Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Yesterday, I thought I was going to die. Now, I’m looking at the boy who took life into his hands and threw it to me. Like it was nothing. But it was everything. I can still taste it on my tongue: the sweetness of the dried fruit and the bitterness of the bread crust, blackened as his eye. He carries the bruise like it’s nothing, too. My mouth full of guilt, I drag my gaze away to look at my feet. 

That’s when I see the tiny sun beaming up at me. A dandelion. The bright yellow brings tears to my eyes, reaching into the back of my mind and pulling my father’s voice out of the ashes that have been there since his death. ‘Weeds,’ he said warmly. ‘That’s a bad term for something that knows how to save itself. And it will save you, too, Katniss.’ 

I know. I know how I’ll survive. 

My heart buzzes when I bend down to pull the dandelion from the ground. Rising, I find Peeta Mellark again. He hasn’t moved, but I will, even though part of me thinks it’s silly. I have no choice, not really. Once I reach his group of friends, merchants with clean clothes and hands, they part like clouds to make way for me. Or perhaps to make way for him, a bigger sun. His eyes are a brilliant sky blue. 

I thrust the dandelion toward him, my hands trembling; his are still as he plucks it daintily from my fingers. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, making me want to scream, ‘Don’t. I owe you.’

Instead, I rise to my tiptoes and kiss the edge of his bruise. There, I think. No more. This is the best I can do. It’s all I can do because I have nothing else to give, just a futile hope that I might numb the part of him that hurts.  

“Katniss!” 

I whip around, dismissing the strange burn in my cheeks as I catch sight of Prim. Her face is like a beacon in the crowd of young students pouring out of the school. I need to go before she reaches me and starts thinking these merchant kids are my friends. Without sparing him another glance, I turn away. I turn my back on the boy with the bread.

Enough. This has to be enough. We can’t ask each other for more.  

Grabbing Prim’s hand, I lead her away. For the first time since our father was blown up, my heart feels light. Well, maybe not light, but it’s no longer a brick in my chest. My little sister must notice the difference, too, because she smiles just like she did last night when she saw the loaves of bakery bread. Once we pass our house, she asks, “Where are we going?” 

“To pick dandelions,” I say. 

To pick hope.

That night, we eat what feels like a proper feast: Dandelion salad and the rest of the bread. When the food settles in my stomach, it feels alien. Slowly starving has been my way of living for so long. I’m sleepless, afraid I’ll wake up in the cold rain, dissolving next to the well-fed pigs. The sound of Prim’s breathing calms me. Her chest rises and falls, which is so precious. She won’t keel over in the street, hollowed out. Neither will I. 

I’m not doomed. 

I can save her. I can save us. 

I’ve brought the family plant book to school. Too desperate to be embarrassed, I flip through the pages, studying the intricate details of edible plants and roots, the key to our survival until I can sign up for tesserae. Broadleaf plantain. Inner pine bark. Wild onions. I woke up at the crack of dawn today to gather some of these plants for our lunches. We haven’t had packed lunches in months. Knowing that Prim’s stomach won’t be growling while her classmates eat brings a smile to my face, and I flip another page. Of course. Dandelions. 

My eyes drift off the page and find him. Peeta Mellark. I don’t know how, but he stands out more than anyone else. Perhaps it’s the bruise, its darkness a vile stain on his fair skin. Still, some yellow seems to have broken through. Right where my lips brushed it. I can’t believe I kissed him. I can’t believe I don’t regret it.   

As usual, he’s surrounded by friends. As usual, I’m by myself. The difference—and the distance—between us is so vast that the thing with the bread feels unbelievable. His kindness seems like a miracle. Only, I don’t believe in miracles. I don’t believe in people, either. Not merchants anyway. They look at me with a form of pity that says I might as well be dying. They look at me, but they don’t see me fighting.

Peeta Mellark saw me. He helped me.

And I see him now, too.

I see his eyes find their way to mine. This isn’t new. Since I kissed his bruise last week, our eyes have met like this. Each time, they have flitted away, leaving an odd flutter in my stomach. Today, for the first time, they stay locked. When I feel the flutter, it’s because he’s left his friends and is walking toward me. Oh no. I shouldn’t have looked, but I didn’t do it by choice. That bruise and what he did to get it enraptures me. It’s cursed me with a debt I can’t repay. Whenever I see it, I feel the warm loaves burning against my skin. I see Prim’s eyes light up. My heart shudders against the weight of something I can’t name. 

“Hey,” he says, his delicate voice reminding me of how he plucked the dandelion from my fingers. "You know it's not your fault, right?"

"What?" I say, barely audible. Peeta points to his black eye, making my throat tighten. It looks even worse up close. "It's not your fault, either." The words have passed my lips before I think to stop them. Lowering his gaze, he takes a shaky breath, and I wonder if anybody has told him this before. His father or his brothers, maybe. It doesn't seem like it.

"Does it hurt?" I know it's a stupid question, but I don't want him to hurt for me.

"No," he says quickly as if the whole thing embarrasses him. 

His eyes drift away from mine again, and—without knowing why—I scramble for something, anything to say, that will keep him here. I’ve never been good at talking, but grief seems to have stolen my voice completely. Then I realize Peeta’s looking at my scrimpy lunch. I prepare to cringe, but he doesn't comment on it. Doesn't offer me any of the fancy food his parents probably packed for him. Instead, he asks, "When do you turn twelve?"

I blink, taken aback because he must be talking about the tesserae. I had no idea kids like him knew about its existence. "May 8th." 

Just three weeks. I just need another three weeks.

His lips curl upward. It's the first time I've seen his smile up close. To my amazement, it makes the black bruise pale, as everything on his face brightens. At this moment, he looks unbeatable. Peeta Mellark gazes at me and says, "You'll make it."

I can feel myself return his smile as I reply, "I know."

Slowly, I begin to understand that what Peeta started wasn’t a debt. At least not in the classic sense. I don’t feel the weight of his kindness like a chain around my ankle every time I see him. I smile, and he smiles back. This is it. Our trade. My smiles are rare, and yet I give them to him freely as long as I get one back.

Every day, I notice something new: The sunlight adores him, catching the waves of his hair and making it glimmer like gold. Even on the cloudiest days, the rays stretch across his cheeks. The corners of his eyes crinkle when he laughs. Sometimes, he kneels to study things on the ground, looking at a butterfly as if it were a bright jewel in the dirt. Looking for beauty.   

Despite this, I don’t realize how invested I am until he turns his face toward me, and I see that the bruise has faded away to nothing. 

It’s my birthday. May 8th. 

And, without thinking, I set off, sprinting across the schoolyard. Peeta seems to know where this is going before I do, as he catches me in a hug. A hug. I don’t hug anyone except Prim. Not even my mother. Mortified, I pull back, but it’s too late. I have already felt his warmth. His arms wrapped around me like a blanket. 

Peeta acts as if this is nothing new, picking a loose strand of hair off my forehead. “You made it,” he says. 

Nodding, I fixate on his eye. Even up close, there’s no trace of darkness or swelling. My fingertips start to prickle, wanting to move, to touch, but I curl them up tightly. No. Enough, I think, holding them back. I can’t hold my tongue at the same time, and I hear myself blurt out, “Because of you.” 

Even though he must know it’s true, he says, “What? No.” 

“That bread saved us,” I say, my voice cracking. “It saved my little sister.”

Ignoring my awkward words of gratitude, Peeta asks, “How is she?”

Prim misses our father so much that she can’t sleep at night. She bursts into tears at random times, but she doesn’t look like a skeleton at our kitchen table anymore. “Good,” I reply, wondering if he believes me. “Better,” I amend.

Just as Peeta opens his mouth to form a response, Delly Cartwright—one of his best friends, I’ve gathered—calls out for him. Embarrassment overwhelms me again. What do they think of us talking? Seam kids usually stick to themselves and I should, too. I have no business hanging around the baker’s son. But ever since the mine explosion, the other kids haven’t dared talk to me. Do they think I’ll crumble? Do I look weak to them? I clench my jaw tightly as bitterness rushes through my chest, settling heavily in my gut, and suddenly it feels like something else. Loneliness. This is the price I have to pay for keeping my family alive. That thought has just crossed my mind when Peeta kisses my cheek. 

“Happy birthday, Katniss,” he says, his face a brilliant shade of red. Then he runs off. 

His lips linger on my skin all day like the sun itself. After school, I walk straight to the Justice Building and sign up for tesserae. Looking at my signature, I try not to think of the Hunger Games. This year, my name will be in the pool. Four times now. My stomach twists into a knot, and I clench my fists because I can’t be scared. Fear won’t keep us alive. Resolute, I go home to find Prim’s toy wagon, which I pull back to the Square. The relief of loading the grain and oil rations onto it makes me forget about everything else. Well, almost. The boy with the bread is still on my cheek, a subtle tingling sensation. Briefly, I wonder if my kiss felt the same way to him, then decide it’s silly. Why did he do it anyway? To look bold in front of the other merchant kids? No. If that were the case, he would’ve kissed Delly Cartwright. Not me. 

At home, Prim greets me. “Food!” she exclaims, running toward me.

“Yes, little duck,” I say. The pride that resounds in my mind is a familiar voice. You’ll make it. 

When I look up, I find our mother standing in the doorway, her eyes clouded and distant as ever. I struggle not to blame her. If she had found a job, I wouldn’t have had to do this. What will happen if I’m reaped in a few months? Images of Prim, emaciated and begging her to do something, fly through my mind. This was what I did until I realized it was no use, that she wasn’t coming back. But Prim would wait forever. At the thought, terror seizes me, turning my heart to stone. My gaze drifts to the meager ration of grain and oil again. This won’t be enough. I’ll have to hunt.

An hour later, I’m standing in the Meadow, anxiously chewing pine bark and staring at the fence. I remember my father telling me that it’s rarely live. It’s not just the electricity that worries me, though. Illegal hunting is punishable by death. And if I die, there will be no one left to take care of my family. Idly, I rub the warm spot on my cheek as if it will bring me luck. Then I listen carefully. No hum. Emboldened, I lift the loose wire and slip underneath it, my heart pounding. It only takes a second to reach freedom. Without looking back, I dart into the trees for the cover. 

The world seems different on this side of the fence. More colorful. The greens are brilliant rather than ashy. There’s no hint of coal dust in the air, and every sound stirs something in my bones. It feels like coming home. I don’t need to think about where I’m going. I follow my father’s invisible footsteps until I reach the hollow tree where he hid the small bow for me. Clutching it, I scale a nearby oak. Hours pass, the wind growing cold and my body stiffening. When my neck starts to ache, I contemplate climbing down and digging for roots instead. That’s when I turn my head and see it: a rabbit sitting in a patch of dying sunlight just off to my right. With my father’s voice echoing in my head, telling me to trust my instincts, I aim, shoot, and hit.

