Sunlight is streaming through my window when I open my eyes and focus them on the source of my inability to sleep. The yellowish ball of fur is twitching and mewing, catching squeaky little mice in his dreams. Stupid cat. Sometimes I wish he hadn't been so important to Prim so I could give him to one of the district kids or just let him fend for himself. But he's one of the few things I have left of her. He must sense me glaring at him, because he gets up, glares back at me and saunters out of the room.

I sigh and contemplate whether it's worth getting up. It seems so much easier, not having to face the day, staying wrapped in my warm and protective blankets. But my stomach is grumbling in protest and it eventually it wins out. The sun has warmed up my room, but there is still a slight chill in the air, so I wrap my blanket around my shoulders and head down the stairs, catching my reflection in the glass of a picture frame on the way down. The girl who looks back at me almost looks how I remember… hair a bit matted, eyes tired, but less gaunt and exhausted then when I moved back into this house a few months ago. Even my burn scars are healing well, thanks to the creams and lotions my mother sends me each month from District 4. Too bad it doesn't work on the scars inside too.

Greasy Sae must have been here hours ago, leaving a couple of hard boiled eggs and cheese buns under a bowl on the kitchen table so Buttercup couldn't get to them. Peeta must have given her the cheese buns to give to me. He's been back a few weeks, but I haven't really talked to him. I've worked hard to distract myself from thinking about everything that has happened to me, to us, and just looking at him tends to dredge up anxiety that I don't want to deal with. I know I'll talk to him eventually, but I have every intention to put that off for as long as possible.

As I start rolling the egg shells on the table, inevitably comparing the cracking shell to my life, I can see the tips of the primrose bushes Peeta planted out the kitchen window. They're looking a little wilted, and I wince as I remember that I haven't watered them in a few days. I pop a de-shelled egg in my mouth and pull a large bucket out from under the sink. Filling it to the top, I haul the heavy bucket out the door and liberally begin watering the bushes. It's only after I get to the third bush that I realize that I'm apologizing out loud to them and immediately look around to make sure no one is around to overhear me. Maybe having no social contact with people isn't such a good idea. I change my mind when I see that Haymitch is standing at his window and staring at me.

I dump the remainder of the water on the last bush and hurry back to the safety of my house. I hold my breath for a minute, ready to see Haymitch walk to my door, but it doesn't happen, so I walk back into the kitchen to finish the remainder of my breakfast. I'm two bites into my cheese bun when I hear the knock. I pause, wondering if I could just wait it out. The knock comes again, more persistent and with a voice, "Katniss, open the door. I know you're there."

So much for my quiet breakfast.

I open the door and find a somewhat sober looking Haymitch leaning against a post on my porch, one eyebrow raised.

"Are you out of alcohol again, or are you just making sure I still have a stash for you?" I ask.

"Are you planning on putting on clothes, or are you trying to make a fashion statement?" he says, mimicking the contempt in my voice perfectly.

I look down at the oversized nightshirt and tattered gray blanket wrapped around me and shrug. He walks past me into my living room, making himself comfortable in one of the chairs by the fireplace. I turn around so I'm at least facing him, but I leave the front door wide open. The sooner he takes the hint that I don't want him around, the sooner I can go back to eating my breakfast.

Haymitch rolls his eyes, "Shut the door and go get dressed. I'll wait."

The determined look on his face tells me that this is a battle I'm not going to win. Inwardly groaning, I shut the door a little harder than necessary and walk upstairs. I pull on an old pair of pants and a black cotton t-shirt. I decide that since I'm putting forth this much effort, I might as well fix my hair too. It takes me a minute to brush out the tangles, but my hair has grown back in nicely and I'm easily able to put it into a braid. I go back downstairs and lean against the door frame in the living room with my arms crossed.

Haymitch looks pleased, but doesn't say anything. Which is good, because one more sarcastic comment would be the end of the longest conversation we've had in months.

