dramatic," I say, helpfully, when the broadcast fades away.

"Nothing?" asks Delly.

I watch Molina scratch something on his clipboard. "No. Sorry."

"Peeta," says Prim thoughtfully, "it looks like we didn't have to do an additional morphling
dose, there. Do you think he might be ready to try looking at the arena videos again, Dr.
Molina?"

"I think we might be able to start that, yes. But we must be very careful to curate the right
videos. And each one must be preceded by a one-on-one session with me."

Yes, I think, of course - they have to make sure I am told the "real" story.

He frowns suddenly, and presses his ear, where, I know, there is an earpiece through which he
can hear voices from beyond this room.

"We'll discuss the plan later," he says, and leaves the room hastily.

His exit is followed in short order by Haymitch's entrance. Haymitch is dressed, rebelliously
enough, in an undershirt instead of the blouse of his 13 uniform. He looks considerably more
comfortable and, in fact, a little less yellow.

"How's the head-scraping coming along?" he asks.

I frown. He's almost in a good mood. Almost, I think, because there's something forced about
it.

Prim is sincere and serious, so she's never bantered with Haymitch the way Katniss and I
were always able to. She meets his smiling face with an earnest expression. "So well, in fact,
after the initial calming dose, Peeta was able to watch that last interview without any extra
morphling."

"I bet you never thought your life would be measured by your drug use," he tells me.

"I bet you never thought yours would be measured by how many days you've been without
booze," I retort.

He laughs. "So - did you remember anything? Like - how'd you know about the attack on
13?"

"No, nothing. Maybe it's the fact that they clearly beat me senseless right after all of that."
He cocks his head to one side and stares at me with a bemused expression.

"I don't seem to be the gifted orator everyone keeps talking about," I continue, as if
challenging him.

"I never thought that was your strongest suit, anyway," Haymitch replies.

This takes me by surprise. Wasn't I always the mouthpiece of the group? When I look at
Haymitch - when I try to remember the details of our alliance - that is the word that always
pops into my head. But now - another word does. "Yeah, I think we've all figured out what
my greatest strength is. I seem to have a special gift for self-destruction."

"Oh, boo hoo," says Haymitch, with a scowl. "And none of the rest of us has sacrificed a
damn single thing."

I hold out my wrecked arms. "I win that argument, every time. Sorry."

"I'll compare 24 years of notes with you that would make your head spin, boy, the things I've
seen."

"Fuck off," I tell him.

"Peeta!" says Delly.

But Haymitch grins. "I think I like this version better than the old one."

"Well - you're the only one," I answer.

"You're no different, not really," he says. "This was always you, just buried under that
chivalrous romantic crap."

Delly and Prim both protest, but I pause. Could this be true? Was that love-sick stuff just a
mask I put on because I thought it looked good on me? I honestly don't remember feeling any
of it. Not for real. But I squint at Haymitch. "Why don't you tell Prim the truth, Haymitch?
What's going on?"

He starts, the amusement draining from his face. "What the -?" He swallows. "That's what I
came in here to do," he insists, turning to Prim. "A contingent of special forces has gone to 2
- that includes Gale and Beetee. They made some sort of decision about the military base and
it's going to be carried out tonight. I have to sit in on special forces, tonight - I have to feed a
speech - to the Mockingjay."

Prim jumps. "Oh, no. A speech? Is there going to be a fight or something?"

"We're hoping she can inspire a surrender."

"Yeah, because she's done such a good job of that, so far."

"Peeta," says Prim, reprovingly.

"Yeah - it's a brilliant idea," frowns Haymitch. "Particularly since she takes cues about as
well as I take to tea. But - whatever - you'll be able to watch it on TV, as usual."

Prim has duties in the hospital and Delly some sort of schedule to maintain, as well, so they
leave me until lunch. I spend the time alternating between folding the corners of my hospital
sheets into origami-like figures, and stretching my legs by walking around and around the
little room. After lunch, I'm surprised to see the TV back, along with Haymitch and Prim.

"I kinda thought we were done for the day," I say. "Don't you have something to be doing?" I
ask Haymitch.

"Not until later."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to see any arena stuff until after - counseling," I add, eyeing the
TV.

"This isn't," said Prim. "Just some footage of Katniss that never aired."

I don't know what I'm expecting; when they start the tape, it's a sunny day; there's a lake in
the woods. It's an unfamiliar place and time. Katniss is standing under a tree, and she
suddenly opens her mouth to sing.

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where they strung up a man, they say who murdered three.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

I sit upright in bed and stare at the screen, intensely. In the pause between each line, I'm not
looking at her face, I'm not waiting for her next words. I'm listening for the silence. The
perfect stillness as the air, the ground, the birds fall to listening.

And it's there, just as it was before.

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where the dead man called out for his love to flee…

I'm in the backyard of the bakery, standing on the bottom slat of the pigpen, amusing myself
by letting go and seeing how long it takes for me to fall. Above me, the apple tree is in full
spring bloom, the delicately-curled petals just starting to fall here and there. A brown thrasher
has made a nest in the tree this year and is calling out to her friends in her language which,
like her cousin the mockingbird, is diverse and prone to mimicry.

From the alleyway, I hear a voice, which is as rich and tuneful as I've heard described.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

I listen for it - the bird call. But she has fallen silent, as I was always told she would.

I gasp out loud, making both Prim and Haymitch jump. "I know this - I know this! I
remember…."

"You've heard Katniss sing this before?" asks Prim, dubiously.

"No - no."

Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

I'm confused by a flood of memories, and I'm stunned into silence for a moment. I'll see you
at midnight.

The lightning tree.

Green. Green. Green. Orange.

Finally, I pull myself up for air, and I notice that I'm leaning forward, rubbing my temple
almost maniacally. I abruptly stop, because I know it must make me look crazy. "Your
father," I tell Prim. "I heard him sing it once."

Prim's mouth opens in a surprised 'oh.' "Really? When?"

"I - I - think I was small, six or maybe seven. He came to the bakery to trade. I listened - for
the birds to stop singing."

She glances at Haymitch, and he gives me a smile of enormous relief. They both seem to
think it some kind of breakthrough. I just look curiously back at the screen where the mutt -
no, Everdeen's daughter - just a girl from the Seam … has fallen silent and waits, leaning
against a tree. And as the echo of her voice dies away, the mockingjays take up her song, and
it tumbles in the air.

"I've got to go," says Haymitch abruptly.

I am utterly lost in song for the moment. "The Hanging Tree," yes. And a lullaby sung in the
arena. And a song she sang in front of an open window. The first day of school. Not a mutt, at
all - in fact, in all ways the opposite. Pure.

(What is the mutt, then? If it was never her? What is it?)

After a while, I turn to Prim. "Don't you - want to go watch - the … thing?" I ask her.

She shrugs. "I don't want to watch it in the common rooms - I don't want to deal with
anybody if something should happen. Usually, I'd watch this sort of thing with mom, but she's
on shift tonight."

Oh. The resigned words of a girl who has been forced to watch her sister struggle against
death – live on camera – for years now. I squirm uncomfortably, but I feel I owe Prim
somehow for bringing me the tape of the song. "Do you want to watch it in here?"

She turns to me, thoughtfully. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

I shrug. "How would I know? Anyway - I've seen worse things, I'm pretty sure. Besides - I
don't even know what's going on out there. Like - are we really winning?"

Prim tells me that we actually are. All of the districts, except for 2 - and 12 of course - are in
rebel hands. District 2, it turns out, has a hidden industry - in much the way that District 13
did. Back before the Dark Days, 13 was supposedly built on graphite mines, but its true
industry (I've since learned) was the storage and maintenance of nuclear technology from
pre-Panem times. The Capitol had another, smaller arsenal in the mountains. That is now
housed in District 2, which, while still nominally built around stone mines and quarries, is
actually the base for almost all of the Capitol's weapons and warcraft; it's also the primary
source of its Peacekeepers.

This puts a whole new spin on the Dark Days, I think to myself. Apparently, at the end of the
war, after the districts had been decimated and the rebels mostly killed, it came down to the
Capitol and 13 pointing their nuclear weapons at each other. Thirteen was allowed to leave
the jurisdiction of the Capitol, playing dead while the rest of Panem surrendered and the
current tyranny began. It turns out my distaste for this place, which started with their leaving
me behind to the Capitol and has ended with my drugged-out captivity - might have a basis in
facts that have nothing to do with me.

I resist the urge to grip Prim's arm. I'm very careful to make no sudden and aggressive moves
around her. So, instead I grip my bedsheets and stare down at my knuckles. "Why are we
supposed to trust these people, Prim?"

She looks at me, startled; I may have interrupted her description of what is planned to happen
in 2 tonight. "Because they want to get rid of Snow."

I have no answer to that.

Prim goes away briefly to change into some civvies and brings some knitting back with her.
She turns on the TV and adjusts its knobs and antenna until she's got the District 13 feed of
District 2, which at the moment is just a shot of the Justice Building there. I remember that
place - I remember that miserable day. I lie down and curl myself up on my side, back to the
TV, and anxiously clench and unclench my hands. I hear screaming. The mutt's scream. I
mean - Katniss' screams. And it has something to do with District 2.

Without warning, I'm in a dream, running along wood-panelled corridors. This time, I reach a
door, and I pound on it, and then finally enter.

She's sitting up in bed, tears streaking her face. She holds out her arms to me and I climb into
them without hesitation.

"We have to get out of it," she whispers into the dark.

I put my thumb on her cheeks and wipe away the tears. I am mute, voiceless. Then, all of a
sudden, her eyes start shining.

I start, and try to back away, but her arms are strong and they pin mine back against the bed.
A lithe creature, she mounts me with one quick motion, her groin on mine. Before I can
protest or agree or make any kind of sound, her face - her whole body - starts to shimmer, and
quiver, and the whole dream collapses into shiny, exploding sparks.

I wake, sitting up abruptly and with a gasp, making Prim jump. "What is it?"

I tremble as the room shimmers around me. No … no … no, I don't want to go back there.
Very soon, I will have to warn Prim - to leave the room. They've been reckless today. I'm not
hooked up to the drugs; I'm only very loosely restrained at the waist, and my hands could pull
that off, if I really wanted it gone. I grip the bed railing with both hands and hold on - tighter,
tighter. I'll break my own fingers if I have to - I won't go back.

And then, slowly, but surely, it recedes, leaving me exhausted but whole. "Nothing - a bad
dream," I say hoarsely. Then I look at her. "Prim - I don't want you to go. But, I do want you
to hook me up to the morphling. Please."

She does as I ask without comment. I stare down at the lumps my feet make under the sheets
for a long time; I can feel her glance at me a couple of times, but I don't want to have to
answer any questions or make any apologies. Once, I look straight up into the one-way glass
to my reflection, daring any of my secret observers to come in and put me in full restraints.
But I seem to have got away with it.

After dinner is cleared away, that's when things finally start happening on the screen. The
camera angle abruptly changes, and suddenly we're seeing a group of people clustered on a
rooftop in the low light of a setting sun. Among some gray-uniformed soldiers, and some
ragged-looking civilians, I see her. There's no mistaking Cinna's armor design as her
silhouette darkens to black against the sky. This is a raw feed - there are no announcements
being made over this; no explanations for what we're seeing. What we do see are several
hovercraft flying around the top of a mountain, firing into it. Prim explains to me - again, I
guess - that the mountain houses most of the Capitol's war resources. Eventually, the earth
gives way and a spectacular avalanche flows just like lava down the sides of the mountain.
Many of the people watching the destruction jump up and down and cheer, their guns in the
air.

The camera zooms in on Katniss' stony face just when she puts her hands on her mouth. Her
eyes widen in alarm.

After a few moments she drops her arms and seems to say something out loud. Then she and
the rest of the people move hastily from their position on the roof, the camera video jolting
up and down as the camera operator runs with the rest of them.

When the group reconvenes, we can see they are in the entrance to District 2's Justice Hall,
just outside the doors. Katniss is sitting against a pillar, in conversation with one of the 13
soldiers, who is leaning over her.

I grow frustrated by whatever camera person is filming this event, because whoever it is
seems to be wandering around the verandah, getting blurry shots of the waiting crowd. I'm
eager to continue to see Katniss - who seems alone in her distress. When we see her, she
seems to be talking to herself; then I realize, she has an earpiece in her ear - for the speech
that Haymitch will feed to her. Perhaps he's talking to her now.

Shortly after that, the camera starts jerking around again, following the action of a group of
soldiers - I think I catch a glimpse of Gale among them - running down the stairs and to the
square. It's too dark to see much except for the flash of gunfire. Thankfully.

Then it's quiet again. Hours pass. Mrs. Everdeen joins us; she gives me a smile and starts
knitting as well. With nothing to occupy my mind except for my thoughts - I try to recreate
the truth about the night I shared a bed with Katniss Everdeen. The more I think about it, the
more there seem to be. I can piece together three nights, at least. I can remember waking up
with my mouth full of her hair. I can remember, now - being hard for her. How far did it go?
Did she actually - do the things my mind remembers? Even the shiny parts? The Capitol
could have no tapes of these nights (or could they?), so there was nothing to alter.

Was there actually a baby? Mine? I shake my head. Of all the things to forget….

Finally, well after midnight, there is a sudden burst of light on the screen and we see Katniss
step out into a spotlight on the steps. She clears her throat and looks slightly up. "People of
District 2, this is Katniss Everdeen, speaking to you from the steps of your Justice Building,
where -."

Katniss cuts off her speech and looks up in alarm. The camera cuts away to show the nearby
train station, where two trains are pulling in, braking hard - their wheels sparking and
blowing up smoke. As soon as they stop, a mess of the passengers - dust colored and
indistinguishable - jump off the train and dive immediately to the ground. They are met with
gunfire, and the spray of bullets takes out the train station lights, enveloping the District 2
loyalists in an eerie half-darkness. Then there's a flash of sparks, and a fire breaks out in one
of the trains.

Against the backdrop of the glow, we can see shadowy figures emerge from the train, holding
their own guns in the air. Close to the camera, one young man stumbles forward, seemingly
unaware of where he is going, holding his hand to his face. He trips and falls steps away from
the camera.

"Stop!" shouts Katniss. She sprints into the camera sights, and Prim and her mother gasp.
"Hold your fire! Stop!"

She is actually bending down to the young man, holding her hands out to him, when he
pushes himself up and points a gun at her head.

I'm almost more interested in the reactions of my companions. They are now clutching each
other, Prim having risen to her feet to stand next to her mother. On screen, everyone has gone
so still, the feed might have frozen, but eventually, the young man stirs and speaks. "Give me
one reason I shouldn't shoot you."

After a long pause, Katniss says, "I can't." Startled, the young man eases back on his heels a
little, though he does not lower his gun. "I can't," she says, in a louder voice. "That's the
problem, isn't it?" She lowers her bow. "We blew up your mine. You burned my district to the
ground. We've got every reason to kill each other. So do it. Make the Capitol happy. I'm done
killing their slaves for them." She drops her bow, and nudges it away from her with her toe.
Despite myself, I tense and I will not be surprised if a dose of morphling is in my immediate
future.

"I'm not their slave."

"I am," she says, and I'm surprised at a quality in her voice - a darkness - that doesn't sound
like the voice I've heard on tape. "That's why I killed Cato … and he killed Thresh … and he
killed Clove … and she tried to kill me. It just goes around and around, and who wins? Not
us. Not the districts. Always the Capitol. But I'm tired of being a piece in their Games."

I find myself mouthing the words myself … a piece in their Games. It has a familiar ring. But
I can't quite place it.

After a pause, she swallows and continues. "When I saw that mountain fall tonight, I thought
… they've done it again. Got me to kill you - the people in the districts. But why did I do it?
District 12 and District 2 have no fight except the one the Capitol gave us." She sinks to the
ground, and her voice lowers - but her microphone picks up every word. "And why are you
fighting with the rebels on the rooftops? With Lyme, who was your victor? With people who
were your neighbors, maybe even your family?"

"I don't know," he croaks, with a shake of his head. His look at her is not so much awestruck
as it is stunned into submission. Or maybe I'm projecting, but I have to say - I'm
flabbergasted by this. That's what it felt like, to be in the arena, I think. I had no fight with the
Careers, with Pax, the girl from District 8, with Brutus, the man I killed with my own hands.
No reason to want them dead except that the Capitol told me that was what I was supposed to
want.

She stands up, turns around and takes a deep breath. I can see her exhausted face. "And you
up there? I come from a mining town. Since when do miners condemn other miners to that
kind of death, and then stand by to kill whoever manages to crawl from the rubble?" As she
speaks, her eyes dart around as if looking for someone in particular; then, she finally looks
straight at the camera. "These people," she says, pointing behind her at the trains, "are not
your enemy!" She turns back around. "The rebels are not your enemy! We all have one
enemy, and it's the Capitol! This is our chance to put an end to their power, but we need every
district person to do it!" She reaches down again, to the man with the gun. "Please join us!"

From somewhere in the back of the crowd, there is a flash of a muzzle and the sound of a
shot, and Katniss falls to the ground.
 Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

"I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense? I don't want them to change me in there.
Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not."

The clang of the bars echoes in the room, and boot steps fade away.

"Peeta?"

It's Annie's voice, quavering and tentative. A voice I had never thought to hear again.
"What?" I answer, my mouth dry. Every muscle in my body, every tendon, seems stretched
tight. I scratch at my prosthetic leg, where my skin is sore. I claw at my face. I scratch the
brick wall next to my bed until the crumbles accumulate in my fingernails. None of this
satisfies my hungry need to claw, to bite, to destroy something.

"You've been gone for three days," says Johanna wearily.

I grunt.

"Annie and I had a little bet running. I said they took you to the mansion, showed you off to
the sponsors, then shot you in the city circle. Annie's bet was - well - not that."

"Looks like you lost."

"Where have you been, then?"

I blink. "I don't remember."

"Shit, dude - what do you remember?"

I don't answer.

"What's the last thing you remember?" she asks, harshly.

Remember? I search my mind and memories shuffle like cards, then scatter like cards when
the house falls down. "District 12 is gone," I say.

Johanna's breath catches. "What do you mean?"

"She burned it down. It's gone - there's nothing left of it. And no one. She burned it down."

"Peeta," she says. And then she sighs. "Try and remember."

"What's the point of remembering?" I ask. "We're never going to leave here. This is all there
is."
I feel a sudden rising desire to claw at her mouth until she shuts up. And Annie, too,
whimpering again in the cell at the end of the row. I think they must be keeping them alive
just to grate on my last nerves. But I keep my anger to myself. There is only one real enemy,
and that is Katniss - the mutt who looks like a girl, the creature so bent on destruction, she is
not content to kill and destroy, but also must break hearts and minds. She persuaded me to
save her, over and over again. She persuaded me to love her, and then feasted on my heart. I
let her in to 12. I was a party to its destruction. And she can never be forgiven for that.

"Only, I keep wishing I could think of a way to show the Capitol - they don't own me. That
I'm more than just a piece in their Games."

"But you're not."

And that should have been my warning.

I jerk awake into darkness, and I can hear my heart monitors start fluttering. I sigh to myself.
It feels like I only just got to sleep. There was a lot of chaos at the end of the broadcast,
which was cut off right after Katniss was shot. After a while, Haymitch came running in, out
of breath and sallow, to let Prim and her mother know that Katniss is still alive, that her
armor protected her; she was just knocked out. She had some sort of emergency field surgery
and was being returned to District 13.

I didn't expect anyone to pay attention to me, although, once they were reassured about her
condition, I thought I detected some side glances my way, as if they were subtly watching for
my reaction. My reactions had been muted by the morphling that shot through my system
about a fraction of a second before she was shot. Whether my body was starting to tense, or
the drug was induced courtesy of the medical team behind the glass, I really don't know. I
was calm enough and I said good-night to them as they left.

I really didn't even spend much time thinking it all over, just listened to my breathing in the
darkness, until slipping away into the dream - or, memory, maybe? It feels real; or, at least,
close enough to the me who woke up in 13, confused, angry and terrified. Not that all that is
quite gone, of course. With morphling replacing venom, it's in the background now - an
aftertaste, rather than a mouthful, of bile.

Something is bothering me, now, though. "I'm tired of being a piece in their games." Was that
originally my line, or was it hers …?

"Why did you do it, anyway?"

"I don't know. To show them that I'm more than just a piece in their Games?"

Some of my memories - all of my memories of her - are fragmented like this. As if someone
had ripped up our conversations and tossed the scraps into the air. Even if I did manage to
find all the scraps, how on earth would I be able to piece them together? Impossible. I still
don't know why they are trying so hard. Why they don't just let me go - find me some room
here and let me start over again from scratch, to make new memories, free of this particular
kind of pain? What they are trying to do is hopeless.

Since she doesn't love me, what is the point in making me remember why I loved her? It's
cruel, really. I already put myself through that enough. I don't need to do it again.

I can't sleep. The lights are turned down for a change, but still I can't sleep. My eyes stare
fixedly up at the camera that is above my head. I am always performing for their cameras.
But tonight I have no script, so I just start to whistle instead.

It's dry and tuneless at first. I'm not sure what the song is that is stuck in my head. It seems
very simple - a folk song from home, maybe. Something I learned as a child.

"What the fuck?" says Johanna. "Shut up, I'm sleeping."

I stop for a minute. But then, almost without meaning to, I start again.

"Are you kidding me, Mellark? I will literally kill you the next time I have the chance."

I don't answer her, just start rhythmically tapping against the wall in time with the song.

"Shut up! What is that?"

"Leave me alone -." But then I do shut up, because I hear something, too. Some tip-tapping -
not in the room with us, but not far away either. We rarely hear anything at night, let alone
anything so distinct and rhythmic.

I sit up in my bed, and I can hear the bars rattle slightly in the cell next to me as Johanna
grips them. We both fear the same thing, I guess. The late night visit. Dragging one or all of
us out of the cells, where it would be messy - maybe out to an alley behind the Training
Center, or outside the city lights, to whatever scrubland surrounds the Capitol…

"Shit!" says Johanna, suddenly. "Cover your nose and mouth, Annie! You, too, asshole."

"Wha-?"

"Gas, idiot," she says, starting to choke already. Then I see what she sees, a dense mist
crawling into the cell room. The odor is semi-sweet.

I pull off my shirt and bunch it up over my face. But the smell persists, and with it, some
strange sounds in the background - shouts, a burst of gun shots. This makes - no - sense. But
to panic is to breathe too quickly, and I have to hold my breath. So I push down my alarm and
keep my head buried. I don't know why - what is the point of it anymore? - but I try to resist
the lure of the gas, the sandy, silky, sleepy feeling that comes over my eyes. But, eventually, I
give in.

- And when I wake up again, it is to find the mutt waiting for me. I have been brought
directly to her.
And I leap reflexively for her throat.

Haymitch is my only visitor the next morning. I expected the others to be preoccupied, so I
don't ask where anyone is or what we're doing today. He says, "Just came by to see how you
are."

"Bored. Look - Haymitch. Isn't there anything I can do?"

"About what?" he asks in surprise.

"Like - do. Around here. It's not helping me to sit here, day after day. I might as well be back
in the Capitol. I want to - draw - or bake. They never have any good bread here, or at least,
they don't give any of it to me. I can - at least I think I can - do something about that."

Haymitch gives me a weird smile. "They won't give you free rein around knives and fire, you
know."

"Can't anyone - supervise me? Seriously, Haymitch." I push my hands up over my face and
through my hair. I'm surprised by its length. "I don't think I can do this anymore."

"I'll see what I can do," he says, dubiously.

And I have little hope for it myself, so I'm surprised to find myself being escorted, a couple
of days later, out of the medical ward, for the first time, and taken to the kitchens. These are
large, industrial - green-painted chrome and steel surfaces. It's a bit depressing, but there's a
whiff of my family's home to it, and I try to hold on to that.

The many cooks - prepping the District's lunch in giant bowls and vats - stare at me when I
enter, but a place has been set aside for me in one unoccupied end of the kitchen, complete
with bowls, spoons and ingredients. I'm vaguely aware that one of the cooks working here is
someone familiar from District 12 - someone I associate with Katniss. This throws me off for
a moment and - as I am without my semi-permanent morphling feed - I can feel my anxiety
shoot up in a disheartening way.

I stare down at the ingredients - some coarse flour, some butter, eggs, baking soda and
powder, sugar, salt. No yeast. Anyway, I think I should keep it simple and make the drop
biscuits of District 12, so plain and comfortable and easy to make. I close my eyes and try to
remember, but it doesn't come immediately to me - the steps and measurements. So, with my
hands already starting to shake, I try to let them remember on their own, and I pick up the
flour and a measuring cup...

... And I am on two knees, head ringing - from the blow, yes, but also the surprise. There is
pain - and then there is pain, some things hurting far worse in the depths than they do on the
surface. My brain has to quickly detach from my mother and concentrate on the urgent task -
getting the bread out … to … the … out to the - mutt … to the girl, the girl, the girl. I don't
have time for the feeling - and so it gets buried, deep, deep down - of betrayal, and a certain
kind of loss. A profound sense of loss.
But she's dead now. So it is never to be recovered - the thing that I lost. I'm not sure what
chance there was in the first place, but it is gone now. And loss piles on loss...

...I have a vague memory of mounting frustration and a sense of the room closing in on me
when I abruptly wake up in my hospital bed, hooked up to machines.

Haymitch is snoozing near me in a chair. As the machine starts gently beating in time to my
elevated heart rate, he sighs and stretches awake.

"I blew it, didn't I?" I ask.

He throws me a wry smile. "What do you remember?"

I shake my head.

"So you don't remember painting dough on the wall and throwing the bowl across the room?"

I slump down. "No. What do you mean 'paint?'"

"Well, smeared may be a better word."

"What?"

"Some - words, maybe. Dough's kind of hard to read against the wall."

In what he's not telling me, I know I must have written something he's too kind to repeat. I
rub my eyes. "So, I guess that's that," I say with a sigh.

"Maybe not." At my expression, he smiles a little. "Molina thinks it would help you to have
less of an audience."

I ponder this. "Yeah - yeah, I think that did make me feel anxious."

"We might need to hook you up to the morphling."

"Do we have to?" I object. "I want to learn to do without it before I become … addicted." I
frown to myself.

"What is it?" asks Haymitch, looking at me closely. I've learned to recognize that look, that
tone, the anticipation that I've remembered something, but I shake my head.

"Nothing, really. Finger paints. I don't know." Probably something about the second arena,
one of two periods of time my brain actively refuses to remember. "So, what's up, then?
What's the plan?"

"We need a cake frosted."

I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. "In this place?"

"Yes, wedding, District 4 style."

It takes me a moment to work this out. Then … "Finnick and Annie," I say, softly. I have to
wonder if Annie is truly in any state of mind to go willingly into marriage - especially to that
playboy, the sex symbol of Panem, who I mostly remember from TV screens and gossip
shows.

But I know not to say so out loud, as that will only invite an insistence that I try to watch the
clips from the second arena. That still hasn't been approved. I've sat in twice with Molina in
one-on-one sessions, and all his poking into my vaguest memories - either those of my
tracker jacker therapy or those of the Quarter Quell - have turned up nothing more but a
vague worry that I've given up too soon on the concept of Katniss as a mutt.

"Yes," says, Haymitch, eyeing me carefully.

"A wedding cake will take some time to frost."

"You have a few days," he says.

And I need every one of them. First, I'm refused paper and pen to draw the cake design -
District 13 doesn't waste paper for that sort of thing. So I draw it in my head, and I practice
the motions before I'm ever let into the kitchen.

This time, I'm taken to a smaller kitchen attached to the school and drive both Haymitch and
my guards crazy with the things I keep forgetting that I need. Here is where Delly is helpful,
as she's recruited to help in non-school hours, running back and forth for sugar, sifters, and
the best substitute I can come up with for a flavor extract, which is almonds. (When I asked
for white liquor to make extract, Haymitch laughed long and hard in my face. So I just finely
shave the whites of the almonds for flavor.)

When I am finally left alone with the wedding cake, I feel strangely calm and focused. I
talked Haymitch out of the portable morphling dispenser unit that he wanted me to bring with
me. I have the snow-white frosting and a utilitarian rubber spatula, and I approach the cake
like a canvas, letting the picture painted in my mind be the guide for my hands. I breathe and
breathe, willing myself to do this one thing - this one simple thing - without going insane.

By the end of the day, it's flawless - window perfect, I think to myself, with the closest thing
to pride I have felt in a very long time.

The next day, I have to work on food coloring - which 13 does not, of course, have in stock. I
return to the main kitchens for this - and this time not just a guard but Haymitch comes with
me. I've scared the other cooks off, anyway, and they stay away from me and the staring is
fairly minimal. This work takes all my concentration, anyway. I have to get as many colors as
I can out of three vegetables - carrots, beets and red cabbage, which after boiling, pulverizing,
straining and more straining become extracts of solid yellow, red and blue. From that starting
point, I carefully mix greens and purples and oranges, and then blue-green, pink and
lavender. Between all the different tints and shades, I end up with 12 vials of coloring and by
the end of that, I barely even acknowledge the open-mouthed stares of the people in the room
with me. Sae - the refugee from 12 I vaguely remember - helps make piping tips for me of
different sizes and shapes.

It takes two days - all the way up to an hour before it's needed - to complete the decorations.
It's like the entire world has collapsed into myself, my tools and this cake that is anchoring
me to reality. What do I know of District 4? Pictures in books. A conversation with a now-
dead tribute that I force myself to watch three times, listening to her describe her harbor-town
and deep-sea fishing expeditions. The tape of me and Katniss on the Victory Tour, standing
on the beach together, heads bent in low conversation. I take all of that and amp up the color.
Blue-green waves, purple fish, flowers in every color. A dull orange color - faded almost
down to beige - makes a perfect color to pipe tiny shells, a fishing net draped down from one
layer of the cake to the next, a boat.

The day of the wedding, the cake is brought into the main kitchen for me to put final touches
on before it is taken out into the big auditorium where the wedding and reception will take
place. Haymitch saunters in and eyes it - then me - thoughtfully. I can barely register him,
just stepping back and walking around the thing, erasing smudges, fixing piping, adding
something, here, there. Like all art - like life itself - there is no perfection to be had - just the
process of getting it as perfect as possible until time runs out.

"Well," he says, after a while. "That's up there with your best work."

I shake my head. Now that it's done, some anxiety is starting to return. I'm too exhausted for
a complete meltdown, though. All I want to do now is sleep. "I don't remember ever seeing
you at the bakery." He tended to order for delivery.

"Do you really not remember your cakes being in the window that faced the town square?
Hard to miss."

"Oh, yeah, I guess that's true," I shrug.

"You should try harder to remember 12," he says unhappily.

"Why?" I counter. "Why are you always insisting that I remember lost things? I know these
things are gone and what else do I actually need to know?"

He sighs. "Well, it's almost time for me to go. You - going back to your room?"

I was not invited to the festivities, for obvious reasons. "Yes."

He nods. "Any word you want to pass on to Annie?"

I shake my head. Johanna visited me once, wry and insulting and damaged as she ever was.
Her hair is growing out, but the buzz of it reminded me painfully of her torture sessions, and I
didn't have much to say. We just squeezed hands for awhile and she took a few hits off my
morphling, which she called disappointingly low-grade.

But I haven't seen Annie - and she was such a strangely removed figure in the whole thing,
anyway. And my only advice to her would be to run as far away from Finnick as possible.
"No," I say, then my mouth twists on the unexpected words that come to me. "No, but I want
to see Katniss, if I can."

"What?"

"I'll be restrained, of course, and drugged. I just - I'm at this state where right now she just
exists in my head in all these weird and different forms. If I saw her - if I talked to her -
maybe some of that would clear up."

He is silent for a long moment. Probably weighing - once again - whose side is best served by
my request, hers or mine. I wish he would hurry, because I feel so tired, so ready to let my
tight muscles relax into quivering sleep. "I'll ask her," he says, finally.

Maybe it's the smell of the kitchen still on me, or maybe it's the nature of my request, that
spins me backward in time to the very beginning of our - association. When I go back to my
hospital bed, I fall asleep right away, and in my dreams I can see it again - the bread with the
burnt end, getting soggy in the downpour. I see myself throwing it to her - not a mutt lurking
on the edge of nightmares, but a gaunt little girl, on the verge of death.

The sound of my door opening wakes me up, and I stare blurrily at Haymitch, who has
entered with a couple of the medics. Usually, they're more careful than to approach me in
groups, and for a second, I fight to sit up and fend them off, but Haymitch raises his hands
and says, "whoa, whoa."

"She's agreed to see you," he says, and my mouth dries immediately. I'm about to recant - say
that maybe this isn't a good idea. I've woken up feeling weird and Unsettled.

But if I back out now, I have a feeling my next request won't be taken seriously. So, I tamp
down my panic and hold out my arms for the numerous tubes I know will be inserted in me.
"Now? Really?"

"Yes," he replies, with the ghost of a smile. "Unless you want me to be here, I'm not going to
be in the room with you. I'll be - in the next room," he adds, pointing at the one-way glass.

I find this an irrational statement. It's like they want the trappings of a private reunion without
the danger of one. And I thought I had Haymitch pegged with his cynical dismissal of the
"chivalrous, romantic crap." Clearly, another lie. I shrug my indifference one way or the
other.

Knowing what will happen when she comes in, I take as many slow, relaxing breaths as I can
after Haymitch leaves. Sure enough, her entrance, soft and tentative, causes my muscles to
tense and my lungs to freeze as the old fear comes rushing in. The wolf, free to destroy me.
But I also refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing what a wreck she can make of me, just
by her mere presence. So I will my lungs to move, my heart to be calm, and not set off the
beeping and the drugs.
She's dressed in everyday clothes - khaki pants and a light blue t-shirt. Under her shirt, I can
see the bulky wrapped bandages over the wound she received in District 2. It all makes her
look smaller - much smaller than the Katniss who filled the screens in the Capitol, or who
lingered over me in a dark room, with her needles and clamps. She's thin - too thin - gray-
faced – nearly as small as the eleven-year-old girl in my dream. She walks into the room until
she's a few feet away from the foot of the bed, then she crosses her arms and looks at me,
palely.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey." This feels like a mistake. Shit.

"Haymitch said you wanted to talk to me," she says, forcing the words out.

"Look at you for starters," I say. I find myself staring for a long time at her gray eyes, waiting
for the shift to occur, for the shiny glow to emanate from her, from her eyes, the dangerous
shivering that precedes the attack. But they look like ordinary eyes. Somewhat more
attractive, I'll admit, than the average. But ordinary and human, really. It's … weirdly
disappointing. "You're not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?"

Anything remotely soft about her hardens in an instant. "Well, you've looked better," she
replies, stiffly.

I raise my eyebrows at her and glance down at my arms. Then I laugh. Well, it's not kind, but
at least it is not dishonest. "And not even remotely nice. To say that to me after all I've been
through."

Her lips quiver. "Yeah. We've all been through a lot. And you're the one who was known for
being nice. Not me."

Well, that certainly has the ring of truth, I think ironically. That was always my job. To make
her likeable. Until I had convinced even myself.

"Look," she says. "I don't feel so well. Maybe I'll drop by tomorrow."

When she turns around, I feel a strange rush of both disappointment and annoyance. Drop
by? We're not allowed within two floors of each other without special permission. And I'm
sure as hell not going to spend another interview strapped up to the bed. This is it – the last
and only time. "Katniss," I say, as she reaches the door. "I remember about the bread."

She stops, turns around. And that's when I realize that I lied to Haymitch - and a bit to myself
- about my motivations for this meeting. All I want right now is to confront her with the truth
the Capitol gave me. To make her understand that I see through her, even if no one else does.
For a second I see both of us together in the reflection of the dark glass. Her - small and
broken. Me - thin and weak. Shadows of our former selves. And that's her fault.

"They showed you the tape of me talking about it," she responds, dismissively.
"No. Is there a tape of you talking about it?" I call up the memory that came to me in my
dream and investigate it for shininess. "Why didn't the Capitol use it against me?"

"I made it the day you were rescued," she says in a much softer voice. "So, what do you
remember?"

"You, in the rain," I reply. "Digging in our trash bins. Burning the bread. My mother hitting
me. Taking the bread out for the pig but then giving it to you instead."

"That's it," she says, blinking. "That's what happened." A pause. "The next day, after school, I
wanted to thank you. But I didn't know how."

This prompts more memories, and I rush to get them out before they fade away. "We were
outside at the end of the day. I tried to catch your eye. You looked away. And then … for
some reason, I think you picked a dandelion."

Her mouth opens slightly and she nods, her eyes widening. I think I recognize this look - yes,
I've seen it a lot, when I remember something out of the blue and everyone around me waits
to see if that was it - the one memory that releases the dam of memories and they all come
flooding out. As if memory worked that way.

"I must have loved you a lot," I say, as coolly as I can manage.

"You did," she says, her voice breaking. She puts a fist to her mouth and coughs into it.

"And did you love me?"

The question fills the room, the medical ward, the universe. I already know the answer - she
never even said the word in pretense - but I need her to say it, at last; to finally say 'no,' and
release me. She looks down at the floor. "Everyone says I did. Everyone says that's why
Snow had you tortured. To break me."

"That's not an answer," I point out roughly. Disappointment - and anger - rises in me so
swiftly I am almost dizzy with it. Is she incapable of plain truth? I take a different path
toward my answers. "I don't know what to think when they show me some of the tapes. In
that first arena, it looked like you tried to kill me with those tracker jackers."

"I was trying to kill all of you," she retorts, with an edge back in her voice. She looks back up
at me. "You had me treed."

"Later, there's a lot of kissing. Didn't seem very genuine on your part." I'm pushing it now. I
can definitely feel my heart speed up. And her pale face is lit up by a blush. "Did you like
kissing me?"

"Sometimes," she says, surprising me immensely. She squirms. "You know people are
watching us now?"

"I know," I say shortly. I'm fucking very used to being watched. "What about Gale?"

She tenses, and glances angrily toward the glass. "He's not a bad kisser either," she says.
There we go. Again, it's not kind; but it sure as fuck feels like the truth. "And it was OK with
both of us? You kissing the other?"

"No, it wasn't OK with either of you. But I wasn't asking your permission."

I laugh at her again, bitterly pleased to have finally got the admission. And surely, at least in
some way, it must feel as good for her as it does for me: finally going off script. At last, we
can break through all that bullshit romance stuff and tell it like it was: she going along
desperately with the Games, with Snow's orders; going along with whatever boy offered her
bread, or trapping lessons, or kisses. Anything just to survive to the next day, no matter how
dirty or compromised it was. Me - always elevating her, treating my affection for her like
some sort of golden object that shone even brighter for being rejected. Trying to make it more
noble or valuable or something. Why? That I still don't know. I suppose I never will. But kids
do stupid things they can't always explain.

Did she sleep with me on the train and then run back into the woods with Gale as soon as we
were off of it? Probably. Yeah - most likely. No big deal - just disappointingly normal and
human. "Well, you're a piece of work, aren't you?"

And now I've seen her. And now I know.

Her expression collapses just before she turns on her heel and walks out. And that should do
it. Now that I've seen through her and she knows it, maybe now we can finally move on. And
it won't matter what she does or who she does it with, it will be as meaningless to me as it
always has been to her.
 Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Haymitch is pissed at me, of course - and I'm not entirely content, either, as if I could have
said so much more to her. Nevertheless, after that meeting with Katniss, there's something
lighter about me. As if I've purged a lingering poison and I'm healthier without the words and
thoughts festering inside me.

But Haymitch is pissed, and we have a rousing argument as soon as Katniss leaves the room.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What do you mean?" I ask him, in surprise. "I didn't say anything untrue or anything, did I?"

"You don't even bother trying to remember anything, so what the fuck do you think you know
about the truth? At least you used to be kinder to fragile people."

"If you think Katniss Everdeen is fragile…."

"I've got reason to know it, boy. She could shoot someone down and patch them back up the
next minute, with no hesitation. She can fly into trouble and handle pain. But you were the
only one really able to keep her mind together."