The relief is overwhelming, pulsing through every inch of my being, sparking in my heart. I stuff the rabbit into my father’s old hunting bag. Before I headed out, I found it in my mother’s closet, neatly placed next to his boots and jacket. As if he might come back any day now. Shoving the haunting image aside, I go back toward the fence, hidden in the darkness of the night. 

When I let myself into our house, Prim comes running into the narrow hallway. “Katniss! Where were you?” she asks, her expression revealing that she’s been worried sick about me. I feel a twitch of guilt for not telling her about my plans, but she would’ve never let me go. Even though I’m older than her, she tries to take care of me, too. She’d never allow me to sacrifice my safety for her. But it’s a choice I’m making. Every day, I look at her and feel it. The truth. I’m all she has.

I reach into my bag and pull out the dead rabbit. “Getting dinner,” I say. 

Suddenly, my mother, sitting in the shadows, rises from her chair and starts to inspect the animal. The next half an hour is like something out of the past. Without uttering a word, she skins the carcass and prepares a stew with the meat and the greens Prim and I have picked. I stare at her hands, steady for the first time in ages. Once she’s placed the pot on the stove, she stalls, looking around the kitchen as if searching for something. After a minute of this, her expression darkens, and she shuts herself in her bedroom.

Prim’s tiny jaw trembles. “She was looking for Dad.”

The jacket, the boots, the bag. Her mourning laid bare. It should make me sad, but I only feel resentment. He isn’t here, I think coldly. There’s only me now. 

His things are mine. 

The next morning, I feel different. Older. I boil our grain rations down to a porridge, which tastes better than it looks, and send Prim off to school with a lunch of dandelion salad. I’ll never grow sick of it, but she frowns, so I promise her meat for dinner, even though I know I shouldn’t. Her smile is worth it. I’ll stay in the woods all day if I have to. 

I don’t have to. In two hours, I shoot not one, not two, but three squirrels. I even manage to hit the third one through the eye like my father used to. For him, it was a sign of skill and knowledge. In my case, it’s just luck. 

My mom takes a look at the squirrels and says, “We only need two for the stew. You should sell the third one to the baker. He likes them.” 

Oh, right! A memory resurfaces. Once, my father brought me along to witness one of these trades, just like he used to bring me to the Hob. The baker took the squirrel by its tail and dug a few coins out of his pocket, folding them into my father’s palm as they shook hands. With that money, we could afford essentials like milk, butter, and thread. Still, one thing makes me hesitate: I’ll be going back to the house where I was cursed out for trying to save my family, where I sat starving in the cold rain, where my only hope was Peeta. A boy who took a beating to give me burnt bread. I can’t let her hurt him again. 

Swallowing hard, I say, “The baker’s wife is—” 

My mom nods. “I know. We went to school together,” she says, her voice surprisingly steady. This is the most words she’s spoken since the mine exploded. “I think she goes to the Square on Saturday mornings. To do shopping.” 

If she’s wrong, I’ll be chased off. Perhaps even reported to the Peacekeepers. But she wouldn’t automatically blame Peeta for my showing up again, would she? She thinks he fed the bread to the pig. She doesn’t know what he did for me. She doesn’t know that we’re… linked. Comforted by this, I decide the trade is worth a shot. I might come to rely on the baker. Like father like son. 

I’m no stranger to early weekend mornings. On Sundays, my father would wake me at the crack of dawn, and I wasn’t the slightest bit grumpy. Every time, we’d go to the same incline and watch the sun rise over the mountains, warming our hands on flasks of mint-leaf tea. He’d whistle periodically, and as soon as the mockingjays responded, we were on our feet, knowing the woodland creatures had woken, too. 

Today, I don’t go to the woods. The sight of the bakery sends a shiver through me, but I persevere, walking past the pig pen to the back door. My mind conjures up an image of Prim’s face as I push through the last of the fear to knock. After a minute, I hear the distant thumping of feet on creaking wood. Then the door is pulled open.

The baker’s eyes widen when he sees me. “Oh,” he whispers.

“I…” I realize I didn’t think of how to present myself. I wreck my brain trying to remember what my father used to say to ensure good trades. But the only thing I come up with is, “... I have a squirrel.”

That seems to be enough for the baker because his lips quirk up in a warm smile. “A good one?”

“Yes, sir,” I assure him, opening the bag to let him peek inside.

He nods in approval. ”Your price?”

Immediately, I feel like an idiot. I’ve been so worried about this trade that I haven’t thought about the most important part of it. Instead of making something up, I say, “Whatever you paid my father for his,” in a steeled tone that tells him not to mess with a grief-stricken daughter. As if he ever would. His eyes remind me of his youngest son.

Something that looks akin to admiration flashes across the baker’s face. While he digs around in his pocket for coins, I grab the squirrel by its fluffy tail. As soon as he folds the money into my palm, I give it to him, and we shake hands. My best kill so far. My first-ever trade. It seems fitting, and it feels unbelievably good. Exhilarating. The urge to count the coins is strong, but I don’t want to seem rude.

“Thank you,” I say, peering over his shoulder. Just like that day in the rain, I spot a boy emerging from the shadows. His name jumps off my lips, “Peeta?”

The baker gawks at me. Stupid, I think. No doubt, it would be better and safer for him if his parents didn’t know about his connection to a Seam girl. As a merchant, you don’t want to be cursed by association. 

But Peeta doesn’t care about that. Clearly. “Katniss? What are you doing here?”

To my surprise, the baker steps aside so his son can come to the door. “She brought a treat for me,” he says, grinning as he shows Peeta the squirrel. Then he looks between us. “But maybe she’s actually come to see you.”

It’s not true, but heat still floods my cheeks without permission. Though it may just be my imagination, the skin on Peeta’s neck looks blushed, too. His hair is lightly tousled from sleep, but his eyes are bright, wide awake. I know I should leave. Say goodbye. But all I can think of is sunlight; how he catches it with every inch of his being, how badly I need it, how badly I want it. 

Wielding the confidence the deal has given me, I ask, “Do you want to go for a walk?” 

Peeta blinks. “Ye… Yes. Of course.”

“Come on, then.”

The easy grin that grows on his face kills the rest of my embarrassment. I don’t know what I’m doing, but it feels right to leave the bakery behind, carrying a small bag of breakfast the baker packed for us: a whole loaf of bread, cheese, and dried apple rings. 

“We’ll save some for your mom and sister,” Peeta says before I’ve had the chance to ask. “Now, tell me about that squirrel.” 

Maybe I shouldn’t, but I haven’t exactly kept my criminal activities to myself by showing up at his family’s doorstep with a dead rodent. Besides, I’m sure Peeta’s not the type that would blabber about this to anyone. So, as we walk toward the Meadow, I tell him about the bow and arrows in the hollow tree, about the fence, about the many times my father took me out to practice. “It’s like he knew,” I whisper, my voice fraying at the edges. 

“Knew what?” Peeta says. ”That you’d be excellent?”

Despite its fragility, my heart flutters at his words. “That he wouldn’t be here forever.” I start to walk faster as if I can outpace the grief welling up in my chest. The last thing I want to do is cry. I haven’t cried in months, and I don’t want to cry in front of Peeta. 

His fingers brush mine. Somehow, the touch makes me slow down. “You hit that squirrel right through the eye,” he remarks. 

“So what?” 

“So he’s still here. Because you are.”

My first impulse is to scream at him. I want to tell him that he’s wrong, that the loss crushes me every day, that I can feel myself disappearing just as he did, but I can’t make myself speak. I just shake my head, kicking a pebble on the ground. It’s no use. He doesn’t understand.

Peeta picks up the pebble and rolls it between his fingers. “Look at this,” he says, his soft voice making me comply. 

Beneath a layer of coal dust, the pebble is a creamy white and almost impossibly round. Like a pearl. This is him, always searching for beauty and finding it. When he places it in my palm, I can’t throw it away. Something about the smooth surface and warm brightness comforts me. So I close my fingers around it, holding on.

We sit down under an old willow to eat. To my surprise, the bread is stale. When I ask Peeta about it, he shrugs. “The customers get the fresh stuff. We mostly eat what they leave in the shop.” Huh. I was under the impression that living in a bakery meant luxury. Peeta picks up an apple ring and says, “These are my favorites. We make them out of fallen apples and dry them during the winter. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we can add a sprinkle of cinnamon.”

“I’ve never had cinnamon,” I say. “What’s it like?” 

Peeta smiles. “It’s sweet. Tingles your tongue. And if you close your eyes, it’s a bit like drinking tea. Or sitting in front of a fire. It has a warmth that reaches your chest. Your fingertips, even.”

I’m drawn in by the vivid description. “That sounds so good,” I say, trying and failing to hide my envy.   

“It is. I haven’t had it in years, though. Mom hates it when we waste the spices.”

“I’m sure she does,” I mumble.

Staring at his hands, Peeta swallows hard. Before I know what to say, he’s risen to his feet. Wielding the serrated bread knife, he starts slicing off a piece of the bark from the tree. I want to tell him he should use a smoother blade, but then he succeeds and sits back down. I’m transfixed as he uses the tip to etch the dark side of the bark, carving bright lines. Slowly, the design takes shape: A fluffy tail. Glassy eyes. Tiny paws carrying an acorn. A squirrel.

“My brothers are bigger than me,” Peeta says. “They can help her out by carrying flour or assisting with the oven. She tells me I’m useless.” The way he says it, like he’s accepted that she’s right, pierces my heart. “My father wants me to decorate the cakes.” 

“I can see why,” I whisper, looking at his drawing. It takes me back to last night. “The dead squirrels I brought home upset Prim. I think this is how she pictures them in the woods. Like something out of a storybook. She’s so…” I trail off, on the brink of tears. 

Peeta puts down the knife. “Do you want to give this to her?”

For a moment, I think of protesting. He can’t keep giving me things. But this isn’t for me; it’s for Prim, and I want her to have it. Still, I want her to know where it came from. “You made it,” I say. “You should give it to her.”

This is how the baker’s son ends up in the Seam for the first time. He places the remaining half of the loaf, a bit of cheese, and three apple rings on our dinner table. Prim, standing in the doorway, rubs her eyes in disbelief which is soon replaced by awe. Upon seeing her, Peeta kneels to match her height. “I’ve got something else for you,” he says gently, holding out the piece of bark.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, then hear myself add, “He’s my friend.”