"You haven't been answering your phone," he says casually.

"I don't feel like talking to anyone."

"You also haven't been checking your mail."

My eyes wander over to the rather large pile that has been accumulating on one of the side tables. Haymitch catches my glance and sees the pile. He gets up and starts riffling through it.

"What are you doing? That's not yours! And I read the important ones!" I declare, walking over to remove my neglected mail from Haymitch's reach.

He stops going through my mail. "So you already know that a large group of people from District 13 who are relocating here have been given permission to live in the Victor's Village while they build their homes and find work? And that it includes all the houses in the Victor's Village? But since you clearly check your mail diligently, you already filled out and sent back the paperwork requesting to have your house removed from the list of available houses."

"So I'll just send in the paperwork," I mutter.

Haymitch chuckles. "The deadline was last week."

I stifle an urge to throw something at him. "Then why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Should've answered your phone sweetheart."

He walks out the door before my lips can form any of the cuss words I'm prepared to skewer him with. I guess it makes sense. Though there are a few houses rebuilt in town, the houses in the Victor's Village were really the only buildings left standing after the district was bombed. How else are people supposed to restart their lives without a roof over their heads? The selfish side of me wants to continue my life of privacy and solitude, but I can hardly deny shelter to people in need. I'll just make myself scarce.

I dig through the mail and find two battered envelopes with the District 13 logo on them. The first one I open contains the letter explaining the circumstances and the opt-out paperwork. The second, which must have arrived within the past few days, has a list of five people who will be arriving. Tomorrow. I don't recognize any of the names on the list. That's good, because I don't want to feel obligated to play host. It seems like now would be a good time to start getting back into the routine of hunting again, if for nothing else than to avoid my house guests.

My hunting boots have been collecting dust by the front door for a while. I slide my feet into them and grab my father's leather jacket, my bow, and sheath of arrows. I'm glad that I don't need to hide my bow in the woods anymore. But then I think of how much it cost to not have to hide my bow in the woods. And I'm not as glad.

I take a deep breath and head down the road past where my old house used to be. Into the meadow. Up to the fence that the people in our district have spent weeks putting back up to keep out any wild animals. But the electricity is off, will probably always remain off, and there are still holes in the fence that make it relatively easy for me to crawl through. I pull back the rough edges of the opening at the bottom of the fence. And I can't do it. I can't bring myself to go under the fence and into the woods. Even to the lookout spot where I used to meet up with Gale. Gale. I think of him, and it makes me think of Prim and fire and pain.

I think of what Dr. Auralius might say. That maybe I've made enough progress for one day. I've dressed and left the house. It's more than I've done since I've been back. I decide to cut myself some slack and make due with walking along the perimeter of the fence, running my fingers along the cold links, aiming an arrow at a squirrel on the other side but not shooting. I walk for an hour. Two. Three. By the time I decide to head back to my house it's already getting dark and blustery. Greasy Sae will be at my house cooking dinner. She's probably wondering what happened to me since I've been in my bed just about every time she's come by.

Sure enough, the lights in my house are ablaze when it comes into view, and I can smell something delicious wafting out of my kitchen window. As I near my door, I can hear voices coming from inside. One of them is definitely Sae, the other definitely male. Great, Haymitch has decided to invite himself for dinner too. Apparently giving me the third degree for not checking my mail only whetted his appetite for more lecturing. When I open my door, thoroughly prepared with insulting comebacks to anything he could say to me, I realize that the voice doesn't belong to Haymitch. It belongs to Peeta.

I seriously consider quietly exiting the house and walking back to the fence for a few more hours, but the voices have stopped and it's clear that they know I'm here. I put down my bow and sheath and walk slowly to the kitchen. Sure enough, Peeta is sitting at my table, knife in hand, chopping up a pile of potatoes which Greasy Sae is adding to a bubbling pot on the stove. A large plate of puffy bread sits near his elbow. He looks up from his culinary task and gives me a small but nervous smile, seemingly gauging my reaction.