An old anger rises. It's been buried under morphling and under my enjoyment of having
regular company, his included; but this has never yet been resolved between us. I yank the
tubes out of my arms so they can't disrupt my fury. "What the fuck do you want me to do,
Haymitch? Reverse time, wipe out the torture, wipe out that time I was left behind to die?
Wipe out that I went into the arena in the first place with no knowledge of a rescue plan? Am
I supposed to pretend to think or feel things just to make things more convenient for her?
Why does it matter so goddam much?"

"Because we care about you, you little prick," he growls. "And it matters to you, even if you
don't remember right now. You …."

"It's not like she was all that nice to me, anyway!"

"And she'll be spoken to about that as well," he says, gritting his teeth. "But you need to stop
blaming her for things she didn't do. It was our idea - the romance in the arena - yours and
mine, and she joined in only to save your miserable life - and that's a fact! And I watched you
avoid her every bit as much as she avoided you after we all came home. And you begged me
to let you go back into the arena. I wish I hadn't let either of you back in - the plan was too
risky - but do you think I have any more power over this fucking rebellion than you do? You
were supposed to be rescued, too. Finnick and Beetee tried to keep you at the tree that night."

"Well, I don't -." I'm struggling now against my anger - holding onto the sides of my bed in a
manner which should send Haymitch running from the room. In fact, I'm surprised the
medics haven't rushed in already - probably enjoying the show too much.

"Watch the goddam tape," he snarls. "Maybe then you'll learn a thing or two about yourself -
and Katniss."

"What's the point?" I cry out, so frustrated at this endlessly repeated insistence.

Now, he's heading toward the door, face red. Before he goes, he turns to me and says, in
disgust: "Because the two of you are the only actual success I've ever had in my life, and I'm
not letting you fuck that up."

That's the last I see of him for several weeks.

My feud with Haymitch leaves me to Delly, primarily. Prim is busy - maybe also avoiding me
since my meeting with Katniss - and Dr. Molina seems hesitant to proceed with my therapy,
either in our meetings or through the use of arena tapes. It makes an OK break for me,
although I do wonder how much this is delaying my eventual release from this place.

It probably was a huge mistake to fight with my primary advocate.

I don't know if Delly is taking orders directly from Haymitch, or what, but almost the first
conversation we have after the big fight is about how rude it was - what I said to Katniss.

"So, someone told you?" I ask her, wriggling uncomfortably. "Or are you one of the people
who gets to watch?"

She squints at me. "Only medics observe from there," she says. "Well - and Haymitch."

"Pfffft."

"Haymitch really means the best for you, Peeta. You're lucky to have him. Someone to still -
look after you."

I glance at her, then away. I forgot. Holy shit, how could I have forgotten? "Delly - have you
seen - my cousins? Any of them? Did they - make it out?"

She looks at me. I will say this about Delly - and this is especially refreshing after all the lies
and half-truths of the last couple of years - while she does tend to view the world through
rosy lenses, she's as straight-forward as they come.

"Haymitch didn't tell you?"

I absorb the vague feeling of being punched in the gut. "That's not how my relationship with
Haymitch works, exactly," I reply. "He doesn't really tell me things."

"I'm sure he just didn't want to upset you -."

"I've got drugs for that. So - I take it - you don't have good news for me."

She licks her lips. "No - I'm sorry, Peeta."

Somewhere behind the morphling some part of me is kicking and screaming like a child
holding a tantrum. Howling like a wild animal. It was supposed to be me. I was the one in the
family to be sacrificed to the Capitol. Now I'm the only one - fuck, fuck, fuck! - I'm the only
one left. How did this happen?

But outside my head, I'm very quiet. Tamed by the drugs. I am an avatar of normalcy -
medicated into the semblance of a human being. Perhaps I will need to be medicated like this
for the rest of my life - like the Morphlings, themselves. Hollowed bodies filled with drugs.
Once I'm off them - once I'm off them - what happens to the rage and protest, the grief and
the pain - swirling around in there, like a storm waiting to happen? Who will I hurt next
time?

I look down at my arms - the scarred, thin, snow-white interior of my arms - and wonder if I
even have blood in them anymore. I must be mostly a cocktail of tracker jacker venom and
morphling.

I look back up at Delly and squint, trying not to direct my anger at her. But - I do have
questions. "How did you escape?"

She blinks at me. "Wow."

"Sorry," I say quickly. "Apparently, I've lost the ability to be diplomatic. You don't have to
answer that."

She purses her lips for a moment. "I will, but first - you have to listen to me. First of all,
Katniss isn't a … whatever you meant by 'piece of work.'" She frowns at me. "District 12 was
a small place, and you may not remember it, but when things went on, it was hard to hide
them. Maybe you don't know, since you were always oblivious to the hooking up, but Katniss
was kind of the same way. She didn't flirt with guys - she didn't talk to them. She didn't like
hearing other girls talk about them; she didn't even like taking her clothes off for gym."

"That doesn't count -."

"I'm getting to Gale, hold on a second. Look, maybe they did - maybe they didn't. Knowing
her - I really doubt it. And if it was - it could only have started a few weeks before the
Games, because I can name you three girls for sure he hung out with just that year. He was
not shy with his kisses, but no one ever - once - saw anything go on with Katniss. Why do
you think we were all so easily convinced that they were related? It kind of made sense."

"OK," I say - doubtful, and also trying to reconcile the Katniss of school with the Katniss of
the Victory Tour, who allowed so much - maybe everything.

"And if she did have something with both of you, that's her business. It doesn't make her - uh
- fast or manipulative or deceitful. You knew who she went into the woods with. He saw her
kissing you all over the TV. You accepted it with open eyes, and, anyway - I know you don't
believe anything about the second arena, but I could tell you what I saw…."

"For show."
"Maybe," she sighs. "OK, well, so - the last night of the Quarter Quell - late as it was - pretty
much everybody was up and watching, so a bunch of us did what we always used to do - we
went to Victors' Village to hang out. I guess it was stupid … we were scared of Thread, but
we had to do it - we were all so tired of the curfews and stuff. Kind of harder than usual with
Katniss' family there, but we were trying to be quiet, anyway. No bonfires, no singing. There
was moonshine, of course. But we were just trying to get some privacy. Sammy and I …" She
looks at me closely. "We snuck off on our own for a little while. Then - we could see the
lights go out, suddenly, in town, and everybody started scattering. I had to make sure Drew
was OK - he was there at the house, so I didn't run back to town right away. He was looking
for me, too, and by the time we were getting ready to leave - us and a few other people - Gale
came running up to get Katniss' mom and sister. When he saw us, he told us to come with
him - that there was trouble coming."

She stops - upset now. "Some people didn't listen to him. I'm not sure why I did. Maybe I
should have gone back and got Mom and Dad. The only thing I could think of was getting
Drew out - and we were just barely out …."

In the silence between us, I wish I could do something - comforting. Like touch her arm, give
her a hug. But I've become hesitant to touch anyone, after these weeks in 13 where I've been
made to think of myself as a defective part-human, only to be trusted if I'm restrained and
drugged. So I just frown. "I'm sorry. I mean - for everything - except that you and Drew got
out. What about -" I choke on Sammy's name. "- the other people who were there?"

"Colin and Iris and Dana, yes, they came with us. Quill ran home. Hendry wasn't even there.
Sammy," she smiles. "You remember his house was on the way out of Town, anyway. He
stopped to get his mom and brothers, and they made it, but we didn't think so at first. They
got lost in the woods that night and didn't find us until the next day. Lily went home. Aster -
yes. Aster is here. But she was badly burned. On her face. She's still in treatment. That was
rough, because we went three days before 13 came to rescue us, out in the woods, with barely
anything to eat, let alone any way to treat her burns."

This mixed news - half of my closest friends dead; half of them, miraculously enough, alive -
throws me into a dark reverie for a while. I remember them telling me - convincing me - that
first it was my fault if 12 was destroyed, and then that Katniss had done it herself. In fact, it
sounds like my home was gone before I was even marched out of the arena.

"What's Sammy doing?" I ask, suddenly wondering why he never visited. Just like after the
first Games - the girls tried to keep up their relationship with me, not that I made it easy; the
guys, whether it was my amputation or my wealth or even my romance with a girl from the
Seam, shut me out, and that was never fully repaired - despite my late efforts - when I left the
second time.

"He's training for the war. So is Drew."

"Drew? But he's -."

"Everyone here is a soldier, once you turn fourteen. Probably none of us will be sent, since
we're underage. But who knows? If it comes down to it, and they need us…."
I blink at her. Delly, of all people, go off to war? "I thought it was over, anyway, once District
2 went down. Isn't all of the Capitol's military basically gone?"

She nods. "The Capitol is still standing, though," she says. "And there are plenty of
Peacekeepers still there."

"But - but -." I rub my temple, as the clear thoughts try to push their way to the surface.
"Can't we force Snow to surrender now? If the rebels control everything - food,
transportation, all the factories … I don't think the people there will really have any loyalty to
Snow if they think they will be cut off from - stuff."

"But that could take a while."

"Sure, but - fewer people would have to die."

"But Snow -."

"Is one old, sick man."

Delly smiles at me kindly, and I give it up, suddenly wishing I could talk to Haymitch about
this or even - bizarrely - Katniss.

One day, I'm surprised by a joint visit from Prim and Dr. Molina, the latter of whom I ignore.
I actually smile at Prim, and she returns it.

"I haven't seen you in a while," I say. "I thought maybe you were mad at me about …."

She shakes her head. "Friends, remember?" she says, patting my hand. "I've been on an
emergency rotation and I had very long hours." At my puzzled expression, she explains, "I'm
in training to be a doctor."

I blink at her in surprise, unsure of what to say. My emotional state - dulled by drugs and
trauma - doesn't allow me to feel much joy or happiness, but I have a spike of something
positive when I hear this news. One good thing that would not have been possible without the
Games and the rebellion and even the destruction of District 12. Maybe - even if I die an
insane, unhappy wreck - enough good will come out of all of this to have somehow made my
part in it all worth it.

"Haven't seen you lately, either," I say to Dr. Molina. Sarcasm comes easy.

"I've been working with the new recruits. But reports from the medics, and from Miss
Cartwright, are positive. You seem to be maintaining conversations for longer periods of time
and more calmly. So …"

At this, Prim grins and I glance from one to the other, waiting on their apparently good news
with anticipation.

"We're going to start exposing you to more people," says Dr. Molina. "You'll be
accompanied," he says, as if in reassurance, when I frown at him. "And it will be a little bit of
exposure at a time. Miss Everdeen even requested that we start by letting you go outside for a
half shift, to get started.

I grip my armrests. They have no idea how much I have missed the real air. How much good
I think it will do me. How I have dreaded dying without ever seeing the sun again.

The next morning, I'm accompanied by Prim and two burly orderlies up, up, up a long
elevator - the sensation of which makes me extremely nervous, with its vague reminders of
the Training Center - until we reach the surface of District 13. We step out into the weak, thin
light of a late autumn morning. The ruins of District 13 - made famous by insincere Capitol
newscasts for years - are mellowed with the decades - vines grow over them and the stone is
beige and rounded. Half of the trees around us are conifers and tall and green, but the rest are
deciduous, some still in their bright autumn color. Their rich orange leaves quiver on the ends
of branches or are scattered like a soft carpet underfoot. Birds sing everywhere to the new
morning.

I pull in a long breath until my chest hurts and put my face up to the sky. It's cold, and the
dew was heavy so that the ground is still damp, but I have a sudden urge to strip off all my
clothes and expose my pale skin to the sun, and run and run. An impossibility, really. My
pacing around my cell has not done enough to rebuild my strength. I'm weak and winded
from the small amount of walking I've done so far. Also - I'm shackled. My arms are belted
together in front of me and a bracelet on my ankle will be remotely electrified if I try
anything - funny.

We walk a short way out into the trees, then I sit on a big, broken piece of old building, and
listen to my heavy breathing. Prim stands, not far from me, looking out through the trees
toward where we can see some stream. I pick up a large orange leaf and hold it in front of my
eyes. It feels smooth and imperfect; smells like wet dirt and mildew; it is beautiful. I put the
leaf up to my nose and feel and smell it, memorize it, before returning back inside.

It's not every day, but every few, that somebody takes me outside. After that first day, we
walk around a large fenced-in area accessible to citizens at prescribed times of the day, and
now being used, at one end, for battle-training. From a distance, I watch people jog in
formation, shoot at targets, wrestle each other. Sometimes Delly joins us - and sometimes
even her brother, Drew, taller than I remember and filling out a gray uniform. When I'm with
Delly, and not Prim, I tend to test her - or myself, I guess - by pointing out some malfeasance
of Katniss' and listening to her defend her. Since Delly has a tendency to only see people's
positive qualities, I can't quite take her seriously. Yet - I still go to her, strangely enough, to
play devil's advocate to my rants about Katniss.

The next phase is to eat lunch out of the hospital room, in the common cafeteria. This only
happens on days when Prim is available and she vets schedules and makes sure that no one
on a list of people I'm not allowed contact with is there at the same time. Except for one day,
when she's late for some reason and the two orderlies are bored - and I'm hungry, having
missed the hospital lunch. It takes very little wheedling on my part to persuade them that we
should just go. On the way up the elevator, I learn that there are beef shipments from 10 -
real, good beef, the kind that used to go right to the Capitol - and the typically bland food is
actually pretty good today.
I smell it as soon as we reach the doorway. I hesitate a little here, knowing that I'm looking
out for myself, now. The orderlies with me are just here to tackle me if I fly into an episode.
Prim comes with me to look out for me - and to keep me company. Now I have to either find
a table to myself or ask permission to join some group, and I'm sure most people think I'm
crazy.

But I'm hungry, and the food smells amazing - Capitol good. I grab a tray and the cafeteria
workers fill it with stew: since I'm thinner than I should be, the 13 system of rationing food -
at least outside the hospital - affords me generous portions. A small loaf of bread - larger than
a dinner roll, but not by much - is perched on top of the stew and I pluck it up to examine it,
wondering if this is District 13's representative bread, and if they even have one. It has a hard
crust, but a pleasant golden-brown color.

I put it back down and balance the tray on my fingertips, the only way I can really transport it
with my arm shackles on. Then I turn toward the middle of the cafeteria and have to take
several deep breaths to keep my heart from racing.

Among the group of people gathered around the table, it is her I see first. As if she is in sharp
relief to everyone else around her. As if I'm watching her on film, and the editors have faded
everyone on the screen except for her. This is strange because I felt sure that, following our
last conversation, I was convinced she had finally fallen back down to earth; an ordinary girl,
thoughtless, self-centered.

I've reached the table before I am even aware of moving toward it. Then I see the rest of her
companions - on either side of her are Gale Hawthorne and Finnick Odair - two people
definitely not on my approved list of contacts. Across from them - Delly (thank goodness),
Johanna and Annie. There's an empty seat between Delly and Johanna, and I'm standing in
the gap between them, not sure what to do.

Then Katniss glances up and sees me before anyone else does. Her eyes widen and she
coughs. Beside her, Gale visibly tenses. I find I can't look at him for long. He's unchanged -
maybe even better looking than I remember.

Delly glances back and starts - then looks behind me, as if seeking out Prim. She blinks at
me. "Peeta! It's so nice to see you out … and about."

"What's with the fancy bracelets?" asks Johanna.

"I'm not quite trustworthy, yet," I reply. "I can't even sit here without your permission."

"Sure he can sit here," says Johanna to my guards. She pats the seat next to her. "We're old
friends." I glance at the orderlies and they nod although really the most important - the most
dangerous - person has not given her assent. As I sit, Johanna bumps my arm with her elbow,
gently. "Peeta and I had adjoining cells in the Capitol. We're very familiar with each other's
screams."

I glance down at Annie, who has reacted to this by covering her ears and hunching. When I
look back, I see that Katniss is staring at me, with an unreadable expression on her face.
"What?" says Johanna, in reply to a dirty look from Finnick. "My head doctor says I'm not
supposed to censor my thoughts. It's part of my therapy."

Probably an exaggeration, because the Johanna Mason who spent six weeks with me in the
Capitol - and who only truly broke once - never did censor her thoughts, anyway, except to
keep rebel secrets as long as she could. So, Finnick can kiss her ass, as far as I'm concerned.

I look over at Johanna and I can see the emptiness in her eyes - the drugs that smother the
memories. Mine probably look much the same. But she flashes me half a defiant smile.

"Annie," Delly says suddenly. "Did you know that it was Peeta who decorated your wedding
cake? Back home, his family ran the bakery and he did all the icing."

Delly should probably train as a head doctor, I think. For some reason, her cheerful voice
rouses Annie, who looks up and over to me. I finally dare look at her face and see that
whatever happened to her mind in her arena spared her, somewhat, through the ordeal of her
imprisonment in the Capitol. Maybe, I think to myself hopefully, she wasn't as mistreated as I
feared. Maybe they just wanted to make me think she was. Her eyes shine and her smile is
very sweet as she says, "Thank you, Peeta. It was beautiful."

"My pleasure, Annie."

"If we're going to fit in that walk, we better go," Finnick says. "Good seeing you, Peeta," he
adds, picking up both his and Annie's trays.

His smooth voice reminds me how little I like him. A libertine, as I remember it - whose love
affairs were open and celebrated every summer. A rebel, who Haymitch - and Katniss, too,
probably - trusted more than me. I feel terribly sorry for Annie. "You be nice to her, Finnick.
Or I might try and take her away from you."

Next to me, Johanna gives a short laugh. Finnick replies, "Oh, Peeta - don't make me sorry I
restarted your heart." Then he glances at Katniss and walks away with Annie.

Delly - as usual - rises up to argue with me. "He did save your life, Peeta. More than once."

Yeah, so I've been told. But saved me for what? "For her." I look back up at Katniss and I see
she's staring at me. "For the rebellion. Not for me. I don't owe him anything."

Katniss stirs, swallows visibly, and speaks to me, her voice quivering. "Maybe not. But Mags
is dead and you're still here. That should count for something."

So - we're continuing with the unpleasant truths, are we? I have plenty of those on hand. I
glance over at Gale, then back at her. "Yeah, a lot of things should count for something that
don't seem to, Katniss. I've got some memories I can't make sense of, and I don't think the
Capitol touched them. A lot of nights on the train, for instance."

A blush darkens her skin. And I feel one crawling up mine. Even as I say the words, they
don't sound like me - and they don't sound like her. The images they summon in my head are
shiny, belying my own assertion. Clearly - they were tampered with, somehow.
She doesn't reply, just keeps looking at me as if I'm a trainwreck she can't keep her eyes off
of.

My brain tilts sideways. I clutch a spoon, and it helps to dim the screaming voices in my
head. I draw a line in the air between her and Gale. "So, are you two officially a couple now,
or are they still dragging out the star-crossed lover thing?" I ask, desperate to prove that I
don't care, not really, what happened between us before. But I'm not sure my jerky voice and
movements help make my case.

"Still dragging," says Johanna.

My fingers move, automatically, clenching around the spoon, searching for the armrest of my
hospital bed. Nothing makes sense. Not 13's insistence in continuing my fake romance well
past its expiration date. Not my relief that Gale still isn't her public lover.

"I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself." This is Gale, who is staring at me with
those eyes that are so exactly a copy of hers.

"What's that?"

"You," he says.

"You'll have to be a little more specific," I say, barely able to control my sarcasm. "What
about me?"

But it's Johanna who pipes up. "That they've replaced you with the evil-mutt version of
yourself," she says, with an edge to her voice that doesn't match her short laugh.

Mutt? Of all the backward, upside-down things to say. I'm not the mutt. I grasp for a
response, but end up just sucking air too quickly. Gale practically drags Katniss out of the
room and I feel strangely bereft by her absence.

"I can't believe I said that," I say to the empty space where she used to be. I feel the top of my
head start to spin, and it's like I'm on some strange drug my brain is manufacturing for itself.
"But - I needed to say it. I needed to know."

"Peeta!" Delly barks at me, and I narrow my eyes and look at her sideways, angry. Not
now…. "You have no right to say those sort of things in public. That is so humiliating for her
- for both of you!"

"I don't feel humiliated," I say, vaguely responding to her. "Or do I? I suppose…. Do I?"

"Peeta, I am going to take you to her quarters and make you apologize. I told you - she's not
that type of girl."

"Yeah, she always did seem uptight to me," says Johanna.

At that point, I just start saying stuff - words. Every third or fourth word I can catch as they
spin rapidly through my brain. Until the medics finally pull me to my feet and drag me away.
I don't know why it took so long to hit me. But today is the day it does.

I kneel to the ground and pick up the dust. They are not here. All recoverable remains were
buried in the Meadow. There are no individual markers - no place to go and know I am near
what is left of them. So, I come home. I kiss my fingers - 1, 2, 3, 4. My parents, Ryan and
Will. 1, 2, 3, 4 - Ally, Isoc, Pauly and Rush. I can hear their names in my mother's voice.

Then it swells - and breaks. At last, at long last. I haven't been able to mourn them. I haven't
been able to do it. But now it comes out - all the buried pain - like the rain will come, soon,
pouring from these swollen, gathering clouds. And I scream it out. Finally.

A hand grips me as the dirt and ashes trickle out of my fist and the large, looming, horrible
shadow darkens the sky and everything inside of me. To call it crying - to call it mourning - is
in all ways inadequate. It is a primal scream - something as full of rage as it is of sadness.
And that's just the top layer. Underneath it, I am all curses and sobs - the sobs that rip
themselves out of your body, almost taking layers of you with them. Until my gut hurts - the
diaphragm, the place inside from where song comes. My voice is weak - but I am not alone;
there is someone to take up the song for me:

Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Lay down your head and close your eyes

And when they open, the sun will rise

Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard

You from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet

And tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place

Where I love you.

 Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Now it's Prim's turn to be mad - although not at me - and I have never seen her so furious. It's
the first time I've ever seen her with an expression on her face that makes her look exactly
like her sister. But I feel strangely relaxed. I'm slightly ashamed by my outburst, yes, but I
can see it now - at something of a remove. Look at myself from a distance and critique my
behavior. Like before, it feels almost as if a poison has left my body by the expulsion of all
those venomous words, and I am somehow the better for it. I'm vaguely aware that I owe
Katniss an apology - but I'm keenly aware that my opportunities for such a thing will be even
more limited than they were before. Thank goodness.

"Oh," I say, in the unusual position of trying to calm someone else down. "It was my fault,
too. And I don't know what I was thinking, saying all that stuff. I guess I just - I wanted to -."
I shake my head. "I know what you're going to say."

"What?" Prim asks me.

"That I should try to watch the second arena - if I really want to know what happened."

"What scares you so much about it?"

"I don't know - just that last time they tried to show it to me, I couldn't handle it. I literally
had a heart attack." I shudder. "The whole thing seemed frightening - like the water would
drown me, or the moon would burn me. I'm guessing they made me watch it when they put
the venom in me, and it's all like a horrible - nightmare. Where everything wants to hurt you,
even the air, or the - the fish - or the sand."

"Why do you think that they made that arena so scary for you?"

"Hmm, good question. I guess - 'just for the hell of it' isn't a good enough answer?"

She shakes her head.

"So I wouldn't want to remember it, then. At least, not the way it really happened."

"Probably," she says.

"I would still have a hard time believing it, Prim," I tell her. "I know how those tapes can be
edited."

She purses her lips at me, but says nothing. It's like she's asking if I trust her and daring me to
deny it. She - like Delly - is better at this than Molina. The problem with Molina - besides a
fundamental lack of empathy - is that he just has no experience outside this hole. He's spent
his life treating an entire community of soldiers who have never been to battle.
I find myself desperately analyzing myself and my motivations for Prim - to justify it to her
so i can justify it to myself. "So - even if I did see things that tell me that Katniss is not my
enemy - that the rebellion didn't abandon me - how could I ever really believe it?"

"Because you are living your life based on memories that the Capitol manufactured for you.
You'll never get answers to your questions if you are basing them on these memories. You
have to get back the real ones - or at least know what they should be. It's the only thing that's
fair to yourself and the people around you."

After a long silence - during which I gradually become aware that she has reached a line with
me; that she is determined that the only way forward from here means watching that damn
tape; that she will not leave this room without my consent - I slowly nod. "OK," I say, my
mouth dry.

But it never happens.

After a couple of days, I'm visited by Plutarch Heavensbee, a man I vaguely remember
meeting once. He starts out immediately by referencing something I can't remember.

"Mr. Mellark! It's been awhile since you honored us with an original work in the tribute
center," he says with a gentle laugh.

I shrug. I don't understand him, but don't press him for more information.

"So - I'm very happy to read reports that my medical team has made such excellent progress
with you," he says next.

His words hang in the air, as if waiting to be followed by an expression of gratitude on my

part. The beauty - the silver lining - of what has happened to me is that I no longer feel the
need to spout niceties I don't believe in.

"Here's the thing," he finally continues. "We've reached a turning point in the war where
every last show of strength for our side is helpful in ending it quickly as possible. We now
have all the victors from the Quell here -."

"ALL of the victors?"

He just chuckles at the interruption. "-and all of them have been on screen, broadcast to the
districts. Except you."

"It would be hard to prep me to look acceptable for the cameras," I respond.

He looks at me for a moment. "It's very important that we show the rebels that you are
working for us now. Important for the cause. Important for you - considering the unfortunate
things the Capitol made you say."

I shrug. I look behind him at the one-way glass, willing for someone from my medical team -
Prim, Haymitch, even Molina - to come in and help me formulate reasonable objections. But
I'm on my own. I could argue that I know that Katniss bargained for my safety with her
cooperation - he might not know that I know it - but it would feel even more hypocritical on
my part to use her in my defense. "Whatever," I say, finally.

"So, this will be very simple. We're going to have you join the new recruits in basic training
for a couple of days and we'll film you looking as if you're preparing to go fight in the
Capitol."

More lies. More editing.

"Whatever," I say again.

What Prim or Delly think of this latest turn of events, no one actually says. Somewhere
behind the scenes, this has been discussed and they have fallen into agreement with it. So, I
am fitted with one of the ghastly District 13 uniforms and, more surprisingly still, sent up to
the outside workout area without either shackles or ankle monitor - though accompanied by
guards.

I'm in a group of kids - young ones like Drew, who is one of several kids from home in the
basic training group, though the rest are from the Seam and I don't know them as well. There
are, as usual, a lot of stares, but, at first, I don't talk to anyone, and they don't talk to me. I jog
around until I'm exhausted, then wander over to the fence to lean against it. Do a handful of
sit-ups, push-ups … attempt a pull-up, but my arms are still just too weak. That's day one.

The next day starts with someone putting a huge gun in my hand and me promptly handing it
back. "No."

The basic training instructor looks at me in exasperation. "Soldier Mellark, I've got a camp to
run, don't waste my time."

"I won't. I just won't take this."

He tries to stare me down, but I don't even blink when I look at him. They didn't give us these
things in the arena, and for good reason. These are for wholescale, mindless killing. For
faceless, nameless deaths. The weapon of the Peacekeepers; the instrument of oppression of
the Capitol.

I sit down on a bench and shrug at the trainer when he yells at me; but there are cameramen
here, so we all know he hasn't got any real authority over me. After a while, someone is sent
for Plutarch, and he himself shows up and - after a long discussion - he takes me for a long
walk where he says that all I have to do is learn how to load and unload it; they'll get that on
camera, and that will look good enough.

It's about this time that I suspect that something else is going on. There's no reason they can't
just show me in a uniform - even a still shot of me, or a short video of me walking around. I
can't imagine anyone would put an unstable maniac on any actual squadron. So, what's the
point of all this?
I spend the rest of the week in these types of negotiations. While the fourteen-year old boys
around me grow more responsive to commands, more confident with their shooting abilities,
knife work, grenades, etc., I resist participation until Plutarch persuades me to just thrust a
knife in a dummy here or practice ducking behind a barricade there.

The only good thing about any of this is that it accelerates my physical conditioning, and gets
me out into the sun - when there is sun - almost every day.

After a week, my time in basic is abruptly over. There's a special announcement scheduled
the evening of my last day and I'm allowed to accompany the medics and the other hospital
patients to the big auditorium, and there finally see President Coin in person, for the first
time.

As she makes her speech about the exciting new developments - that 13, finally, will be
joining with the district rebels in the final push of the war to take the Capitol, with the first
troops moving out tomorrow - I'm distracted by the sight of a thin girl in a wheelchair, her
face half covered with bandages. People murmur unhappily when I leave my place in the
middle of the speech and walk over to her.

"Aster?" I ask, touching her golden hair. I kneel down next to her chair.

She turns to me, and I can see the right half of her face, and one blue eye. "Hey, Peeta," she
says dully.

I smile at her. "You're alive."

She gives a short, mirthless laugh. "Mostly."

I pat her hand. "When this is over," I say reassuringly, "maybe you can get a Capitol
surgeon."

This brings a smile, even if it's a slight one. "Yeah … maybe," she says softly.

I've seen the way you look at her.

This memory of her voice startles me as I straighten up and realize that everyone is
applauding the end of Coin's speech. Of course, it was not a memory I had forgotten. I just
hadn't thought about it for some time.

When I go to bed that night, I actually feel oddly … good? It's a weird feeling. Being outside
without shackles has helped. Making one of the kids in basic training laugh. Reaching out to
Aster. Morphling use has been minimal. I feel like I'm finally making some strides in the
direction of being released from the hospital and maybe assigned my own room, with some
privacy, some sense of personal agency. Then, after the war is over, I'll figure something else
out.

No camera crews come to get me the next day. No one comes to walk with me outside. No
one comes to take me down to lunch. I nap off and on - try to steel myself up for the Quarter
Quell videos I'm still expecting to watch by trying to remember anything real I can from
those games. I have a vague memory of the final moments of the arena - when I ran through
the jungle from the Peacekeepers. I've watched myself describe the moments before that -
killing Brutus, watching Chaff die, running haphazardly into the jungle when the wire was
cut with time running out.

Tick, tock. This is a clock.

I'll see you at midnight.

I touch my fingertips to my lips and feel her kiss. Memory lingers there for a while, and I try
not just to feel it but to see it - her face up against mine. Her eyes are closed and the sweat
from the jungle is in beads on her dark cheeks. Her hair is damp and loose.

I'll see you at midnight.

A promise she didn't keep, but I know - I do know - that that was not her fault. It was Brutus
and Enobaria's fault - attacking us before the plan was in place. Had we been told beforehand,
perhaps things could have been different. Maybe, as Haymitch has said, there was no good
way to tell us - that covers would have been blown, that not even the main participants -
Finnick and Mags, Johanna and Blight, the Morphlings, Chaff and Seeder, Beetee and Wiress
- knew everything. Everyone knew there would be a meeting place, but only some people
were told it was a tree, only some people were told how they would know the day and time,
only some people knew the means. The most they all knew was that they all had to protect
each other - and in particular me and Katniss - for a couple of days until the arrangements
could be made. To stay alive, by keeping each other alive.

It must have seemed wildly successful to Plutarch, who usually oversees games with just one
winner - when a full quarter of this year's participants are still alive.

I shake my head on these thoughts. I'm trying to concentrate on one thing - on one person.
The person everyone insists that I love - and that if I only just remember that….

I'll see you at midnight.

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Wear a necklace of rope

Side by side with me.

I can't go back past this, yet. The salty taste of her lips on mine and the promise whispered in
the dark. There's nothing beyond that.

"Peeta."

I jerk out of a half-sleep and am startled to see him there: Haymitch, looking tired and pale in
his 13 uniform that fits him about as easily as one of Effie's wigs would. "Hey," I say.
A few weeks ago, there would have been ugly words and the strain against my restraints and
the rush of drugs. But I find I have forgiven him even for not telling me about my cousins.
He, too, is damaged, and that is not his fault.

"They tell me you're doing a lot better."

"I'm doing a little better," I agree cautiously. I wish I could express to him how actually
happy I am to see him again. But it is not in me - and he'd hate to hear it, anyway.

He takes his old seat next to the wall and gives a long sigh.

"What have you been up to?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "The usual. Meetings, meetings, meetings. Plutarch, Beetee, Coin. What do we do
with the Mockingjay now? Who will we invite to the party celebrating Snow's defeat?
Important stuff."

"What's going on? Why are you here?" I ask sharply. Something's obviously wrong.

"War's started."

"I know - I was at the big speech yesterday."

"Katniss shipped out today."

I blink. I realize that I don't know how I feel about this, but I know it is not indifferent. I see
Haymitch looks worried, that he is in need of comfort. I think also of Prim - how worried she
will be.

"Did she - choose to go? Or -?" I'm not sure what I'm asking. Was she forced - again - to go
to the Capitol?

He nods and looks at me with his penetrating gray eyes. "Oh, it was her decision. She could
not be talked out of it. She wants to be involved - when Snow is defeated."

"I guess I would want that, too, if I was in any shape for it," I say slowly.

"She doesn't expect to come back. I don't think she intends to come back."

"What do you mean?" I'm getting frustrated by Haymitch's terse little phrases. "Back to 13?
Or - back at all? Did she tell you that?"

"Not in so many words - it's a hint here and there."

I look away from him. "Don't try to tell me it's because of me. I may have my problems
understanding Katniss, but I'm fairly sure that she wouldn't throw her life away because some
half-deranged boy was - rude to her."

"How things work between you two I can't explain, but you've felt responsible for each other
for years. She didn't protect you in the Quell - and the only hope she had that she could be
forgiven for it was for you to be brought back safely. Ever since you came back - changed -
she has been running away from here, running into danger. I asked her if she was going to say
goodbye to you."

"She didn't," I say with a frown. "Why would she? Last she saw me, I was accusing her of
two-timing me - or Gale. Or both of us, I guess."

"Yeah, I know. But she thought about it anyway. Look, she may have a hard time handling
whatever is going on with you, but she does know it's not entirely your fault. Anyway - I
thought you should know. That she's gone. She's in a low-risk squad; once she decided she
was going to the Capitol, Plutarch put together a 'propo unit,' for lack of a better term. The
rebellion is going to be taking the Capitol streets on two fronts, and she's part of a squad
filming footage of the rear guard to encourage the Capitol citizens to surrender."

"Thanks for telling me," I say, after waiting a moment for more information.

He shrugs. "Also, if you're up for it some time, you should visit Johanna. She was in training
for the war and suffered another set-back. She's back in the hospital."

"They were going to send her to the Capitol?" I ask in amazement. "She has no business
going back there. You have no idea what they put her through."

"Her idea - but yeah. It didn't go well. You might want to make arrangements to visit Annie
some time, too - Finnick shipped out, as well."

"Haymitch," I say, again finding myself in the unusual position of offering comfort I am in no
real position to give. "She'll be OK. She's a survivor. Anyway, from what I remember about
going into the arena with the intent of dying on purpose … it's actually a bit harder than you
think it's going to be."
 Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

"I do. I need you."

The voice, low and urgent, is in my ears when I wake up the next morning. Insistent and
accusatory. Confusing. False and true at the same time. I mean, the tone seems sincere, but
the words don't sound right. They don't fit the narrative - at all.

When I sit up, I feel that I have tears just inside the rims of my eyes, which is strange. My
conscious mind immediately tries to twist the meaning of the words. Of course she always
needed me - I was both her faithful servant and her most willing prey. But no - those are
notions filled with the rage and pain of the hijacked boy who woke up in 13 to see her
hovering over him, and could only think about removing her from this fucked-up world she
had created. Those are the words I used to feed my rage and to also - if I'm perfectly honest
about it - feed my own ego, in a weird and twisted way. Because - whether she is the
Mockingjay or a mutt, Katniss has always been just a little more elevated, a little more
important, than I am - and my only claim to fame has been in her shadow, her helper or her
target.

Those are the words that are false. I'm neither her servant nor her prey. She's just a girl who
fell into these crazy circumstances, and I'm just the boy who tumbled down with her. How I
feel about her - how I ever felt about her - is really unimportant now, in this moment, with her
marching grimly toward her death and me clawing desperately out of my madness. The fact
is that we saved each other, in whatever capacity we could manage, whenever the
circumstances arose - and I know this, even if I don't feel it anymore, or even understand it.
The Game twisted us together, a strange, warped single creature made out of two very
different people, who somehow needed each other to live, even though at least one of them
was meant to die. And the Game is still on.

I need you.

So, what do the words mean, if they don't mean servant or prey? But you were the only one
really able to keep her mind together. That's what Haymitch says, and I have to face the fact
that he might be in a position to know better than I am. It's a delightful irony, of course; but
the Capitol knew what it was doing, when it recalibrated me against Katniss. Because I need
myself back in order to help her, and I need her to help me get myself back. And I've been
pushing her away - almost literally - ever since I got here. And now she's gone.

When Delly comes by in the afternoon, she goes through the hoops of getting permission for
me to visit Johanna, who is just a couple of rooms down from me.

She's sitting up in bed, twisting a thread around her fingers, and rolls her eyes when I enter.
It's strange - the six weeks we were in the Capitol together, we didn't actually see each other
that much, and mostly it was when she was being tortured in front of me. We heard each
other a lot … I know there were a lot of broken conversations; but that last bit of torture they
did on me wiped most of those out, at least the details.

"Hey - it's Loverboy," she says, raising her eyebrows when she sees me. It's my nickname
from the first games - the one the Careers gave me - and she's always used it. I've tolerated it
- for one thing, you don't really argue Johanna out of doing anything - even though it's kind
of annoying, distilling me down to the one identity, and in a derogatory way, at that. But now
I address it.

"Not much of one, I guess, in my last couple of meetings with Katniss."

She grins at me. "You wish, sweetheart. You think we can't tell when you are writhing in
jealousy?"

I huff out a breath in protest. "Katniss -."

"Is every bit as clueless as you are. Delly, is everyone in District 12 as naive as your star-
crossed lovers, or are they - special cases?"

I blush as Delly laughs. When I shoot her a look, she says, "Peeta, you can't really deny that
-."

"OK, OK. Because that's what I came here to talk about. … Johanna, Haymitch told me that
you were in training to go fight in the Capitol."

She gets a ferocious look on her face. "Yeah, so?"

"Why would you go back there?"

"To kill Snow," she says, bluntly.

I nod and look down at my hands. "Yeah, I get that. But you have to accept that you fought
your battles, and it's time to recover. What happened to us … it's like the war was being
fought on our bodies. Those scars will be a long time in mending."

I venture a look at her and she looks back, angry, but speechless. "Nice bedside manner," she
says, finally.

I smile. "I'm not supposed to censor my thoughts," I tell her.

Her mouth twists. "She's going to do it," she says suddenly.

"Do what?"

"Kill Snow."

I give my head a slight shake. "Katniss? She's on a low-risk mission to film battle propaganda
- that's what Haymitch says."

Johanna snorts. "She promised me herself. She's going to kill Snow with her own hands."
I look around for any medics. But they probably don't pay much attention to Johanna's
ramblings, anyway. Whereas everything I say about Katniss is parsed out for close
inspection. "Well, I want you here," I say firmly. "I worried about you enough - you are going
to have to stay free and safe for the rest of your life. My mental state depends on it."

She snorts, but when she looks away from me, she's crying a little bit. "All I want to do is
forget. If I have to be dead to do it - then, that's the way that it is."

"Hey," I say gently. "If I can get sane enough again to sit here and have this conversation with
you, you can learn to live with it, Johanna. You can."

"Get out of here," she says, with a smile under her tears. "Dammit, I don't like nice people.
You had a real great cynical streak going on with you for a while there, Mellark."

As Delly and I walk back to my room, I think how similar Johanna is to Haymitch. I wonder
if it would be good for them to just hang out together in a room and air out all their bitter
thoughts.

"She's right," says Delly, thoughtfully, pausing outside my room. "You're a lot more like
yourself, lately, Peeta."

I sigh. I see what she means, but I still don't quite feel it. I feel like a disconnected set of
memories and emotions walking around together in a common body but with no mutual
history.

