Katniss! That is my first thought when I wake. I was dreaming. Of her. She stood in our spot, the sun rising behind her. Illuminating her. She was radiant, beautiful. I walked to her, but I could never reach her. No matter how much I moved forward, she remained distant.

It's barely dawn. Gray light seeps through the windows and I remember why I couldn't reach her. I need to get out of here. I need to hunt, take my mind off that. Off her. I dress quietly. Before I leave, I quickly check on Vick and Rory, still asleep at different ends of the bed they share. Mother with little Posy curled up tight next to her. Force of habit. They're okay, at least.

I make my way silently through the quiet streets and dusty alleyways, through the meadow and under the fence that surrounds District 12. In the woods beyond, a breeze blows. I stop to take it in, clearing away this morning's dream and yesterday's shock. The air is fresh and light and smells of dawn and leaves and damp earth. So different from the air in 12, always thick and heavy with coal dust. There's no escaping the mines in District 12, I suppose. I hear the sound of an animal scurrying nearby, small – a squirrel, perhaps. Normally, I would pursue it; easy prey. But it's then that I realize I didn't even check for the hum of electricity at the fence. I guess the odds were in my favor today. For once. Lucky me.

I reach our spot. I half expect to find her here, waiting for me as she always is. But it's empty, of course. There is no one waiting. Katniss is gone. A player in the Capitol's twisted Games. It feels like a million years since she was with me. But it was only yesterday morning we were here, joking and feasting. Before the reaping. Before the Capitol took her. Before she'd yelled those fateful words. I volunteer. Saving her sister. Condemning herself.

I think back, remembering the feeling of calm dread that swept through me as I registered her cry. The way my body instinctively moved towards her, without me even realizing I was moving, wanting to grab hold of her and...what? So I grab hold of Prim instead. Pacing and waiting in the Justice Building to see her, to say goodbye. Perhaps for good. I think of that last conversation. Where I did not say goodbye, if only because I refused to accept it. Or maybe because I thought I might cry, and Katniss didn't need that. She needed me to be strong. So I was.

Mostly, I think of my final words to her, replaying the scene again and again. The last words I would've said, had I not been cut off by a door. The shock of it slamming, of her face gone from my sight, carried such a finality. The remaining words choked in my throat.

Remember, I...

I what? Was I really going to say I love you to Katniss then? How unfair that would have been, to do that to her. No, it's better the words were lost. I had every opportunity, didn't I? To tell her how I feel. But I didn't. Couldn't. What was I waiting for? For her, probably. For her to realize on her own, like I did. For nature to take its course. Taking my time with her for granted, certainly. And now she's gone. Stolen from me by the Capitol, as my father was stolen by their oppressive mines.

Crunch. I look down. I hold the pieces of a broken twig in each hand, splintered remains litter the ground. I don't even remember picking anything up. Get it together, Hawthorne.

Think. Katniss is strong, by far the smartest, bravest girl I know. Haven't we hunted together in these woods for years? And she was so tiny when we began, but still fiercely determined to learn everything she could. To provide for her family. I doubt even Career tributes have that kind of real experience in the wild, despite all their training. No, Katniss is a survivor, like me. She can take care of herself. She'll come back. Meanwhile, I need to keep my promise to her. Take care of things here. My family. Her family. This is not the time to fall apart.

The sun is almost fully up. I have no appetite for food, so I get moving. As I'm checking the snare line, a moment of panic consumes me. I should've taught her more about snares. I should've taught her how to use them on bigger game, not just small. That's knowledge she could've used, translated into the arena. And I should've volunteered, to keep her safe. I could've done more. I should've done more...

I stop at the stream, gulp down handfuls of water until the panic subsides. Katniss is strong, I remind myself. Katniss will make it. She'll come back. My face is wet, and I'm not sure if it's from the water or my tears. I should've said something sooner. Why didn't I say something sooner?

As I make my way back into town, I repeat the words in my head: She'll come back. She'll come back. As I make my usual stops I remind myself again: Katniss is strong, she'll come back. It's only when I get to the Hob and finally notice the too generous trades coupled with sad shakes of the head do I lose my ability to hold on to the thought. There, everyone looks at me with pity. As if they know what I won't let myself admit: Katniss isn't coming back. I have lost her for good.

I knew that though, didn't I? Knew it even before the reaping. Didn't I first feel that calm dread when I traded with the baker that morning? As he handed me the still-warm loaf, as I noticed a display of cookies decorated with dandelions made of frosting. I felt it: the fleeting chill of impending doom. His son is a tribute too, I think. What kind of odds are those? Certainly not favorable ones.

It goes on like this, in the days leading up to the Games. Luckily, my resolve is strengthened when I stop by Katniss' to drop off fresh game and plants her mother didn't ask for, but I know she needs. When I see Prim's giant eyes so full of fear, despite her attempts to be strong for her mother. For me, even. She reminds me so much of my Catnip then, back when we first met, I'm able to shake the darker thoughts away. It's why, on Opening Night, I've chosen to watch the Games with them. It's better here, comforting them, surrounded by Katniss' essence and all that she loves. Better than being in my own home, alone despite my mother's attempts to comfort me.

