The Hanging Tree - Part 1

End of Mockingjay - filling in the blanks of what many readers consider a "rushed" ending. As the first paragraph of this story, I decided to include a segment from the actual book so that it flows seamlessly into "my" story.

NOTE: The first paragraph, as I've cited, is NOT my work - it is the fine writing of Suzanne Collins. However, the rest of this piece IS my work. These characters - at least those I've utilized so far - are not mine, but rather also Ms. Collins'.

"I wake with a start. Pale morning light comes around the edges of the shutters. The scraping of the shovel continues. Still half in the nightmare, I run down the hall, out the front door, and around the side of the house, because now I'm pretty sure I can scream at the dead. When I see him, I pull up short. His face is flushed from digging up the ground under the windows. In a wheelbarrow are five scraggly bushes. "You're back," I say. "Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday," Peeta says. "By the way, he said to tell you he can't keep pretending he's treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone." He looks well. Thin and covered with burn scars like me, but his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. He's frowning slightly, though, as he takes me in. I make a halfhearted effort to push my hair out of my eyes and realize it's matted into clumps. I feel defensive. "What are you doing?" "I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her," he says. "I thought we could plant them along the side of the house." I look at the bushes, the clods of dirt hanging from their roots, and catch my breath as the word rose registers. I'm about to yell vicious things at Peeta when the full name comes to me. Not plain rose but evening primrose. The flower my sister was named for" (Collins 321).

1

The anger seeps away immediately, and I feel my shoulder relax and my fists uncurl at my sides. Words - any words at all - suddenly feel trapped in my throat like the traffic that used to choke and come to a standstill just outside the walls of the Capital. I swallow hard and muster "thank you."

"You're welcome." He folds his arms on top of the shovel and rests both hands there. We stand there for a long moment, in stalemate position; neither one of us wants to be the first to speak or move. Just like how it's always been. And, just like always, he's the one to give in.

"I'm sorry about your sister," he says, not dropping his gaze from mine. "I know how much she meant to you." He pauses, and a not-completely-awkward silence follows. "Of course, all sisters do ... but I know she meant more to you than ..."

Then, something unusual happens - I'm the one whose discomfort, whose uncertainty moves the other to look away. I suspect it's for one of two reasons: either I was concerned that a mere mention of Prim might cause me to lose control ... or he was going finish that sentence with "...than I ever did." Neither option particularly makes me want to maintain that intense stare with the boy with the bread.

Peeta clears his throat, but it's his only sign of distress; in fact, he looks perfectly at ease - almost infuriatingly so - swaggering around my garden. This is not the Peeta I once knew, who could only afford sidelong glances at my face, almost for fear he would burst into flames. He has changed, but not in an altogether unpleasant way. I suppose every one of us involved in recent events - the Hunger Games, the Quarter Quell, the ravaging of the Capital - is no longer the innocent person shielded from the horrors of the world. It would be unnatural to think otherwise. I know that at least part of Peeta's seemingly newfound confidence is nothing more than a facade of sorts, and that somewhere, possibly beneath his damp collared shirt, his heart is fluttering along like the butterflies that, according to my father, once inhabited the world before it was Panem.

Focusing all my concentration, I lift my right foot back and then grind a small pebble into the ground, as though the meaningless action might change the course of time. Why can't I look him in the face?

"I haven't been good with words lately," I stammer, and then think: What is wrong with me? Am I actually ... nervous? "Sorry. I ... I was sleeping."

Peeta nods. "I'm sorry to have woken you. I just figured I'd get an early start - it's supposed to be super hot out today." He's right - it's not yet nine a.m., but I can already detect a heaviness in the air.

"That's OK." It occurs to me at this moment that I must look a mess. I rolled out of bed half-alive, disheveled, prepared to serve whomever had awoken me at such an ungodly hour with a verbal enema - but I was not prepared for Peeta Mellark to be showing off his green thumb and planting a memorial garden for Prim.

Additionally, I realize I haven't even brushed my teeth, and for some reason I can't put my finger on, this bothers me. I would reach over and grab a mint leaf from the fragrant herb garden slightly behind me, but only if I could do so unnoticed, and it doesn't look as though I'm going to be able to do that - he hasn't moved, and he hasn't taken his eyes off of me.