I go inside, only to find Dr. Molina, Prim and Haymitch. No one looks happy, and I have a
sudden, clutching fear - bad news, about Katniss? That's the very first thought that occurs to
me.

"I was just visiting Johanna," I say defensively, as if I'm in trouble.

"That's fine," says Molina. "It's not a big deal, but we're just going to run some tests on you
this afternoon. Blood tests, brain scan, then a cognitive …."

"What?" I say, tensing as I look at Haymitch.

"We want to confirm your tracker jacker levels and your blood pressure, and test your
memory, and …"

"What?" I say again, to Haymitch.

He nods. "It's OK. Um, look, Molina - why don't you go prep all your tests. The girl and I
will talk to him on our own."

Fuck, now what? "Haymitch," I say rapidly, hopping up on my bed and almost automatically
looking around for the tubes of drugs that used to be a constant whenever I talked to anyone,
"you're not very good at hiding it when you're upset, so just - tell me, OK? Did something
happen? Is - she - OK?"

He looks at me with a curious expression.

Prim smiles at me. "Katniss is fine, Peeta. Her unit is in constant communication with
Plutarch's group, so we are able to make sure she's doing OK."

"Well, then - what is it? Is something wrong with me?"

"There's been a request to see if you are capable of going - to the Capitol."

I laugh. "What? Seriously?"

When Haymitch doesn't say anything, I lean back in my bed and ponder this thing, which
makes no sense. I'm not even allowed around the cafeteria, or the kitchens, without
supervision.

"Were my propos not enough - they want to actually show me fighting for the rebellion?"

Haymitch stirs. "Something like that. The line … the truth is … Coin isn't happy with the
performances out of Katniss and the rest of her propaganda team; most of them aren't
particularly convincing on camera and some of them she wants pulled into actual combat. So,
she has this thought that - you'd be a good replacement in this capacity."

"Don't worry, Peeta," Prim says encouragingly, "I'm sure Dr. Molina's medical tests will
prove you aren't capable of going."

I purse my lips and stare at Haymitch, who looks unhappy and unsettled. His expression
rattles me and my mind, which has felt so stable lately, starts to do that wobbly thing again.
And then I have a strange thought.

I want to go.

It frightens me at first, but then I think it again - and again - until it starts to make sense. I
have unfinished business myself … with Snow, who has to go. With Katniss, who holds too
much of my identity inside her. I have to talk to her again before she dies. With myself.
Whatever I was meant to do in this conflict, it was not to be buried here, strapped to a bed in
District 13.

"Whatever they find," says Haymitch, slowly. "We have to make sure we are mentally
prepared for it to happen."

"I really won't ever be, though, will I?" I say. "So - what do I do?"

"If you go," he says, cutting off Prim's objections. "If you go, you just need to remember ...
who the real enemy is."

"That sounds familiar," I say with a frown.

Haymitch just rolls his eyes.

That it is one of Plutarch's assistants who fetches me - some woman I've never seen before -
and not Haymitch or Prim or anyone from the medical ward, I know to be a bad sign. Or a
good sign, depending on how you look at it.

I'm brought to a room with a long conference table in the middle, and banks of monitors
along the sides. President Coin is a severe-looking middle-aged woman with severe,
shoulder-length hair. She has pale skin, smooth except for the crow's feet around her slightly-
squinted gray eyes. The only color on her face is her pale pink lips, but her cheekbones are
prominent and give her severe face a certain handsome distinctiveness. I think a good prep
team could make her look a little friendlier, without losing her her air of authority. But that's
not the 13 way.

She's sitting across from Plutarch, and I'm gestured to a seat next to the former Head
Gamemaker. "Mr. Mellark," she says with what I'm sure she thinks is warmth - but it's a
clipped tone unnatural to her voice. "I'm happy to be meeting you at last. This is very long
delayed. I don't know if you were told this, but it was my intention for you to be the voice of
our movement. Miss Everdeen's look is potent, yes, but we have not been unaware of your
capacity for moving crowds." She glances over at Plutarch.

"Well - I was otherwise engaged," I say, impatiently.

"Yes, your imprisonment in the Capitol was very distressing, for everyone," she says, in an
infuriatingly fake show of sympathy. "But we hope our - hospitality - since then has helped
you overcome that time. I am very encouraged by your steady improvements, especially
recent ones."

With a swift movement, she shuffles some papers in front of her, as if she is going to pass
them to me - but she doesn't complete the gesture.

"My tests?" I ask, put off by the incomplete motion. As if I would be able to translate them,
anyway.

"Yes, we see very little amount of tracker jacker venom left in your system. Your blood
pressure is back down to almost normal range. And your cognitive tests show an increased
capacity for retaining memory."

That might be a vast improvement in the physical sense - but my body isn't really the
problem right now, is it? Anyway, I haven't really been paying attention to my medical
numbers, so I'm not in any position to take the lab results as proof of anything. And, like
Haymitch, I know this doesn't even matter. "So, does this mean I'm cleared for …."

Plutarch stirs next to me. "You see, as I explained before, there is a certain element to this
war that is being waged - that has always been waged, really - on an emotional level. You are
well aware of … the power of giving the audience a hero - a concept - a story to root for.
Make no mistake, we wouldn't have a Mockingjay now if you hadn't presented Katniss
Everdeen, in the first place - as a - root-able interest."

I fall back on my general lack of usable memories. "If you say so," I shrug.
"So, my team in the Capitol is supposed to be filming scenes of the Mockingjay and a few
others - Finnick Odair for one - waging battle in the streets of the Capitol. As she and Finnick
are high-value targets, though, we've been keeping them far behind the fighting lines. We're
just not getting enough out of them, though. We need more - we need a story."

"And we are down a squad member," says Coin impatiently. "And there are assets on that
team that could be used elsewhere."

"I'm not sure how aware you all are that my current relationship with Katniss is not - what it
once was," I say, slowly.

Plutarch waves this aside. "The hijacking. At any rate, it would just be for the cameras - just
the two of you on the same team, again."

I touch the table with my fingertips. "Are you actually giving me a choice, here?"

There is a sharp silence, which answers my question. Finally: "No, these are our orders for
you, Mr. Mellark. You are a citizen of 13 and a valuable asset in the war."

That word again. Asset. It sets my teeth on edge. "I don't have any training on your
weapons," I say. Not that they didn't try, I think, with a sudden realization.

"You'll be part of the propo team - you won't need to use weapons except as props."

I turn to Plutarch then, but bite my tongue on my words. I want to go, remember? I just had
no idea I would be thrown into a war zone without training. But, hey, I'm a victor, I guess –
that's exactly the thing I do. "I'm still fairly dependent on morphling in stressful situations," I
add.

"You'll be provided with antidepressants and mood stabilizers. Dr. Molina has provided a list
of recommendations."

Molina. Well - he probably has his orders. "Thank you," I say, "for explaining all this so
carefully. When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow."

My fingers start to tremble, but I control them. This is a bad idea, for sure. But …

"... but, I'm really tired of being here, anyway," I say to Haymitch, trying to explain. "I don't
understand it exactly, but it feels like - that's the place I'm supposed to be, not here. Like I'm
letting other people finish what I started."

"That is ridiculous," says Haymitch. "Look, boy, we might not have any choice here, but
don't start looking at this like it's actually reasonable, when it's not. You have to remember
every minute of every day that you aren't ready for this. Do not let your guard down."

I take a few breaths. "Because I'm not safe to be - around Katniss?"

"Or yourself, or other people. It's a war zone; there will be gunfire, there will be explosions -
there may be mutts, Peacekeepers. You have no idea if you'll be able to handle it."

I look at him and I remember - with surprising clarity - how he had to try to gently argue me
out of my plan to sacrifice myself in the arena, all the while handing me the tools to do it.
This has been his entire adult life, mentoring doomed tributes, and he must be sick of it. And
he really doesn't have to do it anymore; in fact, he's kind of flouting the authority of his
current masters to just talk to me like this. So, it's important to him – my life or hers, or both
of ours, I guess, if he really doesn't have to choose. So, I smile and promise to do my best.

Haymitch's gloomy expression, Prim's sad face and Delly's tears are my farewell party the
next morning. I certainly look the part - outfitted again in one of 13's dull uniforms, a gun
slung over my shoulder. While I appreciate the company, it feels so weirdly like that hour of
goodbyes after the Reaping that I already feel my anxiety rising in a very particular way.

Delly leaves first - headed to school. After she leaves, I turn to Prim and I really look at her
for the first time in a long time. It's unbelievable that she's only 13. She's had to grow up at
super speed and she has been my rock in this place. And if every once in a while, I've listened
to her talk to me about her cat or her family or her dreams about the future, it was a mere
fraction of the time that she listened to me rant or whine or rage. No words I say can ever
right this imbalance.

"Prim," I tell her, "you are going to be an amazing doctor. I don't know what would have
happened to me if you hadn't been here. You never gave up on me, and if I survive this -
whatever is intact of my mind, it's all on you. I wanted to tell you - I've been trying to
remember - the Quell. On my own. And I'm going to keep on trying. Thank you - so much."

She gives me a grin and, somewhat awkwardly, impulsively throws her arm around me in a
hug. Then she fixes me with a stern look. "However she greets you, and whatever doubts you
have about her, know this. When you were gone, Katniss was gone. And when you came
back changed, it changed her. Your life - means something to her. More than her own. She
thinks you hate her and that she deserves it. If you can just try at least not to hate her. Give
her a piece of herself back, Peeta. For me."

I swallow. "I'll try. I will - I'll try."

Before Haymitch and I leave my hospital room, I turn back and look at it. I don't know how
long I've been in 13 - weeks stretching maybe into months, now. There is nothing of me here.
Not a scratch on the wall. Not a drawing. Nothing for me to regret leaving behind. And I vow
I will never come back here. If I survive this assignment, I will not come back. I'll go back
and live in whatever is left of 12, if I have to. Or just – walk away. Follow the train tracks out
of the Capitol and dissolve into the wilds of Panem.

Haymitch walks me to one of the big elevators and we go up and across to the upper levels of
13 until we come to a hangar. I'm going by hovercraft to the Capitol apparently. I laugh out
loud, earning a glance from Haymitch. The perfect ride to the arena - too bad it's missing all
the colorful pomp and good food.

"Well, boy," says Haymitch.

"Well, Haymitch," I respond, giving him a wry smile. "I don't know if it's a bad sign, but I'm
actually hoping to come back alive from this one."

He chuckles. "I'll be in contact with your commander, Boggs. Tell him if you aren't feeling in
control." We both look over sharply when the hovercraft door opens and its engines roar to
life. "Peeta," he says, then takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry you weren't informed about the
escape plan and I'm beyond sorry that you were left behind. It's not her fault - remember
that."

I nod. I stare at the man, thinner now than he used to be, so much unhappier looking, even
though the Games are - likely - over and Snow on the way out. I must look so much different,
too. I touch my hair, which was cut short last night, the curls shorn away. Is that it? I wonder.
That, though we've made it almost to the end, we've all lost too much in the process? District
12 - I think with sudden guilt of the home I never think about. Of course we have lost too
much. My mother and father. My brothers and my cousins and most of my friends. Every
teacher and almost every classmate I ever had. Mayor Undersee. The goat man.

But that's why I have to go. On behalf of every townie and coal miner who was obliterated to
ashes - because I survive, unfairly, where they lie dead. And for whatever culpability I - and
Katniss - have in their deaths.

"Peeta?" says Haymitch, looking at my expression, which has probably gone blank.

I shake myself out of it. "I'm good," I say. I look him in the eye and say, "Just thinking about
home."

His expression falls, even as he nods, and claps me on the arm. Then my name is called and I
turn around and go into the hovercraft, my gun slapping against my back.
 Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

"Identification?"

"Soldier Mellark," I reply, tempted to add 'district 12.' But I bite my tongue and instead hold
out my hand, the back of which has been stamped with the number of my new squad.

A difference with this trip is I'm invited to sit in the main cabin of the hovercraft, and I can
fully see out the windows. I watch the heavily wooded ground of District 13 drop away and
the curved surface of the earth reveal itself as we climb higher. I know we aren't far from
District 12, by air, anyway, and I look out the left-hand windows to where I think it is located
- somewhere south-west of 13. The hills and woods are green under a pale sky.

After a couple of hours, the terrain changes - as I remember from the Victory Tour - to flatter
plains of paler-green grass. I'm told to buckle in for landing as we approach District 8 for
refueling. So I have a more limited view of 8's central town - but still see enough to get an
idea of the incredible devastation of the war. Much of the town is - rubble. The factories are
still, smokeless, and many of them are in ruins, as well. I can see some houses and tents set
up in the plains beyond the factories, and, as we land, activity in the town itself, as people are
already clearing away the devastation, picking over stones and the collapsed piles of what
once were houses.

And this is what an intact District looks like, I think gloomily.

After we take off again, lunch is served to me and the other recruits headed toward the
Capitol. As usual, I've been left to myself for the first part of the trip, but as we eat, I try to
join in the conversations. I find out many of the new soldiers are not from 13, but are
refugees or volunteers from other districts, who came to 13 to train. We've also picked up
quite a few people from 8, who are going to join their own commander, Paylor, the rebel
leader of the District who is now one of the top commanders in the war. They speak of her
fondly, and with pride. They also wear their own "uniforms," which seem to be solid blue
jumpsuits, with a factory wheel patch on the arm.

I remember thinking once that there really weren't enough regular citizens in the districts with
enough spirit to rise up and sustain a rebellion against the Capitol. But apparently I was
wrong.

The second leg of this trip takes twice as long as the first, as we fly over the wide, flat vista
of the central part of Panem, a brown flatland, through which we can see the carved rivulets
of long-dried rivers. At one point, someone points toward the south and says, "They say most
of the arenas are over there." Everyone looks at me.

I peer out the window, but we are too high to make out anything but the twisty, rocky terrain.
The southern horizon is somewhat hazy, but I think I can make out an enormous lake - or
maybe it's the sea - in the distance. Then we start to slow as we approach the mountains and I
get a glimpse - and my heart nearly stops - of the familiar tall skyscape of the Capitol before
we descend.

The hovercraft lands near the train tracks in the lowlands outside the mountains, right before
the tracks go into them. A massive camp has been set up here. When we disembark, we are
directed to different lines and someone hands me a bag and reviews the supplies - tent,
sleeping bag, water bottle, first aid kid, etc. There's a hold-up, here; I'm pulled aside and
another person roots through a pill pack in the first aid kit and removes something.

"You're not authorized for nightlock," I'm told, which might be the most bizarre thing I've
ever been told - which is saying something. When I demand an explanation, I'm told that the
little suicide pills - included in every soldier's kit in case of capture - have been branded
"nightlock," in honor of, well - I know what. I can't even formulate a response to this. I'm
directed to another line to wait for a small train - it's just an engine and two cargo cars - to
pick us up. It's early evening now, and the light is starting to grow gold and lavender. There
are no clouds today, but there is fresh snow on the upper slopes of the mountains, and I stamp
my feet to keep from getting too cold.

When I board the train - despite the fact that I'm sitting in the dark, on the hard floor of a
cargo car, instead of in the plush furnishings of the trains that brought me to the Capitol
before - I have to fold my arms together to keep my hands from trembling out of control. I
can feel the crushing weight of the rock overhead, but even worse, when I emerge I know I
will be back, again, in the place that holds such terrifying memories.

I disembark in the train station - a familiar place overrun by unfamiliar people. I look up at
the tall apartment buildings that overlook it - but they look abandoned: some have broken
glass, or even chunks missing out of the candy-colored concrete. Instead of the crowds of
brightly-colored, wigged, tattooed Capitol citizens, I'm greeted by a sea of gray-clad soldiers
and white tents arranged in neat grids. The person who greets me at the train station asks for
my identification and again I give it, as well as show the number - 451 - that is stamped on
my hand.

The person does a double-take, but doesn't say anything, just points me toward the tent
encampment that belongs to my squad. There's nothing to do at that point but take a deep
breath, concentrate, and walk over there, hoping that Katniss doesn't shoot me on sight.

It's actually Gale who sees me first. He's a little off to himself, outside the grid of their tents,
sitting on a metal box and cleaning the arrows belonging to some sort of heavily-weaponized
crossbow. He jumps to his feet and the movement draws a response from the rest. I put up my
hands in a show of coming-in-peace, but a tall man with close-cropped gray hair approaches
me and orders me to halt.

When she comes running out to see what the fuss is, Katniss stops dead in her tracks and
looks at me with her mouth open. She's not armed at the moment, thank goodness, because I
think I've seen this look before, in the first arena, and it does not bode me well.

"What's going on?" the man asks me.

"I'm your new squad member," I reply, as calmly as possible.

"Jackson!" he shouts, and a woman steps over, her gun half raised.

"I won't …" I start to say, but, now covered, the man crosses over to me in two quick steps
and takes the gun off of me.

"Lower your arms, soldier," he says. When I do, he grabs my hand and can see the stamp
now.

"Four-five-one," he says, looking over his shoulder.

"Are you - Commander Boggs?" I ask him.

"You don't remember me?" he says.

I shake my head. "Sorry. If you were involved in bringing me to 13, I don't remember much
about it."

"Could this be a mistake?" asks Gale, stepping up. He frowns down at me as if trying to read
in my face how close I am to going berserk again.

"I'm going to call base," says Boggs, striding back toward the tents.

"It won't matter," I tell the assembled faces. "The president assigned me herself. She decided
the propos needed some heating up." I avoid looking at Katniss or Gale, but study the others
behind them. I light on the one other familiar face, and I am surprised to see a grin on it -
Finnick, twirling his trident, thoughtfully.

When Boggs comes back, he orders me to set up my own tent and for Jackson to set up a
two-person, round-the-clock watch on me. "Everdeen, with me," he says brusquely, and she
follows him as he strolls away.

"Where do I -?"

"C'mere," says one of the 13 soldiers, and he leads me into their tent grid and finds me an
open square of concrete on which to pitch my tent. I go through the contents of the duffel bag
I was assigned at the base camp, pull out a nylon bag that looks about the size and shape of a
folded up tent and start struggling with it.

"Want some help?" asks a quiet voice in my ear.

It's Finnick who, despite what happened the last time I saw him, is smiling at me with a
gentle expression. Then I realize - he's used to dealing with crazy people; he's probably quite
good at it. I breathe out my relief and give him a small smile. "Thanks."

He sets his trident down and helps me unfold the canvas and put the poles together. "Got it?"
he says, after running through the instructions to put it all together, and I nod, grateful that he
has helped, and grateful that he's letting me do the last part on my own, in front of the squad.
"Finnick?" I say, before he can stroll off. "I -."

"Don't mention it," he says.

"Sorry I -" I hesitate. "Sorry."

He nods and leaves.

While I'm finishing up the tent, Katniss returns, and I can hear the angry stamp of her boots.
This, too, is weirdly familiar. But I just sit in the doorway of my tent, unpacking my bag. In
the heavy pockets of my uniform, I've got my four bottles of pills, which I line up in one
corner, next to a water bottle.

"What time is my watch?" Katniss asks, rather loudly.

Jackson's response is not clear to me, but Katniss' next words ring out over the whole camp.
"I wouldn't be shooting Peeta. He's gone. Johanna's right. It'd be just like shooting another of
the Capitol's mutts."

In the tent, I go red and my fingers start to shake. I want to get out and scream back at her
about who is really the mutt, but I bury that feeling and instead just back out of the tent, sit
cross-legged in front of it, and stare up, as if in mere curiosity, at Katniss and Jackson.

"Well, that sort of comment isn't recommending you either," says Jackson at last.

"Put her in the rotation," Boggs says wearily.

Jackson shakes her head. "Midnight to four. You're on with me."

At that there is the sound of a whistle, and everyone starts wandering off. One of the 13
soldiers stops and looks down at me. "That's dinner. You want some help finding the
canteen?"

"Thanks, I'm not hungry," I say.

"Tell you what, I'll bring something back for you," he says, and I stare at him, wondering why
he's being so nice.

But he does come back and introduces himself as Mitchell, a sharpshooter. He's brought a
small bowl of beans, with a hunk of bread stuck in it, for me, and he sits down next to me to
eat his own dinner on a tray. He doesn't say much, just asks how the trip was, and, as people
start filtering back in from the canteen, he introduces them. Homes and Leeg 1, fellow
soldiers from 13. Katniss' camera crew - all clearly from the Capitol - Cressida, the director, a
woman with a shaved and tattooed head; Messalla, her assistant - no tattoos, but lots of
piercings; the two cameramen, both burly red-heads, Castor and Pollux. When Finnick
returns, he sits right next to me. Katniss and Gale wander back in last. They both look
unhappy.

As everyone eats, there is a tense silence that feels - and certainly is - unnatural. As is not
unexpected, people's eyes flick back and forth between me and Katniss, as if waiting for the
inevitable outburst. The cameramen probably are waiting for the cue to start filming it. That
would be an interesting 'story' for Plutarch - not lovers reuniting on the battlefield, but me
and Katniss, hurling horrible insults at each other across camp. But I'm the one who so far
has been calm, so, if they are being fair, it is Katniss' temper they should be worried about.

After dinner she asks Boggs if she can put a call into 13, and I take some comfort in that she
is probably calling Haymitch and he is hopefully reassuring her.

"Good times," says Finnick, as she disappears, and Gale glances at him unhappily.

As the night falls, a portable heater is turned on and its warmth spreads around the circle of
quiet soldiers. Looking up, I'm surprised to see the stars turning out - usually you can't see
but a few of them in the Capitol, and I realize that must be because it's dark here - the power
is out in this part of the city. When Boggs tells me to pull my bag out and sleep outside my
tent, I comply without any objections. It won't get too cold near the heater, and I've been shut
in so long, anyway. Everybody except for Finnick and Homes - my first watch - eventually
head into their separate tents, and I just sit there, hugging myself and looking up at the stars.

"How you holding up?" asks Finnick, coming over to sit next to me.

"Twenty-four hours ago, I was sleeping in a hospital bed with an observation glass," I say,
wryly. "Hooked up to morphling. I guess, so far, I'm doing better than I thought I would."

"And she hasn't shot you, yet, so that's a good start."

I smile. "Yeah. It's still a possibility, of course.." I unhug myself and clasp my hands together.
"It's going to be a long night," I add, with a sigh.

"Hold up," he says, reaching inside his jacket. He brings out a very short length of rope and
holds it out to me. "You remember your knots?" he says, deftly tying one, then pulling the
rope and releasing it. "I find it helps - to occupy my hands when I'm stressed out."

"Thanks, I'll try it," I say, gratefully. Because I don't know if I'll be able to sleep. My mind is
alive and my thoughts are quicker than they should be.

Finnick shows me a few knots, and, since Homes is watching in fascination, I pass the rope
along to him for a few minutes, so he can practice, too. Finnick tells him about his home -
District 4, on the coast.

"It's beautiful there," I agree. "Katniss once said that, if she lived near the water, she thought
the sound of the waves might drown out - some of her darker thoughts."

"Your memories?" asks Finnick, gently.

"They are like - bubbles floating in the air, and occasionally I can catch them intact, but
sometimes they dissolve. Does that make sense?"

"A bit."
"I've been trying to remember the Quell. I didn't remember any of it. When they tortured me -
at the very end - they made me afraid to even think about it. But I've been walking backward
from when they captured me, after the force field blew out. I haven't got very far. Just to -
when Katniss and Johanna left, with the coil. That's it."

"Well, keep going. There's nothing scary about the Quell, except those tree rats we ate."

When Finnick stretches, says good-night, and heads back toward his tent, I tense, because I
know it must be midnight now, and Katniss will be joining me next. She and Jackson sit on
the other side of the heater from me, and they, after an initial nod in my direction, don't
engage me in conversation, so I just work with the rope, trying to remember Finnick's more
complicated knots. It keeps both hands and thoughts at bay - though not all thoughts. I spend
about an hour trying to think exactly how to talk to Katniss. I still want them from her - my
memories, of her and me. But every opening line I can think of sounds harsh and accusatory.
Finally, knowing I'm never going to come up with the perfect words, I just glance up at her -
see the murderous thoughts in her face - and just say the first thing that comes to me.

"These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you. Trying to decide whether to
kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth."

She looks startled, and I expect a response in kind - I know I've started the conversation out
on hostile ground. But she blinks and says, "I never wanted to kill you. Except when I
thought you were helping the Careers kill me. After that, I always thought of you as … an
ally."

"Ally," I repeat. That is the person you partner with, if only temporarily, in the arena. It seems
both fitting and crazily inadequate. And what is she to me? "Friend," I say. "Lover. Victor.
Enemy. Fiancée. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute." Somehow all of these fit, but still
none of them seem enough to describe her. "Ally." I shrug. "I'll add it to the list of words I
use to try to figure you out." I complete a very nice knot and admire it for a second. "The
problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up."

It's Finnick's voice that answers me, from the darkness around us. "Then you should ask,
Peeta. That's what Annie does."

"Ask who?" I respond. "Who can I trust?"

"Well, us for starters," says Jackson. "We're your squad."

"You're my guards."

"That, too. But you saved a lot of lives in 13. It's not the kind of thing we forget."

My fingers and eyes return to my rope, as I try to work that out. Finally, I remember that it's
the same thing that Prim told me, and that it has to do with an attack on 13 and that warning I
gave them through my last appearance on Capitol TV.

I try to direct my thoughts back to the Quell, but instead they are now distracted by memories
of my weeks in the Capitol - of Johanna calling me an "evil mutt version" of myself, despite
everything she knows I went through. Now is not the time to let my mind dive back into
those memories, so I resist it, but I still find myself thinking about the day Johanna told me I
was being brainwashed. And how to fight it? Hold on to memories of Katniss the Capitol
didn't have on camera. Which is hardly any. And most of them are sad.

Then, as before, the words come to me - Green. Orange. I puzzle over these. Colors, of
course, once meant a great deal to me. I used to paint things. But why those two? And why
recur, off and on, in a pair, whenever I think of the Capitol? Something about … Effie's wig?

"Your favorite color," I say out loud, without meaning to. I look up at Katniss, and she returns
my look, a question on her face. "It's green?"

"That's right," she says. And suddenly I see her, sitting down on the ground, in the sunlight,
picking weeds. And I remember it now, swallowing my wounded feelings and reaching out to
this girl, to be her friend:

"You don't have anything to be sorry for. You were just keeping us alive."

And I'm just clinging gratefully to this lost memory, when Katniss adds, "And yours is
orange."

"Orange?" I repeat. It fits the mantra. But I'm not sure - maybe it's because Effie's garish wig
is stuck in my head. It's not a particularly appealing color.

"Not bright orange," she says, as if reading my mind. "But soft. Like the sunset. At least that's
what you told me once."

I close my eyes. Of course. Of course. The soft orange base of the sunset, with the dark blue
at the bottom rim, and the clouds turning purple and pink around the golden light. "Thank
you," I breathe, as not one memory, but dozens upon dozens, come upon me. The dying light
of the arena. Sunset on the roof of the tribute center. Dusk over the meadow, with the figure
of the girl sitting alone in the field of dandelions.

We could take a shot at just being friends.

"You're a painter," she says suddenly, in a choked voice. "You're a baker. You like to sleep
with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your
shoelaces." The words come out of her as if forcing their way out, and when she's done, she
gets up and goes back into her tent, abruptly.

I want to call her back, to wait, to slow down. I don't know how she knows these things about
me. These things that aren't common knowledge. How closely does she know me, down to
the way I tie my shoes? How would she know about how I like to sleep? Why would she
even bother remembering these little things about me? Things I don't remember about
myself?

I look down at my boots and see that they are single-knotted and know somehow that this is
wrong. In fact, it starts driving me crazy. I pull them in, one after another, to re-tie them
properly. And sigh with the relief.
 Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

After three or so hours of fitful sleep, I wake for breakfast and then find myself accompanied
back to camp by Mitchell and Leeg 1, who are my guards for the morning. Leeg 1 is a
youngish woman with pale, silvery-blonde hair and the faded gray eyes common to 13. She's
quiet, and no surprise - Finnick told me last night that her sister just died in an accident a
couple of days ago, and is in fact the squad member I came to replace.

After breakfast, the camera crew goes out with Katniss, Finnick and Gale to shoot some
propo footage. I take my pills, which Boggs asks to inspect first.

"They're for my head," I explain. "So I don't cause problems."

Jackson comes over and checks on Leeg 1, then turns to me. She's severely far-sighted, and
has to really squint to look at me up close. But she seems friendly, and I guess I made an
impression on her last night - or she's just very kind - because she smiles at me and sits down.

"Do you really not remember things - like your favorite color?" she asks me.

I nod. "Yeah - well, I do now, I guess. When Katniss said it - I suddenly did remember, and
then I remembered more stuff - related stuff. But other things … I mean, the problem is not
remembering what I don't remember, right? And sorting out the false memories the - they
gave me."

"Do you have memories we can test? Things you're not sure are real?"

I stiffen. Do I? Let's start with whether or not I'm responsible for the mass casualties of
District 12 and work down to whether or not I love or hate this girl? And how would Jackson
know, anyway? I cast about for something - maybe about 13 - that puzzles me.

"District 13 made a deal with the Capitol to stay intact after the Dark Days. Real?"

Jackson, Mitchell and Leeg 1 all look at each other briefly. "Real," says Jackson, at last. "It
came down to that someone was about to use nukes, so we decided to end the war instead of
going there."

"District 13 started the war so you wouldn't have to share resources, real or not real?" I might
as well cover the whole History of the Dark Days spiel, while I'm here.

"Not real," says Jackson. "The Capitol was hoarding resources. Still are. Why do you think
half their citizens don't have to work?"

I ponder this, but then realize - this might just be the fabricated history she was raised with.
I'd better stick to things in the present. "Most of the people from 12 were killed in the fire
after the Quarter Quell," I say, shakily.
"Real. Less than nine hundred of you made it to 13 alive."

Nine … hundred? That's barely more than a tenth of the population. "It was my fault."

"Not real," says Mitchell, interpreting this as a question and not a gloomy statement of fact.
"President Snow destroyed 12 the way he did 13, to send a message to the rebels."

I'm silent for a while, thinking, no - 12 had no say in its destruction, unlike 13. I look up to
see that Katniss and the rest have returned from filming, and that she is hovering just outside
the circle, listening in on our proceedings. I look at her and know that she heard the last
exchange. And I know that we both know differently. There were multiple times we could
have put a stop to the train that led to this pass. If she had just let me bleed out at the end of
the game. If I had never wandered off and picked those berries. If she had declined to go to
the feast and get the medicine that saved my life. If I had stayed quiet and died in the mud. If
I had just held my tongue at the interviews. At any of those points, my resulting death could
have spared District 12 - because without that act of defiance with the berries at the end, the
one to keep us both alive - there would have been no call for any retribution on our district.

"What are you doing?" asks Katniss, somewhat sharply, dropping her eyes from mine.

"We're playing a memory game with Mellark. Real or not real, let's call it that. Very simple -
Soldier Mellark says he not only has missing memories, but memories he's not even sure are
real. So, we're going to help bring him back."

"You really don't have to-" I begin.

"As long as we have to keep a watch on you, we might as well. Plus, it's the right thing to do.
You're part of the squad now, which means you're our brother, got that? In fact…" She stands
up and squints. "I think I'll make sure the watches are shuffled so that you have Everdeen,
Hawthorne and Odair with you for most of the daylight hours. They know you better than we
do. You can ask them some questions about your past."

She walks off, and I turn to Mitchell. "She doesn't have to -" I start again.

He shrugs. "You don't argue with the den mother," he says with a laugh. Then, more
seriously, "She lost her kids in the epidemic. You probably put her in mind of that."

"What epidemic?"

"Some kind of pox," he says, with a shrug. "Back when I was a kid. Decimated 13 - killed a
lot of kids. And caused widespread infertility. One of the many dangers of a sequestered life."

I glance at him. "Do you like it - or is it weird - being out here, after all your years in 13?"

"Both," he grins.

At noon, I'm joined by Gale. He's certainly known to me. I feel like I watched him kiss
Katniss on film close to seven million times. And he so strongly resembles her - in coloring
and in the shape of his eyes and mouth, if not in physical build - that I think I would
recognize him regardless. I feel uneasy around him - I know the Capitol targeted my jealousy
of him very specifically, so I can't tell if my initial revulsion at his proximity to me is how I
really feel, or if it is fabricated.

"We don't like each other," I say, bluntly. "Real or not real?"

He raises an eyebrow to me. "Not real, I mean - as far as I know. We're not friends, exactly.
We're …." he struggles for a word.

"Allies?" I ask, helpfully.

He laughs at that. "No, I wouldn't go that far. Well-?" He thinks about it for a bit. "Maybe that
does fit. Do you remember what you said to me - about the Quarter Quell?"

I ponder this for a long time, but come up empty. "No."

"You said she'd come back, but alone this time."

"Half right," I muse. "Well, that's better than my usual average, at least lately." But his words
have triggered the memory. "We were … outside - you were teaching me how to …?" I
struggle to come up with the right words. I remember a pile of strings and sticks. "Trap food?
Real?"

"Yeah, real."

I shake my head. "Huh, I would have guessed that going the other way. We - uh - did stuff
like that, before?"

"Not real. That was just to prep for the Quell."

"You trap squirrels?"

"Not usually. Rabbits mostly. I shoot squirrels, though not as well as Katniss does."

"You traded them - for bread. Real?"

"Yeah, your father had a weakness for them. But other stuff, too. Cloth, dishes, shoes, soap.
Anything else."

Delly, I recall, lived next to me at the shoe shop. But where were the other shops? This begins
a line of questioning about the layout of District 12. It's painful - and excruciatingly tedious,
for him, I'm sure - but it gets us through the rest of his shift with me. And I have mapped out,
with a small white rock on the concrete, the layout of District 12's town square, where I was
raised.

Katniss' shift is next, and she sits down - a little closer to me than the night before - and stares
at the drawing I've made. Since I can't think of just one thing I want to ask her, we sit in
silence, as we did before. Just before dinner is called, she stirs and says, "You made a
drawing like that in the cave - real?"
I watch her get to her feet, biting my lower lip for a moment. It's clear that she wants me to
remember it, but I don't. But I know, since she's asking, that it's true. "Real - I think," I say.
"Wait!" I close my eyes, and I hear the rain pouring down, see the water dripping over rocks.
"I did - and you helped me with it."

After dinner, as the sun starts to set over the mountains, I find myself able to formulate the
questions.

"You wore a pink dress in District … 7? Real?"

"Mmmmmm … not real. You're thinking about District 11."

"Oh - it was silvery - shiny white - like dewdrops on a white flower. Real?"

"Uh - yeah I think - yeah, that was the one."

"The pink one - was that my favorite?"

"I think you liked both of the dresses I wore in 11," she says, with a faint smile. "One was
orange. The pink one was … fancier."

"That's where the problems started - on the tour," I frown. "Real or not real?"

"Yeah - pretty much right away," she answers, shortly. "Peeta …" I am beginning to notice
the way her voice lingers on the vowels of my name. "You drew a map in the second arena,
too. Real?"

"Not … real?" I start the answer with confidence, then see her face fall in the middle of my
answer. "Oh, I don't remember. I don't remember the second arena."

"Really?" she breathes. "None of it?"

"Just the very end. They made me watch it a bunch of times - I mean, your part of it. I
remember you going away to drop the coil. And Finnick yelling at me to stay at the tree. I
remember running into Chaff - fighting Brutus. I remember - seeing two hovercraft, one
flying away, one landing. I remember - running back into the jungle, and it was flooding. The
beach was gone. And then - them taking me away. Anything before the coil is …." I see that
she's looking at me in consternation and I wonder what I said wrong. "So - I did draw a map
in that arena? How? I …."

"On a leaf," she says. "With your knife."

I close my eyes and try to remember, but all I see when I close my eyes are creatures rising
out of the flat sand of the beach - shifting, slithering creatures. As they begin to sparkle with
that unnatural silvery, glossy light, I start to tremble.

"What is it?" she asks sharply.

I swallow, and try to relax. "Nothing. When I think about the Quell … I see - weird, creepy
things. There were - monsters in the sand. Real?"
"Not real."

The disappointment on her face is intense. I decide to press on with less harrowing topics.
"You had a favorite type of bread. Is that real?"

"Yes," she says, so quickly that I jump.

By this time, the dusk surrounds her and her thin, pinched face is mellowed by the softer
light. I think to myself - as I probably thought once before - that no, she is not pretty, in the
traditional sense (whatever that even meant in the first place). But she's beautiful. The way
she holds her chin high. And in the glimmer of her silver eyes. How you can sense the
thoughts moving behind them. Even the ones she always keeps close to herself.

"Let me think," I say, with a painful swallow, aware that she is watching me. "I think - I
remember … it wasn't a type of bread that I like that much myself."

"Really?" she asks.

"There was a storm," I say, squinting my eyes like Jackson, and that, strangely enough, helps
focus my thoughts, as if I'm mentally far-sighted. "And I was low on supplies." I frown at her.
"I was - upset about something."

She breathes in, sharply. "I don't know - maybe."

"Did we have a fight, or something?"

"No, no - more of a misunderstanding," she says uncomfortably.

"About what?"

She shrugs. "About ... what to do. Whether to stay in District 12 or run away."

This rings no bells, but I do know that I don't want to go down this path anymore, so I walk
myself back into my house, and I'm snow bound, and digging into my nearly empty
refrigerator. "Cheese. Cheese buns," I say, slowly.

"Yes. I didn't know you didn't like them."

I glance at her briefly, at the hungry look in her eyes. "I think that … I can't remember. Just
that they were OK, but I kept making them for you. You liked them."

"Loved them," she replies. "And now I would kill for one."

I have a confusing memory, now; something about her eating them, but it starts to get a bit
shiny, so I back away from it. Instead, I go back to my house and to that storm which, I guess,
must be about a year ago, now. "After the tour," I mutter to myself.

"What?"
"That was after the Victory Tour," I say slowly. "There was a storm and I was stuck in my
house. I remember … talking to Portia on the phone. And - you? Real or not real."

"Real," she says. "We talked on the phone, yes. Do you remember what we talked about?"

I blink. "School?"

"Yes - we talked about grade school. We both hated our fourth grade math teacher. Do you
remember his name?"

"Mr. Alecorn. Yes?"

"Yes."

I look up at her. She sounds exhausted. I feel exhausted. And we've covered so little, really.
"I'm sorry," I say.

"About what?"

I open my mouth. "Everything, really. But - specifically, for putting up with this
conversation. I - sometimes, when I was in 13, I just begged them to let me go, find me some
place to live by myself and just start over again from scratch, build all new memories. It's so
hard, Katniss. It's … like … trying to rebuild using rubble - like trying to rebuild a house
when it's been blown to dust."

"That can't be true," she says.

"Why not?"

She shrugs. "It just can't."

 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

A/N: Warning - Depiction of torture.

Chapter Sixteen

Boom.

The cannon. Someone else has died.

I wake up, after a few hours of sleep, to the sound of explosions. At first I think the boom has
rattled awake my latent concussions, and I touch my temple. But the rattling stops and Boggs
shouts out to the startled unit, "It's OK, that's ours - about three miles north."

Finnick goes with me to breakfast - he and Homes are in charge of me this morning. He
whistles on his way back to camp and, after eating, produces a pencil and paper from
somewhere and spends a lot of time writing something out, before folding it up and putting it
in his jacket. It's now that I remember that he is newly married and I think about Annie. That
rattles my head again.

"No questions for me?" he asks me.

"I want to remember the Quell," I say softly, trying not to look over at the other side of the
camp, where Katniss and Gale are eating together.

"Ask away."

"What happened before you and Beetee wired the tree?" I ask.

"You tell me," he says keenly.

"We must have - walked up from the beach," I say, slowly. "It was so hot. And heavy. I was
full, like I had eaten too much."

Finnick nods.

"We had seafood and bread. Did you show us - how to fish?"

