After about an hour, Peeta speaks up. "These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you. "Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth." That seems grossly unfair, and my first impulse is to say something cutting. But I revisit my conversation with Haymitch and try to take the first tentative step in Peeta's direction. "I never wanted to kill you. Except when I thought you were helping the Careers kill me. After that, I always thought of you as . . . an ally." That's a good safe word. Empty of any emotional obligation, but nonthreatening.

"Ally," Peeta says the word slowly, tasting it

. "Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancée. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I'll add it to the list of words I use to try and figure you out." He weaves the rope in and out of his fingers. "The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up."

The cessation of rhythmic breathing suggests that either people have woken or really have never been asleep at all. I suspect the latter. Finnick's voice rises from a bundle in the shadows.

"Then you should ask, Peeta. That's what Annie does." Finnick suggests.

"Ask who?" Peeta says. "Who can I trust?"

"Well, us for starters. We're your squad," says Jackson.

"You're my guards," He points out.

"That, too," she says.

"But you saved a lot of lives in Thirteen. It's not the kind of thing we forget." She says, a tone of finality obvious in her voice.

In the quiet that follows, I try to imagine not being able to tell illusion from reality. Not knowing if Prim or my mother loved me. If Snow was my enemy. If the person across the heater saved or sacrificed me. With very little effort, my life rapidly morphs into a nightmare. I suddenly want to tell Peeta everything about who he is, and who I am, and how we ended up here. But I don't know how to start. Worthless. I'm worthless. At a few minutes before four, Peeta turns to me again.

"Your favorite color . . . it's green?"

"That's right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange." I say.

"Orange?" He seems unconvinced.

"Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset," I say. "At least, that's what you told me once."

"Oh." He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "Thank you."

But more words tumble out. "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." Then I realize I'm crying. I know I shouldn't be crying, but more tears come down, and now I'm bawling, my voice sounding like a broken wheeze of an old train.

Peeta sits there planted on the ground like a statue, staring wide-eyed at me. For a second I wonder if he'll lunge at me.

I sound insane. And I think everyone else here does too. My cheeks heat up, and I feel like running away into the woods. Maybe I should. Running away is something I'm good at. But I've made so many promises, and I owe too much. My brain feels like it's on overdrive, thoughts pouring out of the darkest corners of my mind, making my mouth work at the same pace.

"You're just... Peeta. That's exactly who you are," I take a deep breath, and I know more words are fueling up into my mind.

"Snow took The Peeta away from me. But he didn't just take you. He took everything. He stole people. And he wrecked lives. And I'm not going to sit here and let him continue this." I chant, the words spilling out like a fractured prayer. A sliver of hope.

If everyone in a mile radius isn't up by now, they're either dead, or pretending.

"Snow, or anyone else from the Capitol- We will not stand down! We are the revolution, and we will take back what is rightfully ours, and do you know what that is?" I cry out, my voice cracking. I'm standing up now, my arms raised like a warrior.

The others are staring at me thoughtfully, like gazing at a shiny new toy. I feel powerful, like I could storm into the Capitol right now.

"It is our freedom!" I finish, the final words ringing out like a bell.

People are clapping. Everyone but Peeta.

"Katniss." He whispers, standing up by me, the dirt falling off of his pants like water.

I raise an eyebrow, nodding to answer him. My voice is suddenly gone, and I swallow hard.

"That was beautiful. It sounds just like you. Like the old Katniss." He states, the sound of his voice is gravelly, like he's trying not to yell.

I gape. The old Katniss? Does this mean he remembers something? That maybe... His memories have come back.

"Explain what the old Katniss is." I demand. I'm never taking any chances now. I've learned my lesson.

Peeta looks pained, grabbing for something he's not sure about. "L-Like-" He stutters, and my eyes widen slightly.

"The old you. You're not the same. A harder, colder version of yourself. But I still love you. And now I'm not sure what I'm saying, but I'm getting all these weird flashbacks, and Katniss-" He stops short, sinking to his knees in the cold dirt. Peeta's face is pale. And he doesn't look right.

I drop to my knees, gripping his shoulders. "Peeta! Peeta listen!" I shout, but his eyes have glazed over, and he slumps forward onto me.

In those next few moments, I don't really remember what happened. All I remember is the darkness.