"I didn't grow a second head overnight, did I?" I mutter with a small, lopsided smirk, and immediately regret speaking at all. There are many, many things left unsaid between myself and Peeta, and this is what I finally choose to say?

He looks like he's just swallowed a caterpillar. He chokes into quiet laughter, finally doubling over and putting his hands on his thighs, letting the shovel fall to the ground. The overconfident gardener is now simply Peeta - silly, personable, kind-hearted Peeta.

At first, I'm aggravated ... but then, to my surprise, I feel something loosen in my chest. I haven't laughed or even felt remotely happy since the day of the silver parachutes, but I come awfully close this time - I smile.

When his laughter subsides, he grows serious again, and he lets out a deep, uneven breath that reassures me that he is just as uncomfortable and uncertain as I am. He peers closely at my face. "I'm sorry to have surprised you, to have come back this way, Katniss. I ... I didn't really know how to. Wasn't sure if you wanted to see me again, or if you did, how long I should wait ..." He nods, as if to himself. "To be honest, I know you hate mornings, so I started early today hoping that I could just do this for you and get back without bothering you." He picks up the shovel again and goes back to work. I can see his shoulder muscles, clearly defined, straining beneath his shirt.

Typical Peeta. Always the king of unrewarded kindness, from the day he tossed me the burned loaf of bread. I summon my courage - although why I need courage simply to speak to him, I have no idea - and try to loosen my tongue, which seems to be tangled in a knot. I'm touched by his act, that's why. I deal better with squabbling, with driving away my emotions with an arrow or, of late, with a drink at Haymitch's. Real emotions frighten me more than any muttation, more than President Snow's permeating, haunting scent of roses and, beneath that, blood. Real emotions, after all, were what turned me, for a time, into what doctors called "a mental Avox." For a long time, words were the enemy. In my tragedy-stricken mind, unable to cope, words spoken by others were empty lies, chilling threats, or underhanded double-crosses. Words couldn't be believed.

Then again, actions could.

"I'll be right back," I tell Peeta, darting into the house. Quickly, I scowl at my reflection in the mirror and run a toothbrush through my mouth, then go out back to the well, where I draw several buckets of water. Peeta looks surprised and happy when I reappear with them in the front yard. "I want to help."

With a grin, he picks up one of the buckets with both hands and drinks from it greedily, then smirks at me over the rim. I can't help but counter with another smile. "Thank you," I say quietly, my eyes meeting his for a brief moment and then escaping back to the safety of the primrose bushes. "Really, Peeta. This means a lot. And ... I'm glad you're here. In a weird way, I ... kind of ... well, missed ...er ... having you around." I take the shovel from his grasp and start digging - busying myself, putting myself to work - but not before I see the familiar expression on his face - the one that I first noticed, along with the rest of Panem - on live TV. The refusal to hold my gaze directly, the side glances when he thinks I do not notice. I also recognize this behavior because I acted, spoke, this way - not for the sake of the camera's, but for Peeta's, after Haymitch and I agreed to sacrifice me to save him in the Quarter Quell. Peeta Mellark is still in love with me ... and he is keeping secrets.

2

Two hours later, the sun is almost directly over our heads, beating down on us with a relentless fury. We've just finished planting the primrose bushes and are now sitting in the shade and trying to cool off. The work has loosened us up a bit, and not only physically. Instead of the work being done in reverent silence, as I feared it might, it was punctuated by our verbal jabs at each other regarding the quality of our yardwork. Once, Peeta even tapped his shovel against mine - almost as though he wanted to duel.

"So ... you've been living here all alone since the last time I saw you?" he asks, and I wonder if he's really asking if Gale's been living here with me - which is somewhat ironic, considering I haven't even spoken to Gale in over a month. Not only does he have a time-consuming new job, but I haven't even gotten near approaching those unresolved feelings I have towards Gale for his indirect role in Prim's death.

Peeta's waiting patiently for an answer. "Well, pretty much. Right after I got back, Greasy Sae used to come by and cook my meals - she didn't exactly think I could take care of myself." I pause. "I guess I really couldn't." And I'm still not sure I can, I think, though I keep that to myself. "She still comes by a few times a week, although I told her that I would be fine."

As Peeta leans back, resting his hands behind him in the grass, an amused expression crosses his face. "I can't imagine you cooking and cleaning, Katniss. Being a happy housewife doesn't suit you at all. You in an apron ... just ... no."