"Yes. Do you remember - the bubbles in the sand?"

I twitch back, pushing away the memory. Bubbling sand … that's how it starts. Was that real?
"No," I choke. "There were monsters in the sand. Real or not real?"
"Not real," says Finnick with a frown. "What do you mean by monsters?"

I shake my head. "They come out of the sand - shiny, slimy - tentacles and eyes."

"Whoa - whoa," says Finnick, his eyes widening as I start to shake. "Not real, Peeta. Come
on, dude, stay with me. Where's the rope?"

I pull it out from where it has become buried in my bag. At first I just pull at it, from either
end, unable to do anything as complex as fold it together. I stand up suddenly, and both
Finnick and Homes jump up. But I hold out my hands. "It's OK. It's OK. I just need to use the
bathroom." I shove the rope back at Finnick and duck out of the tent grid, knowing I'll be
followed, but just needing to get away.

Get away. I probably should get away. What the fuck am I doing here, standing on the edge
of the Capitol, filming propaganda for 13?

In the train station bathroom, which is now always full of the rag-tag soldiers of camp, I go
into the bathroom stall, puke up breakfast, then splash water all over my face at the sink, stare
closely at myself in the mirror. My hollow cheeks under the points of my cheekbones. The
dark circles under my eyes. My dull stare - nothing behind them. My personality - gone.

I stare down at my balled-up fist. I've just stopped myself from punching the glass. That
would hurt. That would alarm all these people around you. That would get you sent back to
the one place you like even less than this one.

Outside the restroom, I run straight into Finnick and Homes. Homes grabs my arm with a
tight grip and I tense, but do not fight him.

"Feeling better?" asks Finnick.

"Yeah."

Back at camp, both of them are very casual, acting like there's nothing going on. "Bathroom,"
Homes answers simply in response to Boggs. I find a big plastic box of medical supplies to
sit on, and stare right into space. My thoughts aren't racing. They are floating, in slow circles,
somewhere up above me. I have to get out of here, I think again.

Facing lunch, and four hours talking to Gale, I start to make contingency plans. I'll eat lunch,
then I'll ask Boggs if I can call Haymitch. After that, whether or not I can make the call, I'll
take all my pill bottles, empty them out, and put them all back, pill by pill. Gale will be
relieved of another conversation recreating a dead town - and probably relieved to see the
person he considers his chief rival showing signs that he is not sane, will never again be sane.

But after lunch, Boggs calls us around. We have a mission. He pulls out some kind of device
which, when turned on, displays a projection of a map, and he points to a spot. "We're headed
here. Fourteen blocks. There's an intersection with active pods that has been left for us to
disable. Squad 609 went through there yesterday, but headed east and left the intersection
untouched. This pod here," he points to a dot on the map, "has an automatic machine gun
nest. This one unleashes a net. Not much, but they want to move heavy troops through that
route, so - at least we'll be clearing something useful."

Everyone around me groans. We are then ordered into our heavy gear, which includes bullet
proof vests.

I wait around with the camera crew, with whom I've done next to no interacting. They are not
assigned to watch me and I wonder if everyone worries that Capitolites might trigger some
flashbacks. Right now, though, everything is a potential trigger. I watch the cameramen put
on their portable cameras over their gear, and realize that I never hear them talk to each other
- but they seem to communicate with gestures and looks. Brothers, Mitchell told me.

Boggs comes by, carrying my gun, and at first I start to shake my head, to refuse it, but he
says, "It's loaded with blanks, soldier. It's just for show."

I shrug. "I'm not much of a shot, anyway." I frown as Pollux, one of the cameramen, makes a
small sound, with his mouth closed, as he tests the settings on his camera or something. His
brother is eyeing me in suspicion, but there's a dangerous buzzing in my head, and I feel
almost like I have tunnel vision, the edges of my eyesight starting to get fuzzy. "You're an
Avox, aren't you?" I say to Pollux. But I've figured it out for myself, and continue on. "I can
tell by the way you swallow. There were two Avoxes with me in prison." And as I say the
words, I'm there - in the room with the big screen and the darkness, and the girl - she's
holding a something with a red light on it, but it's not pointed at me. "Darius and Lavinia, but
the guards mostly called them the redheads." I vaguely am aware that I sound like I'm
strapped to my bed, talking to Dr. Molina in a dispassionate, cold voice about the things so
horrible that I can't bear to think about them. "They'd been our servants in the Training
Center, so they arrested them, too. I watched them - being tortured to death."

I am strapped down - and my eyes are wedged open, so I can't close them on this horror. The
girl, stripped down to her underwear, with wires sprouting out of her body. The jolt makes
her whole body lift in the air, and when she comes down with a shudder, she can't even
scream - just make a death-rattle sound in her throat. And then it stops….

"Stop!"

The first one hundred times I screamed it, I was begging. When they killed Lavinia - when
the lights flickered and popped and her gargled screams abruptly ended - there was a strange
silence. It sulked around the room, remonstration and guilt. They didn't mean for her to die,
yet - so, they were murderers for a moment. Even if they meant to kill her eventually. And
somehow - I was responsible - me, strapped to the table and sweating and pleading. Not the
people in white coats. Not the people in white uniforms. Playing too rough with their toys.
Me. And I felt it, too. Because her torment was solely for my benefit. It was my fault.

"Stop!"

Someone got the idea to stop playing with electricity, and instead to bring out the blades. And
now Darius is in pieces - I do, I see him - literally in pieces. There are no drugs - not even the
ones that keep me from struggling against my restraints. There are no drugs - as if this, above
all things, they want me to remember for real. Blood pooling everywhere. The sickening
sound of a hand - dismembered, dropping to the tiled floor. The strangled cries of the helpless
man. He's dead. There is no doubt. But this time, they are doing it on their own timeline.

Because they wanted it - and because I wanted Darius to know that I did not endorse this - I
begged for them to stop. Begged. Promised them - anything. But then, after two nights - after
waking up on the third day - in this room with the blood and the pieces of his body on the
fucking floor - they brought her in.

And then it became a command. "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

And she looks anxious and hesitant - scared shitless. I know she isn't Katniss. I know she
isn't. I didn't actually think that she was real. She slept with me and stuck me with needles
and made me watch nightmarish videos and whispered things I wanted to hear and dreaded to
hear - so she couldn't be real.

I know she isn't Katniss.

But in this theater they have created, I have no other name for her. And now they have given
her the surgical saw and are almost pushing her to the body on the table on the other side of
the room.

"Cut off his leg. Left leg, below the knee."

"Stop!" I forbid this to happen. I forbid it.

She glances back at me, and there is only a fixed mask of terror. But her eyes are wide, and I
see the white of them. She wouldn't do it, I think. Nothing could compel her to do it.

...The buzzing sound is still in my ears as the images fade.

"It took days to finish him off."

And now I'm not sure who I am talking to. I could be standing in the vacant places of my
head, for all I can tell, just me and the Avox, in bloody pieces. "They kept asking him
questions, but he couldn't speak, he just made these horrible animal sounds. They didn't want
information, you know? They wanted me to see it."

Pollux suddenly comes back into focus right in front of me, and I jump back. I know he can't
answer, so I look to his brother, then Finnick, then Katniss. "Real or not real?" I ask her. If
she was there with me, I think dizzily, she could assure me - it all didn't really happen. But
she's just - they're all just - staring at me as if I was speaking nonsense. "Real or not real?!"

"Real." This from Boggs. "At least, to the best of my knowledge. Real."

My body tingles strangely, as if I've just come out of a nightmare. But I know - I know - this
is real, something repressed, not imagined, because I could never imagine something like
this. "I thought so. There was nothing - shiny about it." Needing to get away from Pollux, I
just wander over to the opposite side of the camp.
At this moment, it's possible that if my gun was not loaded with blanks, and if I knew how to
use it, I would kill myself now. I have every sympathy possible for Johanna and her need to
forget, and the knowledge that it is not possible for the living brain to forget something like
this, no matter how hard it tries. I rub my fingers together, and the touch of my own skin is
loathsome to me. Who am I to be alive when so many people have died in my place? I close
my eyes and I see her again - the mutt. As always, desire and dread of her exist in equal
measure, and I'm almost manically happy to see her again - that 13 did not destroy her. I hold
out my hand, knowing that it is dangerous, that nine times out of ten she will claw at my leg
until it hurts, again. Oh, but the tenth time ….

You have a weakness for beautiful things and I don't.

Crunch, crunch. I'm walking, and I don't remember when I started, and it makes me afraid.
The ground is covered with shiny shards of glass, glittering in the overhead sun. I'm supposed
to tell Boggs something, but I'm not sure what, exactly. I need to stop and have some time to
sort myself out and figure out where I am and what's going on.

Boom. Boom. It's the sound of the cannon. Someone has died. I'm yanked down to the ground
by someone and the rattle of the guns makes my head ring. Then silence, then the sound of
laughter.

"Let's do it again! We need some close-ups!"

I just stay down, chin resting on my gun, the shards of glass cutting into my palms.

"Pull it together, 4-5-1," says Boggs, with a high-pitched laugh in his voice, rising like the
whistle on a tea pot. The sound expands and echoes out until it reaches its outer limits, and
explodes, and blood rains down on us.

I jump to my feet and try to make my eyes focus. There is smoke everywhere, white on gray.
Then another explosion and I'm knocked backward and hit my head.

After a blacked-out second - just long enough to put an eraser to the past few days, weeks,
maybe months - I jump to my feet, looking for the attackers.

"Prepare to retreat!" yells someone in my ear. The air smells suddenly like warm death, and
I'm pushed forward. Gunfire erupts all around me. Then I see it - the bloodied man,
screaming out in agony, being hauled away by the mutt - his legs chewed off. Something I
didn't finish, and more people are dying again, because I could never quite finish what I
started …. I sprint toward her, and clasp her with my fingers, and just - hold on - and yank
her back. ...
 Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

A high-pitched beep wakes me. Groggy, I try to reach out and smother the noise, but my
hands are shackled together and I'm lying down on them, so there's nothing I can do.

"It's all right! It's just an emergency broadcast! Every Capitol television is automatically
activated for it."

I shift my head slightly toward the sound of the voice, and I can see, directly across from me,
a very large TV, mounted to the ceiling, and the semi-circle of people staring up at it
expectantly. As per normal, I see myself on the screen.

"...our cameras caught the rebels moving on 134th Street and Naples Avenue, but they were
soon trapped by our hidden defense systems. Here you see a bomb has been set off and this
group, which includes rebels Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark and Finnick Odair, are further
caught in the path of a poisonous wall of gel. Something interesting here …." And then I lose
track of the voice as I see myself grab on to Katniss and yank her backward, then slam the
gun down, just missing her as she dodges me. Mitchell lunges for me and knocks me down,
but I am a rabid animal - I kick him off of me and he flies right into some spiky netting that
both traps and impales him as it flies up in the air between two power poles. Castor and
Pollux grab my arms and drag me between them to an apartment building as a black wave
starts licking at our ankles. Gale starts shooting at the netting and then blackness covers the
screen.

"There's no aerial footage," whispers Castor. "Boggs must have been right about their
hovercraft capacity."

And the camera feed comes abruptly back up, panning hastily from some reporter's startled
face over to the building we were just seen entering and I wince as I see the small tanks lined
up outside it. The building is shelled, repeatedly, until it collapses in on itself and a fire
breaks out.

Then the screen says 'live' and the reporter is back, looking more prepared this time. She
seems to be standing on a roof, with the building on fire behind her. "I'm hearing - yes - that
the rebels in this intersection have been pronounced dead. Yes," she continues, "the names of
the deceased are Gale Hawthorne, recently of District 12, Commander Boggs, a rebel leader,
Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark, Finnick Odair and Cressida Boyle, late of the Capitol.

My exhausted brain - which feels like it has been used as the ball in a soccer match - briefly
wonders why the afterlife is so uncomfortable. One would have hoped death would have
brought a measure of peace and the dissolution of guilt.

"Finally a bit of luck," says Homes.

"My father," says Leeg 1, brokenly. "He just lost my sister, and now …."
Then I understand that I am still alive, and know how little I deserve to be. As if to reassure
me that I did not misunderstand it the first time, the video feed starts playing on a loop -
everything that happened after my mind snapped, recalling Darius' death - the torturer's work
on me finally reaching full bloom. Whatever I used to be - a boy who shrunk from killing so
determinedly that he avoided it even in the Hunger Games, where to kill meant to live - I'm a
killing machine now. Like any other benign creature the Capitol has taken, mutated, and
turned against children. No wonder I can't see myself when I look in the mirror; whoever I
think I'm looking for, he's gone.

I missed their target this time, but only barely.

The Capitol TV begins playing a packaged piece - their forte. They show the rise of the
Mockingjay, from the moment she appeared on stage, in Cinna's dress, to her destruction of
the arena, her attack on hovercraft, her part in the destruction of the Nut in District 2. But I'm
primed to see through their editing, and despite the fact that she is carefully shown, at all
times, as a killing machine herself - I just look into her eyes and can see there her pain and
despair. That her actions are also out of her own hands - I know this, I watched the
announcement where she sold herself to 13 to guarantee my safety, and I suddenly understand
the enormity of it.

Gale's voice cuts into my thoughts. Even he was not able to protect her from me. It was
Mitchell - who had been just days out of 13, a friendly and open young man - and for that ….
"So, now that we're dead, what's our next move?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I answer him. Everyone turns to me and I struggle to sit up on the sofa I've
been set on. I feel Katniss' gaze on me, but I can't - I can't look at her. This girl I always just
wanted to save; and that impulse has been frightfully warped. I look to Gale. To give him one
more chance to protect her in my place. "Our next move … is to kill me."

"Don't be ridiculous," says Jackson.

"I just murdered a member of our squad!" I yell.

Finnick stirs. "You pushed him off you. You couldn't have known he would trigger the net at
that exact spot."

I feel tears - not warm, but cold like rain - start to spill over my eyes. "Who cares? He's dead
isn't he?" I fight to retain my breath as I force the confession out of me. "I didn't know. I've
never seen myself like that before. Katniss is right. I'm the monster. I'm the mutt. I'm the one
Snow has turned into a weapon!"

"It's not your fault, Peeta," says Finnick, and the kindness in his voice hurts me.

"You can't take me with you. It's only a matter of time before I kill someone else." Gale's face
registers nothing, so I look around at the rest of them. Besides Boggs and Mitchell, the rest of
the unit and the camera crew are all still here. "Maybe you think it's kinder to just dump me
somewhere. Let me take my chances. But that's the same thing as handing me over to the
Capitol. Do you think you'd be doing me a favor by sending me back to Snow?" And this
time, I do look at Katniss, because I know she will appreciate this. Maybe it's been hard for
her - accepting that the Peeta she left in the arena never did come back. Even after the first
time I tried to kill her. Even after all the hateful things I said. But now she really must
confront this; it's always been my life or hers, and we've been putting it off long enough.

"I'll kill you before that happens," says Gale. "I promise."

Something moves in Katniss' expression at these words, and I look over to him, frowning.
Again - he wasn't the one who protected her from me before. Not just once, but twice. I shake
my head. "It's no good. What if you're not there to do it?" I pause. "I want one of those poison
pills like the rest of you have."

Katniss steps forward, conflict on her face. There's a hardness in the line of her mouth, but it
is not matched by the anguish in her eyes. I've never seen her look so bleak, not during the
cold, long night on the cornucopia - not during the long, desperate days of the Victory Tour.
And the look in her eyes is exactly how I feel.

"It's not about you," she says. "We're on a mission. And you're necessary to it." She turns
away from me, leaving me puzzled. I've clearly missed something - mission? Where are we
going? What are we doing now that our commander is dead? "Think we might find some
food here?"

The camera crew helps Katniss hunt for food, while the rest stay with me, trying to look like
they are concentrating on the television and not keeping an eye on me. As if, handcuffs and
all, I plan to make a break for it.

Katniss and the others return with a couple of dozen tin cans and several boxes of cookies.
We all gather together in the middle of the living room. Despite myself, I am hungry. The 13
soldiers frown at the pile of food.

"Isn't this illegal?" asks Leeg 1. Of course - in 13, you're not even allowed to have a scrap of
food of your own - nothing allowed to leave the common rooms.

"On the contrary," says Mesalla. "Even before the Quarter Quell, people were starting to
stock up on scarce supplies."

"While others went without," says Leeg 1.

I can't help but smile, and catch a similar bemused expression on Finnick's face. The 13
soldiers and the Capitol dissidents - such strange bedfellows for a revolution.

"Right, that's how it works here," replies Mesalla, gently.

"Fortunately, or we wouldn't have dinner," says Gale, cutting short the debate. "Everybody
grab a can."

I assume I'm going to wait until everyone else has chosen and someone gives me whatever's
left, but one of the cans has rolled over near my feet, and as I pick it up, I see that it is lamb
stew. Automatically - not even waiting for the flood of memories - I hand it out towards
Katniss, who has actually sat down next to me. "Here."
She takes it, then stares down at it, as if I've handed her a bomb. Then she presses her lips
together and looks up at me, straining, I know, to find us again in my eyes - that boy and girl,
hiding out from the games, finding comfort together even in our common hunger - in each
other's arms, in our kisses, our confidences. Real, almost. Happy, almost. Laughing in delight
at the appearance of a picnic basket. "Thanks," she says at last. She trades me whatever can
she had grabbed first, and pops the top off the lamb stew. "It even has dried plums." She
bends the lid of the can into a spoon and starts eating, with gusto. I had forgotten what a
pleasure it is to watch the pleasure with which she eats.

Eventually, I remember to open my own can; a fish soup, I think. I'm so hungry, it kind of
slides right down my throat, barely touching my tongue.

After the meal, we share a box of cookies - if you want to call them that. They are dry
sandwich cookies, filled with a gritty cream filling that tastes like sugary wax. While we're
eating, that horrible beeping sound starts again and the television lights up with the seal of
Panem and the sound of the anthem. Finnick laughs. But it's not a jest - everything about the
Capitol is pre-packaged and micromanaged, so that even their pageantry tends to look fussy,
once you're used to it - even stale. In that sense - maybe it is laughable. Our pictures - those
of us known to the Capitol by name, anyway - are aired over the sound of the pounding drum
and trumpet chorus, just like the tributes' pictures are shown at the appointed time in the
arena, and in a particular order. From the Capitol - Cressida, Messalla, Castor and Pollux.
From the Rebellion - Boggs and Gale. From District 4 - Finnick. From District 12 - Me and
Katniss.

Then I jump, startling Katniss, when President Snow appears as soon as Katniss' picture fades
away. He's sitting behind a desk, wearing a dark suit with a white rose at his lapel. The flag of
Panem, with its vaguely eagle-like silhouette, over a red background, is draped on the wall
behind him. It's all very solemn. "Welcome, citizens, again, to a very special update on the
state of the civil unrest. As you have seen tonight, our Peacekeepers have achieved a
significant victory, for which they are to be congratulated. They have rid the country of the
menace her followers called the Mockingjay. With her death, there will assuredly be a turn in
the tide in the current conflict. Without their symbol, the rebels will have no one left to
follow - no cause to unite them in their disparate concerns.

"And what was she, really? A poor, unstable girl, with a small talent with the bow and arrow.
Not a great thinker, certainly not a mastermind of the rebellion, merely a face plucked from
the rabble because she had caught the Nation's attention with her antics in the Games. But -
as insignificant as she was, she was so very necessary to the rebellion, because, without her,
they have no one who even passes as a real leader …."

The picture breaks up and diagonal lines crawl up the screen until it clarifies again and we
see President Coin, now. In contrast to Snow, she's dressed in the military garb of 13, sitting
in front of her impressive banks of monitors that have been carefully calibrated to show, in
the background, videos of the districts - the battles; the raising of the rebels' flag, stamped
with the mockingjay symbol; tear- and blood-stained faces of men, women and children,
embracing each other. Her severe face has been touched up with makeup and has also been
carefully calibrated with a smile. "Good evening, Panem, especially our Capitol brethren who
have yet to have heard of me. I am Alma Coin, President of the Free District 13; I am the
leader of the rebellion - the rebellion that has successfully freed every District of Panem from
the tyrannical reign of President Snow, and is now on your very doorstep - no, in your front
room - ready to free the Capitol, as well. There is no tide to turn - the wave of rebellion has
already washed in and there is no turning it.

"But my sad duty tonight is to meet the tyrant's mischaracterizations of the Mockingjay with
the truth about the young woman who is among the most admired people in the history of
Panem. Katniss Everdeen was born into poverty in one of the poorest districts in Panem. She
survived starvation and hardship, only to see her young sister Reaped into the Hunger Games.
But Miss Everdeen refused to play by the Capitol's rules, not once, not twice, but many times
over, starting from the moment she volunteered to take her sister's place in the Games - not
through some misbegotten grab for glory, but simply to protect her family from the cruelty of
the tyrant. Her survival with honor - despite all odds - inspired a nation and turned a country
of slaves into an army of freedom fighters.

"Dead or alive, Katniss Everdeen will remain the face of this rebellion. If ever you waver in
your resolve, think of the Mockingjay, and in her you will find the strength you need to rid
Panem of its oppressors."

"I had no idea how much I meant to her," says Katniss sarcastically, drawing a laugh from
Gale.

Coin's broadcast ends with a stylized picture of Katniss in her mockingjay outfit, standing in
front of some wall of flames.

The feed returns to the Capitol, and we are again looking at Snow, whose stone-faced
expression somehow conveys the enormity of his fury even better than if he was screaming
obscenities. After a brief pause, he says, "Tomorrow morning, when we pull Katniss
Everdeen's body from the ashes, we will see exactly who the Mockingjay is. A dead girl who
could save no one, not even herself."

"Except that you won't find her," says Finnick, as the screen fades out.

"We can get a head start on them, at least," says Katniss wearily. She rubs her eyes, then pulls
out the electronic map device that Boggs had. She asks Jackson to instruct her on how to use
it. I try to follow along with what is going on here, as the projected map shows street
intersections crowded with small dots, but what really fascinates me is that Katniss seems to
suddenly be in command of the group and that we seem to be heading deeper into the Capitol
and not looking for a way back to the train station and camp. Where my pills are, I think
nervously - the anti-depressants and mood stabilizers. Not that they had helped.

I think about what Johanna said, about Katniss' true intentions in the Capitol, and I'm
wondering, why? Why, with an army amassing on all sides of Snow, would Katniss think it is
her job to finish him? Why walk deliberately back into the arena, where every loss - like
Boggs - will hurt even more because it will feel so specifically the same as losing allies like
Rue or Wiress? Haymitch - was right, I think, and now I understand that Katniss has also
been changed. Perhaps not as dramatically as I have been, but still, deep down and perhaps
irrevocably. The girl who fought so hard against death in the first arena is long gone. There's
no desire for life left in her, even though her family is intact and waiting for her back - well,
not back home; which is part of the problem, isn't it? Haymitch thinks it's me - that I was lost
- and maybe that's part of it, as well; but it's mostly 12. It's 12 that she and I both let down,
and the weight of the dead there is so much stronger than any individual death could be, now.
Something never to be borne, never to be lived with.

But first - and I understand it now - Snow must go. There would be no rest for her in death if
she didn't take him with her.

"We're surrounded by them," she says suddenly, cutting into my thoughts. "Any ideas?"

"Why don't we start by ruling out possibilities," replies Finnick. "The street is not a
possibility."

"The rooftops are just as bad as the street," adds Leeg 1.

"We still might have a chance to withdraw, go back the way we came," says Homes. "But that
would mean a failed mission."

"It was never intended for all of us to go forward," says Katniss swiftly. "You just had the
misfortune to be with me."

"Well, that's a moot point," replies Jackson. "We're here with you now. So we can't stay put.
We can't move up. We can't move laterally. I think that leaves just one option."

"Underground," says Gale, quietly.

"Can the Holo show underground levels?" asks Katniss, poking at the map device.

"Yes." Jackson shows her how to adjust the coordinates to show the subterranean levels,
which are less grid-like, but also cleaner than the street levels. I've gathered that the dots on
the map represent some form of random danger - I guess like the explosions and the net and
black goo we ran into before.

"How do we get down there?"

Mesalla says, "There's a maintenance tube in this building - you can see it right here, two
apartments down from us. They go down to the Transfer, the main underground route. We
can get to that apartment through the maintenance shaft, which should be accessible
upstairs."

Katniss stands up. "OK, then. Let's make it look like we've never been here."

The room is then cleaned - empty cans thrown away, the bloody sofa cushions flipped
around, floor swept and wiped. Watching them, I sit back down on the sofa, pull my knees
up, wrap my handcuffed hands around them and come to a resolution. When everyone is
gathered together, ready to head upstairs, and Katniss finally turns to me with a quizzical
look, I just stare at my fingers. "I'm not going. I'll either disclose your position or hurt
someone else."

"Snow's people will find you," says Finnick.

"Then leave me a pill." I look up at Katniss. "I'll only take it if I have to."

Jackson - the consummate mother and soldier - barks, "That's not an option. Come along."

But I'm an orphan, and not a soldier. "Or you'll what?" I challenge her. "Shoot me?"

"We'll knock you out and drag you with us," says Homes. "Which will both slow us down
and endanger us."

"Stop being noble! I don't care if I die!" I address Katniss. It's never worked with her before,
but it's different now - I'm such a danger to her in ways I would never have believed before
today. "Katniss, please. Don't you see, I want to be out of this?"

She returns my look, slightly parting her lips, and I wish - I wish - I wish I could remember
where I've seen it before. It's not love, not pity, not anger - not even sadness. It's
stubbornness, yes. And something else - like I've asked her to cut off her own arm and she
can't believe I'd ask her to do anything that impossible. But I don't remember.

"We're wasting time," she says. "Are you coming voluntarily or do we knock you out?"

I put my face down on my knees and fight back despair. What do I do? Obviously, no one is
going to carry me. So - if I go, how do I keep her safe - from me? How will I be able to tell?

I sigh and rise.

"Should we free his hands?" asks Leeg 1.

"No!" I snarl, pulling my hands into my chest, protectively. It's the one safeguard.

"No," says Katniss. "But I want the key."

Upstairs, we go into a large bedroom closet and Homes pries open the narrow metal door at
the back of it. At this point, both Castor and Pollux have to abandon their backpack camera
kits, which are too bulky to fit, and they detach the mobile part of them and leave the bulky
backpacks behind in the closet, under a bundle of fur coats.

We squeeze ourselves through this narrow hallway in between the walls and pass another
similar door, then come to a second, which we break through. In this apartment, there is,
instead of a second bathroom, a room labelled "Utility," inside of which is an electric panel
and a metal-rung ladder heading straight down.

They make me go second, in between Homes and Leeg 1, although with my awkward grip on
the rungs, I'm fairly slow. But it's not far. Soon we're gathered at the bottom, in a wide
concrete tunnel lit dimly by narrow strips of fluorescent lights. Pollux is the last to descend
and, once he's down here, his brother crosses to him and pats his back. Pollux looks ill and
sways a little before catching on to Castor's wrist.

"My brother worked down here after he became an Avox," explains Castor. "Took five years
before we were able to buy his way up to ground level. He didn't see the sun once."
I try to imagine this horror, expand out the weeks and months I spent locked in a cell or a
hospital room to five years of my life without the sun, but it's impossible to imagine,
unreasonable to try to pretend that I understand - just as I don't expect anyone, but maybe
Johanna, to understand what I've been through.

But nobody is saying anything, and something must be said, so I look at him. The one thing I
do know is that you can't undo torture, so you just have to try to make the best of it, when
you can. "Well, then, you just became our most valuable asset."

Castor laughs and Pollux smiles a little.

"Let's go," says Katniss.

Pollux goes to the front now, with Katniss, to help direct her. Jackson orders me to walk
between her and Gale. Homes and Leeg 1 take up the rear, with the rest of the camera crew
and Finnick sprinkled in between.

The tunnel where we are, wide and shadowy, and relatively free of traps, would be ideal
except for the periodic appearance of the small cargo trains that use it to haul goods from
place to place, and the sporadically-placed cameras. But Pollux knows where to find side-
tunnels and pipes to avoid both, and knows or guesses well how to avoid maintenance
workers. We've travelled for hours, running into no trouble, when Katniss suddenly calls a
rest for the day.

"It's 3am," she says, her voice hoarse. "I figure we still have a few hours before they are able
to go through the rubble and figure out we're not there."

Pollux takes us to a small utility room, lined with pipes and machines with levers and dials.
He holds up four fingers and Castor explains that means we have to be out in four hours -
when the day shift begins. Jackson works out a guard schedule - just 30 minutes each, so
everyone can maximize their sleeping - and we tuck ourselves in snugly against each other. I
find myself straining my wrists against the cuffs - not trying to break them, but deliberately
inviting them to chafe my skin. The pain functions as sort of the opposite of the morphling on
which I had been practically living all the time I was in 13 - but with hopefully a similar
result. Instead of dulling my thoughts, the pain forces me to concentrate, to be focused. This
makes it hard to sleep, but I'm not really that tired, anyway.

I glance over occasionally at Jackson as she props herself up against a wall - her severe
profile watchful, even in sleep. She's not unlike Coin in looks, but she seems more real to me.
Her uniform fits her like a glove; she genuinely enjoys it - watching over her troops - in that
no-nonsense 13 way. In this sense, she reminds me of Portia, who at first glance would seem
to have nothing in common with her, except for her dedication to her own career.

Pollux is on watch first, and I also glance over at him, occasionally. Wonder how he's
managed to survive everything he was put through. Five years. And I don't know how long
since then he's been free - only to come back here, deliberately, to help in this cause.

After blinking a couple of times, I wake to Jackson's voice. She's rousing Katniss and telling
her it's six am. "Keep an eye on Pollux. He's been up all night. He can't sleep here."
Katniss moves over to take up a place near the door, next to Pollux and fairly close to me. I
listen to her engage him in conversation, go over the Holo with him and figure out where we
are, and how soon we will be able to emerge from the tunnels. After a while, she just hands
the Holo to him and lets him study it, then leans back against the wall. I rub my eyes, and she
looks up with a start.

"Have you eaten?" she asks me.

I shake my head no and she opens up and hands me a can of soup. I sit up and grab it with
both hands, tipping it back with as much grace as I can muster with the cuffs. They strain on
me, hurting the blisters that I have started making on myself, but it's a good feeling - painful
just like real life. And I feel as clear-headed as I have in months.

"Peeta," she says, softly, in that voice that caresses my name. "When you asked about what
happened to Darius and Lavinia, and Boggs told you it was real - you said you thought so.
Because there was nothing shiny about it. What did you mean?"

"Oh." I squint at her, suddenly glad she asked and hoping that I can possibly manage an
answer. "I don't know exactly how to explain it. In the beginning, everything was just
complete confusion. Now I can sort certain things out. I think there's a pattern emerging. The
memories they altered with the tracker jacker venom have this strange quality about them.
Like they're too intense. Or the images aren't stable. You remember what it was like when we
were stung?"

She nods, and I think of my own first experiences with the venom - the shiny, tilting sky, the
snake-like vines in the woods. "Trees shattered," she says. "There were giant colored
butterflies. I fell in a pit of orange bubbles. Shiny orange bubbles."

"Right. But nothing about Darius or Lavinia was like that. I don't think they'd given me any
venom, yet."

"Well, that's good, isn't it? If you can separate the two, then you can figure out what's true."

At first I think she's teasing me - then I realize, not only does she really not understand how
messy and complicated the hijacking was, she desperately wants it to be simple. She's still
waiting for me to come back. "Yes," I say hollowly. "And if I could grow wings, I could fly.
Only, people can't grow wings." (Or can they? What can't be mutated, transformed, evolved -
really?) "Real or not real?"

"Real," she says, with quiet urgency. "But people don't need wings to survive."

"Mockingjays do," I reply. I finish the soup and hand the can back to her. She stashes it
behind one of the pipes running up the room. Her urgency for closeness is starting to terrify
me, on many levels, the most rational of which is because I know that, in the end, I will
disappoint her by being unable to return to her the way that I was. And I am not the only one
who has been changed.

"There's still time," she says. "You should sleep."

I lie back down and stare up at one of the gauges directly above me. It's some sort of pressure
gauge, I guess, for the gas or water lines that surround us. The needle lurches from side to
side, out of rhythm, like an irregular heartbeat. I catch a movement out of the corner of my
eye and see that Katniss is reaching out to me, very tentatively. My body goes still, and my
breath stops for a moment as I wait for the touch of her hand - equally fearful and excited.

I recognize the specific look on her face, which rings a familiar bell inside of me. She
approaches the mutt - the wild animal who both repels and fascinates - the untamed,
unfamiliar being residing in the form of a person she once knew. She's watching me carefully
for my reaction, but I can't help thinking how brave she is, still reaching for me after I've tried
to kill her twice. Brave - but also compelled. Trying to figure it out: can that moment -
whenever it was - can that moment of transformation be recrossed and reversed? I'm almost
angry - almost sad for her - as I clear-headedly remind myself that such a reversal is not
possible. Once it is ash, something can never again not be burned. (And it doesn't even have
to be that dramatic. There is a moment, in the fire, when the loaf can no longer be sold as
bread, when it has been seared into toast.) Once evolved, the line cannot go backward - any
changes moving forward are all a product of the mutation.

Even when the product is beautiful. As the mockingjay.

She just lightly touches me as she brushes a wisp of hair off of my forehead. Her fingers
linger there and my eyes lock on hers. And then I breathe. And she continues to smooth back
my hair, stroking it gently.

"You're still trying to protect me," I say, and my voice sounds like it's been buried in the earth
for three days. "Real or not real."

"Real," she says, her expression opening. "Because that's what you and I do. Protect each
other."

Are we supposed to hold hands this year?

Her voice ignites my dream, and when I turn to look at her, she is wreathed in flames, some
sort of creature made entirely of fire. And I look down at myself and see that I am her mate -
my whole body seems to consist of flames.

I guess they left it up to us.

I can see that look in her eyes again as they hold on to mine, trying to tell me everything
without words.

Katniss. It's no use pretending we don't know what the other one is trying to do. Katniss ….

Katniss …

Katniss …

The voice is no longer mine. It hisses like a leaky pipe, echoing around in this dark room
inside my head where I've left her standing, waiting for me to finish what I was trying to tell
her. It rises from below me, snaking up out of the bubbling sand.

"Katniss!" I bolt awake, sitting up. The sound from my dreams is all around me in the little
room - the sound of her name. The rest of the squad has jumped up and are standing around
me. I seek her out, see that she is already armed. "Katniss!" I choke out. "Get out of here!"

"Why?" she demands. "What's making that sound?"

Because that's what you and I do …. "I don't know. Only that it has to kill you. Run! Get out!
Go!"
 Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Katniss' reaction is not immediate flight, but actually to relax, for a moment, her bow and
arrow. She looks around at the assembled squad and says, calmly, "Whatever it is, it's after
me. It might be a good time to split up."

"But we're your guard," protests Jackson.

"And your crew," says Cressida.

"I'm not leaving you," says Gale.

She pauses for just a second. "We have to arm the crew, then. Finnick, give one of your guns
to Castor. Gale, take Peeta's gun, load it with a real cartridge and give it to Pollux. Then we
need to give our guns to Cressida and Messalla."

I anxiously strain against my handcuffs while I watch these arrangements transpire. At long
last, with the camera crew armed - and given brief instructions on how to fire their weapons -
we take off.

Katniss and Pollux lead again, their time together with the Holo earlier this morning paying
dividends as we swiftly cross the Transfer and duck into a large overflow pipe. This leads to
an abandoned stretch of railroad tracks. We're running along the tracks when we hear the
choking screams, coming from somewhere behind us. This is a sound I know well.

"Avoxes," I say, pushing into Gale, who has slowed to a walk. "That's what Darius sounded
like when they tortured him."

"The mutts must have found them," says Cressida.

"So they're not just after Katniss."

"They'll probably kill anyone," says Gale impatiently. "It's just that they won't stop until they
get to her."

Katniss stops abruptly, guilt and anger on her face. "Let me go on alone. Lead them off. I'll
transfer the Holo to Jackson. The rest of you can finish the mission."

"No one's going to agree to that!" says Jackson.

"We're wasting time!" shouts Finnick.

"Listen," I hiss, as the echo of Finnick's voice fades away. The screams have stopped and we
can again hear the urgent hissing whisper. Katniss.
At the sound, we all break out in a run again. At the end of the track there is a hole with a
ladder leading down. Katniss stops to check the Holo, and then she starts gagging.

"Masks on!" orders Jackson.

This is - among other things - a maneuver I have not been trained on. I watch Finnick extract
a mask from the jacket of his uniform and just copy his movements, but Katniss is holding up
her hands. "No, it's not poison - it's not."

Then I smell it, too - a strong sweet scent coming from below us – and vaguely troubling and
familiar. Roses, but powerfully strong; like someone had spilled the contents of a hundred
bottles of rose-scented perfume, cloying and vaguely warm.

Katniss lurches away from the scent and runs to the right, instead. A small alley leads us right
back to the Transfer. It's wide and empty, but we know that won't be for too long. Despite the
urgency, Katniss again orders us to wait. "Pods," she chokes, stuffing the Holo in Pollux's
hands and pulling out her bow and an arrow. She aims it into the street; her arrow triggers the
descent of a nest hidden in the beams above; its explosion upon impact destroys it. "Follow
me! There's a pod at the next intersection!"

But the instant we start forward, something strange and horrible happens. Messalla, who is
running in front of Gale and me, is suddenly stopped by a beam of light descending from the
ceiling. Gale aims an arrow toward the ceiling, the hidden source of the light, and shoots it,
then another. But the arrows just fall back to the ground and there's nothing we can do.

"Katniss!" cries Finnick, forcing her to halt and look back.

Inside the beam, the heat - or whatever power it is - melts Messalla's flesh right off of him. I
won't watch this, won't add another horror to my memories … I push Gale ahead, and we
catch up to Katniss.

"Can't help him! Can't!" I shout, pressing her shoulder.

She turns and runs - fast - then comes to an abrupt halt at the next intersection. She arms her
bow and looks around for her target. Then gunfire from behind us announces that we have
company at last.

Katniss pushes me behind her and aims her weapons at these new targets. She's as quick as
ever with her bow, and Gale has some kind of rapid-fire crossbow; Jackson, Homes and Leeg
1 are all accomplished shooters. Without a weapon - without even the full use of my hands -
the only thing I can do is try to find any sign of the pod Katniss was looking for earlier.

"Mutts!" screams Katniss.

I look down the Transfer and see them, pouring out of the side alley that we had just run
down ourselves. At first I think they are really just more Peacekeepers - they are tall, long-
limbed and white, about the size of a person. But then I see the tails - as they crawl up over
the bodies of the Peacekeepers, whether alive or dead. Then I see the long jaws - as they
attack the remaining Peacekeepers with them, clamp onto their necks with their teeth and rip
off their heads. Screams come from all sides now - Peacekeepers, mutts, us.

"This way!" screams Katniss. "Do exactly what I do!" She hugs the wall and rounds the
corner of the intersection. I'm right behind her now, and she pushes me ahead of her again,
after I've followed her around the corner. She waits for the rest - Pollux, Finnick, Castor,
Gale, Leeg 1, Jackson and Homes - and then fires her arrow into the intersection. Big
mechanical teeth rise up from under the street and start churning, crunching, eating up the
tiles.

"Forget the mission!" she shouts, grabbing the Holo from Pollux. "What's the quickest way
aboveground?"

As we run ahead, we can hear the hissing and the animal cries of the mutts behind us, as
some of them are attempting to cross the grinding teeth. Pollux stops abruptly and yanks open
a door and we run into darkness. We climb up through a slimy, stinky pipe and emerge onto a
small concrete ledge, very narrow, over a river of sewage. The smell of human waste, food
waste and chemical solvents spikes right up my nostrils and - despite everything I try to do to
stop it - reminds me so strongly of the smell of my cell - times about a thousand, of course,
but when scents are this evocative, it doesn't really matter how strong or weak they are. I start
to swallow compulsively, and just try to use the last shreds of my concentration to edge along
the slick, narrow pathway, following Pollux. After what seems like forever, we reach a small
walkway over the sewage line and on the other side of it, there is an alcove, with a ladder
leading up.

