Twenty lashes. Twenty. I run my hand gingerly over Gale's face. He's sweating profusely and shivers hard at my cold touch. I instinctively shrink back, afraid I might hurt him again. It's all my fault the Peacekeepers are here. It's all my fault he's lying here, unable to move, flinching at the slightest touch.
I need to do something. Standing still makes me nervous and I keep seeing Gale being whipped and I can't do anything but watch because I am frozen in place. A hand clasps my shoulder and I almost jump. But I recognize it as my mother's delicate hand and turn around to face her.
"Change his towel every ten minutes. I'm going out to see a patient."
"Okay," I say simply, as I always have. She turns to leave, then stops suddenly. Is that pity in her eyes? If so, who is it for: Gale, who bears the marks of punishment, or me, who bears the guilt of bringing it about? My mother smiles sadly at me.
"Take care of him." She walks out, carrying a basket in that dainty way of hers. I realize she looks a lot like Prim from the back, without a shirt tail hanging out. I almost smile to myself, but a loud gasp of pain from Gale brings me back to my senses.
His fists are clenched around a clump of sweat-soaked sheets. He pants heavily. I take a few moments to brace myself for the bloody cuts. I look at the blood seeping through the thin white sheets and feel sick. His cuts don't look anything like my leg when the Gamemakers sent fireballs at me, but they make my stomach turn from the thought anyway.
"What's up, Catnip?" Gale's usually smooth, low voice is gravelly and cracks at every other syllable. I smile a little at how ridiculous he sounds.
"Wait," I tell him. "I'll get you another towel."
"No." He has encased my hand in his firm grip. His hand is rough from so many years of toil, but now it's clammy and covered in cold sweat. I'm usually the one with sweaty palms.
"Stay," he commands me in a croaking voice. He knows as well as I do that I don't take orders from anyone. I fight the hotness rising to my ears and wrestle my hand out of his as gently as possible.
"I'll get you another towel." My heart is pounding. It's not right. Peeta and I are the "star-crossed lovers." He'd be killed if I betrayed that. I can't be swayed.
I replace Gale's towel, making as little contact with his skin as possible and hope he doesn't notice. But of course he notices.
"Katniss." He presses my hand to his face before I pull away. "Don't be scared." I mentally curse at him. He always knows what I'm thinking, sometimes before even I know what I'm thinking.
"Your face gives everything away." He manages a pained grin that quickly turns into a grimace because the cuts on his back are searing. Then his breath hitches and he sneezes hard into the air. I take my hand away.
"EHKk-shUH!"
"Gross," I say, smiling. "Cover up."
He yanks my arm and motions for me to bend down. I recognize the glint in his silver-gray eyes and I know he's the mischievous Gale that would purposely scare away my deer. He beckons me closer. I feel my heart beat faster, but it's not the bad kind that makes my palms sweat and my heart clench. A warm feeling fills me.
I lean closer. Gale's ragged breathing is so close. Why didn't it feel this awkward when we were hunting in the forest and practically sitting on top of each other in the bushes? This is wrong. I can't do this to Peeta.
Gale is surprised, shocked even, when I pull my face away, and my hand reaches for his boiling forehead instead. His mouth opens to ask why, but his voice is caught somewhere in the back of his throat. He coughs harshly, wincing from the raw pain in both his throat and his cuts.
First I'm motionless, then I think of what my mother or Prim would do. Hesitantly, I place my hand on his chest and rub in slow circles. His bouts of coughing gradually weaken. The whole time I try not to meet his gaze because I know I'll be trapped under his spell again and I won't be able to pull myself away. He always manages to drag me into his pace. Even now all I'm thinking about is Gale, his being whipped, his muscular chest, his ragged breathing, his piercing silver eyes.
I continue rubbing steadily until his breathing evens. I finally let myself look at him, and I find that he is asleep. Gale's a light sleeper; most of us in the Seam are. I remove my other hand from his grip as gently as I can without waking him, but he doesn't even twitch. He's more tired than I thought he was.
I look at his masculine face and willed myself not to touch it. My legs want so desperately to go closer, my hands are aching to touch him, and my heart is racing so fast that I think anyone within a one-mile radius can hear it thumping in my chest.
Run, run now, Katniss.
I run. I duck past uniformed Peacekeepers, dodge questioning stares. I come face to face with the electric fence. It's probably on now, but I don't hear the distinct buzzing that signifies it's on. I toss a rock at it anyway, willing nothing to happen. By some miracle, nothing does.
I vault over the fence, then maneuver through the trees and foliage easily. I stop at an old gnarled tree. I already know which branch I'm going to sit on. I climb it swiftly and then ease myself on a thick branch covered with leaves below, so I can sit in peace. I can see everything from the Victor's Village to Gale's house.
I shut my eyes and images of Gale being whipped and Peeta being taken away flash in my mind. I can't keep wavering like this. I have to make my decision soon.