Shyly, Prim reaches out and takes the drawing. Her face lifts, brightens, struck by precious delight. 

It’s inevitable. With this one gesture, Peeta Mellark endears himself to me forever. 

He puts down roots in my heart, the boy with the bread. I don’t pause to consider why dandelions bring a smile to my face or why I’m always eager to shoot squirrels. I spend my days at school, dragging myself through the classes as I daydream of the woods. Last month, I met an older boy out there. Gale. Our fathers were killed in the same explosion, and he’s the oldest of four kids. I know this because I saw him with his family at the ceremony they held for the victims at the Justice Building. Aside from that, I know his snares are impressive. Better than mine, that’s for sure. 

One late afternoon, I show Peeta my meager haul and tell him, enviously, about seeing Gale carrying two large rabbits.

“Maybe you should team up,” Peeta says thoughtfully. “Share your skills and the game. That way, you’d both get something out of it.”

I consider this. While Peeta isn’t wrong, he’s making it sound simpler than it is. For six months, I’ve been doing this on my own. I haven’t had to rely on anyone else. There’s vulnerability in a partnership, and I don’t think I can afford it. There’s another problem, too. “How would I teach him archery? By giving him one of the bows? By letting him practice with mine? No, it’s not gonna happen. He might steal it… or something.”

Rolling his eyes, Peeta plucks a dying dandelion from the ground and blows the seeds at my face in teasing. For some reason, I don’t mind. “Katniss, you two are going through the same thing. I’m sure he won’t trick you.”

“But what if he does?” I complain.

Peeta shrugs. “Then we kill him. How does that sound?” 

Even though it’s a joke, meant to calm me down, a shiver runs through me. The Reaping is just a few days away. My first year. Peeta’s too. Although I try to hide the fear, my face must’ve dropped because his arm wraps around my shoulders. “Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay,” I say, but it’s not. We both know it’s not. These last six months, I’ve been so focused on surviving day by day that I’ve pushed the Games out of my mind. As much as every person in Twelve tries to forget it, death is everywhere. It’s in the emaciated people and animals who roam the Seam, in the smokey air we breathe, in the freezing water. But most of all, it’s in our own names. Our names on those slips. 

I look into Peeta’s blue eyes and see the lake I have yet to show him, where I learned to swim. I look at him and see myself, terrified of the Capitol taking him away. This is why I would rather not have any friends. It’s easier that way. But Peeta is my friend. I can’t undo that, and it’s not just because Prim asks about him all the time or because he gave me the bread. 

He pushes off the ground and reaches out to me. Without thinking, I take his hand. Let him pull me up. The summer breeze blows some loose hair from my braid in front of my face, and he brushes it away. 

“We’ll make it,” he tells me softly. 

Peeta and I do make it through our first Reaping. Our second. Our third. Our fourth, too. Despite the stunting fear, we grow. The bow starts to belong in my hands. With Gale’s help, I learn how to move through woods like a shadow. Peeta was right. We make good hunting partners, especially now that we’ve developed an understanding of each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Slowly, the woods start to feel like ours. This means our hauls become bigger. Big enough that we often bring half of it to the Hob for bargaining. Rabbits, foxes, wild turkeys. Along the way, this survival even becomes enjoyable. I realize I like hunting. It gives me a sense of purpose and a thrill, which is much needed in a place like District 12. 

I still trade squirrels with the baker every weekend, but it’s different now. On this foggy November morning, I knock on the back door, feeling jittery, and it’s not because I’m afraid I’ll be chased off. It’s because I know who will greet me.

Peeta flings the door open and wraps his arms around me, lifting me off the ground as if I’ve just returned from war. “Good morning,” he murmurs into my hair.

Laughter bubbles in my throat as I cling to his shoulders. These days, he’s broader and taller. Stronger. When he doesn’t demonstrate it by wrestling at school or throwing flour bags around, he does it like this. He carries me over the doorstep and into the bakery, enveloping me as I’m met by warmth and the scent of freshly baked bread. 

“If you put me down, I’ll give you a squirrel,” I say. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that,” he replies. “Two?”

I pretend to consider it, messing a bit with his hair while I have the chance. “All right. Deal.”

Sighing, Peeta sets me down, his eyes full of sparks. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks, but his demeanor is serious when he mutters, “We have an hour. A big order came in today. Dad went with her to pick it up, so it’s just us.” 

Just us. He says it like I live here with him, like I’m a part of the family, and nothing could be further from the truth. While his father and older brothers know we aren’t strangers to each other, our friendship mostly belongs to the shadows. His mother certainly doesn’t know about it, which is a miracle. For years, we have followed unwritten rules and only met up at specific times: The first two hours after school. Saturday and Sunday mornings. Every time I start to think it’s silly, my mind conjures up an image of that nasty bruise. I can’t let that happen again. So secrecy it is. 

As I pull the squirrels out of my hunting bag, I wonder why he bothers with me. He has tons of other friends; friends who throw their heads back at his jokes, who don’t have to commit felonies all day to survive. Swallowing hard, I push the thought out of my mind. 

“I’ve got something else,” I say with an air of mystery. Reaching into the bag once more, I pull out a piece of basil-wrapped goat cheese. “Tah-dah!”

Peeta’s eyes widen. “You worked it out!”

“Yes,” I say, beaming. “I thought you earned the first bite.”

“Gale gets his share, too, right?”

“Of course.”

Peeta and Gale both had a hand in securing Prim’s goat, Lady. While Gale took down the buck with me, we wouldn’t have been able to bring a whole carcass to the butcher if it weren’t for Peeta. When we brought it into the Hob, the people swarmed us, demanding and even trying to take pieces for themselves, but Peeta’s voice rose in command, rolling over the crowd. I’ll never forget what he said. Stealing from your own people. I refuse to believe we’ve sunk this low. You’re all better than this. After, he told us to take the meat to the butcher, Rooba, and sweet-talked her into offering an excellent price.

“I wasn’t even supposed to be there,” Peeta says with a shrug. “I was just running a rare errand for my father. You and Gale did the hard work.”

I dismiss him. “Shush. Can you spare bread for this?”

Grinning, Peeta ducks behind the counter and starts rummaging through the lower cabinets. “For you, I have just the right kind of stale rye.”

“Perfect.”

Because I know his witch of a mother would hate it, I jump on the counter to watch as he slices a piece of the bread and halves it. To my surprise, he places it on the embers in the bread oven. When he pulls it out a couple of minutes later, it’s lightly toasted. My mouth waters as he carefully spreads the cheese on it. But, just as I’m about to take a bite, he exclaims, “Wait! I almost forgot.”

“This better be good,” I grumble. 

“Oh, it’s only your favorite thing,” he says, pulling a tin can off the top shelf. I’m puzzled because I was unaware that I had a favorite thing. But when he reveals the dried apple rings, it makes sense. My heart leaps when he places one on my half of bread. “All right. Go ahead.” 

It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten, sweet, salty, fatty, and crunchy all at once. A sound of pleasure escapes me, too alike a moan. Embarrassed, I open my eyes just in time to see Peeta suck a crumb off the side of his thumb. Heat floods my cheeks without warning. It’s confusing. Nothing like this ever happens in the woods. 

“I… should go,” I say, a little shaky. “I gotta get blackberries for the mayor.”

In the summertime, Mayor Undersee has a soft spot for the wild strawberries Gale and I found last year. During the colder months, I can sway him with the biggest, juiciest blackberries. They’re a pain to pick, with all of those thorns, but I need the money. 

“Hold on a second,” Peeta says. “I’ve got one more thing.”

“No more gifts,” I chastise, following him as he walks to the door. Although our relationship isn’t the transactional one I’m used to, I wish he wouldn’t give me things, that he would stick to smiles and bits of beauty like the pebble I keep on my nightstand at home. “No more, Peeta.”

“Relax,” he tells me gently. “It’s not for you.” 

To prove his point, he digs a hand into the small leather pouch he uses for coins and pulls out a bunch of… acorns. But they’re not just acorns. They’re mice. Somehow, Peeta has glued two pine cone seeds to the top of them. Ears. He’s drawn eyes, noses, and tiny whiskers using a black pen. This way, the short stem on the acorn hat looks like a tail. 

“For Prim,” he says, and suddenly my heart feels as if it’s about to burst out of my ribcage. Perhaps it would. If it weren’t for the walls keeping it locked away. “We can even call it a trade now. Tell her thanks for the cheese.” 

“No,” I say, placing my hands on his chest for emphasis. “You want to give her a gift? Do it yourself.” 

“All right,” Peeta huffs out a laugh. “If it matters that much to you, I’ll drop by this afternoon.” 

It does matter to me. Because I want her to feel it, too: the hope his hands weave into things. Bread, weeds, pebbles, and now acorns. I want her little face to light up, and I want her to know who did it. It’s the only way I can allow this. But I can’t tell him that. Instead, I look at him, my fingers clutching the front of his shirt as if to convey how I feel.

My name is a strangled sound on his lips. “Katniss—” 

Before he can say anything else, another voice startles us apart. “Oo-la-la.” It belongs to Peeta’s oldest brother, who’s leaning against the door that leads into the hallway. 

“Get lost, Hal,” Peeta says, rough and bitter. This, combined with the fact that it’s the first time I’ve heard him say his brother’s name, is enough to tell me what their relationship is like. 

The glint in Hal’s eyes makes me uneasy. Even though they have the same blond hair and blue eyes, he doesn’t look anything like Peeta. “You’re not gonna introduce us?”

“Hell no.”

I take this as my cue to leave. Quickly, I gather up my things and dash out of the back door without saying goodbye. In my mind, I leave a kiss on Peeta’s cheek.

I spend the next few hours in the woods with Gale. We know a place where the blackberry bushes are tall enough that you could walk under them. The branches shield us from the cold winds as we carefully pick the plumb berries and place them in a basket his mother weaved for us. We usually don’t talk much, as our voices might scare away potential prey. When we do speak, however, our words are treasonous, cursing the Capitol and the Hunger Games. While my anger is usually born out of worry for Prim, Gale’s goes beyond that. He wants to burn the whole system to the ground, and while I understand that, I know it won’t ever happen. Our names remind us of our powerlessness. As the oldest of four siblings, Gale’s name will be in the Reaping pool forty-two times this year. So I let him rant. If I don’t let him release the anger, I’m afraid it might eat him up.

Once the basket is full, Gale turns to me. “You deliver these to the mayor. I’ll set some snares in the meantime.”