Katniss, who follows me and Pollux, turns back to wait for the rest of the party to reach the
ladder. But the count seems to be off. "Wait!" she screams. "Where are Jackson and Leeg 1?"

"They stayed at the Grinder to hold the mutts back," says Homes.

"What?" Katniss lunges back toward the bridge, but Homes holds her back.

"Don't waste their lives, Katniss. It's too late for them. Look!"

We can see the mutts again, crawling up the pipe now, and spilling onto the ledge. They are
not careful, and many of them slide right into the sewage river and disappear - but enough of
them still come.

"Stand back!" Gale shouts. He aims an explosive arrow at the bridge and it collapses into the
sewage just as the mutts reach it.

For a second, we stand there on two sides of the stinking river of waste - the eight remaining
members of the squad and the crowd of hissing lizard-mutts, their snow-white skin smeared
horribly with blood, their strange, almost human-like eyes rolling strangely over their lizard
snouts. Then, the mutts start throwing themselves across the river - some of them sinking, but
a few of them just able to grasp our side of the bank, where they are met with bullets and
arrows - and the shiny tip of Finnick's trident - a sight that sends my head whirling again,
back to the arena I don't remember, and the battle against the monkey-mutts.
People are screaming at Katniss to go, but she's shooting every moving thing she can - lost in
some madness.

Bullets and arrows will be spent long before the mutts are dead, I think to myself. I turn to
Pollux. "Go! Up!" And push him toward the ladder.

And then Katniss. I yank her up and push her physically onto the ladder. "Climb!"

"Come on - get up!" I grab the next person closest to me, Cressida, and pull her behind me as
I get on the steps. I follow Katniss' boots. Up the slick metal rungs to a platform. Then a
second ladder. And a second platform. As I reach this second one, I see Katniss' face peering
down at me, frantic. She yanks me off the ladder, then Cressida. Then she gives a cry and
starts back down the ladder again, before I can grab her.

"Climb!" I hear someone yell, and it echoes strangely around me, warped and frightening. Oh
… shit … not now.

"Someone's still alive! Finnick!" screams Katniss. "Finnick!"

"No, Katniss, they're not coming…."

That might be an arena first - bringing your opponent back to life.

I can see them, as clearly as I can see Katniss kneeling over the platform to look down the
ladder and wait desperately for his return. Finnick sitting across from me, sweating and
smirking. Mags, sitting next to him and communicating with tiny hand gestures, making sure
he is all right.

"Ally," he replies. "So - just don't pull that stunt again at the end of the game."

Nightlock. Nightlock. Nightlock.

And then an explosion rocks the platform, and bits of sewage and flesh are vomited all over
us. I slide out of the memory, but not into the present. It's mutts that surround me again - the
musky-scented monkeys that flew out of the trees. Their blood is warm everywhere as I stab
and stab. As Katniss fires her arrows. And Finnick - effortlessly - impales them with his
trident. The blood is thick, rising around us as our kills number tens and hundreds, lapping
like a pool around our ankles. Hot and steaming under the sun.

"Peeta." Her voice cuts through the vision in my head. "Peeta."

"Leave me," I rasp. I can't see her, I can just feel her small hands on my wrists. "I can't hang
on."

"Yes. You can!"

Flashes are coming to me now. My leg is on fire and she lifts me to my feet, urging me to
move. The water of the creek comes up to my ankles, it flashes silver and I know that I won't
be able to stop it – the memories sliding into each other, the mutt stalking me. I shake my
head. "I'm losing it. I'll go mad. Like them."
And then … her lips are on mine. Not gently pressed there, but hard and insistent. Shivers run
up and down me and when I slightly open my mouth, her tongue crushes against my tongue.
Warmth, and also something cool - the smell of her hair, the taste of it. I would always wake
up to it, my mouth in her fragrant hair...

I need you.

She pulls away from me, and my shivering increases. Her hands clasp my hands, and she's
vaguely coming back into focus. "Don't let him take you from me."

If it could only be that simple. "No," I gasp. "I don't want to…"

She clenches my hands so tightly that the pain shoots up my arms.

"Good night."

"Don't go yet. Not until I fall asleep. … Stay with me."

Capitol or no Capitol. Gale or no Gale. Whenever she needs me.

"Stay with me."

Her voice echoes all around me and as she drifts into focus, I gasp as if air is returning to my
body, like when my heart stopped in the arena. The second one. The one where she cried out
for me. Where she kissed me. Where she threw herself into peril to save me. What the fuck
did they do to me that I could ever have forgotten? I made a promise to her. Whenever she
needs me.

"Always," I reply, looking into her silver eyes.

 Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Katniss pulls me to my feet and I look around - and see how few of us are left. Katniss and
me. Cressida and Pollux. Gale. Holy shit.

"How far to the street?" Katniss asks Pollux.

He points upward and puts one finger up.

"Come on," says Katniss, grimly.

She starts up the ladder, followed by Pollux and Cressida. I look at Gale, and he gestures me
up.

"You're injured -" I start.

He's clutching the side of his neck and blood is flowing freely under his fingers. He shakes
his head. "Up," he says hoarsely.

The ladder leads us up into the utility room of someone's apartment, exactly like the one we
started in on our underground journey. Yesterday.

As I stumble out of the room, I see a woman lying on the floor, dead with an arrow in her
heart. I glance from the woman to Katniss - who is leaning wearily against the wall, eyes
closed. The Capitol woman seems harmless enough - fluffy magenta hair with gold butterfly
pins. Matching lipstick and long, long black eyelashes. She is wearing a silky blue-green
robe, open to a snow-white nightgown.

"We need to search the house," says Katniss, opening her eyes suddenly. "She called out to
someone."

But we find no one. It's a two-story, two-bedroom apartment just like the last one, with a very
similar layout, if different decor - perhaps a little fancier: no surprise - given how much
closer we must be to the heart of the city.

We all meet downstairs in the living room, and I sit on the velvet sofa, pick up one of the
throw pillows, and bury my face in it. Sickened by the thought of Jackson, Leeg 1, Homes
and Castor - and Finnick, especially Finnick - bitten and decapitated by those horrifying
mutts. I want to scream - I also want to cry a little bit. But, most importantly, I don't want to
lose my shit again. And between the flood of memories and the engulfing fear, I'm surprised
the world isn't shiny, yet.

"How long do you think we have before they figure out some of us could've survived?" asks
Katniss.
"I think they could be here anytime," says Gale. "Probably the explosion will throw them for
a few minutes, then they'll start looking for our exit point."

"Cressida, can you tell where we are?"

"Oh, yeah. The mansion is just a few blocks away - that way. We're facing away from it."

I look up and see Katniss looking around, wearily. Pollux chokes suddenly, and puts his
hands up over eyes that are streaming with tears. Gale is holding the back of a chair for
support.

"Let's check her closets," says Katniss, with a sigh.

I don't follow, just toss away the pillow and strain the cuffs, make my wrists hurt again to
reinforce concentration. I go to the window and peek out myself. I just see a typical Capitol
street and the low-slung apartment buildings in their bright, glassy greens, yellows and reds.
There's no visible sign of the war here.

I strain my neck and look as far to the sides as I can - toward the taller buildings of the city
center. I can't believe I'm back here, within blocks of my prison. Facing that building - what
will that be like? What would Haymitch say if he knew how close I was to the place of my
torture?

Haymitch. He thinks I'm dead - that all of us are. And Prim. Delly. Unless there's been chatter
about us when they discovered we weren't and started chasing us, I guess.

The others return with a handful of clothes - coats, shoes, makeup. Katniss makes a bee-line
for me, and, frowning at my bloody wrists, she pulls out the key to my handcuffs.

I jerk my hands away from her. "No. Don't. They help hold me together."

"You might need your hands," says Gale.

I look at Katniss. She saved me - I'm not going to take any chances with her life. "When I
feel myself slipping, I dig my wrists into them, and the pain helps me focus."

She licks her lips and nods.

She throws a smock over my uniform in front and a coat in back, takes off my boots and
replaces them with some brown shoes that look a little bit like they are made of snakeskin or
something. Then, with shivering fingers, she fumbles with the makeup, painting my mouth
and eyelids, putting liner around my eyes. Her proximity to me is both comforting and
disturbing. And something is wiggling around in my mind. Her grin as she paints my face
with a brownish-green lotion under the bright pink sky.

Your eyes look the same.

She shakes her head. "I'm no prep," she sighs.

I hold up my hands. "Do you want me to …?"

She glances over to the others. Pollux is already disguised, and Cressida is working on
applying makeup to Gale. "Can you?"

"I think so." I take a look at the collection she has laid out on the coffee table below us and
pick at the various brushes. It strikes a nerve within me, the feel of the brushes, even these
stubby ones. I paint her face with a lotion that considerably lightens her skin. Find a dark
color to brush around her eyes - dramatically altering their shape. A dark green lip color, to
match a wig she has brought out.

Now it's my turn to shake my head.

"What?"

"I painted your face once. Real or not real?"

"Real." But she doesn't elaborate.

She puts on the green wig and selects a short, brown one for me. Then she goes into the
kitchen and bathroom, rummaging for food and first aid supplies.

It's snowing when we step outside - a startling change from the heat of the underground
tunnels. The apartment is on a busy intersection, so we are instantly surrounded by people,
and - as we try to keep our faces down in our layers of clothes - we can hear them talking in
low, unsettled voices. As we wait at an intersection where there is some kind of light system
directing both vehicle and foot traffic, we can hear the words "rebel," "hunger," and "Katniss"
quite distinctly.

After crossing the street, we turn a corner and run right into a troop of Peacekeepers,
marching in the opposite direction … maybe even back toward where we exited the tunnels,
where they will find a dead woman and a ransacked house. We're running out of time.

As the Peacekeepers pass, I look up and I can see it, just a little bit to the right - the back of
the Remake Center, just a few blocks away. And, just beyond that, I can make out the top
floors of the Training Center. My breath catches.

"Cressida," hisses Katniss. "Can you think of anywhere?"

"I'm trying," she says.

We walk another block, and then we are startled by sirens - a little like the sound of the
emergency broadcast. Through the open window of a nearby apartment, we can see
someone's TV light up and our faces appear - we are wanted, again. The roll call includes
Castor and Finnick, so their information isn't entirely accurate. But it's bad enough.

"Cressida?"

"There's one place. It's not ideal. But we can try it."

We follow her a few more blocks up, to where the apartment buildings are giving way to
townhouses, separated from each other by narrow yards. After glancing around a bit,
Cressida goes right through the side yard of one of the houses, to a back garden, barren
except for some dormant herb plants, that stretches along the row of houses, apparently a
common garden. At the back of the garden, there is a small, quiet street that runs along some
tall brick buildings - quiet, unobtrusive shops. There are a couple of people walking through -
the small street connects two larger streets - but we go unobserved.

Cressida suddenly says, in a high-pitched voice, "Here it is! Fur undergarments are so
essential in the cold months! Wait until you see the prices! Believe me, it's half what you pay
on the avenues!"

As she finishes, we stop in front of a shop, the window of which is filled with mannequins
wearing furry underwear. Cressida pushes into the shop, setting off a chiming sound, and
gestures for us to hurry in. We walk between racks of fur toward a counter at the back of the
dim shop.

The woman behind the counter looks up at us with a start, and the rest of us - except Cressida
- start in our turn. But after the first shock wears off, I recognize her, if only vaguely. She's
enhanced within an inch of her life, but she was already, seven years ago or whatever it is
now when I last saw her, in the Games. And on tape, I think. Her skin is very tight and her
nose has been surgically flattened. Black and gold tiger stripes have been tattooed on her
face, and long whiskers implanted around her nose. Her eyes are gold and the pupils like
black slits.

Cressida takes off her wig. "Tigris," she says. "We need help."

Yes, that was the name. She was one of the more famous and celebrated - or derided, really in
12 - stylists of the Hunger Games when I was young. She was the District 4 stylist - at least
that was her last assignment. The year Annie won. I remember watching the Games - and,
more recently, the recap of them - and the commentators were already starting to make fun of
her latest surgeries - something about a tail - and how she had gone too far. Which for the
Capitol, is saying something.

"Plutarch said you can be trusted," Cressida continues.

That's odd. Or maybe not - I haven't given much thought to the Capitol side of the Rebellion -
not since Snow told me about it. I have a vague memory of Johanna talking about it - after
she had given up the information she knew - but no details. I guess it makes sense that old,
discarded stylists would be part of it.

Tigris looks from us to a television on her counter, and I'm starting to wonder about how wise
this all is, when Katniss removes her wig and scarf and steps up to the counter.

Tigris gives a low - growl? She's certainly taking the act all the way. Then she gets down off
her stool and disappears in the racks of fur behind the counter. There's a sliding sound, and
then her hand appears through the fur leggings, gesturing us to follow. Katniss and Cressida
glance at each other, and Katniss shrugs, then we all walk back behind the counter and see
that Tigris has slid back a panel in the floor, at the base of the back wall. There's a steep
stairway leading down - underground again.
Katniss hesitates for a long time. We've come a long and hard-fought way to this place, and
not to get caught in a stylist's trap. What if …?

"Did Snow ban you from the Games?" she asks abruptly. "Because I'm going to kill him, you
know."

Tigris' mouth opens in something like a smile, and Katniss takes it as a sign. She goes down,
and we follow her.

Katniss finds a light and turns it on, revealing a small cellar with concrete floors. There are
no doors or windows. Just a faucet in one corner and piles of mildewy fur pelts.

We look up as Tigris closes the panel above us, and we hear the squeak of wheels as she pulls
a clothing rack over the panel. We're officially stuck here for the moment.

"Gale," says Cressida, suddenly. She and Katniss gather together some pelts, remove his
Capitol cloak and wig, his crossbow and a knife, and ease him down onto the bed of furs.

Katniss pulls off her own layers of Capitol clothes, takes the scarf she was wearing and runs
the faucet until the water is clear. With the dampened scarf, she cleans Gale's neck, but the
blood doesn't stop coming.

"Hand me the first aid kit," she says, with gritted teeth.

With a strong sense of deja vu, I watch her open up a suture pack and, with a look like she's
going to be ill, stitch the neck wound. The black stitches are uneven, but they seem to have
done the trick. She roots around the first aid kit, until she comes up with some lotion and a
gauze pad, applies these, and then hands him some pills, and watches while he swallows
them. "You can rest now," she says gently. "It's safe here."

Then she looks over at me, and I'm already thinking of nothing but a cave and some bandages
and fever pills when she comes over, removes my own Capitol clothing, sits me down and
examines my wrists. She uses the other end of her scarf to wash away the blood, then applies
the antiseptic lotion and bandages them beneath the cuffs. As if anticipating an argument
from me, she says, "You've got to keep them clean, otherwise the infection could spread and
-."

"I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss," I interrupt. "Even if my mother isn't a healer." It's
so strange - it's like there are two of her in front of me, now, all in the same person. This girl,
so weighed down and burdened, hollow-eyed and grave - whose love for me may have ended
in bitterness, but not her concern. And the solicitous girl in the arena, whose love for me may
have been feigned, but not her concern.

Her eyes glisten at my words. "You said that same thing to me in the first Hunger Games.
Real or not real?"

"Real. And you risked your life getting the medicine that saved me."

"Real." She shrugs. "You were the reason I was alive to do it."
"Was I?" I struggle with this for a while, struggle against the false memories that rush to the
surface. That she dropped the tracker jackers on me and then, in her mutt form, dropped from
the trees and swiped my leg - the wound that nearly killed me. But I know that isn't what
happened. She was never a mutt. It's just - hard - to remember exactly.

To keep myself from sliding away, I strain against my handcuffs, until the pain comes back.
Then I breathe deep and meet her eyes. "I'm so tired, Katniss."

"Go to sleep."

I shake my head. "I can't. What if I - in my sleep … you have to cuff me to something, so I
can't - do anything." I glance around and see that the staircase has a metal handrail that is
narrow enough to do the job. I nod over to it.

"Peeta, you'll never be able to sleep like that."

"Yes, I will. I'm tired enough. I won't sleep if you don't restrain me, Katniss."

Shaking her head, she helps me up and we walk over to the foot of the staircase. I sit, mutely
hold out my hands and she pulls out the key. I find the clicking sound of the lock more
pleasant than I expected, and I try not to make a big deal out of rubbing my wrists once
they're freed. With an encouraging smile - because she looks stricken, as if she's about to hurt
me - I put my arms up against the metal bar. She leans up - her hair is in my face - to work
the cuffs back on my wrists and loop them around the bar. As they click back in place, a very
bad joke comes to my mind - probably something I heard from Johanna - and I press my lips
closed on it.

She watches me skeptically as I ease myself down and lie, head resting against one of my
outstretched arms. It's not comfortable, but, before I know it, I'm asleep.

I must sleep for hours - long hours like I haven't slept since 13. When I wake, I'm well rested,
except for my arms, which are starting to cramp. Katniss and Cressida are awake, and Pollux
and Gale are stirring. When everyone, except me, is sitting up, starting to ask - what now? -
Katniss stands up abruptly and cuts through their questions.

"Look, I've been thinking …" she starts, nervously. "I'm really sorry. I'm so sorry. There's no
mission - from Coin - to kill Snow. I lied about it - I - it was my own mission - for revenge."
She bites her lip and looks down at the ground. "And I meant to take it on my own, but I
jeopardized everyone - by pretending it was - authorized. I'm sorry - it's my fault that they're
dead. Messalla and Leeg 1 and Jackson. Homes. Finnick. Castor … Pollux, I am so sorry."

Since all this is news to me - though I guessed some of it - I can only watch the reactions of
the others. It's Gale who finally speaks. "Katniss, we all knew you were lying about Coin
sending you to assassinate Snow."

"You knew, maybe. The soldiers from 13 didn't."

"Do you really think Jackson believed you had orders from Coin?" Cressida asks. "Of course
she didn't. But she trusted Boggs, and he'd clearly wanted you to go on."
"I never even told Boggs what I planned to do."

"You told everyone in Command!" says Gale. "It was one of your conditions for being the
Mockingjay. 'I kill Snow.'"

Katniss looks up at him, shaking her head. "But not like this. It's been a complete disaster."

"I think it would be considered a highly successful mission," says Gale. "We've infiltrated the
enemy camp, showing that the Capitol's defenses can be breached. We've managed to get
footage of ourselves all over the Capitol's news. We've thrown the whole city into chaos
trying to find us."

Oh, I think. He doesn't really understand how her mind works.

"Trust me, Plutarch's thrilled," Cressida adds.

"That's because Plutarch doesn't care who dies," Katniss retorts. "Not as long as his Games
are a success."

And that's how her mind works, I think, as Gale and Cressida continue to press their point. Or
at least how it has worked since the arena. Death is personal now - even the ones deemed
"necessary." Because - when you've killed in the arena, it's not on your own behalf - it's for
the benefit of the Capitol, and that makes you pause - or it should - before you waste other
people's lives in someone else's cause.

"What do you think, Peeta?" asks Katniss, suddenly, looking over to me.

I haven't followed the discussion, so I'm not sure if she's asking me to address something
specifically, but I don't think so, somehow. I search my heart for the answer. "I think … you
still have no idea. The effect you can have." I slide my arms up so I can struggle to a sitting
position. Something that maybe got lost amidst all the distracting romance strategy stuff -
something that maybe I never fully explained to her … how much I admired her, even when
we were kids, quite apart from how infatuated I was with her. How there's always been
something about her. "None of the people we lost were idiots. They knew what they were
doing. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow."

She looks at me closely for a moment, then she comes over and reverses the maneuver from
last night - leaning over me to undo the handcuffs from the metal bar- watching me rub my
free wrists for a moment - then gently replacing the cuffs.

She sits down and pulls out a paper map, spreading it out on the floor. "Where are we,
Cressida?"

Cressida sits down next to her and points. "Five blocks. And, we're in a zone where all the
pods should be deactivated."

"Our disguises should get us there, with maybe some enhancements," says Gale.

"Then what?" asks Katniss.

"The mansion is sure to be heavily guarded," adds Cressida. "And the pods can be activated
at any moment."

"What we need is to get him out in the open," Gale says. "Then one of us could pick him off."

"Does he ever appear in public anymore?" I ask.

Cressida shakes her head. "I don't think so. At least, in all the recent speeches I've seen, he's
been in the mansion. Even before the rebels got here. I imagine he became more vigilant after
Finnick aired his crimes."

Interesting. I wonder … aren't we moving a little fast here? Might not Snow's own
unpopularity be used against him? I wish we knew more about the players in Plutarch's
underground, people who might know more about what has really been going on in the
Capitol and how to infiltrate the mansion.

"I bet he'd come out for me," Katniss says. "If I were captured. He'd want that as public as
possible. He'd want my execution on his front steps. Then Gale could shoot him from the
audience."

"No," I say at once, thinking about Katniss taken to the cells underneath the training center.
That's what Snow would do, first. "There are too many alternative endings to that plan. Snow
might decide to keep you and torture information out of you. Or have you executed publicly
without being present. Or kill you inside the mansion and display your body out front."

"Gale?" she asks.

He hesitates. "It seems like an extreme solution to jump to immediately. Maybe if all else
fails. Let's keep thinking."

Now, I'm annoyed at Gale, and maybe I'm not thinking as rationally and dispassionately
about our "mission" as I should be, but there's no possible way I'm allowing Katniss to
deliberately let herself be captured. I'd give myself up first. I'm already broken - she has a
shot, at least, of living some kind of normal life after all this is over.

After a few minutes, the panel at the stop of the stairs slides open and Tigris calls down to us,
her voice a low growl. "Come up. I have some food for you."

As we climb up, Cressida asks her if she contacted Plutarch.

"No way to," says Tigris with a shrug. "He'll figure out you're in a safe house. Don't worry."

Up in the shop, Tigris has laid out some hunks of bread, old cheese and mustard on her
counter. I ate better in my cell, rotten food notwithstanding.

"We have some food," says Katniss, guiltily.

Tigris waves her words away. "I eat next to nothing. And then, only raw meat."
That's a bit creepy, but we're in no place to question the woman's eccentricities. Katniss
scrapes the mold off the cheese and divides it and the bread up among the five of us.

We sit behind the counter and watch the little TV that's on top of it. A rolling news broadcast
shows that the Capitol has narrowed our little squad down to the five us. They are offering a
huge cash reward for information leading to our capture. Show us to be dangerous and
violent. They have some grainy footage of the battle with the Peacekeepers in the tunnels.
Then a tribute to the woman Katniss shot in her apartment, who worked for the
administration in some capacity.

"Have the rebels made a statement today?" Katniss asks Tigris, who shakes her head. "I doubt
Coin knows what to do with me now that I'm still alive."

Tigris laughs. "No one knows what to do with you, girlie." As we prepare to go back
downstairs, Tigris presses a pair of fur leggings on Katniss, who only takes them after some
wrangling.

Downstairs, we try making plans again. Cressida asks us if there is a view from the Training
Center into the back of the mansion, where Snow might go.

"No," I say quickly. "Anyway, the Training Center is occupied."

"That's where Peeta was held," confirms Gale.

Katniss turns to me sharply. Taking care to keep my voice calm, I add, "Katniss and I have
been on the roof and from all sides - it's at the wrong angle to the mansion - you can't see
behind it. Even if there wasn't the force field all around it. I don't know about the other
buildings on the city circle. I've never known what they were."

"The Media Center is there," says Cressida. "Which is also the Game Center. There's a hotel-
restaurant. And a library and a museum. But I think you're right." She looks again at the map.
"The angles of the buildings allow the back of the mansion to be private. And there are high
walls and trees around the back. The hospital - here, a few blocks on the other side - might
have a better view. But of course it's crawling with people, and is pretty secure."

"We'll just have to try to infiltrate the mansion," says Gale, impatiently. "From the back walls,
if we can. And - we can't go out all together as a group. They're looking for five of us now."

Katniss nods. "OK, we'll try that - before I turn myself in."

I don't like the way she has worded that, but I'm not sure how to have the argument with her
that needs to be had. She's stubborn when she puts her mind to something. She changes my
bandages and then handcuffs me back to the railing. I don't lie down at first. I feel like I need
to think. I feel like there was once a time that I was good at thinking things through, seeing
alternatives. And if I could just access that ...

I sleep for a moment, and my dreams return to taunt me with the things I still can't quite
remember.
"I do. I need you," she says and she leans forward to kiss me, under a sky that sparkles with
intense, unrealistic stars. Beneath my fingers, the sand begins to bubble, and I'm terrified
again and fly out of the dream, safe - and frustrated. Surely - part of that can't be real. Maybe
all of it isn't real. Of course, she kissed me in the arena. That was part of her job. But ...

I wake up abruptly. My back is sore - I fell asleep sitting up against the railing. I blink into
the darkness until I find her, curled up under a pile of furs. I wonder if she still has
nightmares and, if so, how she has been managing to sleep in between them.

As if reading my thoughts, Gale suddenly sits up and looks around, rubbing his eyes. He
looks first for Katniss, then he sees me sitting awake.

"Hey," he says.

I nod.

He gets up and stretches, then walks over to the faucet in the corner of the room. "Thirsty?"

"A little."

He fills a cup and brings it over. Since I can't take the cup in my hands, he has to hold it to
my mouth and tip it back for me to drink. Kind of humiliating, but the handcuffing was my
idea.

"Thanks for the water," I tell him, and he sits down next to me.

"No problem. I wake up ten times a night anyway."

"To make sure Katniss is still here?"

"Something like that."

Yeah, I'm a little worried about that, too. It would be difficult for her to bust out of the
basement without rousing someone, but that doesn't mean that she might not try. I don't think
she really intends to bring all the rest of us with her into the final danger.

"That was funny," I say, after a pause. "What Tigris said. About no one knowing what to do
with her."

"Well, we never have," Gale says.

I laugh, and he joins in. Then, I think - I have a gift for him. And if he was part of the team
that rescued me from the training center - and it seems he was - then I owe him at least some
peace of mind.

"She loves you, you know," I tell him. "She as good as told me after they whipped you."

"Don't believe it," Gale answers gruffly. "The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell …
well, she never kissed me like that."
I shiver. How strangely this conversation meshes with the thoughts I woke up on. I wonder
uneasily if maybe part of me only said what I did in order to draw this response from him. To
hear Gale say the words, the one person who has no cause to offer me false comfort or hope.
To know I am not alone in my jealousy. "It was just part of the show," I say, tentatively.

He shakes his head. "No, you won her over. Gave up everything for her. Maybe that's the
only way to convince her you love her." Since I'm not even convinced I love her, this
statement only confuses me. All I can think of is how bleak a picture he is painting of Katniss
- it can't really be true, can it, that she requires an absolute sacrifice from her lover? We were
forced into that situation - someone had to make a sacrifice, and she and I never did end up
agreeing on who it should be. But Gale has somehow convinced himself of this - as if - as if -
no matter what he did to try to win her over, it never seemed to be enough. Which means …
"I should have volunteered to take your place in the first Games," he adds suddenly.
"Protected her then."

Which means … he really doesn't get her. And he doesn't get what it means to go into the
Games, either. Which is forgivable - and for which I should really absolve him, if she hasn't.
"You couldn't," I say. "She'd never have forgiven you. You had to take care of her family.
They matter more to her than her life."

"Well, it won't be an issue much longer. I think it's unlikely all three of us will be alive at the
end of the war. And if we are, I guess it's Katniss' problem. Who to choose." Gale yawns.
"We should get some sleep," he adds, as if he hasn't tossed out all possibility of sleep with
this conversation.

"Yeah," I say. I slide down the railing so that I am lying down now, and Gale stands up to go
back to his own bed. "I wonder how she'll make up her mind."

"Oh, that I do know." I wait in fascination for the rest of his response - coin flip, interviews, a
race of some kind? "Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without."
 Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Whoever she thinks she can't survive without.

For a few minutes, I try to puzzle through this statement. At face value, it's ridiculous.
Katniss needs no one to survive, physically. And when it comes to emotional survival, I think
the short list would have to be her mother and sister. Between Gale and me … well, that's
never been clear to me, and is less so now, with my scrambled memories. She's never been
too keen to lose either of us - but as for being unable to survive without one of us?

I really don't know. Haymitch seems to think so, but he's such a misanthropic loner - what
could he possibly really know about this sort of thing?

Why does it matter?

That's the thought that stops me short. It's absurd to think that I would even be any part of a
discussion about Katniss' future - if there even is such a thing as a future. I tried to kill her
just a couple of days ago. I came close to losing it on her at least once after that. At best, I
represent a previous possibility now closed off - someone who might have been, until the
Capitol changed me. Gale's clearly patronizing me by pretending otherwise.

I get no more sleep for the rest of the night; these thoughts fill me with anxiety. Katniss is up
herself in a few hours, and she releases me from the staircase, wordlessly, before rousing the
others. We go upstairs for breakfast and to watch television. District 13 has broken into the
airwaves again, and they sit on them for a while. We watch their strategy for ridding the
streets of pods - they collect the abandoned cars from the outer neighborhoods and roll them
up ahead of the troops, setting off most, if not all, of the pods.

We see an interactive map, showing roughly the locations of the rebel troops. Although there
have been incursions all around the outer neighborhoods in the Capitol - effectively making
ground escape very difficult as the rebellion encircles the city - the primary thrust toward the
center of the city originates from the direction of the train station. Three separate squads are
making roughly parallel paths toward Snow's mansion. While we're not given specifics - the
separate incursions called simply the A, B and C lines - they seem to be a couple of dozen
blocks in from the train station, and, with the disposal of pods, making rapid progress.

Katniss does not look particularly happy about the advance of the rebels, and Gale remains
unmoved. "This can't last," he says. "In fact, I'm surprised they've kept it going so long. The
Capitol will adjust by deactivating specific pods and then manually triggering them when
their targets come in range."

Sure enough, this is exactly what starts to happen. We watch live as a couple of units of
soldiers, following along a recently "cleared" stretch of street, are killed by an exploding row
of rosebushes. I look at Gale when this happens and wonder how it came to be that he would
have such authority, such instinctive knowledge of these matters. I'm pretty sure I never
really thought about him in the past, except to be fairly jealous. Handsome, confident, clearly
able to take care of himself. Angry … angrier than Katniss, now that I've seen it up close -
the anger not impulsive, as it is in her, but controlled and controlling. It's his compass, his
strength - his reason for being, at least for now. After the war, maybe not, hopefully not. But
with 12 gone, what will he do, what will he be, where will he go?

"I bet it's killing Plutarch not to be in the control room on this one," I say, thinking about the
Gamemakers' delight in tightly-controlled mayhem.

Following this setback, the rebels concede the airwaves back to the Capitol. It's strangely
hard not to feel sympathy for the reporters, their bright and cheerful hair and clothes bizarrely
mismatched with their grim and increasingly fearful expressions. A young, attractive woman
- the kind of woman who has been a staple of Capitol broadcasts for forever - outlines the
blocks and neighborhoods where the latest mandatory evacuations have started ... and you
can see she has the dazed look of a tribute, name called at the Reaping. She must know - she
must understand - that it is the beginning of the end. But it takes a while for the truth of that
to settle in.

Katniss lays out her map, and, with Cressida's help, marks the locations of the evacuating
neighborhoods, and by that we can see roughly how far the rebellion is from us. Close - but
slowed down again, now that their gambit with the pods is over.

Katniss goes over to the little window in an alcove behind the counter - this faces the main
street - and carefully peers out for a couple of minutes. "Evacuees," she murmurs.

Tigris offers to go out and see what she can find out about what is going on in our part of the
city. We go back downstairs, and Katniss is restless, getting up to abruptly pace around every
once in a while. I sit down with Pollux and Cressida, and Cressida helps me learn how to
communicate - with a kind of shorthand made up of hand gestures - with him. By no means
can we have a comprehensive conversation, but I feel so sorry for him. He's not a soldier - he
just came out to film war propos, and here he is, part of the most wanted group of people in
Panem, his friend and brother both gruesomely killed. And unable to talk about it. I feel some
sort of obligation to him - since Darius and Lavinia were killed just to torment me - to show
him the humanity of which they were robbed.

But it's beneficial for me, too, it turns out. To do something good - to learn something new.
To have something to really concentrate on. Learning hand signs for "yesterday" and
"tomorrow," for "grief."

"Why can't we just wait for the rebellion to take the Capitol?" I ask Cressida in a low voice.

"Maybe we can," she says, with a shrug. "But we probably won't be able to hide out for that
long. Anyway, I'm not sure Katniss wants 13 to catch up with her. She never really had much
patience with Coin."

"Why not?"
Cressida looks at me for a second. "It might have started when they left you behind in the
arena."

"Oh. I’m not sure she was being sincere, but Coin told me it was me she wanted, not
Katniss."

"And that makes it any better?"

She's right, I realize. I've spent so much time noticing Gale's misunderstandings of Katniss
that I have forgotten my own. Katniss and I - in the arenas - kept making these impossible
pacts. She had decided on my life just as I had decided on hers - and I never really
understood the why of it. But separation, outside of death, was not acceptable, not survivable,
ever since the allegiance we made in the first Games. It wasn't love or friendship - though
that was all wrapped into it, to varying degrees. I guess it was about the basic, fundamental
human need for unity, for alliance - an impulse that has been sorely lacking in Panem,
perhaps dating back to its founding.

And that, I realize, is why those berries - that decision - sparked a rebellion so hot and fierce
that it has thoroughly burned Panem in the year and a half since. And how wildly Snow (and
I) miscalculated the reasons why. It wasn't because Katniss was in love with me - or even
because they believed she was.

It was because she wasn't - and she was still willing to die rather than leave me behind.

And since I misinterpreted what happened in that arena - and focused so much on my
grievances afterward - I misunderstood how powerful and fragile was the thing that she had
started. How powerful and fragile was the thing that she felt for me. Perhaps, if some good is
ever possible to come out of the torture and hijacking, maybe it is this: stripped of my old
romantic feelings for her, I can finally actually see it.

I can also see why it was so important for me to be here, back in the arena with her. What
Coin's purpose was, I can't begin to imagine. But this is where I am supposed to be.
Friendship and love still tangled up in it, yes, but mostly this - our deep alliance that doesn't
allow us to be separated. Not for me and what used to be my childhood crush – not for her
and whatever limited help I can offer her – but for Panem. Whether we burn down the
Capitol or burn to death, we need to be seen doing so together.

After lunch - and we're down now to a handful of canned foods - Gale says, "Tigris is taking
a long time."

Katniss gets up again and makes a restless circuit of the room.

"What are you saying?" asks Cressida. "Do you think she was arrested?"

"Or turned us in for the reward," says Gale, with a shrug.

"No." Katniss and I say it at the same time - Katniss because it was her idea to trust Tigris, I
think, and she can't bear the thought of being responsible for leading us into a trap. Me,
because I don't want to go down that road right off.
"It's a big city," I say, with an apologetic smile to Katniss. "If she had contacts - like some
more of Plutarch's people - maybe she had to go a long distance. If she wanted to turn us in,
she could have flagged down a Peacekeeper within minutes."

"I hope she isn't injured," Katniss frets.

"Same here, obviously," says Gale, with a touch of exasperation, looking at his watch. "But
we need to stay aware. If she's not back tonight, we need to get out of here, ourselves. That's
a fact."

"I agree," I reply quickly.

But by six o'clock, we hear movement above us in the shop, and we wait in silence while we
hear a shuffling and incidental noises. It doesn't sound like someone conducting a search, at
least. After a while, the panel at the top of the stairs slides open and Tigris calls us upstairs.

As we get up, we hear and smell the sizzle of something frying. Tigris has got a hold of some
ham and potatoes and is frying it on the little hotplate she has in the little kitchenette behind
the dressing rooms. She serves it out and all of our eyes are wide - it's since camp at the train
station that we've had hot food.

"Fur underwear's a valuable trading commodity," she purrs, pleased at our grateful sighs. "If
the banks weren't frozen, I would make a killing right now. But there are more refugees than
shelter right now. The Peacekeepers are going door to door in the houses around the Avenue,
forcing them to take some of the refugees, but there are still dozens of them camping in the
City Circle."

She turns on the TV. After a propaganda program finishes - some sort of documentary about
how ruthless and cold-blooded District 13 was during the Dark Days - a special report comes
on. A Peacekeeper, standing in front of a flag, reminds all the viewers that the temperatures
will be below freezing tonight, and they are obligated to take in as many refugees as
proscribed by emergency order something-or-other, which specifies how many people should
be in any given dwelling based on square footage. This will be enforced very strictly.

Furthermore, he says, President Snow himself has prepared his own mansion to receive
refugees tomorrow; and an emergency session tonight is expected to expand the previous
emergency order to include shopkeepers.

"Tigris, that could be you," I say, in alarm.

"Also," continues the Peacekeeper, "you are reminded that we are under military orders and
there is no reason to take the law in your own hands. A young man was killed today by a
mob, apparently because of a resemblance to wanted rebel, Peeta Mellark. If you suspect you
see a rebel, contact law enforcement, do not take any other action - you put yourself and your
fellow citizens at risk."

I start as they show a photo of the victim - who is tall and willowy, with fake looking beauty
marks on his face under thick, bleached curls.
"People have gone wild," says Cressida.

The rebels take over after this and show their progress of the day - they must have figured out
some new way of getting rid of pods, which they are just not airing on TV for the Capitol
forces to see, this time. Katniss, looking at her map, shows one squad - Line C - to be only
four blocks away.

She looks more anxious than happy at this news, and she's very quiet and thoughtful as we
finish our meal, now with a peaceful program - an aerial video montage of the Capitol and its
surrounding mountains, in happier times, set to some stringed instrumental music - in the
background. Once, I see her look up at me, with a small frown, but whatever disturbs her, she
doesn't say out loud. I’m remarkably acurious about whatever is bothering her. I have reached
peace - for the first time in months; ready now, again, to face death or whatever waits at the
end of this road. Finally, she stands up and wrings her hands.

"Let me wash the dishes," she says.

"I'll give you a hand," says Gale, collecting the plates.

I watch them go, then I shrug and just hope he can talk her out of whatever desperate plan she
is formulating. I turn to Pollux and expand on my knowledge of his hand language. Where
there are words he can't explain, he mouths them - or their spellings, if that doesn't work. In
this way, I find out where in the city he was raised, how he got into camera work, how Castor
got him in with Cressida after he was sprung from the sewers. I don't ask what he did that the
Capitol turned him into an Avox. I know, from past experience, that it will have probably
been ridiculously trivial.

After a couple of minutes, Katniss and Gale come back and sit back down at the table,
Katniss clutching her map.

"I've decided," she says, "that the time is now. Now that refugees are crowding around the
mansion, and tomorrow they will be let in it - now is the time to try to infiltrate it. We'll put
on our disguises again, and leave early tomorrow, and get to the City Circle. By we," she
adds, taking a deep breath, and glancing at me briefly, "I mean me and Gale. We know we
can't go out in a group of five. Cressida and Pollux could help us by going ahead as scouts
and seeing - how many Peacekeepers are in our way, how they are sorting people to be let
into the mansion. Peeta, you …." She stops, and looks at me, her mouth trembling a little.

"I agree that I'd be a risk to the rest of you," I say slowly, staring at her in turn. "And I've
been thinking about that, too. If you're going, I could go - at a safe distance behind you."

"To do what?" asks Cressida.

"I'm not sure exactly. The one thing that I might still be useful at is causing a diversion. You
saw what happened to that man who looked like me."

Katniss slightly shakes her head. "What if you … lose control?"

"You mean - go mutt?" I ask with a smile. "Well, if I feel that coming on, I'll try to get back
here."

"And if Snow gets you again?" asks Gale. "You don't even have a gun."

