He watched her. He watched her when her father was still alive, and her cheeks were round and her eyes filled with happiness. He watched her when her father died, and her cheeks were hollow and her eyes dead. He couldn't stand seeing her like that. A skeleton, a shell of her former self. That's why he burned his own fingers as well as the loaves and threw them to her.

He watched as she got healthier. He watched as she grew, but still her eyes were no longer dead, but guarded. He watched as she spent her time with another man, Gale Hawthorne. He wanted to make her laugh like that, make her smile the smile that she usually reserved for her sister.

So, as the suffering from the hands of his mother steadily became worse, he laid in bed at night, dreaming of her. Her smile, her lips, her braid. He dreamed of Katniss Everdeen.