Chapter 1

The Girl in the Rain

I yank open the brick oven and heat shoves outward, causing my face to flush and the hairs on my arms to singe. The toasted, nutty perfume of baking bread greets me like a welcome friend. I pierce the bread with a knife, and it slides easily into each scalding loaf, the blade coming out clean.

Nearly done, I think tomyself. Just another minute for the crust to darken.

I close the oven door, trapping the heat back inside, and turn towards the window. Rain droplets catch on the smoky glass surface and tremble before sliding down. A few merge together and fall as one, no longer alone. I peer past the droplets into the night and imagine how it would be to no longer feel alone.

Father left us when I was no more than four years old. A toddler, running barefoot through District 12 with an empty flour sack for a hat. What was there not to love in an innocent boy? Mother had never been the same after he had gone. I didn't need to be older than four to remember how she changed. Her heart turned cold, her voice constantly harsh with impatience. I could never do enough to please her.

Movement by the old, rope swing outside catches my attention. I rub the fog from the glass to be sure it is really her. Her brown hair, pulled into a braid, drapes over her shoulder, water dripping from it's tail.

Katniss.

Her face is gaunt, pale and thin, and she struggles to keep her eyes open against the rain, or perhaps against exhaustion. She looks so weak, as if she hasn't eaten in days. I inch closer to the window in order to see her better. She hasn't eaten in days, I realize.

I vaguely register the smell of the bread, finally baked to perfection. I reach to the side for some thick rags to remove the pans. Yet, I cannot turn away from her.

Katniss has been absent from school for three days, and I cringe with sadness knowing that three days ago was most likely the last time she ate. Those days when I do see her, her gray eyes shine and her face is alive with vigor. She is happy, her mind on things other than food, other than the upcoming reaping.

Still I know deep down, she never stops worrying. She gives everything to her family. She hunts to provide for them. She looks out for her brother, Aster. She acts the part of caregiver for her mother. Her plate is overflowing with responsibility, but somehow she manages to survive for herself as well. To see the beauty in this bleak world. That is the side of her I wish I knew more.

Suddenly, I smell fire.

I turn back to the oven to see smoke escaping from its cracks. I race to open it, but my mother barges into the kitchen and makes it there first, throwing open the oven door and waving her arm to clear the air. When she pulls the bread out, the crusts are charred black. We could never sell it and make a profit.

"What the hell were you doing, boy? Daydreaming?" she shouts at me, raising her hand to smack me. She does. Hard. "Do you know how much money you just cost me?"

Tears spring to my eyes, and my mother's voice becomes a dull drone in the background. As I bring my hand up to my burning cheek, trying to comprehend the quick change of events, I think of how Katniss has dealt with far worse. I glance sideways to the window and find her in the dark. She is alone out there - damp, cold, and hungry. Katniss's thin frame slides to the ground as I watch, and my heart clenches in my chest. I want to go to her

"Are you even listening to me?" my mother screams. Before I can reply, she yanks my shirt and drags me to the door, throwing it open and shoving loaf after blackened loaf into my hands. It's scalding, searing my fingers.

"Feed it to the pigs. That's all it's good for now. And don't even think about stepping near the oven again tonight," my mother spits in disgust. "Go ice the cakes, if you think you can manage without screwing them up too."

Quickly, I duck outside, closing the door behind me as my mother stomps away to start a new batch of bread. Ignoring her instructions, I walk out into the rain, past the pig pen. The pigs don't need the bread.

As I draw closer, I notice that Katniss's eyes are closed, her head resting against the trunk of an elm tree. I lower to squat beside her, the bread cradled in my arms. Her breathing comes out in shallow gasps.

"Katniss," I say quietly, trying not to startle her. Her eyes flutter open, and I think that if she weren't too weak to show it, she would be surprised to see me.

"Take this." I gently hand her the burnt bread. Her eyes fill with hunger, need, craving.

"Peeta...I don't need it," she lies. Her voice is soft and tired, but I love it.

"You may as well take it, or it'll go to the pigs."

Katniss seems not to hear me. Her eyes slowly close, and a light crease appears between her eyebrows.

I touch her shoulder. "Why are you out here in the rain?"

Lifting her head, Katniss nods to a soaked, burlap sack ten feet away. "I went to the Hob to trade Aster's baby clothes, but nobody would take them."

"Well then you shouldn't go home empty handed. Take the bread."

Her eyes meet mine and after a long pause, she questions, "Why are you helping me?"

"You would do the same for me."

Katniss nods in agreement, leaning back against the tree. "Can you put them with the clothes?"

"Of course." I stand and walk to the burlap sack, dropping the loaves in one by one.

Turning back, I see Katniss trying to stand, using the tree for support. I hurry back to help, holding out my hand for her to take. As she reaches towards me, her eyes glaze over, her small body falling forward. Instinctively, I circle my arms around her torso and gently lower us both to the ground, her head resting against my chest.