"I'll just have to take my chances, like the rest of you." I look at him steadily for a moment.
Then, he reaches into his uniform pocket and pulls it out - the little purple pill that the rebels
have called nightlock. I hold out my hand and he puts it on my palm. Indecisive, I let it lie
there for a moment, pondering it. "What about you?" I ask him.

"Don't worry. Beetee showed me how to detonate my explosive arrows by hand. If that fails,
I've got my knife. And I'll have Katniss," he smiles. "She won't give them the satisfaction of
taking me alive."

I look over at her, but her expression is simply bleak. "Take it, Peeta," she finally says,
reluctantly. She reaches over and closes my fingers over the pill, as if afraid if she sees it
there too long, she'll change her mind. "No one will be there to help you."

We go downstairs to sleep our last night in this place, and this time, when I go over to the
stair rail to be cuffed to it again, she shakes her head.

"Katniss," I say.

"This might be the last night you ever get to sleep," she says stubbornly. "I know you can't be
sleeping well, and you need to be alert tomorrow."

"Katniss."

"Do you really -" she says. "Do you really think you are in danger of attacking me tonight?"

"No, but - it doesn't work like that."

"Peeta," she says, in a low voice that maybe I can only hear. "Trust me."

"I do," I whisper. "It's not you I can't trust."

She smiles a bleak little smile. "Anyway, I'm guessing I won't really sleep tonight, anyway."
She stares down at my handcuffed hands and shakes her head. "I trust you," she says.

The only reason I agree is the niggling little fear in my head that she might leave me there,
cuffed to the stairs, when she leaves in the morning. I curl myself down next to the stairs
anyway, on the other side of the room from her, where maybe my sleepy brain will forget that
I am not confined. I start to strain my cuffs, to find the pain that has kept me focused. But I'm
really not in danger of losing it. If anything, I'm hyperfocused, thinking about what tomorrow
will be like. It's hard to visualize the situation we'll go into. I've never mingled in a crowd
larger than the one at the Reaping Ceremony, let alone one filled with people who would give
me up - at best - if they recognized me.

It is a fitful night. My dreams disturb me. They're not nightmares - not like the ones I'm used
to, anyway, with straight-up horrors of mutts and tributes with swords and knives. I have a
dream about Finnick, standing on the beach in District 4, looking out over the ocean, as if it
was brand new to him. I try to ask what is bothering him, but I can't speak - my voice doesn't
work, as if my own tongue has been cut out. His intent look changes suddenly, and he runs
toward the water. The waves rise up to meet him and crash all around him, soaking him, but
he emerges, and he is holding something in his arms - a body, its long dress and hair dripping
lifeless over him.

Katniss wakes me in the morning. She looks tired, grim, sad - but she has that set look again.
That lift to her chin, that hardness to her mouth. She is all willpower and determination. We
eat the last of our canned food, save one can of salmon, which we take up to Tigris as a
parting gift. She stares at it as if no one has ever given her anything before - then she zooms
around us with a sudden determined energy. She covers us in layers of clothes that
completely hide our rebel uniforms. Then layers us again in coats and cloaks. She covers our
boots with furry slippers. She secures our wigs with hairpins and redoes our makeup with a
deft hand. I marvel at her work when I look at Katniss – who I would know anywhere - and
see that her face is contoured and caked almost past recognition with pale makeup. Her eyes
made slanted with eyeliner. Her eyelashes extended. She's dressed in a long, red cape, and
when she puts up the hood, it conceals more than half of her face.

"Never underestimate the power of a brilliant stylist," I say. Tigris blushes behind her striped
mask, and hands me a large, purple handbag.

The television is on in the background, but it is still just showing canned programming.
Cressida and Pollux prepare to leave - they will go first, as scouts, as Katniss suggested. At
just 6 o'clock, Tigris goes to the shutters of her back office window, waiting for a lull in the
crowd, then gives a thumbs up after a couple of minutes. She goes to unbolt the front door
and Cressida and Pollux slip out, with one last "take care," from Cressida as they go.

Katniss comes over to stand next to me, holding out the key to my handcuffs. She unlocks
them, then stuffs them somewhere inside her layers of coats.

It's … December or January now, I think. I may have lost track of time, but I think I can
count four or five months since the Quarter Quell ended, if by nothing else than the change of
the seasons. For all of that time, I have not been free. I've been imprisoned by Snow, or held
under strict confinement by 13, or under constant guard by my unit. I rub my bandaged
wrists, feel the ooze of the blood underneath them. I flex them, missing the strain of the cuffs,
but still able to call up the pain from the scabs I have not let set.

When I look up at Katniss, with a faint smile, I see that there is panic in her face. She looks
like she is on the verge of calling everything off. Maybe she's going to order me to stay here,
to stay imprisoned for just a little while longer - just until this is all over.

But maybe she also understands - that I can't dismiss the call of the arena, either. Not when
she is there. "Listen," she says. "Don't do anything foolish."

I know what she's talking about. "No. It's last-resort stuff. Completely."

Suddenly, she throws her arms around my neck, forcing my head down until my chin rests on
the top of her head. She smells … she doesn't smell sweet, obviously - she smells like sweat
and dirt and blood. But - she smells also - so familiar. Something indefinable. Something like
home. I'm not sure if I should or not - I've been so careful not to touch her - but there is no
resisting it, and at last I raise my arms and put them around her. Breathe with her. Try to put
all my regrets and apologies into this very last embrace.

"All right then," she says, her words tickling my neck. She lets me go, and I feel - strangely
unfinished. Gale is watching us from the doorway. As usual, his expression is shrouded.

"It's time," says Tigris.

And she goes.

 Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Now it's my turn to wait for a signal out, and the minutes tick by ridiculously slowly. Tigris
isn't happy with the movement of the crowd - and at one point we hear distant gunfire - but
I'm anxious: it feels wrong, somehow, to be waiting this long, and, after a while, I realize
what my problem is. It's like I've watched her go down the hill with the coil of wire and
Johanna again. The wrong decision then; the wrong decision now. I'm about to just burst out
the door, when Tigris waves me on.

It's a dark morning, gray on white on gray. The clouds are low and the tiny little flecks of
snow make a kind of mist, reducing visibility. The alley, which was near empty the day we
came to it, is overflowing with people now, walking slowly up the street, bundled up in coats
and head gear. There's a lot of low talking, some groaning, but mostly muffled. People are
keeping their heads down, which is good for me. I'm trying not to draw attention to myself,
and it's all I can do not to thrust people out of my way so I can hurry up and find Katniss.

I follow the crowd as it joins up with the scores of people walking up one of the main
avenues. My heart sinks. First of all, I am heading straight toward the back of the Remake
Center, which means the avenue that leads to the City Circle - the street on which I rode,
twice, as a tribute. It doesn't matter that that is my destination; seeing it fills me with dread,
anyway. Secondly, in this sea of refugees, how will I find Katniss?

The crowd stretches from sidewalk to sidewalk - and back, as far as I can see, and ahead.
There's no way even a tenth of this crowd can be sheltered in the mansion, so what happens
to most of them - us - when we get there? Hopefully, in the chaos, there will be a way to slip
in … but …

There's another burst of gunfire, and this time, it's very close - maybe a couple of blocks
ahead of us. Speak of chaos … everyone screams, and most people duck, or dive out of the
street to the nearest sidewalk. A line of Peacekeepers breaks through us, attempting to run up
towards the action. I can see the flashes from the guns coming from the rooftop of a building
on the next block.

I break into a run … really a sort of modified, zig-zagging jog, in the wake of the
Peacekeepers. This becomes easier as the crowd starts thinning out - many of the people now
hesitating to push forward into what could be worse trouble than what they reckoned.

I stop short at the intersection of the next block, a move which might save my life, because,
ahead of me, the line of Peacekeepers is thinned out by bullets from above. I dive to the side,
under the flimsy awnings over the shops in this area. I can see them now - rebels, I guess, by
their drab uniforms. They are shooting wildly into the intersection from the near corner of the
roof, but as the Peacekeepers push through the intersection, the shooters run from the near
corner to the far one, as the action moves ahead of us.
But what stopped me short was not the shooting. It is the bloodbath in the intersection. There
are bodies everywhere - many of them the white-clad peacekeepers, yes. But many of them
Capitol citizens, old men and women, young men and women, and children. For a few
moments, I'm paralyzed with fear, and not the fear of the bullets, which I might actually
welcome, at this point, depending. I need to see them all - just as I did in that arena - to make
sure that she is not among the bodies.

It is its own form of torture, as I dash from body to body, trying to make my mind remember
what she was wearing, so I can look for colors, but my mind is racing. I keep getting
distracted by the small bodies, the vacant faces. The sound of the gun fire is now a near-
constant, falling around my ears like the snow. There's a smell to it, too, acrid, dirty - making
my nose hurt and my eyes water.

Somewhere up another couple of blocks, there's a loud noise - a muffled boom. Screams rend
the air - some of intense pain, some of shock and horror. I go back to the sidewalk, crouch
under an awning, and watch while a white smoke rises into the white air. There are faces in
the windows - the refugees who have taken shelter in the avenue shops are pressing against
the glass, watching me. I'm about to move on - keep following the noise and the screams -
when I see a stirring on the ground next to me.

It's a little boy - like three, maybe. He's been shot in the stomach and is bleeding but stirring,
and starting to cry. Shit. I can't …

But there's nothing else to do. I pull off my scarf and bunch it up against his wound. When
the next squad of Peacekeepers runs past me, I call out for help, but I'm ignored. So, I pick
him up and carry him into the nearest shop, which is a pet shop. Inside, the uneasy murmurs
of the gathered citizens are drowned out by a cacophony of alarmed birds.

"Can anybody help him?" I scream over the noise. "Please - anyone …"

A loud boom rattles the ground and the lights in the shop flicker in and out. If the Capitol
doesn't fall today, it will be a fucking miracle, I think, frantically.

Someone takes the child, eventually, and I go running back outside. Now I'm sweating,
despite the snow, and when I run up to the next corner, all these months of being under
restraint, underfed, medicated have caught up to me, and I'm out of breath, too. I dash into an
alley and take off my coat and - because it's a target on my back - the uniform shirt of District
13. That leaves me in a nondescript thermal undershirt, but I don't care. The cold snap is good
for my brain, and I feel lighter, more agile. I also take off the wig, which is probably askew,
anyway, and I just don't feel like I can run in it without worrying about it flying off. I pull a
wool cap off of some dead man's head and push it over my blonde hair.

I look a lot more like Peeta Mellark, probably, but I'm betting the mayhem has moved beyond
capturing some wayward former tribute.

Since my quick foray off the main street, it has cleared considerably. I can't see anyone ahead
of me - well, no one moving. The roof tops have cleared, also. Now's my chance to make up
ground.
Up at the next intersection, my feet start slipping on the cement. Here is where the next
massacre has happened, and I struggle to make sense of it. The entire block seems to be
covered with a slick layer of ice, as if water had been poured over it and quickly frozen over.
The bodies here are scalded bright pink and again I scamper between them, looking with
dread for the one girl - but recognition would be harder now, and I know I have already got
myself too far behind, so I just make a quick survey before moving on.

The next block is even worse, the snow on the ground is flesh pink, spray painted with blood.
The corpses, unreadable. I'm beginning to worry that it is not possible for Katniss not to be
among the dead.

Up above me I am starting to see people again, swimming around vaguely in the misty,
smoky light. I grasp a scarf that has fallen to the ground and wrap it around my neck and lips.
I hesitate next to the body of a Peacekeeper, wondering if I should take his weapon. But -
apart from the fact that I'm not sure I know how to use it, my only chance of staying alive
back up where the fight is is to be taken as a harmless citizen, target to neither Peacekeepers
nor rebels, so I let it be. A crowd has gathered around the next intersection, and as I push
through, I see why - the entire intersection is gone, replaced by a gaping maw.

The people around the hole are screaming, and they are answered by the screams and some
animal, mutt-like noises from below. And by bullets. The rebels are back on the rooftops and
on the other side of the hole, aiming for us - trying to pick out Peacekeepers, I hope, but they
are not the most accurate snipers, and someone falls right next to me before I realize I have to
get out of the open. But … where …

Then I hear it, faintly. A voice I'd know anywhere. "Gale?! Gale?!"

As I turn toward the sound, I feel a sharp pain in my right knee. But it feels like just a
glancing blow, so I ignore it for now, and instead push my way to the edge of the intersection
- trying to see if I can find her, to catch a glimpse of her, and, if she's given herself away, to
draw fire away from her.

"Everyone to the side street!" yells someone, almost in my ear, and the crowd lurches
suddenly sideways. The Peacekeepers sprint to the new front of the line and start waving the
crowd to follow them, to an alleyway off the street. And I realize - these people don't care
anymore about Katniss or me. They are being fired upon by all sides. The rebels are targeting
them from above - and have even passed them on the way to the City Circle. The Capitol is
setting off pods in the streets, caring nothing about who gets killed. They're just trying to get
out of here, anyway they can, and get to the place they have been promised safety.

I linger behind, letting the crowd move along without me, covering my head with my hands -
as if that would keep a bullet from slicing it open. But it's safer with the Peacekeepers gone -
the rebel bullets have slowed down. And I'm peering desperately over to the other side of the
intersection, knowing that I heard her - and then, at the last minute, I see her. I can just see
her flipping the cloak around on her back, turning the scarlet side under and the black lining
out, before she leaps away, alone.

I can't call her name, obviously, so I hesitate a moment, wondering if I can shimmy along the
edge of this hole to get to the other side, calculating how long it might take. I shake my head
and follow the Peacekeepers down the alley. I just need to get to the City Circle, to meet her
there. I wonder what happened to Gale, and I think of the screams in the hole with a sick
feeling.

We creep down the alleyways for two, three, four blocks, then come out onto a wide, open
street. Looking up, I can see the Training Center looming over us. Then everyone just starts
bolting, running nonstop until the tribute avenue opens up on us and we are just outside the
City Circle.

The first thing I have to do is dive to the ground as a spray of bullets opens up behind us.
We've managed to come out right in front of the rebel front line. It's a small unit, and the
Peacekeepers in our group turn and engage with them, with the Capitol refugees and me
between them. I put my hands over my head and slither away on my elbows and knees.

Before I know it, I'm on the sidewalk on the far end and I get up and just start running.
Pushing people out of the way - it doesn't matter anymore. So many people are dressed in
black coats and cloaks, I can't easily find her. I can only hope she did make it here. But even
if she didn't - and it's possible that I'm the last remaining survivor of Squad 451 - I have to get
up to the City Circle and try to join the ranks of the refugees allowed in the mansion. It might
be up to me to kill Snow.

There is not an inch of space in the Circle. Throwing elbows and thrusting my hip against the
people in front of me, I just keep running into a wall of bodies.

"The rebels! The rebels!"

There's a shout from behind me and the whole crowd pushes forward with a scream. This is
crazy. Not only will I not be able to find Katniss, if she even is here, I may very well end up
crushed to death by the crowd. I look up at the buildings around me. The Training Center is
opposite me, and I'm not going back there, anyway. Closer to me are a couple of other
buildings. I remember what Cressida said - a library, a restaurant, a museum, the Game
Center; they could be any of these, there is no signage that I can see. I push against the crowd
and head over to the nearest of the buildings.

There are a couple of large concrete planters in front of it, maybe 18 inches high. I jump up
onto one and clutch the trunk of a small, leafless tree, and look up toward the mansion.

Something is - vaguely familiar - about what I see. In front of the mansion steps, there is a
large enclosure made up of concrete barricades. Peacekeepers surround the enclosure, and the
crowd presses against it. Inside the barricade are children. Little kids - screaming or shell-
shocked. Older kids, some holding babies or toddlers. Teenagers, huddling in groups. Why
…?

I've just barely formulated an idea when the noise in the crowd suddenly stops. The gunfire
stops, too, and there is just an eerie silence as a hovercraft suddenly appears overhead. For a
split second, before I see the Capitol seal on the underside of it, I think - this is it. I'm about to
die in a fire bombing just like my family did in District 12. And, for a split second, I'm OK
with it. But it's not bombs dropping on the Circle. It's silver parachutes, just like the ones in
the arena that bring gifts, and they are falling right into the enclosure of children.
Supposedly the victory in District 2 crippled the Capitol's air forces, or so I had heard. So
why are they wasting their resources on this activity - why not just let the refugees up into …

Boom. Boom. BOOM. The ground shakes and I am thrown backward onto the cement. That
rattling sensation, the concussion feeling. I clutch my head. What … happened?

The crowd around me is getting up and some of them are pushing forward, the rest running
back. I cough, and push myself up off the ground, hopping back onto the planter. I have a
clear view of the barricade now and see it - maybe the worst thing I've seen in two years of
seeing horrible things up close, of witnessing them first hand or having them done to me. The
parachutes, it seems, brought not gifts, but bombs. And the children in the enclosure have
been decimated. Their bodies - their body parts - are scattered everywhere. The ones who
have survived are attempting, panicked, to scale the blood-splattered barricades. The
Peacekeepers who had been guarding them are now frantically shoving the barricades aside.

They are joined by rebel soldiers, and a line of white-uniformed District 13 medics.

This … makes no ….

As if drawn to it, I step forward, not knowing what to do except to try to help recover the
children. But then I'm arrested by a single voice, faint in the roar of the crowd, but crying out
in a frantic wail like nothing I've ever heard before. Except maybe once.

"Prim! Prim!"

And in that arrested moment, the Circle ignites in fire. It streaks out from the center of the
barricade with a roar of sound, like a train screaming through a tunnel. I just have time to
throw my arms over my eyes when it catches me, licking me from head to toe, a tongue of
pure pain.

I drop to the ground, screaming myself, I think, as the flames shoot out all around me. I rock
myself on the cement, trying to put out the fire, trying to make sense of all the sounds and the
smells - thick smoke, burning wood, burning skin, blood. The heat baking the snow so that it
falls like boiling water around me.

Katniss.

I scramble to my feet, looking around. In the steam of the Circle, the children, the first wave
of rebels – most of them medics - the Peacekeepers and many of the citizens who fought and
clawed their way here this morning are dead or burning - the luckier ones are fleeing back
down the avenue into the arms of the rebellion. More squadrons of rebels are running up into
the circle and they are storming past the barricades now, and they are not alone. Some of the
remaining Peacekeepers have thrown off their helmets and have joined their charge up the
mansion steps.

Katniss.

I see her now - burning. She was quite close to the barricade, but was blown backward and
lies on her face, her black cloak ignited. And here, at last, at the very end, it is finally my turn
to save her.

I throw myself over her, patting down the fire with my bare hands. I can see where her layers
of clothes have burned away and the patches of her skin are showing, charred black. I cover
her with my body, waiting for the waves of people to pass us by, unwilling to let either of us
be known and taken away - by either side. Then, when I think it might be safe, I pick her up -
she's light as air - and stumble with her off the circle, back to the one place I know. Back to
the Training Center.
 Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

On the ground floor of the Training Center, there is a small lobby, and off of that, a huge
supply closet. This is where I take her, where Portia took me to bind my hands the night that
Katniss shoved me into an urn. Ignoring the searing pain that is starting to tremble up my
arms, I ransack the room of all its first aid supplies, bandages and medicines. I've heard not to
put medicine on a major burn, but to bandage it, at least, so I cut out patches of fabric
bandage and apply to the open spots on her back. Other parts - her neck, a little on the back
of her arms - look milder, so I apply some antibiotic cream to these.

I can feel a throbbing pain on my forehead. Some stinging pain in my upper legs. But I know
that the worst of my own injuries are on my trembling arms and, after a long period of
hesitation, I look down at them. My shirt sleeves have burned away and the back of my arms
look curious - bubbly in parts, ashy in others. We need medical treatment, both of us. But
outside this building, I don't know who is available - Rebel medics or Capitol soldiers, and I
certainly know of no one I can trust. There's only one person I can trust.

Haymitch - Haymitch will be searching for us. He'll be frantic, looking for us. Maybe, since
we left Tigris' shop this morning, and went out in view of the Capitol cameras, he's been able
to spot us, occasionally, on whatever feed is available to him, back in 13. With all the
cameras - with all the action - at the City Circle, there must have been some footage of what
happened, maybe even of me taking Katniss into the Training Center.

I hope so, because I'm slipping. I'm shaking and at first I wonder vaguely if the mutt is
coming out again. But nothing is silver - it's shock; I'm just going into shock. So, I prop
myself up against a metal shelf and gather her into my arms, and let myself trust in
Haymitch, and go ….

The smell of him enters before he does. I have a clear memory of him being cold sober in 13;
unpleasant but level-headed, an adult for once. But the Capitol has no restrictions, and he
smells oh-so-familiarly of white liquor and, faintly, of sick.

It was, of course, Haymitch who found us. Plutarch was apparently preoccupied, but the
whole thing - the double bombing of the children and the assault on the mansion - aired live
on the ever-vigilant television sets of Panem; at least those still remaining, which in the case
of District 13 is all of them. So, it's good that the rebels won that day, because anyone paying
attention could have found us, and who knows what would have happened. But Haymitch put
in a call to someone Plutarch trusted, and we were taken - both unconscious and in shock - to
the hospital, just two more patients in a sea of patients. And, on our way there, the
government of Panem toppled. We entered the hospital as wanted rebels. We were admitted
as rebel victors.
Sort of. I mean … in this period of transition, who are we all, really? Lucky, for one thing -
for once. I woke up swathed in foamy medicine, just conscious enough to nod vaguely when
they told me they'd be putting me out again to start the procedure of grafting fake Capitol
skin to replace the parts of me they couldn't save. There are no burn wards or plastic surgeons
in 13, or anywhere else. It's not unlikely that in other circumstances, I might have lost another
limb. Or worse.

Since then – a painful period of recovery, body and mind. The sensitive grafts. The sleepy,
white-haired psychiatrist, Dr. Aurelius, who has been shadowing me ever since my residency
in the burn unit began – asking me questions, questions, questions again – until I begin to
wonder if I was better off on the run from mutts in the underbelly of the Capitol. I only just
got my leg back, yesterday – for all the good it does me, as there is almost nowhere to go.

Dr. Aurelius follows Haymitch into the room, but I ignore him.

"You're alive!" I say to Haymitch, frowning into his watery eyes.

"Wasn't really in any danger of anything else," he says.

"Well - it's good to see you. I'm not sure who is or isn't anymore, really."

"Katniss is."

I'm silent for a moment. "Yes, I've seen her. Haven't talked to her."

"Get in line," he slurs. "She's talking to no one right now."

I close my eyes for a moment and her last, anguished cries fill my head. Prim! Prim! Every
morning I wake up, having forgotten that this impossible thing has happened, only to be
haunted by the call again. Dr. Aurelius won't tell me why – what does he know about why
District 13 chose to send her to the front line? But I feel like he is being deliberately obtuse.
He's clearly part of the underground rebel network. He certainly seems to know all the same
people Haymitch does.

When I open my eyes and turn to him, who I know is treating her, too, I frown. " Not
speaking? What's this?"

"Some form of transient aphasia brought on by severe emotional trauma," he says,

unhelpfully. I hate it when he uses obscure medical terminology. "Most likely temporary."

"Most likely ..? What if it's not? What happens then?"

Dr. Aurelius shrugs. "Treatments. But I think she is just waiting for the right stimulation to
speak again, really. Don't worry about that, I -."

"Is she still here?"

"We're moving her today," says Haymitch.

"Moving her where?" In stray moments between skin treatments, physical therapy, head
therapy and sleep, I've started to wonder: where now? What comes next after the end? If this
was a happy story, there would be home and happily-ever-after. This is not a happy story.
There is no home. Love and sanity are in pieces - and apparently not just for me.

There's a quick glance between the two men. "Snow's mansion."

"Snow's -" I cough on the word. "Snow's …?"

"Plenty of empty rooms there," mumbles Haymitch, but then he looks up at me intently, and
it reminds of something.

You always see the whole thing right away. At least as far as she's concerned.

"Coin's idea?" I ask him. My limited exposure to Coin means I can only guess but, looking
back on it, it seems clear she sent me - a still-fragile mental case - to the Capitol with no
regard for Katniss' safety around a boy who had been weaponized specifically to kill her. So
Katniss' physical health is not her top concern; nor her mental health, apparently.

Haymitch nods, his eyes glinting. Our ability to communicate wordlessly might not be as
refined as his psychic link with Katniss, but it's getting there. I can tell he's pleased that I've
figured something out that he dares not speak aloud. The thought depresses me, really. Some
part of me that does truly remember the last year and a half is sick and tired of the need for
lies and obfuscation. Here, at the end, we should at last be able to speak plainly. But
apparently - things have not changed all that much.

I sigh and run my fingers through my hair. It's getting long and unruly, and my fingers snag in
the curls. It would have been Calla's job to straighten that out - once upon a time.

"I want you to come with us," says Haymitch.

For a second, I forget about Coin and something bursts into life - or back into life - within
me. Is Haymitch - is Haymitch - actually including me, for once?

"No," says Aurelius right away.

And I shake my head. "No, I can't, Haymitch."

"But - you're ready to be released."

"Not to be - around her." I squint.

"Mr. Mellark is right," says Dr. Aurelius over Haymitch's sound of protest. "It won't be good
for him. It won't be good for her."

"That's psycho-bullshit," says Haymitch. "You don't know them. They need each other …."

That hurts, I think vaguely. It's like he's accusing me of abandoning my post, or something. I
put my hands to my temples and rub them, wondering – is he right? I figured I was done.
Done. It's the end of the thing that started the second that Effie Trinket called my name and I
clambered up on a stage as Katniss' district partner in the Games. Everything we have done
and undone, unraveled, burned, burned, burned – there is literally nothing left.

I slump down. Like a film behind my eyes, it is playing – the entire sequence of what
happened to Katniss when her father died and she began the process of starving to death. And
I couldn't – I couldn't let that happen. But there are so many more people now, in her life.
Surely – surely not – surely it is no longer up to me….

I smell Haymitch as he grips my arms. With an effort, I stop the manic rubbing of my head
and am overtaken by exhaustion.

"Hey - hey, hey, hey," he says awkwardly. "Doc - do something."

There is nothing but silence from Dr. Aurelius. I slump forward so that my head is on
Haymitch's chest and take deep breaths to clear my head. Then, as the silvery memories
recede, I straighten up and grip the edges of my bed. But I don't look at Haymitch - I look
down at the floor. "It's your job, now," I tell him. "I can't help her anymore."

The day is warping strangely. Clouds flutter now at great speeds and the sun flickers like an
unsteady light bulb over the grass and the pale flowers. Just below my perch on the rocks, the
ground shimmers and shivers, silver and blurry under the lights and shadows. I shake my
head, try to set the vision right, but it won't change, so I finally just accept that it continues to
be a silvery sort of day.

I zip open my pack and pull it out. A leather sketchbook - beautiful reddish-brown with a
fancy butterfly-shaped clasp and thick, crisp, pristine sheets of paper, slightly beige in color.
There are a lot of blank pages remaining in the book. Very symbolic - of all the work left
undone. But what there was completed - was beautiful. She had made a study of flames in all
manner of forms; flames are not easy to draw - take it from someone who knows - not as
easy, for example, as the ashy aftermath. But she had poured herself into the task.

And she drew me a lot, as well. She had to - I had to be fitted perfectly and precisely for all
occasions. But it's strange for me to see myself as the subject in so many drawings. I take on
a certain somber importance in these sketches.

And she takes on a certain somber importance in mine. I'd like to capture her mischievous
smile. Or at the very least her calm serenity. But I find it hard to even draw the sunny color of
her yellow hair, which was her only Capitol affectation. All the colors I use now are mute.

It's Aurelius who eventually tells me. I suppose it's true enough that the District 13 version of
me could never have handled it - I suppose it's also true that I suspected it all along, anyway.

I've moved to the residential treatment center, which is further out from the city center. It is -
by Capitol standards - very modest: a two story building with small studio apartments.
Haymitch shadows us the day of my move; as my legal guardian for another month or so, he
has to sign all the paperwork taking away my rights to leave until discharged or by court
order or special permission. I wonder if he'll ever come to visit - that's not really his forte,
even when we lived right next door to each other. At least he's not drunk, today - although it
is early.

"How - is she?" I ask him, while he wanders around my room, checking everything out.
There's not much. There's no functioning kitchen, as I will be required to eat in the common
area so my interaction with sharp utensils can be monitored. There's no television, which
should be a relief after all the time I was forced to stare into a flickering screen. But the trials
of President Snow and some of his surviving associates are ongoing, and from Haymitch's
hints, they seem to be waiting for Snow's execution to figure out what to do about Katniss.

"Still not talking." He gives me a look like it's my fault. "If you -."

I shake my head. "If she asks for me, I'll come. But she won't." I smile at his exasperated
look. I don't know where the knowledge finally came from - maybe it's because my
emotional detachment from her actually makes her a little easier to understand. I just know
that when she is hurt, she retreats - not from me, as I always thought, but into herself. My
presence would be a distraction, just as it was before, from her dealing with the trauma. The
more so, now. Because now it's the same for both of us. "Are you bugging Gale about this,
also?" I ask.

He looks at me like he's caught me fishing for information, but shrugs. "Hawthorne's in 2."

Weird, I think.

"Well, you'll have to see her eventually," Haymitch persists. "You'll be part of the big
execution hoopla. Wouldn't it be better to see her in private, first?"

I frown at this, having not expected it. I have no taste for it. I don't know what it is about me,
but it's always been the case. To celebrate a death - even the death of a monster - it is not in
me. I try to drum up some salivating hunger for vengeance - after all, this is the man who
programmed me to kill the last person I would ever want to see hurt. But he didn't quite wipe
out the boy who is so queasy about killings and that - I think with a sudden glimmer of
optimism - is something to rebuild myself on.

Haymitch is poking through the empty drawers in the bedroom when Dr. Aurelius rejoins us.

"OK, everything's all filed. We'll have to renew it when you turn 18, if necessary. What do
you think?"

"I think he needs clothes," grunts Haymitch.

"Well, we can purchase some - in the meanwhile, isn't there anything he brought from 13?"

"No, but -" Haymitch lifts his head. "I know where some of his older clothes might be. I'll
give you the address on the way out, but we'll have to make some calls."
Haymitch's mysterious idea becomes clear when Aurelius comes back some time later with a
couple of boxes full of clothes - some of which I remember very well, some of which are
familiar to me just because she was. Portia. For a moment, hope springs up in me, and I look
behind Aurelius, almost expecting to see her.

Most of the clothes are formal wear, but there are some casual slacks and sweaters - a blue
coat I wore last winter - the tee-shirts I wore on the train between fittings. "Where did you -?"

"Her studio - her and Cinna's studio." I feel the man's eyes on me, as I set down the boxes to
sort through. I frown to myself before I turn around, steeling myself to ask a question I don't
want to know the answer to. But he's taking something out of his pocket and staring at it.
"The building manager let us go upstairs to her apartment, to see if there was anything else
there of - yours. We didn't find any more clothes, but Haymitch recognized this."

He hands it out to me - a small notebook. It's vaguely familiar to me, as well. When I flip it
open, I see my own handwriting, and I gasp, memories flooding in. The pages are full of
information about the fighting history and styles of 22 of the tributes from the Quarter Quell.
Yes - I remember giving this to her the morning of the Games. "She's dead, isn't she?" I rasp.

"Yes," he replies bluntly. "Live on television, shortly after you were rescued by 13."

The bile I was unable to call up earlier on my behalf, rises on hers. Fuck. Fuck. "No one told
me."

"They probably thought it would - hamper your recovery."

"More like they knew I would blame them for leaving her behind," I say, with a return of my
District 13 bitterness. "Damn it!" I throw the notepad on the sofa and push my fists into my
eyes. Sweet, gentle, wise Portia - the one person on the team who was always on my side.
"Can you leave me alone for a while?" I choke.

I hear the door close behind him, and I let the anger – the rage and despair – flood over me.
Whatever slight feeling of optimism there was in me is throttled to death now. SO many
people dead. SO many lives wasted. And all because of us.

And on those thoughts, it stirs again in me - the mutt. The wolf with the beautiful eyes,
whose existence - I have not yet admitted to Aurelius - preceded my hijacking by many long
months. She was my creation. The product of trauma and self-pity. Her existence, the
manifested anger I did not let myself feel, was the weakness they exploited to break my
mind.

I pick up the notebook again and flip through it - not reading the notes but looking at my
doodles in the margins - to banish the creature. Yes, I’m vaguely aware I must somehow learn
to tame her - but later, later. I come to the last non-blank pages, and that's when I remember
why I gave this to Portia, to keep safe. One picture - spread out over two facing pages - was
the unfinished one I drew about an old myth told to explain the seasons. In it, the daughter of
summer is emerging from a crack in the earth that is the entrance to the underworld, her arms
outstretched to greet the sun - and her mother, who I never did get the chance to finish
drawing.
On the next pages, a portrait of Katniss I drew on the rooftop of the Training Center - there's
no confusion about it, I can see the rooftop garden behind her. Her face is peaceful, youthful,
with the hint of a smile.

And then it hits me. All those bloody tapes. Watching myself stare sloppily at her in the first
arena, no context given as to why or how I came to feel that way about this girl who had
never given me the time of day. Unable - still unable - to watch any of the second arena,
which evokes some mysterious terror in me every time I see the water and the jungle. All the
talking about it - the piecing together of memories out of dust - real or not real.

But this - this is me. My memory made manifest on the paper. When I stare at the pencil
strokes on the page, I don't just know how I felt when I drew it. I feel it. I feel it. Happiness.
Delight in hers. Contentment - despite everything that had gone wrong with my life, or was
about to.

Love.

It's only the second time that Haymitch has come to see me in my room at the residential
facility, and somewhere between three and four weeks since I moved in. I don't know if he's
mad at me for refusing to go with him to the mansion, or if he's just spending all his time
drunk. I've needed the space from him, anyway; needed time to mourn Portia, to forgive
Haymitch for not telling me about her death. To start working on the few things that I can fix
– my own head, primarily – and try not to worry about the things I cannot.

He's not drunk this morning, though he has the red-rimmed, hollow-eyed look of someone
who usually is. I try not to be mad at him - I can't be mad at Haymitch, I owe him too much -
but this thing where he's drinking himself to death just doesn't cut it in a world where all the
rest of my family, and most of our people, are already gone.

"You look good," I tell him, with an ironic smile. Despite his absolutely haggard appearance,
he is dressed up today in the District 13 uniform that always looks so uncomfortable on him.

"Well - today's the day."

I blow out a sigh. "That was fast."

"The peace," he says, "is fragile - so is Coin's government. I guess it's one of those rules of
victory - get rid of the previous figurehead as quickly as possible."

"I can see that," I say, nodding slowly. "And I'm not advocating for Snow. Still - our old rules
don't really seem to have worked all that well."

Haymitch shrugs. "Not my problem, anymore. Not yours right now. But you have to get
dressed so we can go."

"Oh. OK." I open my closet and stare at the hanging clothes, vacantly looking for the 13
uniform that somehow made its way back to me here. "Um … is …?"
"The Mockingjay?" he says, with a touch of irony. "She's talking again. Not much, and
certainly not to me but - yes. Just in time, too."

"What do you mean?"

"She's got a job to do today," he says.

Hmm, well. I frown and pull out a coat. It's a blue coat and it still smells like Portia - like an
evening flower, so aromatic. This scent will always now remind me of her gentle fingers
twisting though my hair and her hot tears on my face, and the whispered words - her last
contribution to the rebellion - before I went out to join Snow on his broadcast. There are so
many reasons for me to work at this - to try to get better, to unscramble my brain. But one of
the most important is that I have to somehow carry her forward with me, to not sacrifice
everything she did for me. Everything else - everything - I did for Katniss, I do for Katniss, I
will always do for Katniss; but some part of me will always live for Portia.

Haymitch signs me out and we walk together through the City, approaching the President's
Mansion from the back.

The bombing of the children was Snow's last, spiteful act of terror on Panem. Another
miscalculation - this one more surprising than most. He killed very few rebels with this
maneuver and managed to turn the last of the loyal Peacekeepers against him. These were
Capitol children - born safe, born protected. Until they were expendable, like all the rest of
us. I don't know what these people - the Capitol citizens - so narrow-focused and blinkered,
so sheepish and indulged - will do under the reign of no-nonsense, no-waste, joyless Coin. I
try to imagine them all – pressed into mandatory military service, all dressed in gray, hair all
cut to regulation lengths. That might finally be enough to move these people to action. She'd
better watch out, in case they've acquired a taste for toppling dictators.

At the back gate of the mansion, Haymitch flashes a scowl - the only identification he needs
here - and we walk through the back gardens. They are covered by a thin layer of snow,
except for a tall, rather expansive greenhouse.

Once inside, we head over to some office with a large, round table, where we join - to my
surprise - Johanna, Annie and Beetee. And Enobaria - the other survivor of the Quarter Quell,
who I haven't seen since the hovercraft that pulled us out of the destroyed arena. They all
wear the 13 uniform, too, and I think, really? Because it's fairly clear that a statement is being
made here. That the victors belong to 13, that we endorse Coin. I certainly wish I had got the
memo.

I've just sat down when Katniss enters.

She belongs to Cinna - at least for this day. She wears the Mockingjay outfit, which is like the
opposite of the 13 uniform; specially designed for her, not an ounce of it recycled; fitting
everywhere on her, instead of nowhere; beautiful instead of plain. She's been expertly
prepped, her hair styled to hide that half the length of it had been burned off at the back.
Makeup applied. Scars covered up. Except for the hollow look in her eye, she could be the
16-year-old girl who first took the Capitol by storm, wreathed in fake flames, instead of
mutilated by real ones.
She sweeps the room with her eyes, startled, and says, hoarsely, "What's this?"

"We're not sure," Haymitch answers. "It appears to be a gathering of the remaining victors."

"We're all that's left?" she asks.

I look to Haymitch, hoping to hear him deny it, to tell her she misunderstood him. Because -
that doesn't seem possible. Before the Quell, there were 59 living victors of the Hunger
Games. During the Quell, we lost 18. And then Finnick. That's 40 left, by any count. Could
33 of them have actually died in the war?

"The price of celebrity," says Beetee, in his matter-of-fact way. "We were targeted from both
sides. The Capitol killed the victors they suspected of being rebels. The rebels killed those
thought to be allied with the Capitol."

I can't appreciate the irony of this - that being reaped for the Quell actually increased one's
chances of coming out alive at the other end - because I'm so blown away by the utter waste.

"So, what's she doing here?" asks Johanna, gesturing toward Enobaria.

"She is protected under what we call the Mockingjay Deal," says Coin, entering suddenly.
"Wherein Katniss Everdeen agreed to support the rebels in exchange for the captured victors'
immunity. Katniss has upheld her side of the bargain, and so shall we."

Enobaria throws her grin - gold-tipped teeth and all - at Johanna.

Johanna looks as murderous as she did the night that the Quell ended. As I know now,
Enobaria and Brutus disrupted the rebels' rescue plans that night, leading to our capture and
the weeks of torture. I have to cut Johanna some slack, even if I don't share her rage. "Don't
look so smug," she tells Enobaria. "We'll kill you, anyway."

"Please sit down, Katniss," says Coin, closing the door.

Katniss takes the free seat between Beetee and Annie, opposite me. She's holding a small
glass of water containing a single white rose. She hasn't looked at me, yet, and I don't know
what she's thinking or feeling – her face is a mask. I don't know whether or not she's thought
of me, during these weeks of recuperation and muteness - of mourning for Prim who, in
defiance of all common sense, and my own determination to believe it not to be true - let
alone anything right or decent about even a war, died in the conflict from which her sister
labored her ass off to protect her. Something for which someone, somewhere should answer. I
glance at Coin; I mean, who else would have authorized such a thing?