"I was wondering where you were!" Sae exclaims. She seems somewhat excited that I'm at least acting the part of a living and breathing person.

"I just needed some air." It comes out sounding lame, but neither Peeta or Greasy Sae seem to notice. I look at Peeta who is still smiling a little and still looking at me. "Why are you here?" I ask, a little harsher than I mean to.

His smile fades. "I was just going to drop the bread off for you, and Sae was here and asked if I'd help her with the stew. I can leave if you want…"

I feel an instant pang of guilt. I haven't helped Sae cook anything since she started coming by. Or offered. And I'm being rude to Peeta, who's been nothing but kind to me.

"No, it's fine. Thanks for the bread."

I pick up an extra knife and begin carefully cutting some celery into small discs. Sae seems satisfied and after a minute her and Peeta resume their previous conversation about Sae's granddaughter, the weather, how the supply trains are starting to deliver sugar and raisins again… I tune out of the conversation until Sae says goodnight and I see that she's packed up some of her stew into a tureen to take home with her. She usually stays. Panic starts to set in as I realize that she's leaving me alone with Peeta, but I tell myself to pull it together and handle it.

"I'll see you in the morning Katniss," she says as she shuts the door. Peeta pulls two bowls out of my cabinets and ladles stew into each one. He places a steaming bowl in front of me and sits across the table with his own. After a tentative sip, he decides it's good and devours the bowl in a matter of minutes. It is very good. Rich venison stew similar to what I'd buy from Sae at the Hob on a cold fall night. And paired with Peeta's bread, it's one of the better meals I've had in a while.

"I talked to Haymitch today. He's getting a family of four tomorrow. He said that you were taking in people too..." Peeta says quietly.

"Yeah. I didn't know though. Haymitch decided to wait until today to tell me. I think he was punishing me for not answering his phone calls."

Peeta laughs, "I don't think Haymitch has a working phone. Last time I was over he'd pulled it out of the wall again, and I don't think he knows how to fix it."

I make a mental note to find out the next time I see Haymitch. The thought of being able to make fun of him for his lack of technical prowess and self control makes me smile. Peeta looks encouraged by my smile, and I stop immediately. But the tension in the air between us has lessened, and it feels better than I thought to have him around.

"How many people are staying with you?" I ask.

"Five. Including Delly- I guess she wants to start a life here again. It'll be nice to have a friendly face around."

Because I certainly haven't been a friendly face. Or around. Suddenly the thought of warm and available Delly Cartwright coming to stay with Peeta makes me annoyed.

Peeta picks up our empty bowls and washes them out, laying them to dry on a cloth next to the sink. He wraps up the remainder of the bread. He puts on his jacket and heads for the door, fingers idly touching the hems of his pockets.

"Haymitch and I are going to cook a big dinner tomorrow for our guests… I… we wanted to know if you wanted to join us? And whoever is staying with you, of course." The thought of cooking for five strangers while being forced to carry on a conversation with them by myself makes my stomach go cold. Why hadn't I thought of it earlier? Easy decision.

"I'll be there. Thanks."

"Good," Peeta nods.

He walks to the door and hesitates. He turns around, opens his mouth and then shuts it again, deciding against saying whatever had been on the tip of his tongue. "Goodnight Katniss…"

"Goodnight."

He shuts the door behind him, and I watch him walk towards his house. I find myself thinking about him the rest of the night. Not only did he not make me upset, he actually got me to smile. At the expense of Haymitch, but I'll take what I can get. For a while I wonder if he's trying to get a bakery up and running. Then all the things he was going to say to me before he left start running through my head. I put my nightshirt back on and unbraid my hair, pushing all thoughts of Peeta from my head and preparing myself for the battle arena of my nightmares. But as I drift off to sleep, I catch a little part of my mind wishing that I had his arms wrapped around me, warding me from any danger, real or imagined.