I nod. Trading with the more privileged people of District 12, like Peacekeepers and merchants, is our only way to survive, but that doesn’t mean Gale likes it. If it were up to him, we’d stick to the Hob. Sometimes, I wonder what he thinks of Peeta, the baker’s boy who saved our trade with the butcher. I haven’t told Gale about the bread. Maybe if I did, he’d feel differently. 

At the mayor’s residence, Madge opens the door for me. She’s another reason why I don’t mind coming here. As the daughter of the richest person in the district, she has trouble making friends. Although the reason for my loneliness is the opposite of hers, the position we hold socially is largely the same, and it’s bonded us. We eat lunch together every day. 

“Come in,” she says, smiling. “My father is at a meeting, but he’ll be home in a minute.”

She offers me cranberry tea with sugar, which I accept because my hands are numb from the cold. Pouring a cup for herself, too, she sits down opposite me. “Did you trade with anyone else today?”

At this point, everyone in Twelve knows Gale and I hunt because it’s virtually impossible to hide. The rare taste of meat is enough to get hungry people talking. It worried us at first, but when the Peacekeepers lined up to be some of our best customers, we started to relax into our new roles as game providers. Because of this, I comfortably tell Madge the truth, “I went to the bakery as usual.”

“Did you see Peeta?” Her question pulls me up short. Even though it sounds casual enough, there’s a peculiar edge to her voice. 

“Yeah,” I say flatly. “Why?”

Looking down at her cup as she stirs the tea, Madge says, “Oh, no reason. I just— You just, well, you always… sneak around together. It’s quite obvious that you’re...”

“His mother hates me,” I say, feeling defensive. Sneak around… What’s that supposed to mean? We do try to hide our friendship, but it’s only because we have to, and apparently, we haven’t been as good at it as I thought. “That’s all.” 

Madge looks at me, her mouth tightened to a thin line. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Is she? For some reason, it doesn’t seem genuine, which confuses me. In all the time I’ve known her, she’s always been sweet and unassuming. Perhaps we aren’t the best of friends, but I’ve never doubted her intentions. I puzzle over the abrupt shift until it hits me. Her choice of words hints at something. Jealousy. Could she be in love with Peeta? It makes sense. He’s an impressive wrestler. He’s charming. A suncatcher with a kind heart. 

Suddenly, the tea on my tongue turns bitter. I open my mouth, but before I can question her about it, the mayor steps into the living room, bringing me back to business. 

After another successful trade, I walk back toward the Seam. I try to focus on the wonderful jingle of coins in the money pouch hanging from my belt, but my thoughts keep drifting to what Madge said about Peeta and me. It fills me with unease. If she’s noticed, there’s no telling who else has, and it could easily get back to his mother. Then I think of Peeta’s brother seeing us. His wolf-like grin. Would he rat us out? What would he get out of it? 

My anxious thoughts are disrupted when I enter the house and find Peeta sitting at our kitchen table. Next to him, Prim is already playing with the acorn mice, her expression dreamy. It’s no wonder why. Toys are as rare as diamonds in the Seam.

“What do you have there?” I say quietly, revealing myself.

Prim beams back at me. “Look what Peeta made! Buttercup likes them, too.” She’s talking, of course, about her cat, an ugly flat-faced thing that I would’ve drowned if it weren’t for her tears. My tender heart, it will be the death of me. If I’m honest, the thought of Buttercup knocking Peeta’s beautiful handiwork around our living room upsets me. But he doesn’t seem to mind. 

Grinning proudly, Peeta lifts his eyes to mine. Thank you, I mouth, which prompts him to stand. “Katniss, can we talk?” 

“Always,” I say, my chest prickling with anxiety once again. Did he stay to tell me his mother has found out? That we can’t see each other anymore? What if this is goodbye?

We step into the small garden behind our house. Since my mother resumed taking in patients last year, it has housed both medicinal and edible herbs, like the basil for Prim’s cheese. Peeta sits down on one of the planters to stroke the leaves of lavender, and I briefly close my eyes, expecting the worst, but he only says, “I’m sorry about earlier. Hal usually sleeps like a rock. I didn’t think he’d bother us.”

“Is that what he does?” I ask. “Bother you?” 

Peeta shrugs. “Not so much anymore. I’m bigger than him now.”

I noticed that, too. While Hal is a bit taller, his shoulders and arms are no match for Peeta’s. Still, I’m baffled by the implication that this is the only thing that protects him from being bullied by his own brother. I love Prim more than my own life. I thought that was only natural. Apparently, it’s not. 

“But he’s still a jerk?”

“Yeah. That’s not really his fault, though.” His voice drops into vulnerability, which brings me closer. Without hesitation, I sit down on the cold ground next to his leg and lean my cheek against it. When I do, the words spill out of him. “In our house, we survive by hardening. The more calluses on your skin, the less the heat burns, you know? Hal is the way he is because he has to be.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I say. “You’re not like that.”

Peeta is quiet for a moment. His fingers move from the plant to my hair, making me shudder. “Not with you, maybe.”

I’m about to protest when I remember the way he spoke to his brother in the bakery. For a minute, he sounded like a completely different person. Cold. Mean. Despite this, I wasn’t unnerved by it. Because it had nothing to do with me. The thought of Peeta feeling safer with me than in his own home makes my heart ache. My relationship with my mother is far from ideal, but I don’t need to hide my personality around her to protect myself. Much like Peeta and his brothers, I became who I am because I had to change, but the violence I endure is different. Less direct. Less intimate. 

“Would it…” I swallow hard. “Would it be a huge risk if you stayed for dinner?”

“I don’t think so,” Peeta says, smiling. “I told my parents I was going to Delly’s.” 

Oh, Delly Cartwright, my antithesis. Friendly to everyone she meets. A merchant’s daughter. I bet Peeta’s parents love the idea of a romance brewing between them. It would make sense, just as Madge’s crush on him makes sense. My parents’ marriage, which crossed class barriers, was a rare outlier. 

Peeta sits beside me as we eat the rabbit stew and flatbread my mother has prepared. I must admit it tastes good, but I still hesitate to let her cook. To let her do anything for me. If it weren’t for Peeta, my sour mood would undoubtedly ruin the atmosphere. He tells a story of how he once added salt to the cookie dough instead of sugar, coaxing laughs out of Prim and my mother. I chuckle tentatively but can’t stop myself from leaning in to whisper, “Did you get in trouble for that?”

He smiles against my ear. “I made it up, Katniss.” 

My stomach jolts with relief, with surprise, with affection. The thought of him sharing a fake story at his own expense to make my family laugh fills me with warmth. I’m also struck by how easily lying comes to him. Maybe that should worry me or make me suspicious of him, but when it’s used for this purpose, I can only admire it. 

After eating, I do the washing up, and Peeta insists on helping me. Outside, the sky is darkening to a deep, blackish violet. Scrubbing the plates, I struggle not to overthink. He’s never stayed at our house for longer than a couple of minutes. What about the coal dust that sticks to everything here? Will it stick to him?

“Hey,” he says, reading my thoughts. “Don’t worry about me. I forbid it.” 

Despite everything, a smile tugs on my lips. “Oh, you forbid it? And when have I ever done what you told me to?”

“Rarely,” he admits. 

“Never.”

This makes him laugh. The sound wraps itself around my heart. Then he touches my shoulder. “Seriously. I’ll be fine.”

“And what about Hal?” I ask, not convinced I can trust him to keep his mouth shut. In fact, I don’t trust him any more than I would a rabid dog. 

“He won’t say anything.” When I ask Peeta how he can be certain, he reveals, “Because his girlfriend sneaks into his bedroom when they think they’re home alone, and I haven’t said anything about that. Not yet, at least.” 

The twinkle in his eyes is immaculate. With each passing day, I learn more about the boy with the bread. He might be kind, but he’s no pushover, and he knows how to play his cards right. It intrigues me. But more importantly, it convinces me that, with our combined efforts, we might be all right. We might make it. 

The world of our district falls at the mercy of deep winter. People find warmth wherever they can: in tea, in nettle soup, in each other. Sheltered by the darkness of the early morning, I follow the main street in the Seam until I notice the flicker of an oil lamp and the boy who carries it. The biting winds are not enough to keep Peeta away. I don’t know why he insists on walking me to the fence every Sunday. It’s not necessary. Still, I appreciate it, as it gives us time to talk.  

Linking our arms, Peeta leads with, “I have excellent news. Tonight is ours.”

My jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

“Uh-huh. The folks are having a festive dinner down the street. My brothers are taking this rare opportunity to see their girlfriends.”

And he wants to see me. When it hits me, I almost stop walking. But it’s not like that. Only once before have Peeta and I had the evening to ourselves at the bakery. Last year during the harvest festival, I watched him ice cookies for hours and blabbered about the woods. I was worried about boring him, but then he asked me to describe a waterlily and, while I spoke, he drew it on a cookie. 

“I’ll be there,” I promise as we reach the fence. Adjusting the hunting bag on my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of Peeta’s grin. “You’re not gonna wish me good luck?” 

“As if you need it,” he says, and I don’t know if it’s the weather, but his voice sounds deeper than usual. It sends a shiver up my spine. Then his strong and familiar arms wrap me in a hug. They feel like no one else’s. Burying my nose in his shoulder, I inhale the scent of bread and sugar that’s stuck to his skin. When he draws back, my heart sinks.

“I better go,” he says. “Shoot a squirrel for me.”

For me. Hearing that makes something stir deep in my stomach. “I’ll try my best,” I say, weirdly breathless. 

As always, he lingers, squeezing my shoulder. The thin layer of ice on the ground crackles like sparks under our boots, and his misty breath mingles with mine in the cold air. These moments confuse me because they don’t feel out of place. They feel purposeful, like a sort of waiting. But I don’t know what we’re waiting for. 

Eventually, Peeta steps back. “See you later, Katniss.”

Smiling, he turns and starts walking back toward the Seam. Although it’s unsafe to stay here for long, I watch him go. When he’s become a small dot, I duck into the woods and meet up with Gale at the rock incline where my father and I used to sit, waiting for the creatures to wake. Today, he’s promised to give me a lesson in tying snares. As soon as we start to move, I sense that there’s something on his mind, but I write it off, thinking it might be because we’re approaching the anniversary of the mine explosion. I’m wrong about that.

While making one of his intricate contraptions, he suddenly looks up at me and says, “Doesn’t your boyfriend get jealous?”

I frown in confusion. “My…”  

“The baker’s boy. The one with the broad shoulders.” 

Peeta. Without permission, heat floods my cheeks. Befuddled by his assumption, I fumble, “Oh. Um, no, I…  we’re not—what makes you think…?”

