"Peeta, what in Snow's name did you do?" Gram Mellark held a piece of ice to his brother's brow to try and quell the swelling. "She was fine not a half hour ago. Rye, go get the ointment Dad keeps in the washroom," he directed to his other younger brother, who had found Peeta in the back storeroom trying not to cry. The telltale sign of their mother storming upstairs and slamming a door let them know that her mood had changed for the worse.

Peeta gulped and allowed a few more tears to streak down his cheek. "I burned the bread," he whispered.

Gram sighed. "You're almost twelve, Peeta. That's too old to make a mistake like that. What were you thinking?"

The door of the storage room opened. Mr. Mellark came in, followed closely by Rye.

"Ma decked him because he burnt the afternoon batch," Gram explained. "He won't say why."

Mr. Mellark's face darkened. "Because I told him to."

Rye and Gram exchanged a look but said nothing as Mr. Mellark dabbed his youngest son's brow with a cool-smelling ointment. "Yes yes, it'll sting a bit," he soothed as the young boy winced. He looked up at his older sons. "Those loaves were meant for the Mayor. You'll have to whip up a batch of quick bread. I think we have some extra dates and walnuts. The flavor will be right even if the texture isn't. Say that the yeast failed when we were teaching Peeta." When the two didn't move, he prodded gently. "Go on. It's not going to mix itself."

When they were gone, he took his son's face in his hands and assessed the wound. "That's going to swell up something awful. You might not be able to see out that eye tomorrow. Maybe we'll keep you home from..."

"No," Peeta said firmly. "I'm not a baby."

Mr. Mellark paused as he considered his youngest. "No," he agreed. "That's something we forget these days. Old enough to be picked to go into the Arena is old enough to be a man."

Peeta craned his neck to see if his brothers were within earshot. "Are they gone?"

"They can't hear you."

"Did she get the loaves? Ma didn't chase after her?"

"She got the loaves," his father confirmed.

Peeta sighed deeply. "Good. Then it wasn't for nothing."

"Of course it wasn't!" his father exclaimed, capping the ointment and kneeling down to Peeta's height. "Peeta, listen to me for a second." Peeta looked at his father as he applied the ice to his brow again. "I'm sorry your mother hit you. It should have been me, but she took it out on you. I'd thought she yell, at worst. But you know how her temper flares sometime."

"She hates Katniss," he whispered, nearly more upset over that than the beating.

"Your mother's got a grudge against the Everdeens," his father agreed. "And one day it'll make more sense to you why. I'm not saying she's right in keeping it, but she has her reasons."

Peeta stared off in the distance, breathing deeply as if to control his own emotions.

His father caught that gaze and knew it too well - it was a version of the one his wife often wore. And he would not have it on his son. "Peeta?"

"Yes."

"What you did today was a kindness." Brod Mellark crouched down to look at his almost-twelve year old son. "In this world, there's going to be lots of people who tell you not to be kind to those who're weaker than you. That they'll just bring you down with them. But you do that - you let someone go when you could have helped, well..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Then the Capitol wins."

"They always win," Peeta sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Not always," his father argued. "Whenever there's someone being kind, doing the right thing, and following his heart," he paused to gently poke the boy in the middle of his chest. "Well, that's a victory for the good guys. That's who you are. You're going to be one of the good guys. The good guys help the defenseless."

"And what if I get Reaped?"

"Then you have a chance to show the world how free you really are." As he said this, Brod stood and said it with conviction. This was the only thing that steadied his heart about their lot in life. If he lost a child to the Games, maybe Panem could see how good his sons turned out.

Peeta sniffed again. "That doesn't sound free. Or brave."

"Trust me, son. They won't know what hit 'em if you show them kindness."

Peeta nodded and threw his arms around his father, weeping a few minutes into the floured apron. He composed himself, wiped the white streaks from his face and looked to his father. "I'm glad I did it. She looked so hungry and I don't think a couple of loaves will ruin us."

"No, they won't," Brod agreed. "Your ma will be down to check the kitchens tonight. You should do your chores."

Peeta nodded and strode toward the door. Again he dropped his voice. "You won't tell Rye and Gram it was about a girl?"

Brod chuckled. "If that's what you want. But they might think it was awfully manly of you if they did."

Peeta rolled his eyes. "I didn't do it to be manly."

"I know. But you know how your brothers think."

"I know." Peeta leaned out of the door frame, then leaned back and asked the question that had been nagging him that afternoon. "Why did you want to help her?"

How in the world to explain why this starving child above all the others in the Seam had garnered his protection? "It's complicated, Peeta."

Peeta cocked his head, his hand still nursing the cool rag to his eye. "Is it because you loved her mother?"

And because it was Peeta, whose quick tongue could more than cover for the both of them, whose eyes saw all and whose heart held no grudge, Brod Mellark could admit the truth. "Yes."

His wife was already in bed when he retired for the night. Seventeen years of sharing a bed with the woman let him know she wasn't asleep.

"Peeta's eye swelled up," he said into the darkness.

"Pity the healer's in her own world," came the reply. "She might have a poultice to ease the pain."

Brod paused from removing his socks and stared off into the night. "How long are you going to hold it over my head?"

"Until you stop favoring that family."

"Glen's dead, Cash. They've had a difficult time."

"And I suppose the government doesn't pay a family if the breadwinner's killed at work? She had a month to pull things together. She didn't. Don't see why we have to feed those girls."

"Don't see why you had to hit our son. You knew he wouldn't have let the bread burn."

The pause in the dark let me know he'd chosen the right phrase. It was cruel, but it evened the score. "He'll be twelve soon," she said softly.

Brod sighed in exasperation and flopped into the bed, fidgeting to find a comfortable spot. "You loved them as babies and yet you can't seem to love them when they're of Reaping age. They need you now, Cassia."

"You pit them against me," she hissed. "You make them soft, with your hugs. Your encouragement. You let Gram read too much, Rye and his jokes, and Peeta! Doodling away in his schoolbooks like it might put food on the table." It might be tears that made her voice hitch. "Not one of them would survive the Arena."

"They need to live first," he reasoned. "They need to know how it is to be themselves, no matter the cost."

She scoffed and turned over into her pillow. He continued. "Someday they'll be grown and it won't matter to them that you love them then. They'll remember what it was like to be with you when they were young."

"And if they're Reaped?" It's the question that always comes back to her.

"If they're Reaped, will they ever know you loved them?"

The whistle of the cold, spring wind outside their window answered for her.