I gesture towards my shovel and raise an eyebrow at him playfully, but I couldn't stop the smile that spreads across my face. Any man who thought I would be his "happy housewife" was going to be very, very sorry.

"Where have you been staying?" I ask, swiping a sweaty strand of hair of my forehead.

"I haven't," Peeta replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, I mean, not in District 12. I have some relatives in District 10 - an aunt and uncle. I wanted to tell them about ... you know ... in person. I thought it was only right."

I nod, holding my head down to show my sympathy for the deaths of Peeta's parents and brothers. "That was good of you." I clear my throat. "And so ... are you just here in 12 for the day? To help with the bushes?" There's an apparent sense of vulnerability in my voice, and I hate that it's so obvious.

Peeta looks down at his hands. "That was the plan ... sneak in, plant garden, not bother you ... then ... well, that was as far as I'd planned. But I was planning to move on, yes. But then you happened to wake up."

"I did." I pause, wondering if Peeta caught the full meaning of what we'd just said. "So ... now what will you do? Do you need a place to stay?" My stomach backflipped, and I stammered onward. "Because, I know, well, I think that Haymitch could use someone to look after him ... he still drinks like a fish."

He is indignant. "I am not living with Haymitch ... 'sweetheart.'" We laugh. "His place is a dump and he would drive me nuts. I'll figure something out. But ... this is where I grew up, and leaving it in this condition ... it just wouldn't be right."

"So you're staying, then." It was more of a statement than a question.

He looks at me for a long moment, as if trying to read my face. "Katniss, I want to fix this place up. I want to be there for you, too. But I'll only do it if you want me to. If I'm in your way, or if you don't want me around, just say the word. You know I ..." He stops himself, and it's frustrating, because there really is a lot more he could say, and even more that I could say. I notice that somehow we've moved closer together - perhaps so that we would both remain in the shade - and our shoulders are nearly touching. "If you want me to stay, I'll stay. If you want me to go, I'll go."

"I want you to stay," I reply immediately. But is this out of loneliness, pure and simple? Perhaps because Peeta's plan to rebuild the Seam is inspiring, will give me a sense of purpose? Or is it something else, too? Yes. He is keeping something from me, I am sure of it. Maybe he wasn't completely "himself" again. Maybe he is still, in some strange way, at war with himself. This time, though, I do not race to the conclusion that his internal battle - if that was what was in fact going on behind those eyes of his - is about me, or his feelings for me. Peeta is his own person, after all. "Of course I want you to stay. You'll sleep here." I pause. "Remember how it used to help with the nightmares when we ..."

Peeta's smile widens, in spite of his rather endearing efforts to appear nonchalant. "I remember. Of course I'll stay." Good. Perhaps if I could get him to stay over like he used to, I could get him to talk to me, tell me what was going on inside that brain of his. And, if all else failed ... perhaps he would reveal it to me in his sleep.

"It'll be nice to have some company besides Buttercup, anyway," I blurt out, feeling I've reached my usual quota of kind, fluffy things to say in a 24-hour period. Even before all the Mockingjay/Hunger Games business, I was never a particularly bubbly girl, so the fact that Peeta Mellark's gotten all of these niceties out of me is unusual. And a little unsettling.

"I thought you hated that cat," Peeta says, standing and brushing off his trousers. "Didn't you?"

I shrug. "I think we understand each other now." Standing in the doorway of the house, I gesture him inside. "I'm going to go take a shower. But there are two upstairs - one is off a guest room where you can stay." Buttercup, who is sitting in the windowsill in the kitchen, fixes her green eyes on Peeta and blinks a weary welcome.

"Thanks so much, really. I ..." As Peeta takes a step forward, he sucks in breath sharply, and I can tell immediately that he's in pain.

"What is it?" I ask, alarmed. "Is it your leg?" He's bent over, massaging his good leg. My heart jumped when I heard him cry out like that, and more than one horrifying memory of Peeta being in pain surface momentarily in my mind. "Peeta?"

He's sheepish. "My good leg was doing the work of two, I guess. Just a leg cramp. No big..." But before he can finish, I've looped my arm around his waist and am helping him to the couch. Once he's settled there, I fix a cold compress and press it gently to his calf. As I'm tending to him, I feel his hand rest lightly on my head. "You're a natural caretaker, Katniss. Thanks."