An amused glint appears in Gale’s eye. “Nothing much,” he says, a crooked grin playing on his lips as he makes a loop with the rope. “You’re just always touching him. And you’re not exactly the feely type, Catnip.”

Normally, I would protest the nickname. In this situation, my defense has bigger fish to fry. But as I open my mouth, I remember hugging Peeta right before this. I remember twisting my fingers in the front of his shirt. Playing with his hair. Resting my cheek against his leg. And I can feel my blush deepening. 

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Gale says honestly. “I was sure you’d been going out for a while. I thought that was why he helped you with Rooba.”

“Helped us,” I snap. “And I don’t have time to go out with anyone.” Averting my eyes, I try to focus on the complicated knot he’s tying. But this is upsetting me. I can’t afford to be distracted by feelings. I thought Gale understood this. Apparently not. 

“But if you did, you’d choose him?” 

Despite everything, I wonder. Would I? I try picturing Peeta as my boyfriend, but what would that even look like? It hadn’t occurred to me that other people might already assume we’re in a relationship. Then I think of Madge and our strange conversation in the mayor’s living room. Suddenly, it makes sense, her choice of words, her jealousy. Sneaking around has romantic undertones. She thinks Peeta is my boyfriend, too.

Overwhelmed, I hiss, “I wouldn’t choose anyone.”

“If you say so.” Gale rises to his feet, brushing snow off his knees. “Come on. We have at least ten more of these to set before sunrise.” 

While we continue setting the snares, it becomes painfully evident that mine aren’t good. I decide to blame it on Gale for distracting me, and on Peeta, for being the root of it. I should be focusing on the rope in my hands, but all I can think about is the first thing Gale said. About Peeta being jealous. Is he? I’ve been spending most of my days out here, hunting with an older boy whose circumstances mirror mine. In contrast, the time I spend with Peeta is strictly managed by fear. What would we do together, I wonder, if we didn’t need to sneak around? Would I ever leave his side if I didn’t have to? 

These thoughts haunt me until I shoot a wild turkey. I heard it coming. That’s another thing. In the woods, my senses take over. Nothing matters except responding to the cues from my familiar surroundings. After years, it’s become second nature, and I no longer have to think about it; my body seems to act on its own. I’m in control, but it takes no effort. It’s almost as if I become the animals I hunt. Sharp instincts, a clear mind. With Peeta… I’m human again. My body betrays me. It bends like a bowstring under his hands. It blushes and fumbles. 

It keeps leading me back to him. 

We check the snares at sundown and find four rabbits. Once I’d given up on setting the snares, I shot a couple of squirrels and a wild turkey. This makes a decent haul. Gale and I decide to sell the turkey and two of the rabbits at the Hob, leaving the rest with our families. I pocket a squirrel for Peeta. 

The black market is busy this time of year, as the people of the Seam cram in here to stay warm. This should make it easy to sell our game, but after an hour, we find ourselves forced to accept bad deals. I wonder if we’ve become too dependable. If people have started taking us for granted, it would make the meat we provide less valuable. At least Greasy Sae pays us decently for a rabbit. She also fills our portable canteens with nettle soup, which is especially appreciated when we exit the building and walk right into howling, freezing winds. 

“Looks like a blizzard, Catnip,” Gale says. “Best to get home before it starts.”

Of course, he’s right, but I have my night with Peeta, which is rarer than snowstorms. The thought of missing it makes my gut twist. So, once we’ve parted ways in the Seam, I turn back, heading toward the finer townhouses. 

Tonight, I don’t have to enter through the back door. I catch a glimpse of Peeta through the front windows, illuminated by candlelight. My stomach jolts oddly again, but this time I sense how moves through me, to the tips of my being. When our eyes meet, he breaks into a grin. Seconds later, the front door opens. 

We don’t hug as we usually do. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me in slowly. I don’t bury my nose in his neck. Instead, I curl my hand around the back of his shoulder and squeeze it. After, the moment seems to drop off into eternity, and I’m vaguely aware that I’m staring at his mouth. For some reason, my mind brings me back to the fence this morning.

“Have you been waiting a long time?” I ask, my voice low.

Peeta smiles. “Doesn’t matter. It’s worth it.”

Finally, we cross the threshold. The whole shop smells of apples and a sweet something that Peeta tells me is cinnamon. They’ve spent all morning baking pies that probably won’t be sold because of the weather. 

“That sounds promising,” I say as we dart into the kitchen. I’ve never been here before, as it’s part of the main house where the family lives. Instantly, I’m overwhelmed by the sense that I shouldn’t be here, but Peeta just places a wooden slab on the table and tells me to do my thing. I prepare the squirrel for cooking, adding the meat into a pot with Greasy Sae’s soup. It wouldn’t be a good meal anywhere, but it is here. 

Peeta watches me for a while, then admits, “I’m supposed to be manning the shop.”

“Then man it,” I tell him, my lip quirking into a smirk. “I’m not stopping you.” 

“Not knowingly,” he mutters. 

Caught off guard, I stop stirring. “What?” 

With a grin, Peeta brushes off my confusion and ducks back into the shop, leaving me to stare at my fingernails. A bit of blood is still caked underneath them. I swallow hard, struggling to wrap my head around his words. What did he mean? Am I distracting? A risk? Probably. No doubt, he should be focusing on his duties. So should I, but I’m here instead of at home, cooking for Prim and my mother. I didn’t even tell them where I was going. 

Just as guilt surges through my chest, leaving me nauseous, Peeta comes back. “The storm has officially started,” he says, “No one in their right mind will think of buying bread. I flipped the sign to closed. Do you wanna go home?”

“Not yet,” I hear myself say. “I gotta ask you something.”

When we sit down together to eat the soup, I show Peeta the depressing six coins I made at the Hob today after dividing the sum with Gale. I know greed is dangerous, but this won’t buy me more than a bar of soap. Looking at it like this, splayed out on the table, frustration builds in my chest. 

The frown on Peeta’s face tells me he agrees. “You know,” he says thoughtfully. “If you let me come with you, I could try to drive the prices up.” Just like that, he’s suggested what I’ve been afraid to ask.

“Really? You’d do that?”

A smirk appears on Peeta’s lips. “It’s worth a shot. I can be quite persuasive.” 

Oh, I know that. He already proved it with Rooba. Of course, class differences could cause issues. As charming as Peeta is, he’s still a merchant boy, which might make a lot of people who frequent the Hob distrust him by default. But I trust him, and that should be enough to sway our customers, shouldn’t it? Then again there’s… 

Before I bring it up, Peeta says the quiet part out loud. “What about Gale? Are you worried about him?”

This brings me back to the morning, the assumption, the thought of Peeta as my boyfriend. Anxiously rolling a coin between my fingers, I reply, “No, I’m not worried about Gale,” even though I am. A little bit. Suddenly, I’m thinking about the jealousy Peeta may or may not feel, and I have to add, “Are you?”

“No,” he says, his eyes searching for mine. As usual, I can’t resist their pull. When I look at him, I’m struck by the color of his irises, blended to an electric violet by the glow of the fire. “Should I be?” 

These words, more than anything, tell me it could be true. We could be, Peeta and I. If it weren’t for the walls I’ve built around my heart, tall and tough as trees. If it weren’t for that, I would choose him, but I can’t entertain pulling my defenses down; they exist for a reason. Swallowing hard, I struggle to find an answer to his question. Should he be worried? No, not about Gale. 

Perhaps unsettled by my silence, Peeta clears his throat. “What do you do in the woods? Besides hunt?”

“Nothing!” I say, too quickly. “I mean… Sometimes, we talk.”

The corners of Peeta’s eyes crinkle. “You talk?” he echoes quietly before his voice falls into playful dramatics, “Oh, the hurt! The betrayal! How will I ever recover?”

I push his shoulder because I don’t know what else to do. My body responds so readily to everything: his voice, warm and rough, edging on a laugh; the thousand small sparks in his eyes; his lips, full and beckoning as they curl into a smile. The touch that I initiated only makes it worse. When he catches my hand, folding his thumb under my palm, my senses are ensnared. The only thing I feel is the burning fire, everywhere, on my skin. Like that day in the rain, I realize. Life is seeping into me. 

And I need to do things I can’t. 

“I— I should be heading home,” I say, tearing my eyes away from his. “My family still needs to eat.” 

“So do you,” Peeta murmurs, possibly referring to my full bowl of soup, but there’s a new edge to his voice. It reminds me of the times I’ve eaten with him. I’ve always done it without worrying about feeding anyone else first, purely to satisfy my own hunger. For pleasure, even. I need to leave before I do something stupid. 

Probably sensing my desperation, Peeta rises from his chair. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

“No, you can’t leave the shop unattended,” I rush to say as if I’m protecting him. But I’m not. As usual, I’m only worried about preserving myself. 

“But the snow—”

“Won’t kill me,” I assure him, collecting the coins. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right.” Then, before Peeta can protest further, I slip out of the door and into the storm. 

Desperately, I wait for the violent blizzard to kill the flames in my body, but the effect is the opposite. The snow melts on contact with me, and I’m left drenched yet unshivering. Halfway back, I realize it was foolish to go home alone, as the weather threatens to blind me. But it would’ve been foolish to stay, too. Peeta’s family could’ve returned at any moment, and where would that have left us if…? If…

 I push forward, shutting off my mind and begging my senses to save me. As always, they do. Somehow, I make it back to the house where the smell of rabbit and sweet roots reaches my nose and turns my head. From the hallway, I see my mother by the stove, stirring a pot. I left the rabbit here before I went to the Hob, but I didn’t expect her to cook it. Stunned, I stand motionless until she notices me.  

She frowns. “Katniss. Where have you been?” 

“The bakery,” I say, making her eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

“This late? In this weather? Why?”

Right now, I wish I could spin a lie as easily as Peeta because the mere idea of taking his name into my mouth makes me shudder. Still, I’m forced to. “I went to see Peeta.”

I don’t like the way she studies me as if I’m one of her patients and she’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. After a minute, her expression hardens. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him,” she says. “Be careful. You’re too young to have—”

Her words feel like a slap to the face. “Too young?!” I shout, suddenly outraged. “Oh so now I’m a child? But I wasn’t one when I signed up for tesserae? When I broke the law and risked my life to keep us alive?” Stepping closer, I drop the pouch of money next to her hand, causing the coins to clink. Let that remind her who the breadwinner is. 

My mother’s head snaps up. She won’t look at me, which hurts more, turning me vicious. “I hardly spend any time with him!” I snarl, trembling. “I don’t have any time. For school. For friends. For anything. And that’s your fault!” 