I sit off to the side, tense and stiff. I try to relax, but it's strange to be here without Katniss. Stranger still knowing Katniss will be on the other side of the screen. Close enough to touch, but so far. A tribute. It dawns on me I have never in my life watched an Opening Night ceremony for the Hunger Games. By the time District 2's splendid horse-drawn carriage rolls by, I wish I had continued that tradition.

The display is disgusting. All these children, some no bigger than Prim, not even able to be themselves in the end. Turned into grotesque caricatures instead, with their hideous make-up and costumes. Paraded through the streets amidst fanfare and those stupid Capitol accents, like this is all one big party. A festival of death, hooray. And for what? So us District slaves will always know our place? The small knot I've felt in my chest since the reaping hardens. I don't want to see Katniss this way.

But suddenly, there she is. And I can no longer breathe.

"Oh, Katniss," whispers Prim, awed. "She's so beautiful."

Prim is right. Katniss floats by on the screen, stunning in her costume meant to mimic fire, the product of the coal we produce here in 12. She's not so much consumed by the fire, but rather, she's emerging from it. No, more. She is the fire. And every bit as mesmerizing. Breathtaking. Literally. I've never seen her like this, but somehow it's familiar...

The chair I sit in moans. I feel myself shaking, my hands gripping the chair's arm, my skin stretched tight. I can feel my veins protruding, every muscle contracting, a moist heat clouding my eyes. Katniss' mother places her hand on my arm, but I can't look away. I can't see if she means to reassure me or needs reassurance herself, since my chest is caving in and the world around me is turning black. There is only that radiant flame flickering across the screen, kindling inside me a heat I have never felt before.

Rage. That's what this is. Not even when my father died did I feel this. Miners die in accidents; it happens. But this? This...sadistic pageantry? How dare they. How dare they dress Katniss up, decorating her like a roast pig. How dare they parade her through the streets, adoring her like one would a particularly choice cut of meat.

I hate every person in that crowd, cheering on this garish death march. Their greed. Their bloodlust. Their barbaric mindlessness. I hate the Capitol, and all it stands for. Its inhabitants. Its "Hunger Games," when no one in the Capitol even knows what hunger is. And if I'm really honest, I'll admit I hate him too. The fire boy whose hand she's holding, the other tribute from our district. The baker's son. A town kid. Bet he thought he'd never end up in the arena. Yes, I hate him too. I hate all of them.

If I could, I would end them all. I want them all to burn.

I spend the next few days hunting. Incessantly. Hunting fiercely, with a passion. Every arrow I release is an arrow shot into the heart of the Capitol. Each arrow eases some of my rage. I release a lot of arrows. I am so loaded down with game in those first couple days after the opening ceremonies, I need to make two trips into town. By the third day, I feel better. The feeling is short lived.

"They'll be announcing the scores soon, Gale" Prim tells me when I make my usual stop at her home. "For the tributes. Are you going to watch with us?"

The idea of re-living the Capitol's morbid sport threatens the relative calm I've achieved from days spent in the woods. The thought of them scoring Katniss, sizing her up so people can place bets like they were bidding on a particularly plump deer threatens to send me into a tailspin. I don't think I can do it. It takes one look at Prim's face, and her mother's behind her, both looks pleading, not wanting to suffer the indignity of this alone, for me to change my mind.

"Of course," I manage.

I resume my spot off to the side, again stiff and tense. As the scores are announced, I brace myself for another upwelling of rage like that first night. I don't want to think about Katniss being judged, but I can't help it. I know the score she gets tonight could mean the difference between her life and death in the arena. Prim is saying something about Katniss' ability with a bow and arrow, which I know to be excellent, but I tune her out. On screen is the male tribute from 12, the baker's son. Peeta Mellark, the screen says. He scores an eight. It's a decent enough score, but male tributes almost always score higher than the females, Careers highest of all. If he scored an eight, what will Katniss get? And what will that mean for her?

He's been replaced by Katniss, so I guess I'll know soon enough. Although I remain seated, I imagine myself up near the television, tracing the contours of her face on the screen. At least she looks normal here. Katniss Everdeen. The knot in my chest hardens again. What will the number be?

Eleven flashes beneath her name. I hear the sharp intake of breath from Prim, her mother, even myself. Eleven. Has anyone ever scored so high? That's damn near perfect. Not quite perfect, but pretty damn near it.

"That's my girl," I whisper inaudibly, smiling to myself. For the first time in a week, the knot eases. For the first time in a week, I feel...hopeful. The odds are turning in our favor. Katniss is strong. Katniss will make it. She'll win the Capitol's sick, twisted Games. She'll come back. And this time, I actually believe it. Katniss will come back, I'm sure of it. Katniss will come home. To me.