"I've asked you here, to settle a debate," says Coin, stirring me out of my reverie. "Today we
will execute Snow. In the previous weeks, hundreds of his accomplices in the oppression of
Panem have been tried and now await their own deaths. However, the suffering in the
districts has been so extreme that these measures appear insufficient to the victims. In fact,
many are calling for a complete annihilation of those who held Capitol citizenship. However,
in the interest of maintaining a sustainable population, we cannot afford this."
I force myself not to roll my eyes, and glance over at Haymitch, just in anticipation of the
sarcastic face. The seriousness of his expression gives me pause. Who, specifically, did she
poll to get at these "many" people calling for, in effect, a genocide? The rebels of 13, who sat
back for years sacrificing exactly zero children to the Games? Who sat around watching them
with exactly nothing at stake? Just like the Capitol?

As if I hear my words echoing back to me, I look up suddenly and see Katniss' eyes on me –
dark gray, almost black. Smudgy. Changed. Her gaze makes me feel suddenly, unaccountably
anxious, and I blink away, retreating into the hazy world of what I feel for her - a strange,
dark, disquieting place.

"So, an alternative has been placed on the table. Since my colleagues and I can come to no
consensus, it has been agreed that we will let the victors decide. A majority of four will
approve the plan. No one may abstain from the vote." Coin pauses, with a slight, really
unnatural-looking, smile on her lips. "What has been proposed is that, in lieu of eliminating
the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children
directly related to those who held the most power."

Someone's breath hisses in the silence. "What?" asks Johanna, sharply.

"We hold another Hunger Games using Capitol children."

A sick, hot feeling swirls around in my gut. "Are you joking?" I ask her. Because it seems
like something that someone - living through the last few years - would only suggest as a
dark and twisted joke.

"No," she says, coolly - not looking at me. "I should also tell you that if we do hold the
Games, it will be known it was done with your approval, although the individual breakdown
of your votes will be kept secret for your own security."

The bile in my gut rises. Oh, so … if this does happen, my name - our names - will be
attached to it. Forever.

"Was this Plutarch's idea?" asks Haymitch, sounding like someone just hit him over the head.

"It was mine," she replies. "It seemed to balance the need for vengeance with the least loss of
life. You may cast your votes."

"No!" I burst out. "I vote no, of course! We can't have another Hunger Games!"

"Why not?" Johanna says, suddenly, her eyes hard and angry. "It seems very fair to me. Snow
even has a granddaughter. I vote yes."

"So do I," says Enobaria, unexpectedly stepping up to agree with Johanna. "Let them have a
taste of their own medicine."

What the fuck? I think desperately. How can they not understand? How can they still not
understand? These tributes who were made to pay for the supposed crimes of their
grandfathers and great-grandmothers? Snow has a granddaughter - so what? Let her make her
own end. "This is why we rebelled! Remember?" I say desperately. I look across the table.
"Annie?"

Annie stirs - there remains a gentleness to her, strangely untouched through shocks and
madness, torment and grief. "I vote no with Peeta," she says, looking up at me suddenly with
her pale green eyes. "So would Finnick if he were here."

"But he isn't, because Snow's mutts killed him," says Johanna, harshly.

Annie just smiles, slightly.

"No," adds Beetee, and I start to breathe again. "It would set a bad precedent. We have to stop
viewing one another as enemies. At this point, unity is essential for our survival. No."

Next to him, I see Katniss stir, as if out of a dark thought. She glances at him - and where she
always seemed to trust him before, as I remember, there's a hint of suspicion now. My hands
start to shake.

"We're down to Katniss and Haymitch."

Next to me, Haymitch is silent. He's looking over at Katniss, who is frowning at the table. He
won't speak before she speaks, and I wonder - what? Why? How could there possibly be any
hesitation?

And then I realize. Haymitch is a survivor - pure and simple, down to his bones. When he's
lost a fight, he'll collect his troops and bow out, wait for another day of clear weather and
better conditions. He'll reschedule photo shoots, laugh at a plan for uprisings, make alliances
that will have to be broken … later, later. As long as he can survive - to take the fight to the
next day. And the next and the next. And he's wary of openly defying Coin, even to the point
of hesitating on this vote - this vote which he knows, as well as anyone, should by rights go
only one way.

And he's a mentor, permanently our mentor. He's holding on to Katniss with his eyes, waiting
to hear what she will say and how he will need to spin it. I look at her, too, my blood growing
colder, because I can see her hesitating on this decision. And here's the problem: as Coin so
neatly reminded her, Katniss sold her free agency to Coin, specifically to save me and half of
the other people in this room. How far does this pact extend? Surely, Katniss can't think that
it covers this moment, as well? Because if she sells herself out again, won't she always -
forever after - be beholden to Coin? I wish there was some way I could signal to her that she
should not -.

"I vote yes," she says quietly. "For Prim." Only then does she look up and she stares straight
at Haymitch.

I look at him, mouth dry. He fingers the tight collar of his uniform and moistens his lips.

"Haymitch, no," I say, desperately. "Haymitch, it's not a question of expedience, anymore. It's
not about surviving. It's about history - and the future - and how we're remembered. I don't
want to be associated with this atrocity and I know you don't either. Haymitch …."
He glances at me, and all the lines in his face have deepened, as if he's aged ten years in the
last ten minutes. But his sharp eyes glint at me. Then he looks at Coin. "I'm with the
Mockingjay," he says.

I collapse backward in my chair, stunned - stunned - by the multiple betrayals. Coin's -

Johanna's - Haymitch's. Well, Coin can keep the vote anonymous all she wants, but she can't
silence me, except by killing me - and that she can try as often as she'd like. I'm used to it by
now. There will not be a day that goes by, from here until the end of my life, that I don't
denounce this decision. As far as Katniss goes …? She'll go through her own hell, once blood
is spilled in the new arena. I just can't follow her this time. But Haymitch? His was the
deciding vote - and that will always be the case now.

"Excellent," says Coin, and her pleasure, this time, sounds genuine. "Now, we really must
take our places for the execution."

She stands up without ceremony and exits the room. But as she passes Katniss, Katniss hands
her the little glass with the rose. "Can you see that Snow's wearing this?" she asks. "Just over
his heart?"

"Of course. And I'll make sure he knows about the Games."

"Thank you," says Katniss, with a smile in her voice that has no reflection on her face.

As Coin leaves, people come into the room to swarm Katniss - her prep team … and Effie
Trinket. Effie! Who I feared was dead. Adding to the surrealism of this moment, she looks
exactly as I last recall her - gold wig, shiny pantsuit. While the prep team checks on Katniss'
makeup and hair, Effie drifts over to me and bends down to give me a double kiss. "You've
let your hair grow long, my dear," she says to me.

Well - I have no stylists, no prep team. I'm just a 13 prop. I push the loose strands of hair out
of my eyes and just smile up at her.

"Let's go," says Haymitch gruffly, holding out a hand to help me up. But I don't take it,
pushing myself up and walking away from him without a word. I don't look at Katniss, either.
The team's broken, the dysfunctional family finally dissolved.

I follow Beetee who is walking slowly, with the help of a cane, through the halls of the
mansion, and out again, out to the City Circle, for what I sincerely hope and deeply believe
will be my very last time. This time, I look out upon the avenue from Snow's own vantage
point. See the crowds below me - the Remake Center at the far end. Everything that
happened, and I still can't believe it ended like this, with the Games going on, and in my
name.

I go down the steps. Here, in the curve of the near end of the circle - where the barricades
stood - where Prim actually died, of all places - here, there is a temporary post erected. It
reminds me forcefully of the post where Gale was whipped in 12.

There are no stands set up today, but there is a rope dividing the City Circle in half, and on
the other side of it, a vast crowd stands, filling that half of the circle, filling the avenue
behind it. There are people on the balconies of the encircling buildings, as always.

When they see me, there is a cheer, long and sustained. There is no guessing why. I was
always popular with the Capitol crowds, but I have no idea what my standing could be
amongst the free citizens of the districts. I suppose I should wave, but that seems obnoxious.
I'm directed to take a place just inside the rope and face the mansion. Haymitch, Annie,
Beetee, Johanna and Enobaria stand in a line next to me.

There's a stir above us, and we see Coin appear on the central balcony of the President's
Mansion, waving as the cheering rises up behind us, like any garden variety dictator. The
screens around the circle flicker to life, then, as the inevitable broadcast begins. We see her
face close up - there's a thin but definitive smile. She's never been able to look genuinely
happy, that I've ever seen, so it just looks thoroughly fake - although, maybe that's my own
mood coloring what I see. After all, why shouldn’t she be giddy?

Then the cheers rise even higher as everyone, Capitol citizen, district rebel - everyone - greets
Katniss with a stronger, deeper adoration. She was the girl they did this for - just like me - the
bright, flickering flame of a girl. If there's nothing left to her but ashes now, they don't see it,
yet. She's got the winged armor of the mockingjay, the black bow that has come to signify the
defiance of a whole nation. One more job to do. And then - what?

She is directed to stand center, midway between the post and the other victors. Since I'm at
the end of the line, I can partially see her face - just her left eye and the corner of her mouth. I
get a sudden chill down my spine, for no reason I can rationally describe, just that I've seen
this look from her, this grim, set, gray-faced look. Death in her face.

Something ….

Snow is now brought out the front door of his own mansion. It hasn't been all that long since
I last saw him, face to face in a small room, with cameras pointing to me and my confused
brain running in frightened circles between the things he wanted me to say and the things that
really needed to be said. But a lifetime has passed. Mine, for one - those final days of
hijacking having wiped out any surety that anything I remembered about my life had ever
happened. And his. All those years - forty or maybe fifty of them - securing the Capitol,
overseeing the Games, putting out little fires, as Haymitch once said – all that effort wiped
out in a relatively short span of time. It's not two years ago that the final two tributes of the
74th Hunger Games came together to this Circle for the first time, bringing fire.

Well, one supposes he had his fun, but if a politician cares at all about his legacy, his is as
dark a memorial as one could imagine. Does he even care that his granddaughter, and the
children of his closest compatriots will pay for his last mistake - his wild miscalculation
about the power of the inferno, once a spark finally catches? Or does he take comfort in the
fact that, in her suffering and theirs - in Coin's power grab - the legacy of tyranny in Panem is
secure?

Fucking depressing.

He certainly looks like nothing will or would ever bother him. There's no fear in his face; he
is chained to the post betraying nothing but a mild amusement. When Katniss fits the arrow
and raises her bow, he coughs hoarsely, spitting out blood. A sick old man, pathetic, really,
when stripped of power.

The silence as Katniss pauses, arrow poised, is the loudest I have ever heard. It roars in my
ears, unbearable. There's something …

Katniss' hand jerks slightly as finally, finally, she releases the arrow. It sings through the air,
the whistle of death. But the aim is off. The arrow climbs higher, much higher, than its target.
This girl - who could strike a squirrel through the eye, wasting none of the meat. Strike Cato's
hand, dead center, freeing me from his grip.

Coin's body, shot through with the arrow, tumbles through the silence, off the balcony, down
to the ground, to end splayed out on the steps of the mansion.
 Chapter 23

There's a gasp from the crowd, then a second of stunned silence; into that silence, there
comes one maniacal sound. Snow - laughing. That sound triggers the madness.

I can feel the crowd surge behind me, know that it is a matter of time before it spills past the
ropes. But I'm caught by a movement from Katniss. She is preparing for neither flight nor
fight, as, in otherwise perfect stillness, she brings her bow up to her lips, as if in a goodbye
kiss, and lowers it.

I've sprinted up to her before I am even aware that I have left my place. How I know, what I
even know, is a blur to me. I just know. It's there, just where it is on the 13 uniforms. The tiny
hidden pocket that holds the pill. I can feel it pressed against my palm as I grip her arm. In
that same second, her teeth come down on my hand, drawing blood.

She looks up to me, wild-eyed and confused. "Let me go!" she snarls, trying to jerk her arm
away.

"I can't."

And the crowd overtakes us in a sudden wave, surging around us. When the hands grip her -
District 13 soldiers - the pocket rips off in my hand and the nightlock pill falls to the ground.
She's still just staring at me, rabid in her disbelief, as she's led away. Then she starts
struggling with the soldiers, and she cries out, hoarsely, for Gale. I can hear her as she
vanishes from view, but I stand still, letting the waves of the people - who are now headed
straight for the mansion steps - ripple past me. I don't even glance up at the screens because I
know - he won't do it. Gale is as incapable of putting an arrow or a bullet through Katniss as I
am incapable of leaving the arena without her.

Haymitch grabs me by the arm and drags me away before the waves of the angry mob drown
me.

Are there times I second-guess my decision? Yes, yes, of course.

"It is necessary to sort out fact from fiction," says the examiner. "In case you have been
coached into your answers, as you were in the past. For instance, when you described your
relationship with the defendant during and immediately following the 74th Hunger Games,
we were all broadly convinced that you loved her."

Objections are raised, so I have time to pause - somewhat confused - at the microphone while
cameras flash and the eyes of the nation turn to me again, greedy for the tale of romance they
are used to hearing me weave. Maybe now - more than ever - with so many dead and
displaced, so much distrust, so little understanding of what will happen next, they need this
from me - the comforting story, anchoring them to the past.
I don't glance into the crowd at Haymitch - this could be misconstrued. But I am imbued with
a familiar feeling, an awareness of his naked confidence in my ability to say precisely the
right thing. That I - safely earnest in my ignorance and sincerity; safely connected to my
audience by my wide-eyed instinct for them and their wide-eyed trust of me - can speak
without coaching and somehow be the perfect mouthpiece for the team. For him, for her, for
me.

I do, however, catch sight of Gale in the audience. I spare a thought for what he has suffered
through, watching these broadcasts of me laying claim to that which I have never really
owned.

"Not everything that was said was true," I concede. "But - I did love Katniss Everdeen. From
the time I was 5 years old until last year, when the Capitol convinced me that she was a
monster of their creation, designed by them to harm me."

Silence - and some shocked faces - greet this announcement. "Yes - deception was a part of
the Games. And self-deception, too. It's exactly how you play them. I used my love for her as
a strategy against the Careers. For this strategy, I witnessed horrific killings. I participated in
them. So - it got turned around and mutated. Love was mutated. Everything that I had to use
as a sword and a shield in the arena was twisted by its use. It made me susceptible to the
Capitol’s brainwashing techniques.”

Now, I do glance over at Haymitch, briefly, and I see the approval - the affirmation - on his
face.

"That's me. For Katniss - I don't know specifically what form her scars took. We didn't
discuss these things. I know - you all know - that her motivation - first and foremost - was the
protection of her sister. I think you all suspected that she was not being sincere - reading
those awful speeches for the Capitol on the Tour. She did it because her terror for her sister
was so intense, she would have sacrificed anything to keep her from harm. I can't even begin
to explain to you how that was the truest part of this whole entire thing - her sister's safety
meant absolutely everything to her. You know, when I was first reaped, it was devastating for
me to face near-certain death for myself. But even worse than that was that the small sacrifice
I had made for Katniss Everdeen - that thing with the bread - the best thing I had ever done in
my life - was about to go to waste. I couldn't let it - I couldn't. It was unbearable, unthinkable.
There was no way to conceive of a strategy for that arena - or the next one - that didn't
involve doing everything I could to make sure her life was safe. And this is nothing to how
she felt about Prim, who was so much more pure, more innocent and - and protected - than
anyone I have ever met. Of course, she couldn't handle it. Of course, her reality completely
broke."

And of course, she took it out on the person who had sent her sister into danger. I think this,
but do not say it out loud; it would be quite unhelpful.

This is all wild conjecture, anyway, I think wearily, as the cameras snap again and the crowd
starts humming when I fall silent. And I am certainly considered a biased witness. But - if
this is a sham trial, anyway, conjecture and bias will have their place. And - if nothing else - I
think I've put a layman's explanation on top of Aurelius' somewhat clinical testimony. It's
funny how - the Games being over regardless - I'm still playing this role for the Capitol just
as if I'm on stage with Caesar Flickerman for the very first time. I'm still laying bare my most
personal thoughts in order to make sure that they view her in the most sympathetic light, in
the most human terms. What she was really thinking - why she actually did it? I may never
know - nor do I need to - nor do I want to.

What I want now is peace. The peace of her safety. The peace of my freedom. The option to
leave here and never come back here to perform at their whim. Never again.

Since both men who control my life are in the courtroom right now, I have to wait for the
day's activities to finish, confined to a small conference room in the rear of the Capitol's
Justice Building. I watch, wearily, the rest of the day's testimony on one monitor. On another
monitor – though I try not to glance at it too often, since I object so strongly to its existence –
is a live feed of Katniss, alone in her confinement.

They put her in our old suite in the Training Center, stripped her of the Mockingjay clothes,
dressed her in paper robes and locked her in her old room. She has no real human interaction
of any kind. Avoxes bring her her daily meals and her medications and we have watched her
go through a series of desperate rebellions – try to wean herself off of morphling, and
eventually stop eating.

Haymitch – who, now that he has to remain sober and alert during her trial, visits me more
often – assures me that she is being closely monitored and interventions are planned, if
needed, but in the meanwhile, her own determination to waste away is some of the strongest
evidence on her own behalf – that she was crazy out of her mind when she shot Coin instead
of Snow, and should not be executed for the crime. Haymitch even thinks we can keep her
out of jail.

I watch the television linger on the face of Paylor, the war commander from District 8, who
was sworn in as president of Panem after an intense emergency meeting of the combined
rebellion forces. This, according to Haymitch, was one of the first truly positive things to
happen since the end of the war. He likes Paylor, which is quite an endorsement – Haymitch
reserves his affections like no one I ever knew, including Katniss. The tribunal of 13 district
representatives is stacked, he says, with pro-Katniss sympathizers (and he's on the tribunal
himself, which should assure me). But everything could go south. It really could. And I'm not
sure what my head would do with me if I was compelled to watch Katniss' execution.

The monitor I'm ignoring flashes in the corner of my eye, signaling that programming is
being switched. I nearly sigh out loud when I recognized the titling of one of Plutarch's mini-
propos. He, of course, is managing the public relations aspect of Katniss' trial, with a series of
sad documentaries detailing how everything in Katniss' life let her down – her father's death,
her sister's death, me – everything. It is through these that I have started to watch – all
unwillingly – the video from the Quarter Quell, which is interspersed freely throughout these
videos. It's hard to ignore that which I've been trying to dismiss for quite some time now –
the affection for me on Katniss' face during that Game. The affection I returned with
attempted murder.

The door opens – I became so wrapped up in the stupid video that I did not notice that the
court had cleared for the day on the other monitor. Aurelius … or …?
"Haymitch," I say, in relief.

"C'mon," he says.

We walk together out of the back of the courthouse, up toward the neighborhoods north of the
city center which is where I live now. Things are broken here – gaps in the streets where
bombs fell, scattered glass. People shuffle along, covering their faces. With the Peacekeeper
units dissolved, the Capitolites – at least the ones I live with in the residential treatment
center – are nervous, and not without cause. There are problems. Rebels who turn to looting
abandoned homes. Homeless Capitol citizens attacking rebels. There are neighborhoods to
avoid, curfews, a mandatory census. No one misses Snow – but no one likes to be
disenfranchised. It's going to be a long and painful road – reconciling District rule with the
Capitol.

Snow died that same day Coin did. No one really knows what happened – no official
announcement has been made. The mob surrounded him and, when it withdrew, he was dead.
Without explanation - or ceremony. Anyway, he's gone. But with my head still under
examination and Katniss' fate as precarious as it ever was, really – things seem pretty far
from over.

"Nice work today, boy," he says. "Just the right touch of the truth. It makes all the difference
– you've always instinctively got that."

"Yeah – my backstory. I remember. That I remember."

Thinking of Snow makes me think of the questions I have for Haymitch – and, since we're
away from any potential cameras or recording devices at the moment …. "Haymitch, why did
you do it? Vote 'yes' with Katniss?" Because, honestly, all I can think of as a real motive for
her to assassinate Coin was because Coin had decided to continue the Hunger Games – yet it
was her vote and Haymitch's which guaranteed it, so – it just isn't adding up.

"I didn't vote 'yes,'" he tells me peevishly. "I voted with the Mockingjay. Different story
altogether. I could tell she had something up her sleeve."

"You had some idea she was going to shoot Coin?" I ask him, disbelievingly – and knowing,
now, that he may actually never tell me what was really going on in his head that day. But I'm
used to not being told things by Haymitch. It's almost comforting at this point.

"No, of course not," he frowns at me. "I'd have to have been as crazy as she was to figure that
out. I could … just see the wheels turning."

I smile at this. No matter where we are – cameras or no cameras, witnesses or no witnesses -

he is very careful to promote, at every opportunity, Katniss as having gone completely insane
following her sister's death.

"So, there won't be another Hunger Games?"

Haymitch shakes his head. "That idea died with Coin. I confirmed with Plutarch that she
never talked to him about it. At least, that's what he's saying now. And everyone else in her
Command unit is keeping their heads down."

Well - Katniss' sacrifice, at least, was not in vain. I’m just no closer to knowing why she felt
it had to be made. "Well, that's something. I still don't know why you guys had to vote for it."

"Me neither," he says with a shrug. "You'll have to ask Katniss that question. But -." He stops
for a moment and looks around, as if for cameras or spying ears. "But not here and not now.
The answer to your question is probably not safely spoken in the Capitol."

He leaves me at the 'crazy house' - as he calls it - with that statement hanging in the air
between us. I think it unlikely – no matter what happens – that Katniss and I will ever have a
conversation again. A dismal thought.

There's no television in my room in the residential center, but it's always on in the exercise
room. I'm pedaling on a stationary bicycle when I see a familiar face on some news story and
abruptly come to a stop. I was never completely sure she had actually existed - I had
sometimes been convinced that she had been entirely a figment of my hijacked mind. I'm not
sure which is worse - that she had been real or not. I told Dr. Aurelius that I felt like some of
what I thought about what had happened between Katniss and me - that we had been more
intimate than we actually were - had been encouraged by this woman who was involved in
the later stages of my torture. The woman attacked by the mutt. That of course was an
illusion - so it's also possible that everything was.

But she looks exactly the same as she does in my memories. Exactly. There's a still shot of
her on the screen and she is in a long, dark braid and a black jacket, almost identical to the
jacket the tributes wore in the first Games. She's a little too old for the part - maybe early
twenties, not sixteen - her face is round and her eyes are a little too pale - but she's clearly
meant to be some pretend version of Katniss.

Since the television is mute, I jump off the bike and run into the common room, where the
TV and its sound is on - but the news story is over by then, and it doesn't repeat that hour or
the following. So, I frantically get a message to Dr. Aurelius. After about an hour he calls
back, and when I breathlessly try to explain what I saw, he says he'll look into it and see me
in the morning.

He comes right to my room as I'm finishing the coffee I brought up from breakfast, and
there's a strange, hesitant look on his face.

"Did you see the story?" I ask him.

He nods. "Thank you for calling me right away. Did you have any flashbacks after that?"

"No," I say. "I almost wish I had, just so I could maybe remember something more than I've
told you."

He pulls something out of his jacket - a small, colorful pamphlet - and looks at it for a while
before sitting across from me at my small table. "You'll be surprised to hear this, but when I
saw that news report, I also found the girl vaguely familiar. Her name was Venus Charisse,
but that was what we call a stage name. She was an actress - not a famous one, a lesser-
known stage actress. She was recently found dead in her home. It looks like a suicide, and
very well could be, as she had not yet been charged but had been questioned about her work
for the Capitol."

I shake my head. "What?"

"This is why I recognized her," he says, handing me the pamphlet.

I nearly drop it as soon as I take it. It's a small, shiny tri-folded paper, and on the cover is a
photo of the girl along with a boy with blonde curly hair - standing together in a very familiar
field, holding out their palms, which are full of nightlock berries. The words surrounding
them on the pamphlet read, "Plan your getaway now to the arena of the century!"

And inside, I frown over more photos - the actors in the cave, on the cornucopia, by a stream
- and over the text, which is all about some 'travel packages' to the arena of the 74th Games,
where participants can tour, sleep, eat, watch reenactments of the most exciting games in
history.

"Did you go?" I ask him, wondering why he has this.

"No," he smiles. "I just never throw away my mail. Anyway, Venus was hired as a Katniss
reenactor for the arena - it was only open for a few months before everything shut down after
the Quell. But someone apparently had the idea to recruit her for - your torture. Even without
a financial incentive," he adds thoughtfully, "it would have been a difficult invitation to
refuse."

I stare at the girl and the boy in the pamphlet, kissing each other in the cave. "So, she was
there."

"Peeta," he says, slowly. "How does this make you feel, this confirmation that you did not
imagine her?"

I frown at the table. "I - I can’t tell. But … well, for one thing, it's horrible now, finding out
that she wasn't one of them - that maybe she could have been coerced. But also … now I'm
worried. I was sure that … that she did things to me. At the very least, pinned me down.
Kissed me, maybe? I feel … violated? Worried that there are things I don't remember."

I take a deep breath and look down at my fingers. Aurelius coughs lightly. "Again, whatever
happened to you - including this - was not your fault. But, remember, too, that the hijacking
part of your torture was concentrated at the very end of your time with them. They relied
heavily on suggestions, combined with the drugs and videos, so it would likely have taken
very little physical contact with this woman to suggest a great deal. And they were using her
to create a break between you and Katniss, so there would have been very, very little actually
done to induce pleasure before associating it with pain."

I swallow. "I guess it’s better - it's better in general to know the truth."

"I'll add this to our next session."

Great. But I don't object. Not that I have the agency. That's something I haven't had in a long
time.

One afternoon, I have a surprise visitor: Gale, who meets me in the guest lounge, looking all
intense and out of place in his uniform. It's a new one, fitting him better than the recycled 13
uniform. I squint at him, trying to remember the 18-year-old boy he was at the beginning of
all this, the boy who came to my house to trade squirrel for bread on the morning of Reaping
Day - same as always. He hasn't changed all that much - a little scruffier in the jaw line, a
little more serious in the lines around his eyes. In comparison to me - enviously whole in
body and mind. But what I took from him - at least as he perceives it - might almost put us in
balance.

"What's up?" I ask him anxiously, imagining a worst-case outcome in the trial and Haymitch
too drunk to tell me himself.

"Nothing. I'm - heading out, so I thought I'd say goodbye."

"Where are you going?" I ask curiously.

"I got a job in District 2. There are some pockets of resistance there and I'm leading a squad
to clean them up."

"Oh," I say, blankly. I'm not sure how to follow it up, though I am filled with questions.
Why? For how long? Before the end of the trial? "Congratulations."

He glances up at the wall-mounted television, where a recap of Katniss' trial is playing. Two
days so far have been spent on a discussion as to whether or not Coin was legally President of
Panem, which has some implications on the technicality of the charges. It is all so frustrating.
I don't care what Haymitch assures me, something could always go wrong and I don't know
how I would live with it, and I just need it to be over.

"You're not worried about …?" I ask him. The silence is making me jittery.

He shakes his head. "About the trial, no. About … how she's going to fix her head after all
this? That's a different story."

"She'll need her friends," I say. It's still hard for me to see past this moment - to some future
where Katniss' freedom is assured and she even has the chance to work on her head. "Plus," I
add, "Dr. Aurelius knows what he's doing."

"You seem better," he agrees.

I laugh shortly. "I've had a lot of time to spend in my head. It's like – approaching a stranger
who is snarling at you in a corner. But he has a way of unraveling the fear from the
strangeness. Making you look at it. When you can see it … when you know what you're
dealing with … Even right now - it's been weeks since I've felt … the way I felt." I shrug.
This is more than he probably wants to hear about my mental treatment, which must seem
like so much chattering nonsense to this man who seems so - whole. I do - I feel crippled in
his presence, as the false Katniss insisted I was, by things that have nothing to do with my
leg.

"When my father died," says Gale, suddenly, "I couldn't stop thinking about it - for a long
time. To the point where it got morbid. Like trying to imagine what he looked like, blown to
bits. I would have given anything to get out of that." I don't know if he's simply
acknowledging that he has some shadow of understanding for what it's like to get lost in your
own head. Or if he's justifying his own anger. But it does remind me of one last thing that I
owe him.

"I hate it," I say. "I hate it. All of it. Not just that 12 is lost, even though that is - unbearable. I
hate it - that we were all so scared and timid, all just clutching at our pathetic little lives, as if
they were actually worth preserving. It ended up meaning nothing. They're all dead, anyway.
When I was a kid - hell …." I glance at him carefully. "Two years ago, really. I always
admired you - and Katniss. Going outside the fence. If there could have been more of that.
Fuck, how I hate it."

He just shrugs. For a second, I catch a bleak turn to his expression, but it flits quickly away.
"You stepped it up when the time came - that's what counts, at the end of the day. As Katniss'
friend …" he smiles, wryly. "Shit, this is harder than I thought it would be. As her friend, I
need to thank you for always putting her - first. I'm not going to pretend to be on board with
how you decided to do it. In fact, I resent the hell out of it. I know you didn't get a whole lot
more out of it than a world of hurt, yourself. But … well … you threw yourself into it,
anyway. I'm not sure when she'll ever be in the right frame of mind to thank you, so - on her
behalf, you can take mine."

"Thanks," I say rapidly, hoping that he's finished. This is nothing but embarrassing and
uncomfortable. I can't tell what hidden message he might be trying to convey to me, but I'm
not really ready to hear it - that I know. About Katniss' choices and him and me. It just seems
wrong to even hint at it, with Katniss' life in limbo, and Prim dead, and me so addled. "Or - er
- you're welcome."

"How long do you think you'll be here?"

I shake my head. "Weeks, months - if I have to be. And I don't know what I will do when I
leave. Presumably, someone, somewhere will need a baker."

He shakes his head. "Probably," he says with a slow smile. "Well - sounds like this is it for a
while. I - hope you can figure yourself out, sooner rather than later. Like you say, Katniss is
going to need her friends."

He looks up again at the monitor – the look on his face is strange – wistful, resentful;
ultimately quite sad. When he leaves, there is an air of something unfinished, like there were
things he didn't say. But there are too many other things for me to worry about, so I - .

And then it happens, as abruptly as if the filmmakers had smash cut into it. Her voice – which
has been silenced all this time, as she has wasted away, alone in her room – her voice
suddenly bursts out of the TV – in song.
Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you

Holy shit … holy shit, her voice. My head explodes with the onrush of memories (like the
dam bursting, after all). It's exactly like looking at one of my drawings, evocative of things I
can't remember but can absolutely feel. It makes me ache for home - the one that's long gone.
Racing Ryan to school in the hazy autumn morning. Dipping bread in broth on winter
evenings. The pink spray of the apple blossoms. A little girl's silhouette at a window, and a
little boy, bewitched.

That same evening, Haymitch comes to call, and he makes me bring my dinner out to the
terrace in the back of the building, even though the nights here are still chilly with the last
remnants of winter. He doesn't eat anything himself - I catch a faint hint of liquor on him -
but just watches me, occasionally gnawing at some callus or something on his finger. When
I'm done, he hands me a small pink box, with a ribbon tied around it. This is so thoroughly
unexpected that I laugh out loud.

It's a tiny little chocolate cake - done Capitol-style, with incredibly detailed piping and
delicate, spun-sugar decorations. "Wha-?"

"Happy - uh - birthday," he says, awkwardly.

My heart skips a beat, but when I do some calculations in my head, it doesn't really come
together. "I think that's still a couple weeks away," I say.

"Yeah," he says. "I won't be here."

I frown but wait for his explanation.

"Trial's ending tomorrow. Hold on -." He puts his hands up when I make a sudden movement,
about to jump to my feet. "Listen. And keep quiet. It won't be on television. We're going into
deliberations first thing in the morning, and then they'll cut the broadcast. We'll release a
statement later in the day. It will be 10-3 for manslaughter, the lesser charge, with Katniss
released into house arrest and under psychiatric care." He sighs. "Katniss' mother is
relocating to District 4, so -."

"Is that where she's going?" I ask, unable to contain my questions anymore. "District 4?"

Haymitch shakes his head. "No - Katniss is confined to 12."

"What do you … 12? How can that be? There's nothing …."

"The Victors' Village is intact," he replies, frowning. "Wasn't even touched in the bombing.
Katniss is going - home."

I gape at him. "No one told me - there was anything left. It's all … it's all intact?"

"You didn't ask," he says. "Yes - your house, too. And people are starting to move back out
there, out of 13. They want to rebuild it."

I wipe my eyes as hope - for the first time, something that feels like hope - lights up inside of
me. "For real?" I ask him, in a small voice. It's like … the world has flipped over the right
way again, just as soon as I had got used to it being upside down. That there is a place for me
to go - a place that belongs to me. And that the last two people in the world whom I have any
claim on at all will be there. "So - you're going with her?"

"Have to. To make sure she stays put and calls in to Aurelius until she's officially pardoned -
some time once everything is sorted out here."

"I can't … believe this," I breathe. "Thank you, Haymitch …."

"That's not all. They closed the investigation into Mitchell's … death, and there won't be any
charges."

"Oh, I didn't -."

"Yeah, no one wanted to worry you about it, but Coin opened it, probably with the idea of
making sure you kept yourself in line. Anyway, Hawthorne and Cressida and Pollux wouldn't
testify, and Katniss can't, and Aurelius made a lengthy statement on your behalf. Which, also
clears you of any possibility of being charged for attacking Katniss. The both of you owe him
- more than you'll be able to repay, really."

"I know, I -."

"Oh, he'll benefit from the publicity, trust me. Might even get a position in the government,
eventually. Anyway, he's a sensible person - more than most here. He knows Panem needs a
bit of a break from the Everdeen-Mellark drama. Matching executions would have been a
shade too far, don't you think?"

He grins, suddenly, in an expression so devoid of his usual bitter cynicism that it seems to
transform his face. And I feel it, too.

"I have to get out of here," I say, suddenly.

"Yes," he says. "Yes. How soon do you ….?"

It's the second time I've been asked today, and this time, the answer depresses me. "I don't
know. I have to do some labs, and after that they have to readjust my medications. I'm
finishing up this anger management class in a couple of days. After all that, they'll need to
reassess me, and -."
"They can't hold you, indefinitely. And you can continue to be treated - from home."

"I know - but - I want to … I want Dr. Aurelius to clear me. I want to be sure. I haven't been
able to meet with him very often during the trial. I still owe him some explanation about – the
mutt."

"He was in court that day you explained it."

I shrug. "I'm not sure that act counts as legitimate therapy. Not that it wasn't true – what I
said. It's just so much more complicated. There is still this issue – that I should not bring
home the same resentments – as the first time."

"Peeta," he frowns at me. "It's rarely as complicated as we think. They fucked us up. We live
with it. We've all been hurt by a girl; and, at any rate, she -."

"I - it's not just that she hurt me; it's that - that I let it be more important than the things that
should have mattered. Her suffering – my suffering – the things that were going on all around
us. I ruined it. I ruined it – mutated it, used it as a weapon."

Haymitch just shakes his head. "That's some crazy shit," he says at last.

"Haymitch," I say, suddenly, "you're leaving tomorrow, aren't you?"

He jumps. "Yeah. So, like I was saying - there will be a verdict announced later in the day,
but before that - we'll be removing her, straight from the Training Center, and flying her
home. We don't want any more publicity than is unavoidable. Peeta - you're on your own for
a little while, and I don't feel right …."

I swallow.

"In a couple of weeks," he continues, "you'll be 18, and my signature keeping you confined
here won't have any legal weight. You don't have to stay."

I shake my head, determined not to give in to the temptation he is setting before me. "If
Aurelius …."

"We need you there, Peeta. And you need to be there, too. Not here."

"I …." I stare at him a moment. His haunted eyes, the hint of gray I've never seen before in
the roots of his dark, wavy hair. Everything he has done for us. "As soon as I can," I tell him.
 Chapter 24

I cling to the fence, my fingers knotted around the loops of wire, and it sways and swings
under my grip. I stare at the open field between me and the trees, heart racing because I have
done this – I have done this before. But I haven't. And I'm afraid. Afraid to run naked over
the grass. Afraid to face the dark shadows of the trees.

"Come on, you can do this."

I breathe and breathe. I look up at the sky. It is bright and silver, but I know … I know …
since some version of me has done this already – in whatever dream or mutated flash – I can
do it now. 1, 2, 3, 4 … run!

I sprint across the grass – and nothing strange happens, of course. It takes a minute to clear
the grass and reach the eaves of the wood. I pause to catch my breath – I am spectacularly out
of shape - then I peer cautiously into the tangled darkness. These woods, a mere sprint from
my home, and I've never been here before. I squint at my shaking palms - my fingers curling
with the fear that creeps on me - automatically - under the eaves of the trees.

"Wake up! It's going to be a big, big, big, big day!"

It's just twenty-four hours since Effie woke me and I sat up, blinking, to find her standing in
the doorway of my bedroom at the 'crazy house,' bewigged and painted, clothed in bright
colors and with a smile on her face – as if nothing had happened.

It was time to go. My birthday was properly celebrated and I had begged for permission to
leave and Dr. Aurelius – having no real choice – was obligated to release me. He held it up as
long as he could – paperwork, more paperwork, army discharge, legal documents – some
loyalty oath to the new government and a warning about interfering with Katniss' house arrest
– but after a couple of anxious weeks, he finally signed the discharge orders and scheduled
me for monthly telephone appointments.

"Like Katniss?" I had asked him.

He had frowned at that. "About that," he had said. "Once you are back in District 12, I need
you to convey a message to her."

I've been trying not to worry about her state of mind since then. It will be hard enough, I
think, working my way back to some sort of neighborly relationship with her when the last
time we were face to face she was scowling at me for thwarting her suicide attempt. Not that
that's anything new, with us, if you stop to think about it.

After breakfast with Effie and a long, meandering ride home on the train – alighting at
District 12 just before midnight, all its horrors shrouded in the darkness – I had groped my
way to Victors' Village, broke into my house by way of a rear window (my key had been left
with my father) and slept on the sofa in my living room – a prey to nightmares. I woke up
exhausted and hungry. But needing to do one thing – just this one thing – before anything
else.

I step into the trees – and for a moment, I am confused: it is quiet here, except for the gentle
noises of the morning birds. It is still … green and gray. The trees – old, gnarled oaks and the
thin pines that intersperse them – seem solid and sleepy. Some random stream of thought
brings the memory of her: Pax. I haven't thought about her for a long time - for too long a
time, really. The first person to die up close to me as a result of my inaction. Aurelius
explained the old meaning of her name, and I clung to that – I found comfort in the
symbolism of it. (Pax optima rerum – this was what Aurelius had inscribed on a placard in
his office, which was startling the first time I saw it – "peace is the greatest good.")

But it is peaceful here, the woods of my home. The ones I was taught to fear – the home of
wild beasts, monsters – the mutt. It is peaceful here.

I close my eyes in relief. For all I have been through, for everything I have feared, cowed
from, avoided – for everything that I have fought, sacrificed and faced – it was this thing
inside of me, this fundamental cowardice, that needed, in the end, to be conquered. If I am
here to help Katniss find herself – I must first find me. The monster in me who fought pain
and madness - and the frightened boy she was protecting. The man who will be the product of
both. I am – if not whole, if not able to grieve, still, for the people who have died, at least
grappling toward a version of myself that approaches wholeness.

So, I came to meet this old fear in the woods - and found it gone. The Victor part of me, or
maybe even the mutt, had already banished it, I guess. Peace is the greatest good.

The sun, slanting ever upward, causes something at my feet to shine – golden, delicate. I part
my lips at the sight, remembering. One of the flowers I drew in a book – for a girl who
wanted to remember. Primrose.

It's a beautiful little flower, overlapping yellow petals like a crinoline skirt, growing in
bunches. I stop my hand from picking them, thinking that they will last only a few hours
before dying. Instead, I get on my hands and knees and dig.

It's something I used to do - transplant herbs from my grandmother's planter into our garden.
Wildflowers, I know, are all the more sensitive to being moved. But I have a feeling, a need,
a compulsion. It carries me back home. I find a shovel and wheelbarrow in the basement, and
I walk around my house, looking for a spot. But there is no more appropriate spot than the
house three doors down from mine.