Although it isn’t true, not entirely, it feels good to blame her. To slam the door. To refuse the dinner she’s cooked. I’ll go to bed hungry and frustrated in more ways than one. As long as I fume, I manage to avoid thinking about what my mother said. But the anger is only temporary. Deep hurt replaces it, unlike anything I’ve felt since my father died. I’m cold and hollow, a tree without leaves. Too old. That’s what I am.

Eventually, someone knocks on the door. I raise my head, half-expecting to see my mother. Of course, it isn’t her. It’s Prim, carrying a steaming bowl of stew for me. She sits down on the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of hair out of my eyes. “Wanna talk about it?”

I hate that she saw me lose control. Most of the time, I wrap my bitter anger up tightly, shutting it away for her sake. I want her to feel safe. I want to keep her gentle against all the odds. That’s the real reason why I don’t have any time. Swallowing a lump of guilt in my throat, I shake my head. “No. I’m just being silly.”

Prim passes me the bowl, and I’m hungry enough to accept it. “About Peeta?” she asks with a frown.

His name startles me. I don’t want to think about him. More than anything, I want to forget about what happened at the bakery. Or rather what didn’t happen. I want to forget about what my mother thinks I’m too young for. Despite all of this, I still have to push the word past my lips, “Yes.”

What I feel isn’t silly. It’s dangerous. The dreams I have that night make it obvious. Since my father died, I’ve had recurring nightmares: I’m trapped in the mines, screaming for him to run or stuck between hundreds of dead bodies, inhaling coal dust and choking on my own blood. Sometimes, I try to reach Prim’s lifeless body as it sinks further and further into a mountain of ash. In this new one, I’m forced to watch Peacekeepers drag Peeta away, pale and hollow as a ghost. Just as his name escapes my lips, a desperate cry, I wake up. 

That’s the nightmare. By some miracle, I fall asleep again, plummeting head-first into a dream. I’m surrounded by darkness, listening to the clouds that roar and burst with rain. My heart is rattling like windows in a storm, but I know I’m safe because he’s here, breathing hot life onto my neck. Kissing me until I shudder and wrap myself around him. Just as his name escapes my lips, a desperate cry, I wake up.

I jolt upright and have enough sense to smother the gasp in my throat. Despite this, a wave rolls over me. It feels like dipping my toes into a tub of hot bathwater. At first, it’s a shock to the system, and I think it might hurt me, but then it’s just… bliss. Closing my eyes, I savor the feeling of being held, of being so close to him that nothing could come between us. Not our families, not Peacekeepers, not even death. But it’s not real. The dream, like water we boil, goes cold, and shame wraps itself around me instead. What am I thinking? What’s wrong with me? Horrified, I rip away the blankets and flee to the window. I rest my forehead against the freezing, snow-dusted pane until my body starts to feel numb. Until it begins to hurt. 

It’s the sound of Prim stirring that brings me to my feet. The woods will be my refuge, even on a cold night like this one. Quietly, I dress for a hunt. Outside, the pitch-black sky is lit by a crescent moon and thousands of stars. It’s stopped snowing, but the frosty air still snaps at my skin. As I walk, I imagine myself moving further and further away from the dream, the nightmare, the desire, the fear. How it all feels the same. I picture a flock of turkeys waiting for me. I recall the scent of pine and the feeling of turning my face toward the rising sun. Just a few more steps. 

Soon… Soon, I’ll be home.

Lost in desperate thoughts, I don’t realize I’m not alone until it’s too late. A silhouette is huddled against the fence, right by the loose wire. Did Cray finally get fed up and decide to station a Peacekeeper here? The thought turns my blood to ice. But then the person stirs. 

“Katniss?”

My heart stops. “Peeta?” I gasp. I’d recognize his voice anywhere, warm as if dipped into honeyed tea, even though he must be freezing. “What are you doing out here?” 

The snow creaks under Peeta’s weight when he pushes to his feet. “Waiting for you,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t sleep after you left. So I came here.”

“What?” I say, panic squeezing my throat. “How long have you been out here?” 

“An hour. Maybe two,” he replies as if it’s no big deal, but it terrifies me; the thought of him sitting alone in the bitter cold, shivering and possibly even dozing off. Being who he is, I doubt he told anybody where he was going, so if he had died I would’ve been the one to find his frozen body stuck to the fence. 

Clenching my jaw, I step toward him. “I can’t believe—” The night must’ve obscured how close we were already standing because I bump into his chest. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?!” 

Peeta grabs my elbow. “What you did was dangerous, Katniss! Leaving like that!” He’s never yelled at me before, and it pierces me like a knife, leaving me stunned. “You have no idea how scared I was! I… I thought…” 

Losing its hard edge, his voice breaks, a strangled sob escaping his lips. In the five years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen or heard him cry. On pure instinct, my hands reach for his shoulders. Instead, fumbling through the darkness, they find his face. His icy skin. 

I swallow hard and whisper, “Hey, I made it,” but the words don’t sound as they do on his lips. I’m choking on guilt, which makes the reassurance fall flat. 

Peeta scoffs. “What was going through your head anyway? You didn’t have to leave. You could’ve—” 

“No,” I say. “I couldn’t have stayed, Peeta. Not all night. You know that.” 

“Because of my mother?” As always, he alludes to her violence like it’s nothing; like he’d take a beating for me any day, and my stomach clenches. Sometimes, he makes me wish I’d left that dandelion in the ground, that I hadn’t touched it. 

“Yes,” I say, but there’s a truer explanation resting on my tongue. Of its own accord, it slips out, filling the air. “And because of… us.”

“Us?” Peeta echoes, his voice gruff.

The dream flashes in my mind. I’m afraid it’s going to be one of those that stick. My tongue twists as I struggle to save myself, “Our friendship,” I croak. “I’m afraid I’ll ruin it.”

“I don’t get it. How would you staying ruin… Oh.” 

If he wasn’t holding onto my elbow, I would’ve bolted. I still try to wiggle free, to no avail. It should make me feel trapped, but his touch is steadying rather than forceful. “Hey,” he says, and though I may just be deluded by the dream, I think I hear him smiling. “I thought I’d be the one to do that.”

Speechless, frozen in the moment, I can only listen as he makes a sound low in his throat that falls somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Then his breath is on my lips. Our cold noses brush. My fingers move toward his mouth. His smile is my favorite. I just need to feel it. The curve of his bottom lip is so beautiful, like a bow that I can touch but not claim.

“I had a dream where we ruined it,” I whisper, unaware that I’m speaking. Every corner of my mouth has gone rogue. It won’t admit I also had a dream where he was taken away from me.

“Yeah?” Peeta’s voice is rough, his forehead resting against mine. “Was it worth it?”

The answer to that question should be simple. Yes or no. But there isn’t a simple way to articulate what I’m feeling. The dream was blissful, but it wasn’t real. What’s real is that I’m standing in front of a boy who’d freeze to death waiting for me. If I kiss him, will he stop waiting? Will he stop putting himself in harm’s way? No, I’m sure he won’t. 

I’m waiting, too, I realize. That’s what we’ve been doing for years by this very fence, on his doorstep, teetering between danger and safety, between freedom and restraint, too afraid to pick a side. When I started hunting, I knew the risks, but my hunger for life outweighed my fear of death. This isn’t any different. Not really. 

At last, I tell him, “Yes.”

Peeta draws me in by the waist. For a minute, our breaths mingle in the winter air. I cradle the back of his head and pull it toward mine. To build courage, I kiss the corner of his eye as I did when we were eleven. I kiss his nose, his cheek, and his jaw, making him chuckle. It’s this sound, the need to feel it move through me, that has me giving in. When our lips meet, the vibrations of his light laughter travel all the way to my heart, softening it. Softening me. And suddenly, I’m thinking about those burnt loaves in the rain. 

I’m kissing the boy with the bread. 

After a minute, he breaks away to point out that I’m shaking, and I don’t know how to tell him it’s my walls coming down. So I say, “I’m just cold.”

Peeta grins as his arms tighten around me. “Guess I better hold you closer then.”

“Yeah. You better.”

We both laugh in a shaky way that reveals nerves but also the release of tension. Rising to my tiptoes, I kiss him again, pouring everything he has ever made me feel into it. Joy. Sadness. Terror. Hope. Desire. To cope with the intensity, I run my fingers through his hair until they melt the snow that’s stuck in it. I’ve never touched velvet, but if I had to describe what I think it feels like, this would be my answer. Peeta’s hair. Idly, I wrap a curl of it around my finger, and he makes a choked sound at the back of his throat that I want to hear again. And again. All things considered, our kisses are quite tender, much like those I remember my parents sharing when my father returned from the mines. I don’t think we’re great at it, technically, as our noses bump when they shouldn’t, but it still feels better than our hugs. Most importantly, it feels like us. 

Peeta’s roots in my heart grow longer and stronger as the snow and ice melt, giving way to life. One early morning, I spot the first dandelion of the year by the fence, pluck it from the ground, and put it in my hunting bag for safekeeping. For him.

When Gale and I go the Hob now, he’s already there, poised and ready to make the critter we bring in sound like the finest meat the world has to offer. It took several weeks before Gale warmed up to this arrangement. I have to admit it looks bad at first glance: a merchant boy using his charms to pull money out of a place that holds such deep echoes of desperation. But Peeta mostly focuses his energy on Peacekeepers like Darius, telling him jokes over a dead bird until the guy tips us generously for it. It’s more skillful bargaining than manipulation, really. And once we’ve reaped the benefits of it, even Gale has to admit Peeta is better at it than us. 

This afternoon, all three of us leave the Hob with bright smiles on our faces. There’s a drizzle in the air, but it’s warm and welcome. For his troubles, I hand Peeta the dandelion. He sniffs it, even though it has no scent, which makes Gale roll his eyes. “Why would you smell it when you can eat it?” 

“Good point,” Peeta says, then pretends to bite the head off. 

I laugh. Gale asks, “Do you even know what it tastes like?” 

“No,” Peeta admits, frowning. Instead of eating the flower, which could be considered distasteful given that he’ll never actually have to do it, he turns to Gale. “What does it taste like?”

“It’s bitter.”

Much like your attitude, I think as I look at my hunting partner. Still, I can’t blame him for it. Just like I can’t blame him for having the same reservations toward Madge. It’s not Peeta’s fault that he grew up in a bakery and has never had to look at a wild plant except to admire its beauty, but it’s a privilege that’s impossible to ignore. I understand why it irks Gale to see Peeta with a dandelion, and yet he doesn’t have the full picture. He doesn’t know what it means to me. I wasn’t handing Peeta a fine vegetable substitute. No. It’s more than that. I was handing him a memory, an emotion, a kiss of astounding gratitude.