"I'm not like how Prim was, and how my mother is," I say, "but I try." His hand doesn't move from the top of my head, and suddenly I realize how easy it would be to just stand up, lean over him on the couch, and kiss him, sweaty or not. I'm not sure why I've always felt the impulse to do this when he's been hurt or sick, but I'm amazed at it. Maybe i just consider it another form of therapy.

"You're wonderful. That's much better. I feel good as new, Katniss, don't worry." Before I have a chance to move, he stands up and stretches.

"Wait." I stand up and can put it off no longer. Without a word, I wrap my arms around him. When I let go and take a step back, he looks at me in shock. "What was that for?"

"For the primroses. For a lot of things. I'm glad you're here."

"You're welcome, Katniss. And I'm happy I'm here, too."

I watch him carefully as he makes his way up the stairs, and then I go left and he goes right into our respective bedrooms. As I discard my sweaty clothing onto the floor, I can hear the shower turn on in the guest bathroom and try not to think about the fact that we're both naked, and probably about 10 feet from one another. Is he thinking the same thing? I wonder.

Then again, so what? These feelings about anyone, let alone my former pretend-boyfriend and pretend-fiance, are foreign to me, so I push them aside and let the needles of warm water massage my body and face.

Downstairs, across mugs of spiced cider, I search his face for traces of his hijacking, back in the Capitol. Is this the real Peeta sitting across the table from me, or has he been putting on some sort of show for my benefit, or to work his way back into my good graces for a less than savory reason? His actions - like with the primrose plants - were of the old him, yet for some reason I can't quite place, aside from the way he glances at me sideways - I don't feel completely at ease around him, don't know for certain if I can trust him. Yet the truth is, what choice do I have? It's been a lonely existence since ... all I've endured is loss after loss, gaining nothing but pain, then numbness, and then nothing. And one of the last vestiges of hope in my life is sitting across the kitchen table from me, and I'm not letting him walk out that door.

"So ... are you still seeing Dr. Aurelius?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. I don't know how else to broach the subject that he might be hiding something.

Peeta clears his throat noisily before answering, as though something's caught in it ... like a lie. "Well, not seeing him - I can't imagine taking the train back and forth to the Capital every week. I am speaking to him on the phone, though. About twice a week, or if ... well, you know."

"Are those happening often? I ... I'm sorry if that's too personal. I just ... especially if you're sleeping here tonight ..."

He holds up a hand to calm me, and even lets out a little laugh. "You have every right to question me if you're sleeping next to me, Katniss." His laugh subsides, and morphs into a weary sigh. "Honestly, the last one I had was when I was still in the Capitol. I haven't had an ... episode, attack, whatever you want to call it - since I've been back in District 12."

One of the things I've always liked very much about Peeta is that, anytime we've talked, he always looks right at my face. Whether he's talking, or I'm talking, his eyes are on me. It's like I'm the only one in the room. In my experience, people cannot lie when they look me in the eyes - and I cannot lie to them. But in this moment, when he is answering my question, his eyes dart over my shoulder and out the window behind me - almost as though he is looking for something - or someone - out there in the darkness. My palms start to sweat. Who is he waiting for? Who is coming to find us?

I move my head so that our eyes are level. "Peeta." He focuses back on me again. "You can tell me if you've had one more recently. I'll still let you stay."

Abruptly, he stands and crosses the kitchen to the sink, where he begins washing our dinner plates. "Do you really think I would lie to you and put your life in danger like that? Just so I could ... be close to you?" Before I have a chance to respond, he shakes his head and his shoulders slump. "I'm not that kind of a person. Not that kind of a guy. I hope you don't think that of me. I may have changed, but I'm still me." Slowly, he reaches across the sink and turns off the faucet without violence. "You have to know that, right?"

I can't see his face, but the way his shoulders are slumped, his hands holding onto the edge of the sink, makes me slide my chair back and go to him. I stand behind him for a moment uncertainly, feeling awkward and unsure of what to do next, and then he answers the question for me by turning around and wrapping me in a hug. It's not a tight, desperate, clingy hug, like the one Prim gave me before I left for the 74th Hunger Games. It's more comforting, reassuring: I'm still me.

"I know," I respond, my voice muffled, my face buried in his cotton t-shirt. "I'm sorry. That's not what I meant." He releases me and I feel slightly unsteady on my feet for a brief second. "I just want ..." My hands go out in front of me, palms up, as though I'm pleading. "I want you to be able to tell me things. I don't want you to feel like you have to protect or shield me from anything, although I know you only would with the best of intentions."