Landscaping the Victors' Village was once the job of some Capitol-paid gardeners. But in the
months since the destruction of 12, the cultivated bushes and ground cover around the houses
have either grown over or died away. On one side of Katniss' house, there is a patch of weeds
and here is where I put my shovel.

I hear the door slam and the feet come running around to the side of her house and it's only
then that I realize my enthusiasm for my chore has probably overreached politeness; but
when I straighten up and face her, all those thoughts fly away. At first, I can only register that
it's her - here - finally safe from the Capitol - in the place she belongs. Then, I stop - and
actually look at her. She's truly not doing well – she's bony, pale and flat of expression. Her
hair is matted in a nest that hangs over one side of her face and her clothes are wrinkled and
stained. She looks like she's been living and sleeping in the woods for the last four weeks. It's
only when she takes me in - looks from me to the flowers - that a creeping expression of
some faint emotion animates the death mask of her face.

"You're back," she says.

I try to smile but can only manage a thin grimace. "Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the
Capitol until yesterday. By the way, he said to tell you that he can't keep pretending to treat
you forever. You have to pick up the phone." I realize when I say this that I am scared for her,
terrified of the blankness - frightened that I won't be able to help her. I frown.

She looks confused, eyes searching my face. Finally, she puts her hand to her hair and
attempts to brush it away from her eyes. Her nails are long and dirty. She looks lost,
thoroughly lost. I've seen her in every mood and circumstance over the last two years, from
joy to despair, but I haven't seen her like this since that day in the rain. Only, that was mere
starvation.

"What are you doing?" she asks me.

"I dug these up this morning, in the forest. For her. I thought we could plant them along the
side of the house."

It's impossible to read the expressions that flit over her lifeless face, but at last she nods
abruptly, as in approval, and she turns and runs back into the house. I return to my chore,
digging five holes and gently transplanting the flowers. When I step back, they have that
slightly faint look of all plants violently uprooted from their natural home and taken
somewhere else, at someone else's whim - to either adapt or die.

The first batch burns - and not just at the tips. Nothing deliberate about this one: my kitchen
fills with smoke and the loaves are quite thoroughly blackened by the flames. I watch the
crusts crack and separate - like skin. No good. No good. I put them down on the counter and
make grim comparisons with the dry patchwork skin of my arms. I close my eyes tight
against despair. I can't have forgotten how to do this.

But the second batch is fine. It's not me, exactly - it's this oven that I haven't used in nine
months, and I just needed to remember that it never did need much in the way of preheating.

I walk out into the dense morning air. It is late spring, now - the mornings are cold and damp,
the afternoons are warm. You can drink that heavy golden-green atmosphere on days like
this. What a blessing - what a strange, undeserved blessing - to still be alive for days like this.

I walk the path that was once a daily routine - up to Haymitch's house, careful to be quiet
when opening his door. One loaf dropped off on his table (good grief, in a matter of weeks, it
is well on its way back to the mess it was before). He lent me the ingredients, so he'll be
expecting it. Up the next two houses to Katniss'. I eyeball the primroses - they seem to have
taken without much trouble - and then pause to nod at Sae, who is shuffling up to the porch
from the other direction. Her gray hair is tied up and an old apron tied around her waist. She
looks surprised to see me.

"You're just in time for breakfast," she says, opening Katiniss' door and waving me in behind
her.

"Have you been feeding her?"

"Trying to. But she's been low - real low."

"I just came to drop by some bread," I reply.

She takes the loaf and sniffs it appreciatively. "Ah, that will do her good, it will. And bacon
will do you good, son. I've never seen a Mellark look as underfed as you do. The Capitol
food not filling you up these days?"

I laugh and follow her into the kitchen. "Somewhere along the way, I lost my appetite, I
guess."

Katniss is sitting at the table, stroking an orange cat that looks remarkably like the one that
used to live here with the Everdeens before. She glances up at me - and I see that she is
already, to a certain extent, transformed. Her hair is clean and combed out, her nails are
clipped and neat. She doesn't say anything, just nods. I take the bread back and start cutting it
into thick slices. The bacon starts to spatter and it is such a good and homey sound; such a
great and mouthwatering smell.

The sliced bread smells good, too - warm and sweet. It occurs to me that it is getting on a
year since last I had freshly-baked bread. It also occurs to me that perhaps it is too soon, to sit
here with her, to offer her this gift. That she might still need space from me - or even that my
being here might stir memories that she would rather not relive. But no - I came here to help
her and bread - bread is where it begins.

I meet her eyes and hand over the slice of bread. There is no happiness there, no, but there is -
perhaps - a measure of peace.

Perhaps it is the utter banality of it all that will save us, I think later, standing in the semi-
darkness of my house, trying to figure out where to begin with the unpacking. It feels a lot
like I'm unpacking my old self and placing him back where he used to belong. I had packed
everything for dispersal to my survivors - everything. Clothes, plates, utensils, blankets,
souvenirs, books, sketchbooks - all of my paints and paintings. And then there is the trunk I
brought with me from the Capitol - nothing from 13, but some things that Portia's relatives
had allowed me to take from her apartment: clothes, fabric, some artwork and one of her
Hunger Games sketchbooks. I start here - best to get these particular memories put away as
soon as possible, I think.
I've not gone far into it when I find something I didn't pack, something hard, square and
plastic. I stare at it blankly for a moment, and then I shake my head. It's a tape with a single
white label on it that just says "PEETA!" in double-underlined letters. I know what this is. I
know exactly what it is. The tape they kept trying to get me to watch: the 75th Hunger
Games, the 3rd Quarter Quell - the filmic record of monsters and madness, and supposedly
also of how I really felt about her and how she really felt about me.

Luckily, there is electricity today. Haymitch says it is sporadic - even more so than before. I
don't tempt the system by turning on any lights, just let the darkness close in around me and
listen to the click of the machine as it accepts the tape.

The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell ….

For show. For show. For show.

It's poorly-edited, of course. The Capitol never had the opportunity to package it for the
audience. This is someone's choppy recording off of the live broadcast and the first thing that
I do is turn down the sound so that I don't have to listen to Claudius Templesmith's
commentary. Flame outfits and perfect 12s and a wedding dress that melts away - OK, OK, I
remember them. Then, before I'm ready for it, the sun shines on the water as the camera pans
over the cornucopia and my eyes hurt from the glare. The camera follows Katniss to the
center of the horn where she finds weapons and Finnick, and then they find me.

I've not gone far before I have to pause, rewind and rewatch with the volume on. I watch my
own death by the high voltage of the arena wall - not by Katniss' hand, as I had somehow
come to believe. I watch Katniss' reaction as Finnick works to revive me and it is - it is quite
convincing. This is a bereft and emotional girl, not the hard and cool one fixed in my
imagination. Something has broken in her - something to do with me. Even the Peeta on the
screen is puzzled by her reaction - and Finnick is quite openly astounded. She is on-script and
yet somehow she is completely unscripted.

That's as far as I can go for awhile. After a few days, perspective settles back in and I remind
myself that I knew already that she was my ally, that she had pledged to protect me - and that
is really all there is to it. Not that it wasn't enormous - the gift, again, of her protection. But
there was no need to read further layers of meaning into it.

Once thus prepared, I return to the tape, skipping forward over all of the deaths … Mags and
Wiress, and Deah, the morphling addict who saved me … to reach the night scene that begins
with her leaning against me with a sigh and ends with a kiss so long and intimate that I
actually feel anxious about where it is all going to end. I can't remember this - I can't. Some
words of hers lingered - I do, I need you - but this kiss exists in my head in a very different
form. I vaguely recall feeling assaulted - that Finnick's waking with the lightning strike saved
me from an unwelcome encounter.

Am I sure - am I sure? I watch it again, unconvinced of my participation. She kissed me to

stop my mouth, yes - that much is evident. Then again, to stop me from resuming the
argument. There is a moment when the look on my face indicates a decision to surrender -
but was there joy in the surrender, or just the surrender?
I watch it a third time, trying desperately to recall it - how it felt, how I felt about it. After the
kiss, I look happy, stretching my legs over the sand, but is it happiness over the kiss or it's
interruption? I honestly can't tell.
 Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

I don't know why it took so long to hit me. But today is the day it does.

A hand grips me as the dirt and ashes trickle out of my fist and the large, looming, horrible
shadow darkens the sky and everything inside of me. To call it crying - to call it mourning - is
in all ways inadequate. It is a primal scream - something as full of rage as it is of sadness.
And that's just the top layer. Underneath it, I am all curses and sobs - the sobs that rip
themselves out of your body, almost taking layers of you with them. Until my gut hurts - the
diaphragm, the place inside from where song comes. My voice is weak - but I am not alone;
there is someone to take up the song for me:

Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Lay down your head and close your eyes

And when they open, the sun will rise

Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard

You from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet

And tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place

Where I love you.

"Are you OK?"

"No."

"You're OK," she says.

I stir and my muscles sigh. I'm covered in dust and ashes and my own tears. The sky rumbles
overhead and the light flares in the distance. The storm is coming.
She holds her hand out to me. "Come on, we don't want to be caught in this. It's going to be a
good one."

I wipe my face before I take her hand and let her pull me up. "It will be a bit of a relief," I
say, trying to smile. "This air is so hot and heavy. We could use the release - of a good
storm."

At this she does smile. It's a rare and dazzling sight. "Exactly. Come back to my house."

"Katniss - were you singing just now?"

"Yes - sometimes it helps - when you're - when you aren't quite here."

I wipe my face again. "Shit - what do you mean? Do you do it often?"

"Only as often as you need it, which isn't all that much around me. Come on, Peeta. I don't
feel like tempting the lightning today."

I follow her back toward Victors’ Village, leaving the gray dust behind. I feel so hollow. The
tears will not stop falling; I suppose I had been hoarding them for so long that there are too
many of them; endless amounts of tears.

"How often?" I ask again.

We are at the gates now - the last fences remaining in District 12, this wrought iron cage in
which the Capitol put us, birds on display. One of whom can't even sing. She turns around
and looks up at me.

"Do you want the number of times since May, or something?"

I swallow. "Yes."

"I don't know - four or five. Why?"

"You know the answer to that question, Katniss. I'll always be worried - about losing
control."

"But you don't - you go very still and grip whatever is at hand - the arm of the couch or the
back of a chair. You don't seem capable of moving, honestly; let alone doing anything
dangerous. How is it so different from when I wake up screaming my head off over
nightmares? It's the opposite of dangerous - there's something helpless about it."

I glance down the row at my house, even as I follow her to hers. I bite my lip, really bite
down - welcoming the sensation of pain.

The rain starts falling just as we get indoors. But it's a summer storm, so Katniss leaves the
door open and the windows of the front room, in order to let in the air. The thunder rolls
through and then the lightning strikes, so close behind it. The flares pulsate against the walls;
the air crackles with tension. Katniss stands in the doorway, watching it with such an
expression of life and wonder on her face.
The storm doesn't die off until after dinner, and by then we are huddled together on her bed.
The humidity returns with the passing of the storm, and I think ungratefully about how
uncomfortable it is. Discomfort is a luxury and this is a fucking gift to be lying here,
sweating instead of sleeping - living instead of dead.

Usually, I stay here because she's had a bad day and the nightmares are on her face before she
even tries to go to sleep. Today, the bad day has been mine and I strain against the horror of
slumber as hard as I used to. I think of morphling, and the sweat on my face seems to grow
cold - I tremble with the longing for it, and I hate myself for the longing of it.

She squirms around to face me in the darkness. "How are you holding up?"

"Truth?"

"Always."

"Not great."

She takes my hands and encloses them in hers, gently squeezing them with her fingers.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"You have nothing to be sorry about. I know this sort of grief. It lingers long past the tears. It
is not because you are weak, it is because you loved them."

Tears start falling again. "I - wanted - to help you."

"You have, over and over again," she says, and she brings my hands up to her mouth and
kisses my knuckles. "You are my rock and comfort - let me be yours once in a while."

We are silent for a long moment - in fact, I think that she is asleep, so that I am startled by her
sudden question. "Is that why you're here?"

"Here?"

"In - Twelve. Did they send you to - help me?"

"No - in fact, most people didn't think it was a great idea - my being here. I came because -
God, Katniss, where else would I go? This is home and you and Haymitch are the only two
people in the world I have left. I don't have the words to explain the feeling … when I found
out there was a place I could actually return to - the pull was … I needed to be here and I
came back - as soon as I possibly could.

"When I saw you - saw that you needed help in kind of the same way that I had … of course,
I had to be here for you … but was I sent back with that purpose? One of your guards? One
of your jailers? I could never. If they had asked me to do that I would have gone anywhere
else, instead."

I feel her fingernails dig into my hand, and the sensation doesn't altogether stop there. "It's
too hot," she says. "Tomorrow, we are going to go to the lake."
In the morning we avoid the sad places - the remains of town and the overturned earth of the
Meadow - and skirt the slag heaps and the old mine entrance to the edge of District 12, now
marked by the tall metal poles that once held up the fences. I bite my lip on the usual dread
that comes from crossing the field. There is always a danger of slipping into multiple
memories at once, and for some reason the nakedness of the open field between fence and
forest still makes my skin crawl.

But the world is blue and green, not silver, and nothing strange happens. After pausing - as
always - at the eaves of the wood, I follow her in and we start down the footpath that cleaves
through the trees. She told me about it, herself, when she found out I was venturing into the
woods. This was the path she and Gale followed on their many hunts. It was most recently
the flight path of the survivors of District 12, when the Capitol attacked.

The woods quickly thicken around us, growing dark and crowding out the sun. Her tread is
soft and I watch the quiver and bow jostle on her back as she goes. The hunter, I think. The
arrow to my heart. And yet, I kept returning. Through trust and suspicion. Love and
frustration. Mistrust and alliance. Back and forth. Back and forth.

We pause to rest in a clearing with a boulder; in fact, this is the last landmark of the woods
that I know. This is the farthest I've ever come. There is a wide, flat rock off the path that juts
out through the trees and overlooks a shallow ravine. We don't sit on the rock, but sit cross-
legged in the shade of the trees. All her assurances aside, I feel this need to explain my
behavior from yesterday.

"Resilience," I say out loud.

She looks at me in surprise. "What?"

I shake my head. "Sorry – I was just thinking about yesterday. About somehow moving on,
somehow living through all this grief and all the horrible memories. Aurelius calls it
'resilience.'"

She rolls her eyes at the name. She doesn't talk to him as often as she should. Not revolution
nor enormous grief – not the end of the world as she knows it – could rid Katniss of this
stubborn independence. It's what kept her alive – what will always keep her alive. I had some
hand in it – but, not much, really. Physically, survival is what she does. She needs help from
no one there.

It's this other thing. Happiness – which even in the best of times she found a bit suspicious, as
if self-indulgent and distracting. "But what does it mean?" she asks.

"Well – it's the ability to sort through trauma and contain it enough to survive. It's in all of us
– that's what Aurelius says. We just work through it in different ways. For me …" I pause,
giving her time to stop me with a dismissive or sarcastic comment, if she wants, but she only
continues to look at me curiously. "For me – well, I went through a series of negotiations to
get by. For instance – feeling like you should have loved me, then ultimately deciding you
were a monster for not doing it."
"When precisely did you decide that I was not?" she asks.

I shrug. "It was a process. But I guess it was when I realized that it was actually me. And then
realizing that that had been true all along."

If I'm expecting shock or horror from her, I'm surprised to see a certain empathetic sadness
instead. "You thought you were a monster?"

"Some part of me thought that the moment I woke up in the Training Center after the first
Games. You remember what it was like - I know you must have felt the same; sometimes I
saw it on your face. The guilt from having survived and – that feeling like everything real
was tainted by it."

"Yes, but – I thought maybe you had been spared that. You didn't really let them – change
you in there. At least – it looked that way."

"Maybe you resented that," I tell her, with sudden enlightenment.

She shakes her head. "Maybe. Maybe I also wanted to protect it. Winning the Games is so
dirty, but I thought if your hands were clean, at least I had done - something - right."

I smile at her. "You wanted me innocent. Pure – even."

"Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing, Katniss. You have no idea – how humbling it is to hear this."

She half turns away from me, trouble on her face - then changes her mind and turns back.
"It's that, but it's more than that. At one time, it felt like a debt - everything that I owed you.
But at some point it became more than that. Like you were the better part of me. And that to -
watch over you - was more than repayment of a debt; to watch over you was in some way to
watch over myself."

"I know," I tell her. "I mean - I didn't know, consciously, but I did somehow figure it out, I
think. I knew that you intended to sacrifice yourself for me. What you gave me - that gift of
protecting me - was deeper than love. I was too shallow to appreciate it, until very recently; I
could only try my best not to spoil it. But - I did know."

"You give me too much credit - or yourself too little. I'm not sure. How were we to ... who
were we to sort through all of that mess? All I know is that - I failed, as with everything else."

"I'm sorry, Katniss. They took everything, didn't they? Corruption – that's what they knew.
Take a bird – twist it into a spy. Release it to die. That's what they knew."

"The jabberjays might have died," she says, "but the mockingjays came after."

"Exactly." I smile at her. "Resilience."

She gets up to leave, giving me an odd glance as she does.

"This is as far as I've ever come," I say, standing up myself and looking around.

She turns to me with a curious expression and I point toward the rock. "Here?" she says,
raising her eyebrows.

"Yeah - it's a good place to draw."

"Oh. Yes - I can see that," she says.

She makes a movement to continue on, but I don't follow. Something unnerving in her
expression - and guarded. I wonder what it is I could possibly have said. "Katniss?"

She turns back.

"What?" I ask her. "What is it? You look like I've – done something wrong."

Her face is stubborn – it's a very familiar closed-off look. "Truth?" she says.

"Truth?" I repeat. "Of course - always."

"This is where Gale and I used to meet, that's all."

"Well – that makes sense," I reply. "I can see that. If … you'd rather that I left it alone, of
course. Whatever."

She grimaces. "That would be ridiculous. It's nothing – it really isn't. I was just set back – by
the coincidence."

I shake my head. "No, it was more than that. You can tell me – if you want. You miss him." I
lick my lips. "You love him."

She sighs, the look on her face so clear - like we have finally reached the conversation she
has been dreading for months. "Love? He was my friend. Like you were my friend. Maybe he
was long and slow where you were quick and sudden … but …"

"You don't have to say this," I interrupt hastily, suddenly realizing that the dread is not only
on her side.

"But you want to know, don't you?" she asks me, keenly.

I swallow. "I know you've never liked talking about it. And I didn't ever really want to hear it.
Maybe it's time. I don't know."

She nods. "You know - you guys were the ones who skipped straight ahead to love. It's not
like either of you asked. Just demanded answers. Perhaps I felt like there were more
important things to do … and perhaps I didn't want it - not yet, anyway."

"I can't speak for Gale, but-." I stop and smile. "And obviously I can't really even speak for
myself, I guess. But – love is funny. It feels like a shared thing, even when it's only one-
sided. And when you're a kid – and you really don't know how love works …. And there was
everything else, of course." I run my hand through my hair. And try to remember. "You're
right – the timing was not great. It's just – you can't help it. It happens. You do crazy things,
you say crazy things. Regrettable things - maybe. You try to get out with dignity, if you can."
I hesitate - but the question is hanging in the air between us, so there is nothing else I can do.
"Katniss? Why is Gale not here? Is it because of you or because of him?"

"Me," she says, shortly. "Gale and I - we're too much alike. That's problematic at the best of
times. But right now – especially when I am not particularly happy with myself - it would be
no help to me to see my reflection in his face - all fire and destruction."

I feel sad for her - or, at least, I try to. "I've always had a soft spot for the theory of the
attraction of opposites."

She looks at me with a swift smile.

"Sorry - I really shouldn't have said that."

"Why not? What's the point of keeping secrets anymore?"

"It's not keeping secrets - it's keeping the balance. Not messing up what we have right now.
Comfort - isn't that what you called it?"

"Yes - that's what I called it. But it's only comfort if it's also honest."

For the space of a several heartbeats, I can't find my voice. "I'll - keep that in mind," I finally
tell her.

She looks at me coolly. "I'm counting on it."

"Here we are," she says, as we step out of the thickest section of the woods and my eyes are
dazzled by the bright sun. We are in a place of intense beauty and it's astounding – the sun,
sparkling everywhere – the white rocks tumbling down toward a wide, flat lake, which
shimmers as if made of diamonds. The sky is nearly completely blue now – the hills rise up
on the other side of the lake, the green trees marching up the slopes – all dark and solid and
still.

"I've been here before," I say, awestruck for a moment.

"What?!" she exclaims.

I shake my head. "No – no – that's not it. I saw a video of this place. You were here – and you
were singing."

Her face scrunches up for a moment, then she seems to remember herself and she shrugs.
"Oh," she says. "Singing. Forgot about that."

Yes, singing, I think to myself as she turns away from me and starts walking toward the
water. And she could do for more of it. And so could I. But I'm too caught by my memories
to say anything right now. This place. This place where she sang – for the rebellion, yes – but
where, for the first time, as if I could still see her father enchanting the birds with his voice, I
separated her from the mutt and remembered her true parentage – the mockingbird, the
natural voice of the wilderness, nature at its purest. It's almost too much for my head to take -
to actually be here. It's like a dream, but a good one for once.

I set down my pack on the beach and stare down at the shimmering water. In itself it is a
temptation to let all the memories dissolve into each other and take me back – back to when
anger and rage was the fire that kept me alive – back to when I was hunted by the mutt, or by
the goddess with the arrow – and I was fearful but also tempted and also wanted, desired …
if only in that very twisted way.

But I find I can't go back. And when the temptation passes, I know that I don't want it to
come back. There is feeling in me again, now. It is small and it quivers with the uncertainty
of new life. But it is not dangerous and it is real.

You loved her …

"Check that out," she says, pointing behind me.

I glance back and see – not far from where we came out of the trees – a little concrete house,
just inside the woods. She's described this to me – this ancient remnant of some ancient
civilization preceding the Dark Days … who knows how far back – and again I feel
wrongheaded, as if finding myself stepping on fictional ground.

I follow her down to the water. She yanks her boots off and stands for a moment, bare-toed,
in the shallows, before giving me a wry glance and then pulling her shirt over her head.

"Whoa!" I say, looking hastily away. "Warn a guy, why don't you?"

"I don't care if you see me naked."

I look back at her and blink. She's turned away from me and I can see it - the worst of her
scars, from where the flames ravaged her back. It's worse than my arms, and they are pretty
bad. Yet, I do not find it ugly - in a strange way, I find it pleasing, the familiar mottling of the
multi-colored patchwork of skin new, old and manufactured. Fire mutts - this is what she
calls us, almost dismissively. Yes - we were deliberately burned, burned and burned in their
fires until matter finally collapsed and we had to be reshaped into somewhat twisted versions
of ourselves. But there's a kind of poetry in it, I think. As if our outsides eventually reflected
what had already happened within. And - in the process - making us more similar to each
other than different. Seam and Town are gone, buried alike under ash ...

She peels off her jeans and then cranes her head again, to turn back and give me another
glance; this one with a question in it.

I swallow. "I do," I say. "I care." In all this time - in all this time - I have never even seen her
naked. My recollection of her was that she was always so modest - and that I liked it at least
as much as it frustrated me. I'm not sure how to deal with this situation.
"Yeah," she says, glancing down at her scarred arms. "It's not pretty," she adds, with a strange
smile.

My heart starts thumping erratically. "That's not what I meant."

She turns around and crosses her arms over her breasts. "Then - what did you mean?"

"I mean that there have always been lines. That I care about you enough to care about them.
That I value - the lines."

She laughs shortly. "Those were different people and a different place and time. Look - you
won't offend me by saying it. You don't look at me the same way - you don't feel about me
the same way. It's OK to say it."

The drumming of my heart threatens to overwhelm her words, it is so loud in my ears now.
"But I thought you wanted honesty."

"What do you -?"

I take a step toward her. "Katniss, you - are beautiful. Your scars - are beautiful."

She sighs and half turns away. "That's what people say when they feel sorry for -."

I grab her arm. "No. Maybe some people, but not me. Your scars - you …."

"Yeah, I earned them, I know."

I snort. "Fuck earning anything. Especially anything to do with their wars. You survived.
That's what makes them beautiful. You think I'm bullshitting you? I've had half a leg since the
first arena. And it sucked at first, in all the vain, pointless ways you can think of. And -
maybe in the depths of it, I didn't care about my life, but - you saved me and I can't help it -
to have survived feels so good, even when it hurts to live."

"I don't - I don't ..." she starts. Then she shakes her head.

"I know." Then I grimace and let her arm go. Can you truly have both comfort and honesty?
That is the question, isn't it?

There is naked, I recall. And there is naked. Throat open to the wolf. Heart open to the wolf.

"Truth?" I ask her.

She looks up at me. "What?"

"Do you want the truth? Really want it?"

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"There were so many times I thought I had closed the door on you. Finally told myself - 'I'm
done.' I thought that was what you wanted. But where does love go when it's rejected? I just
did what I could with it; used it for you, for them. Tried to get some good out of it. And then
they - took - all of that away, turned it inside out, made propaganda out of it - and then a
weapon. And after it was over, again I thought 'OK, I'm done. At least, I'm done.' And yet -
still - still I'm not.

"Sweetheart, be as naked as you want to be. Just understand that - the lines I draw between
us? Those are for you, not for me. They were always for you. And they still are - when I sleep
with you at night and cook for you in the morning - when you stand naked before me and I
want you as much as I ever did. The lines are yours for the crossing - not mine."

She looks at me, gaping slightly with the look of someone who got much more than she
bargained for. I have always been sensitive to this and I have always held back. But I am
starting to understand - she just doesn't have the language to ask; she has held affection so
very close to her - expressing it in actions over words, when expressing it at all. I was waiting
for words. She - was waiting for ... something else, I suppose. After all, my words have not
always been to be trusted. But if she doesn't trust them now, she might never. And we will
have to live with that. And it will be fine. I'm done laying claim to things that don't belong to
me. The only thing I want now is peace. Mine and hers. No matter how it comes. Peace.

Katniss dives in and out of the water, as if she were a fish – she's nearly as good as Finnick
was, and the sun glimmers on her skin. I splash around in the waist-deep water, occasionally
dipping my head in as relief against the growing heat of the day. I just watch her – it's like
she's given me permission, after all – and I simply try to appreciate how much better she
looks, all these months later, after a spring and summer spent in hunting and baking, eating,
drinking, and worrying Haymitch. If her torments won't leave her alone at night, at least now,
during the day, she has started to embrace life again, and some kind of routine.

I squint into the water, thinking now about the lines that connect us, instead of the ones that
divide us. The lines that connected us before we were even born, with my father's infatuation
and her father's mystical voice. The ones I drew myself - with my public declarations and my
private yearnings. The ones that were woven between us - strangling us sometimes - by the
Games and the Capitol - by Haymitch and the Rebellion. Impossible to sift through all the
knots, the frays, the tangles. All I know is that - right now - it is just her and me - bound, still,
by all the forces that pulled us together in the first place. But with no one else left but us - not
Snow nor Coin, not Cinna nor Portia - nor Gale. So what do we do with -?

A sudden splash and I yelp as she startles me by bursting out of the water right next to me.
She laughs and grabs my hand. "Come deeper," she says.

We go until the water is up to my chest – if I stand on my tiptoes – and she has to paddle
around to keep her head above the water.

"You've forgotten everything I taught you about swimming," she says.

I cock my head at her for a second. "But – you weren't teaching me how to swim. You were
trying to get me to run off with you."
Her look of surprise is swallowed up by water as she ducks back under the surface of the
lake. When she comes up, she is snorting water out of her nose. "You remember?" she asks.

I have to wait a second time for her to bob out of the water, and this time, I grab her and pull
her up into my arms. The water laps around us for a second as I hesitate on my answer – and
in my hesitation, I just feel her against me, all of her smooth, rough, warm skin. Water blunts
the sensation – a little. But I have to swallow before I can talk again. "I've watched it – the
Quell."

"Have you now?" she says against my neck.

"Yes. I brought a copy of it home with me. I've watched it – a few times."

"So then – you remember," she says.

I shake my head. "Katniss – I've seen it. I know what happened. I believe what happened. But
no – I don't remember."

She cranes her neck back so she can look up at me, and the movement brings her body closer
into mine. That ache – that pain – sharpens suddenly and I realize that I have underestimated,
previously, its strength.

She drops her eyes. "I do," she says, softly. "I remember. Maybe that is enough."

"I want to," I say.

And she kisses me.

It is neither slow nor soft. It is urgent, aggressive – hungry. It's as if the end of that kiss in the
Quell, more than a year ago, now, was just a placeholder – and in the interim it has grown in
intensity and in meaning, too. It's as if it is designed to smash through all of my fences. To
cut through all of the knots. I can barely keep up with her questing, seeking mouth and
tongue – she pulls me in, closer, closer – we can't get any closer and she's still pulling me in -
her arms hard, her lips soft. My fingers move up the curve of her back, and the rough texture
feels so good against the soft tips of my fingers that I wonder how I ever will persuade her to
stop.

But we fall backward into the water together, and that forces our separation. Briefly, in the
moment before I pop up, sputtering for air, I look at her next to me – naked, her hair spread
out around her in the green-lighted water.

She swims toward shallower water and I follow, every nerve in me – every cell, every inch of
my bones and all of my skin - sizzling and awake. When we stand, ankle deep in the water –
she naked, me as a good as – we stare at each other for a moment. Then I say: "Oh, that does
ring a bell."

She laughs at that, but only for a little while. Her stare at me is thoughtful - pensive -
quizzical. I think to myself: I love the way her chin tilts up, defiant and strong. I love the
lights in her eyes; how all the emotions she keeps out of her stoic face are right there - if you
look for them. I love her stoicism. Because it is exactly by its absence that I can understand
the enormity of how she actually feels.

The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell…

For show? No - and I knew this before. I can see it in the depths of the look she is giving me
right now. There is only one bond between us that matters right now - in this second.
Everything else can be sorted out later.

"Peeta," she says. "Peeta Mellark …."

I raise my eyebrows at her as she hesitates on what she is about to say. What if she can't say
it? What if I have to say it for her? Does it even matter?

The crackle of the fire wakes me and I sit up, startled. As usual, as before, as always – maybe
forever now – the dreams ended with me alone in a cave, blood on my hands. It takes longer
than normal to get my bearings. I am naked and in an unfamiliar place. The concrete floor of
the little house – door open to the fire that is still burning on the sand just outside.

She stirs in an automatic movement – a routine so old now, she can do it in her sleep. She
pulls me back down next to her, shushing me with her gentle voice.

As I lie back down, her eyes open and I stare into them. They glitter in the firelight and I am
overwhelmed by the fire that is glowing inside me – the fire that comes from her. The most
beautiful thing I have ever seen - the gray-eyed girl who holds my life in her hands. Friend,
lover, neighbor, victor - ally.

I take a strand of her hair and hold it, thoughtfully, while her eyes hold mine. I can see she is
looking for words; but that was always my job.

"You love me," I whisper. "Real, or not real?"

And she says: "Real."

 Epilogue

Epilogue

"What's the last thing you remember?"

The question drops into my brain, disturbing ripples of memory. I'm always being asked this
question. Or similar ones. What's the first thing you remember? And then what happened? Do
you remember anything at all?

As if memory was linear. As if it could be listed, first to last. Just the question puts me in two
or three time periods at once, none of them very distinct from each other because, fuck if all
hospital rooms and cells and torture chambers don't look almost exactly the same. At least as
far as I remember.

Peeta. This voice isn't urgent, but soft, fuzzy almost. Safety is in it.

Wake up, Peeta.

My eyes flutter open on a bright light - the lamp next to our bed. "What?" I ask, the unsettling
images fading away.

"Did you fall asleep?" asks Katniss, with a huff. "I hadn't even started reading, yet."

I turn to look at her - her long hair spilling out over her pillow - and I laugh. "I can't help it.
The boy had me up half the night."

"I told you to wake me up when it's my turn," she says.

"Guilty conscience, I guess," I reply, pulling the book out of her hands and putting my head
on her arm. "It was my idea to move him to his own room, above the both of your
objections."

I stare at the ceiling. How strange, I think, to go back there in my dreams, even now.
Flashbacks – those moments the memories came flooding into my waking conscience,
bringing paralysis and frustration – are rare now, but I guess I will never be rid of the
nightmares. "At least you're alive to have them," Haymitch said to me once, and that's true
enough. It's something to be a citizen of that old world only in my dreams, only every once in
a while.

Later that night, I wake with moonlight flooding the room, Katniss curled up against me, her
hair in my mouth, as it ever happens. I wonder which of us subconsciously makes the move
toward the other in our sleep. I suspect it is me, though I like to think that it's mutual, at least
some of the time. But I've always been drawn to flame – inescapably.

For a moment, I admire the still-mottled pattern of the skin at the back of her neck – exactly
the same color and texture as the back of my arms. But I shiver – I think I was dreaming of
the mutt; the moonlight on her fur, the pain of teeth and fire. Fear and desire, jealousy and
admiration all contained together in one flash of aching ecstasy….

I slither carefully out of bed. Long habit – many years of managing my damaged head – has
me separate myself from Katniss when the flashbacks and dreams take this particular hue.
And then I realize that it is the silence of the house that is actually disturbing me, and I creep
down the hall to the boy's room, suddenly filled with anxious worry. But I find him well-
guarded.

"Shhh." I stop short at the sight – the little girl, sitting in the glowing light of the open
window. She's on the rocking chair, her still-chubby legs jutting out over the edge of the seat.
Her baby brother is sleeping on her lap – he's nearly two, now, and takes up the entire space.
Her long, dark braid is draped over his golden head, and she gently pats his little back with
her tiny fingers.

"Sweetie, did he wake you? He's so fussy."

"He's teething again," she says matter-of-factly.

"Little mama," I say, "let's get him back to bed. You should be asleep."

"So should you, papa," she whispers, as we coordinate the peaceful transfer of the sleeping
boy into his crib. "Did you have nightmares again?" she adds, while we both pause a moment
to look at the baby.

I glance down at her with a pang. She came to us like this – as if preternaturally aware that
her parents were fragile, their relationship with the world, with each other, delicate: self-
aware and pragmatic and concerned and empathetic and – at her core – incredibly strong. I
don't know much about raising children, but every protective instinct in me – to soften her
world, to explain things to her in terms of gossamer and light – is constantly being shuttled
by her insistent demand for the truth. Once she asked me why her eyes were blue, not gray
like her mother's, whom she otherwise resembles so closely, and then grew frustrated at my
flippant answers. That Katniss and I divvied up hair color and eye color. That she was born
when the bluebonnets were in season. That Katniss had eaten too many berries. Finally, I had
to explain – painfully, given all that I can't remember about the little I was taught in my
abbreviated time in school – that blue eyes are the absence of a kind of normal pigment, like
the powder that makes up my paints; like me, she doesn't have this pigment and so her eyes,
like mine, look blue.

"That makes more sense," she said. She was three.

"Some," I admit. "Earlier."

She takes my hand and we walk out – out of the house to the porch, to sit together on the
porch swing, startling Piddycat – one of Buttercup's descendants – who bolts away over the
green of Victor's Village.

"How old will I be when I have nightmares?" she asks me.

"I don't know," I tell her, startled that she has never had any, yet. "Everyone has them."

"Oh, I thought only grown-ups got them."

Now I understand what is troubling her. "Sweetie, most people do have bad dreams. They
come from the brain remembering bad things that happened, or bad things that you're afraid
might happen. But most nightmares are not like mine – or your mother's. Ours are worse than
most. I hope – I believe – you will never have them like I do."

"Where did yours come from? Did they come from the Hunger Games?"

Damn. Katniss has been fretting about this. It's impossible that she won't know, I argued
sensibly. There are monuments everywhere. Old video clips. Hell, we still get interviewed,
occasionally. She likes to watch me paint and sometimes it is still the arena - rock faces and
clock faces, the ghosts of tributes, the teeth of monsters - that come out of my brushes. Soon,
she'll be in school, where it's taught a little too pervasively. A little too sanitarily. People
forget, so readily, the ugliness in things. They're always looking to find the angle that makes
everyone look a little more glorious, a little more heroic, than they really were. And yet – my
instinctive pull is to somehow do the same; to smooth the edges off the true story for the sake
of my daughter's continued belief in the essential goodness and beauty of things.

"Yes," I say shortly, wondering what she heard and where she heard it from, but knowing this
is going to have to be a long conversation, in the daytime, with Katniss as well as me here to
answer questions.

"What are the Hunger Games?"

That was the question all parents used to dread. I can almost hear my own voice asking the
words one day at the dinner table, before I was old enough to learn how to moderate my
thoughts.

"A time for penitence and a time for gratitude," Ryan had said, sarcastically.

"What?"

"It is your duty," my mother had told me, frowning heavily, "as a citizen of Panem, to bring
honor to your district and your family if you happen to be called to the Games."

"And to kill people," Will had chimed in. "So, you aren't killed instead. And then you get
rich."

"What if I don't want to play that game?" I had asked, horrified.

"Who do you think you are?" my mother had snapped. "You'll do as you're told."

"There is more than one way to play the game," my father had said, almost too softly to be
heard.

Katniss is sitting up in bed, her eyes glowing softly in the moonlight. "You did it again," she
says.
I shrug. "Turned out I didn't have to. Little mama had him rocked back to sleep before I even
woke up to do it."

I lean over and kiss her before settling back into bed beside her. Visions from the past are a
reminder that it was once a rare privilege to kiss Katniss Everdeen in private, away from
cameras and spotlights. In the morning I'll tell her that there are some hard conversations to
be had with her bright and questing daughter. But first, but first ….

What are the Hunger Games?

I asked Dr. Aurelius this once, in the Capitol, when the little blond boy was still aggravating
my subconscious with his questions. Now I am about to have that question turned around on
me, and I am fretting, again, over the answers.

"What do you mean?" he had asked. "As a tribute, as a victor, don't you know better than I?"

"No – I think I understand them even less. Were they meant to control us – or you? Did you
really enjoy them – or did they terrify you like they terrified us … deep down?"

"I can't speak for everyone in the Capitol. We didn't all have the exact same opinion about
these things. Plenty of people objected …."

"But the people who enjoyed it – the ones who really got off on it. The control – the terror –
the blood – whatever it was that they liked. Why? Why? I don't get it. We only wanted to live
and be left alone. Why build a nation on misery?"

And, as it turned out, even Dr. Aurelius had no answer to the question. So – how can I? How
will we explain it?

"I think our daughter is raising us, to be perfectly honest about it," I say, and she laughs.

"Seriously," she says, and kisses me. Her lips are warm, bringing fire. Fire flickers all around
me – the edge of memory, the memory of dreams. The dreams that became true – the good
and the bad. Firebombs in the City Circle. The flicker of Cinna's and Portia's costumes. The
sparks rising around my fingers as bread drops – deliberately – into the fire.

"Seriously," I reply, and I put a hand on her cheek. She traps my hand with her long, slender
fingers and she hums, very softly - automatically, from long habit - the lullaby, and it has its
usual soothing effect on my racing mind:

Deep in the Meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Lay down your head, and close your eyes

And when they open, the sun will rise.

Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you.

Who do I think I am?

"There is more than one way to play the game."

That's what we will tell her, I think suddenly - the little girl and, later, the fussy little boy. As
we remembered the dead – the reasons that they died as well as every good thing about their
lives – so too will our children. They will understand about choices. About standing for
something – even if it is only standing in the way of the Capitol when the bombs fall – about
choosing life when you are told to kill; about choosing love when you are told to hate.
Because the Games are never truly gone – they live in the heart of human beings, the fruit of
our worst selves, the consequences of not paying attention to the small things while they
grow out of control. That is what they are. It is not by avoiding them, but by remembering –
always remembering – that we hold them at bay. So, we will tell them, and they will
understand.

And they will be brave.

The End
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