To Gale and Peeta’s credit, they manage to find a point of connection. Me. 

“I see why Katniss likes you,” Peeta says as if I’m not here, as if we don’t have plans to make out under the willow later. “You have the same edge.” 

Gale chuckles. “Of hostility?” 

“Of power,” Peeta says. My first thought is that it’s ridiculous. District people have no power, only the pretense of it. The Capitol looms over our lives like a shadow threatening to block out the sun. Facing our skepticism, Peeta adds, “Every time you show up here, you remind everyone that they can rely on others when they can’t help themselves. What you do is powerful because it tells them to keep believing in people.” 

Next to me, Gale is gaping. When I nudge him, he fixes his expression. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

“Good,” Peeta says before turning to wink at me. “See you soon.”

When he’s left, Gale wolf-whistles. “He’s powerful, too. He just doesn’t know it.”

“Oh, he knows,” I say, “The difference is he doesn’t need to think about what it means.” 

Another thing about power is that, in some places, it abandons you. At the end of the day, Peeta’s words crumble under his mother’s roof, under the cold mask she forces him to wear. For hours, I wait for him under the old willow in the Meadow that has become our rendezvous spot. At first, I’m not worried, as we never agree on an exact time to meet. I lean back against the trunk and revel in the sun on my face until it begins to weaken. Feeling that, followed by a shot of anxiety, I wonder what’s holding him up. It could just be an unforeseen work task, I tell myself. Perhaps some rich fool stepped into the bakery and demanded fifty iced sugar cookies or something. 

No… It’s none of that. 

Minutes later, Peeta finally shows up. His bottom lip is split open, darkened by a crust of dried blood near the left corner. Immediately, I shoot to my feet and cradle his face in my hands. “What happened?” I ask, the fear and anger thrashing like a beast in my chest. I know what happened. It makes me feel so useless that I want to scream.

Peeta closes his hand over mine, stroking my knuckles. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Stop!” I plead. “If you were in my shoes, wouldn’t you be worried?”

“Yes, but—”

“Peeta,” I say, pressing my forehead to his. “I—I don’t know what to—can I do anything?”

His eyes soften, his damaged lip curling into a sad smile. Of course, there’s nothing I can do. This is his life, just like the tesserae and the woods are mine. I’ve nearly accepted this when he says, “You could sing to me.” 

My heart clenches. I’ve barely sung since I was wandering the woods with my father. It’s been far too painful, too vulnerable, like cutting myself open. But I’ve managed an old lullaby to soothe Prim on particularly horrible nights. Now, looking at Peeta, I realize singing is just another kind of love. A love that survives death and manifests itself as a hole in your chest if it isn’t remembered. 

So I exhale shakily and ask, “Which song?”

Peeta requests The Valley Song. Vaguely, I remember singing it on the first day of school at the music assembly. I wonder if it’s one of his favorites. Together, we sit under the tree, and I pull his head into my lap. I play with his hair to comfort him, to comfort me. Then, softly, I begin to sing:

Go write a letter, send it by mail.

Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail.

Capitol jail, love, to the Capitol jail.

Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail.

Roses are red, love; violets are blue.

Birds in the heavens know I love you.

I kiss Peeta’s lip until it heals. A beautiful bow, mended, even if I still can’t claim it. His mouth isn’t mine; its words remind me of that. As the months pass, he has to tell me he chooses to be with me. Despite the risks, despite the violence, we have each other, he says, we’ll make it, and for the first time, I start to believe him. 

I don’t shy away from his wrestling matches. I stand near the front, choking on my silly heart, until he emerges victorious. In the final one, he’s pitted against Hal, and—despite putting up an excellent fight—he loses. Biased as I am, I think it’s unfair, but Peeta brushes off defeat like dust on his knees. After all, it’s only a harmless game. Later, under our willow, I ask Peeta if losing bothers him, and he tells me no. At first, he uses it as an easy opportunity to flirt with me, telling me that I’m the real price and rendering me a blushing mess. But he also tells me the truth,  that he wrestles as an exercise in self-control. 

“I know I’m strong,” Peeta says without a trace of conceit. “And in our world, that can easily turn into something dangerous. I don’t want to hurt anybody. Wrestling reminds me of that strength, of what it can do, but also that it’s mine. Nobody else owns it. Only I choose what I use it for.”

Plenty of people use their strength and power to harm. To inflict pain on others. Living under the rule of the Capitol is a constant reminder of that. Peeta has taken a stand against it. Like this, he reminds me that rebellion can be quiet. It can be the small things we do. It can be free soup. Berries passed from a Seam girl to a mayor. Acorns shaped like mice. A handshake between two hardened brothers. Peeta calls it our little fires.

But nothing says fire quite like two young lovers skipping the last day of school…

On the first day of July, I wake up from a dream about my father. He wasn’t trapped in the mines; he was sitting on the mud bank near a lake, humming melodies to the mockingjays. I spend all morning trying to shake the idea out of my mind, telling myself it’s foolish, too risky, but I can’t let it go. I have to show Peeta the water. 

We can’t go this weekend because we only have the morning, which would be spent just hiking there. If we go soon, we can spend all day together without arousing suspicion. Technically, school attendance is mandatory, but—much like other laws in Twelve—it’s poorly enforced. I’ve never met a teacher who reports children to their families for skipping school. Perhaps it’s a side effect of talking about coal mining all day, of being so strictly managed by Capitol propaganda. I wouldn’t blame them if they’ve just stopped caring about their job. 

I meet Peeta in the schoolyard half an hour before class starts. Eager to escape the house, he’s usually here early, but his face lights up in surprise when he sees me. “Weren’t you gonna forage this morning?”

“Change of plans,” I say,  meeting him halfway and pecking his lips. “Come with me.”

Peeta’s eyebrows shoot up in intrigue. “What? You want to skip school?” 

“Yes, but we’ll have to go beyond the fence,” I tell him. I don’t doubt that he’ll agree to it. Somehow, I’m sure he’ll follow me anywhere. 

Peeta’s eyes glisten like a sunlit body of water. I can’t wait for him to see it. Intertwining our fingers, he says, “Do we need to bring anything?”

“Just ourselves,” I say. “And maybe some strawberries.” 

We hike for hours, munching on the sweet red fruit in the heat. Sometimes, Peeta stops walking, and I let him take in the beauty that only exists out here: the buzzing bees and butterflies in the tall grass, the wildflowers popping out of the ground like jewels, the scent of pine and apple trees. I’m sure he wants to draw it all. I wish I’d told him to bring his notebook, so he could’ve sketched by the lake. 

Finally, it comes into view. Undisturbed water, sparkling like the purest gold in the early afternoon sun. The tiny, weather-worn house that almost looks picturesque. Anything does, in these surroundings. Peeta can’t seem to take his eyes off the lake, his lips parted in awe.

“How… how do you know about this place?” he asks. 

“My father,” I say, grief lingering at the edge of my voice. “He took me here. Showed me the plant I was named after. Taught me to swim.”

Now, Peeta looks at me with a new kind of awe. “You can swim?”

“Yes. I can teach you if you want.”

And that’s how the baker’s boy finds the water, a far cry from his usual element of oven fire. Despite this, he takes to it fast. Faster than I did as a little girl. It must have something to do with the muscle control he told me about. He knows how to move his body to keep himself afloat. Within an hour, I’m watching his hands ripple through the water, his broad back and shoulders flexing as he dives. There’s heat in my cheeks; heat that I first dismiss as envy. It shouldn’t be allowed to look so beautiful. It isn’t fair to the rest of us. Just as this thought crosses my mind, Peeta pops out of the water right in front of me and captures my lips in a deep, searing kiss. 

My stomach jolts in that funny way again. For the first time, I realize what it means. I’m not envious. Not nervous. I’m attracted to him. To the way he makes my family laugh. To the glow of his face in candlelight. To the feel of his body, soaked and cool, against mine. Much to my dismay, we break apart to breathe. Who needs oxygen anyway? We have all we need to survive right here. 

Peeta kisses my forehead. “Thanks for taking me here. It’s magical.”

I laugh. “Magical? In Twelve?”

“With you,” he murmurs.

After, we swim, taking slow strides side-by-side. Eventually, our limbs grow tender and heavy, leading us back to land. We lie on our backs, drying in the sun. The soft, tall grass feels like home to me. Here, with my eyes closed, listening to the sound of Peeta’s breathing, I can almost imagine us somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

When Peeta turns and kisses me again, I wonder if he’s imagining the same thing. I’ve always found it pointless to dream. I left that cloudy haze to my mother in grief because Prim needed me to stay with her. Tuning out was to let her starve. But, at this moment, far away from any harm, I allow it. Pulling Peeta on top of me, I let my hands roam the landscape of his back. His skin, like his hair, is my kind of velvet. I smile into our sweet, strawberry-flavored kisses until they deepen naturally, drawing new sounds from my lips. Ragged breaths. Needy whimpers. The wet tank top clings to my skin, suffocating. I feel like I do hollow days. No amount of kisses could ever be enough to satisfy my hunger. 

Perhaps Peeta senses that because he breaks away. “We should stop, Katniss.” Opening my eyes, I notice the intense blush on his cheeks. “Because…”

I know why. I feel the reason why. The hard press of him against me. Suddenly, I’m flushed hot all over, but I understand. In a way, this is what it’s like on hollow days, too. At some point, you have to stop because it’s not wise to let the hunger itself consume you. 

Peeta rolls onto his back in the grass again. “Sorry. I just don’t think we should… rush.”

“Right. We have time,” I say because I want to believe it. To ease the sudden weight in my chest, I add, “Besides, my mother thinks we’re too young for sex.”

Grinning, Peeta turns to look at me and arches an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

“Well, uh,” I didn’t think my face could get any warmer. I was wrong. “She kind of assumed that we… I think. The night of the blizzard.” 

“Oh.” His immediate frown tells me he still hasn’t forgiven me for that night. “Did you tell her we aren’t?”

“No. I really don’t care what she thinks.”

Sparks appear in his eyes. “I don’t think that’s true.”

On any other day, anywhere else, I would’ve snapped at him for opposing me like this. But the intimacy must have risen to my brain because I can only huff in response. “Whatever. Look, the point is I agree. We should wait.” 

Part of me can’t believe what I’m saying. For years, I haven’t been able to imagine a future of any kind. Life has been a daily struggle for survival, trapping me in a series of singular moments, unable to anticipate the next. Slowly, Peeta has broken me out of that. Some nights, I’ve found myself sleepless, wondering what it would feel like to leap into his arms the next morning. It’s still not easy, but I can exist in this moment without fearing it’ll slip through my fingers. I can feel the immediacy of my wanting him and recognize that now isn’t our time. This isn’t a kill I’ll have to make to survive. This is my choice. My life.