Peeta doesn't crack a smile. "I haven't been talking to Haymitch."

I'm genuinely offended by this accusation. Peeta and I have been through enough together that I know even if he is hiding something from me, he's not conspiring with our drunken former mentor. He was so angry when I did it to him. I know he knows how it feels. "I just want to make sure you're OK. Is that so wrong?"

His hands flutter at his sides, as though he wants to touch me but isn't sure of the appropriate gesture. I find this endearing that, for once, Peeta doesn't know the right move. He speaks softly. "It is what we do, isn't it." It's not a question.

"It is."

Peeta's sigh seems to blend in with the wind that is picking up from the west. "It's so strange," he says, walking back into the living room. I follow him and sit down next to him on the sofa, folding my legs beneath me.

"What is?"

"Well ..." he laughs. "Everything. Being back here. My entire family being gone. Seeing you. Living in a world without fear. Somehow ... somehow, this is almost more frightening than how it was with Snow in charge. At least we knew what to expect, even though it was horrible. I guess we just fall into patterns in life and get so used to things, that sometimes we don't even realize how horrible they really are until they're gone."

I remain silent, pondering Peeta's words. As always, he - more than anyone else - makes me think about things from an entirely different perspective.

"I think," I say finally, searching desperately for the right words, "I think freedom is scary. Before everything happened, I knew what I was supposed to do each day. Wake up. Go to school. Hunt with Gale. Keep my mother and sister alive." My voice falters as I realize how profoundly I failed at that last one.

Instantly, I feel Peeta's arm slip around my shoulder, but then I realize that I must have been imagining it ... wanting that physical comfort that he was once so willing to give. "I know what you're thinking," he whispers. "At least, I think I do." His eyes lock with mine and I'm unable to do anything but stare back. "Do not do that to yourself. Please don't."

I don't cry. I haven't cried in several months, and at this point I doubt I will again. There are very few things left to cry for.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Peeta asks, raising an eyebrow in feigned shock. "You're agreeing with me?"

"Yes."

He leans his head back against the couch cushion and closes his eyes for a minute, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. For a moment I fear he is having an attack.

"So you knew what you were supposed to do before," he says, turning his head to look at me. "And if you feel anything like I do, it's kind of like ... okay ... the war is won ... so now what do we do?"

That was exactly how I felt. And he knew it. Of course he did. "I wish I could answer that question, believe me. I guess we ... live. And recover. And ..." I trail off with a shrug.

There's a long, but not completely unpleasant silence that lingers between us for a moment. We both sit and listen to the wind howling, the shutters knocking against the house. Whatever's out there, it can't get in tonight. Not with Peeta here.

"I want to tell you two things," he says. "Well, I want to tell you a million things. About what happened to me after you shot Coin, how I got better ... how I'm still getting better, I guess. But tonight I'll start with two."

"Okay." Fair enough, I think.

"One: I want to tell you the truth about this stuff, and I promise not to protect you from anything that I don't think you can handle. And you can handle a lot, I know that." He swallows hard. "I have had one episode since I've been back in 12," he admits, "but I'm not sure it was ..." He furrows his brow in thought. "It wasn't ... typical. It was more of a ... a flashback. But I haven't even felt one coming on, not at all, since I saw you."

I want to ask him about this flashback, but I'm afraid that pressing too hard will bring on another attack. Instead, I nod. "I appreciate your telling me the truth. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"And two: just for the record, I promise to be a complete gentleman tonight. In fact, I'll sleep here if you want me to," he says, gesturing towards the couch.

I contemplate this for a minute.

"It's funny, Katniss ... while we're being honest, I might as well be honest with you about how I feel..." My heart jumps, as I am unprepared completely for any confessions of love from Peeta right now. "I guess I just ... I'm very confused as to how I should act around you. I remember nearly everything now, except my very earliest memory of you and my last, before the hijacking. I just ... want to act how you want me to. Like if you didn't want me to hug you before, I'm sorry. I don't know if I'm supposed to pat you on the back or shake your hand or how much distance to keep." He smiles a bit. "So you'll lead the way, okay?"

I don't know what he's referring to in terms of his earliest memory of me - I thought that was the rainy day, the day he tossed me the bread - but one of the last memories would have been that night on the beach in the Quarter Quell, no? The night he gave me the pearl, the only night I've ever felt what people call passion. Such a ridiculous word, really. I feel a sudden, desperate need to ask Peeta if he still loves me, but I quash it as quickly as it came. I find the thought of either answer to be too frightening to bear. What is left of my heart would be destroyed by a "no," but a "yes" would definitely feel equally scary for a million reasons. So I ask nothing.

"Yes, okay," I say with a little smile. "Although I'm hardly an expert on affection, Peeta. I can promise to kick you in the shin if you get too close."

He grins. "That'll work."

The first night after Peeta's return, it's as though someone drew an imaginary line down the center of my bed with chalk. I lie on my side, facing away from him; he's on his back with his hands behind his head, examining the ceiling. After not having seen each other for so long - not to mention the hijacking - it is impossible for us to return so quickly to our past lives, although I wouldn't so much mind Peeta's body curled around mine. But he wants to work at my pace, and I appreciate that.

I've taken my hair out of its braid; it is fanned out on the bed behind me. I can almost feel Peeta's restraint from touching it - or me. To break the silence, I ask if it would be alright if I turned off the light.

"Sure," he replies.

But the silence is heavier in the darkness, as though if he pulled me close, drew my face to his, it wouldn't have really happened, and tomorrow morning we could carry on as normal - whatever "normal" passed for in D12 these days.

I turn onto my other side, facing Peeta, and prop myself up on my elbow. "Do you still have nightmares sometimes?"

I can't see, but I hear him turn his head towards me in the dark. "Sometimes. Less often when I'm around you. Which you know," he adds, with a smirk in his voice. "Do you?"

"Sometimes," I echo. "It's strange, though. I was having them non-stop when I first got back here. Then they tapered off, mostly. But the weirdest thing - about a week ago, I started having dreams about my father."

Silence from the head on the pillow next to me.

"Peeta?"

"Sorry. I was just thinking about why that might be. That is odd. Did you ever dream of him before?"

"Not since before ... you know, before everything. Sometimes I would dream of him taking me to the lake."

"The lake?"

"Oh, there's a lake he used to take me to when I was little. Just the two of us would go, and fish, and trap, and sing ... it was one of my favorite places to go to be alone after he died. I'll have to show it to you sometime."

"That would mean a lot to me, Katniss."

"Good."

"So ... these dreams were different? About your dad, but not about the lake?"

"Right. I can't remember them very well in the morning, but it's like ... I'm in the mockingjay dress - you know the one..."

"I do."

"...and I'm flapping my wings, and feathers are flying off of it, and suddenly I'm terrified that I'm losing too many feathers and I'm going to fall, but then I look down and realize that my father is holding me up - that it wasn't me who was flying - I was never flying - he was just holding me up."

Peeta doesn't say anything for a minute. "Katniss, I know that ... we can't go back to the way things were before ... right away, anyway. There are so many things I ..." He doesn't finish the sentence, and my pounding heart won't let me ask him to. "You know. But I can promise you that I am going to look out for you ... not that you need it ... but because I need it. And I won't let you lose anyone or anything else you care about. From tonight on, things are going to get better."

I let my elbow slide to the bed so that I'm lying down on the bed, with my head on the pillow. Before I can stop myself, my hand is touching the side of his face, and he puts his hand over mine. I say nothing. And then my hand is in his hair, ruffling it, and I have no idea how this won't end with a kiss. But it does, somehow. The boy must have amazing restraint, I think, fighting off my own feelings. We fall asleep facing each other, foreheads almost touching, and the warmth radiating from his body is enough so that I have no need for blankets.

I sleep that night with only one interruption: Peeta is humming. It's not loud, but he's close enough that it wakes me from my light slumber. I've never heard of people humming in their sleep before. It lasts for only a few minutes and then stops. Peeta has a strange, befuddled look on his face, and I stare at him with a fondness that startles me.

It isn't until I'm drifting off to sleep that I recognize the tune he was humming, and chills rattle through my entire body. Peeta was just - in his sleep - humming the melody of a song that my father taught me as a very young child, a song that was forbidden in the District. A song that my mother forbid me from singing ever again. A song that Peeta could not possibly know. And yet, he was humming it, I was sure of it:

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

It is a long time until I finally drift off into an uneasy, dreamless sleep.