But it isn’t my life. Not really. Just three days later, I’m reminded of that in the cruelest way possible. The Reaping serves to remind us that our lives aren’t ours. We belong to the Capitol, all of us, and so do our choices. 

It’s Prim’s first year, and she’s scared out of her wits. She’s been having nightmares for weeks. My attempts at reassurance have been futile, but Peeta shows up first thing in the morning with a daisy chain and slips it onto her small wrist. “They will guard you,” he says, “Just like the lullaby.” 

After, he kisses my forehead and tells me Gale came by the bakery to trade for some bread twenty minutes ago. Part of me wonders what they talk about when I’m not in the middle of things, especially on a day like this. Peeta has five slips in the ball. Gale has forty-two. How do you sidestep that divide?

In the woods, Gale and I share the bread, spreading it with Prim’s goat cheese. To undermine our fear, we muse over what kind of outlandish Capitol outfit Effie Trinket will be wearing upon arriving in our district. We have to laugh about it. Eventually, however, Gale changes the subject. “So,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “You lied to me.”

“What?” I protest, my mouth full of bread and cheese. ”When?”

“When you said Peeta wasn’t your boyfriend.”

This catches me off guard and also reveals what kind of conversation Gale had with him earlier. “Oh,” I say awkwardly. “Well, he wasn’t then.” And if I’m being honest, I still feel odd using the word boyfriend. I know that’s what he is, technically, but it feels deeper than that.

“It’s new?”

“No, not really,” I admit because six months have passed since Peeta and I kissed by the fence. I can’t believe it’s been that long. Hardly anything has changed in that time. We can’t hold hands in the school hallways or kiss in dark corners. Everything between us remains a secret. Well, mostly. There’s still Madge and now Gale, too. Struck by curiosity, I can’t stop myself from asking, “How did it come up between you?”

Gale’s smile turns somber. “He’s worried about you. So am I, of course, but it’s different for him. I could tell instantly.”

My stomach clenches, killing my appetite. “How?”

Running a hand through his hair, Gale sighs. “He looked unwell. Pale as a ghost.”

Just as in my nightmares. Swallowing hard, I shove the thought away. This is one of the hardest things about Reaping Day. You know it’s impossible to comfort your loved ones. The terror is real and monstrous and there's nothing you can do to subdue it. I clench and unclench my fists, trying to anchor myself to the moment, to the woods, to Gale, the boy who always has my back. 

But, more than anything else right now, I need Peeta. I need him to say we’ll make it. 

For the ceremony, I’m wearing one of my mother’s old dresses. Prim’s outfit, a skirt and white blouse, was my first Reaping outfit. It’s too big on her, so I secure the skirt with a safety pin and tuck the shirt into it. Within ten minutes, it’s loose again.

“Tuck your tail in, little duck,” I say with a smile that falters when I see her fiddling anxiously with the daisy bracelet. “You’ll be all right. Remember what he said.” 

I hold her hand as we walk to the Square. As we’re separated and herded toward our age groups, afternoon clouds block out the sun. I stand stiffly, squeezed in between other Seam kids, as three people mount the stage. Mayor Undersee, Madge’s father. Effie Trinket, the Capitol escort. Then there’s Haymitch Abernathy, who won the Hunger Games twenty-five years ago. He’s the only living victor in our district. This forces him to act as the mentor for the two kids who are about to be reaped. But to say that he is unfit for that role would be the understatement of the century. Unshaven and bleary-eyed, he staggers up the steps. I’ve spotted him in the Hob many times, but the only thing I’ve ever seen him bargain for is nasty white liquor. 

As usual, Mayor Undersee gives a short speech. As usual, he’s been told what to say. He reminds us that the Games are our penance for the uprising that took place 74 years ago. He reminds us that we should be thankful to the Capitol. This, after all, is a merciful punishment. A way to protect us from our violent tendencies and to maintain a peaceful society. I’ve never believed any of it. I doubt anyone in this crowd does. But it doesn’t matter if we believe it. The lies they feed us are endless. But the Games are a reality. 

Mayor Undersee steps away from the podium, making way for Effie Trinket. This year, she’s wearing a spring green suit and a giant pink wig. Seeing it, I exchange a tense smile with Gale across the masses. There’s no relief in it. Not really. Not now, as she eyes the two glass balls full of names. Our deaths.           

“Ladies first!” Effie Trinket exclaims, digging her hand into the ball on the right., Nausea sweeps over me, and all I can think about is the twenty paper slips with my name. “The female tribute from District 12 is…” Clenching my fists, I close my eyes and cling to desperate hope. Not me, not me, not me.

It’s not me. It’s Primrose Everdeen. 

The air is knocked out of my lungs, and the whole world seems to tilt out of focus. No. This doesn’t make any sense. My sister’s name echoes in my skull, a meaningless cry. I think I might’ve started to fall because the boy next to me catches my arm. It can’t be real. This must be some kind of mistake. I’ve done everything. I’ve protected her in every way that I could.  

One slip. One slip in thousands. One was enough. 

Unhappy murmurs ripple through the crowd and break through the fog in my brain. Then I see her, the color gone from her face, walking with stiff, small steps toward the stage. When she passes me, I notice the untucked white blouse forming a duck’s tale above her skirt. Seeing this brings me back to my body, back to my sharp senses.

“Prim!” My voice is a strangled cry as I move through the crowd, no longer paralyzed. The other children part to form my path toward the stage. “Primrose!” She doesn’t seem to hear me, moving toward her death, but I can’t let her go. I can’t. 

Just as she’s about to mount the steps, I push her behind me. “I volunteer!” I gasp. “I volunteer as tribute!” 

I cause quite a stir in the Square. Our district hasn’t had a volunteer in decades, so the exact protocol for it is a bit rusty. All I know is that, once a female tribute has been picked, another eligible girl can choose to take her place. And this is my choice. My life for the taking. Please, take me. Take me. Take me. 

“Love-ly!” Effie Trinket singsongs. “But I believe there’s a matter of introducing the Reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one comes forward, then—” 

Mayor Undersee interjects, “What does it matter?” The pain in his expression is clear as day. “What does it matter? Let her come forward.” 

But Prim is clinging to my arm. “No, Katniss!” she pleads. “No! You can’t go!”

“Prim, let go!” I tell her harshly as tears rise in my throat because I’m sure my face is being broadcast live on every screen in the Capitol right now. I can’t cry. It will only make me look weak, like an easy target for the deadlier tributes.  I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing my grief. “Let go of me!”

But she only clutches me tighter, and I feel like a wild animal caught in a net. Then someone is pulling her from my back. When I turn, I see Gale lifting her off the ground, thrashing and screaming. 

“Up you go, Catnip,” he says, his voice wavering as he carries her off toward my mother. 

I’m free to climb the steps. To die. I cling to the railing, praying the cameras won’t capture my trembling legs. Once I’ve reached the stage, I’m greeted by Effie’s white, terrifying grin. “Well, bravo!” she says, squeezing my shoulder. “That’s the spirit of the Games! What’s your name?”

“Katniss Everdeen,” I say, swallowing hard. 

This isn’t real. It can’t be real. In a minute, I’ll wake up. I’ll be somewhere warm. In the Meadow, under the willow. In the grass by the lake, touching my kind of velvet. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping against all hope that it’ll bring me back to safety, but when I open them, I see only the ashen faces of children. 

Effie asks them to clap for me. To their credit, they don’t. In defiant silence, they kiss the three middle fingers on their left hand and raise them to me in a last salute. Goodbye. 

Of course, the meaning of this gesture is lost on our Capitol escort. But not on Haymitch Abernathy. He staggers across the stage, throwing his arm around me. “Look at this one! I like her! Lots of… Spunk.” Then he lets go of me and steps to the front of the stage. Pointing directly into a camera, he says, “More than you!”

I have no idea who he’s addressing. The audience? The Capitol? I’ll never find out either because, seconds later, he takes one step too far and plummets right off the stage. Peacekeepers carry him away on a stretcher. I think it’s hypocritical. In the Seam, people collapse from starvation all the time. No one helps them. But you win the Games and suddenly you’re treated like a human being. 

Startled by the turmoil, Effie brings things back to order by looking at me again. “My, a volunteer! What an exciting day,” she says cheerfully. “But there’s more excitement to come! It’s time to choose our boy tribute.”

Wasting no time, she crosses the stage and dips her hand into the big ball on the right. As she waltzes back to the podium in her high heels, all I can think about is Gale and his forty-two slips in the pool. If Effie is holding one of them, Prim will starve. My heart shudders at the thought. 

Shooting a mad grin at the cameras, Effie unfolds the piece of paper and leans toward the microphone. “Peeta Mellark!”

My knees buckle. In my head, I crumble to the ground and scream, a girl possessed. In reality, I choke on a brutal sob and find Peeta’s face in the crowd. His eyes, those blue eyes, are clouded with tears. I want to call out to him, beg him to flee, but my voice is dead. Once again, I’m paralyzed, watching as the crowd of merchant boys part so he can walk to his death. I wonder if any of them knows about us. 

Gale does. Gale, who’s suddenly blocking the path. What’s going on? What is he doing? I see Peeta’s lips moving. I see him gripping Gale’s arm hard and shoving him aside, out of his way, and then Effie Trinket is chirping, “Come up, come up, dear!” as if she’s inviting him to the greatest adventure of his life. Not to kill me.

Pale as a ghost, Peeta climbs the steps. It’s so silent in the Square that I hear the wood creak. The tears are streaming down his face now. Curling his hands into fists along his sides, he takes his place next to me. Finally, reality sinks in, crushing me. I’m not going to wake up. 

They want me to kill the boy with the bread. They want me to kill the boy I love.

Fighting violent tremors, I bite my tongue until blood gushes from it and coats my mouth. If I’m lucky, I’ll drown in it. Of course, I don’t. Instead, I hear Effie’s voice. “Come on, you two. Shake hands.”

I’m forced to turn toward Peeta, too afraid to look at him. I might go insane. Still, I don’t have a choice, as he cups my face in his hands. When our eyes lock, he presses his lips to my forehead. For just a moment, I’m brought back to the lake. Someone, possibly Effie, gasps loudly, but no one moves to stop him. The kiss lingers. Peeta must feel me trembling because, pulling back, he whispers, “Don’t cry.”

And I know. He’s already trying to protect me.

He’s already prepared to die for me. And I know… I will have to let him.