"Lighten up, Catnip," Gale torments, tossing his voice along the tall grasses between us.

"No," I scowl in return. "Not now. Not this time of year."

"You can't do anything about it," he continues. "It's going to be decided. Hell, it might already be decided. Maybe those jackasses at the Capitol pick each tribute by hand, personally choose each victim —"

"Gale, stop," I hiss. "I'm not in the mood. Stop." I hide my cheeks — which are more harsh and angular than they had been, before the drought — with a swath of my hair, sweeping my braid to shield my face.

Gale fall back to the dried grasses, leaning on his elbows. "Relax a little."

"No," I repeat. I wrap my arms tightly around my legs.

Gale rolls his eyes, slightly, but she doesn't notice. "Seriously. What are you going to be able to do about it?"

"I could volunteer," I retort.

I see a shiver slip through Gale's body, a ripple in an otherwise motionless pond. "You couldn't do that," he answers. His tone almost mimics my own hiss, though it's far too melodic to remind me anything of Buttercup's.

"I would. If I had to."

"What about your mother? And Prim, at home?" Gale asks, though for some reason he's almost begging in his voice.

I turn my head. "Couldn't …"

"I'd take care of them," he replies. "I would. Sorry."

I find myself smiling, though the cracks in my lips ache from the gesture. "What's your deal, Hawthorne?" I reach my arm out to nudge him on the shoulder.

I can tell I've knocked him off his pedestal, built on pillars of false assurance. "Nothing," Gale answers. "At least you're in better spirits."

"Hardly," I reply, turning my head to look over the barren hills.

When I look back at him, he's regained his composure, now laxly leaning against some rocks. His palms are covering his face, so I can't examine the wrinkles on either side of his eyes for the emotion I'm straining to see, given to him by years of responsibility he wasn't quite old enough for.

"Sorry," I end up replying.

He brings his hands back behind his head, opening his eyes. "I have a question," he says. "What would you do if— if I was a tribute?"

I rake my teeth against my lip, even though I can feel the metallic, toxic taste of blood slipping across my tongue. "I— why would you say that? Why would you ask that?"

He's unamused. "What would you do, Catnip?"

"I'd …" I trail off, hiding my gaze in my lap. "I'd take care of your family. And I'd worry. I'd worry myself sick."

I can hear him smirk. "Really?"

"Don't talk like that," I answer, but it's left him (and me) wondering if I was referring to the question or his reply.

Regardless, he doesn't answer. I leave my spot in the dirt for one by him near the rock, and ask my own question. "What would you do if I were in the Games?"

He meets my gaze strongly. "I'd fight them when they took you away from me. And I'd worry about you every day. And take care of Prim and your mother, of course."

I don't smirk, like he did. I just … sit.

Gale sits up from the rock, taking my chin in his hands. I'm about to fight him, but the callouses at the base of each finger catch me off guard and I'm left mercifully in his hands, whatever he's trying to do.

"You've got blood on your lips," he whispers. He brings his other hand to my lips and wipes it off. "We should go to Greasy Sae's and get you something for that."

"What? Oh—okay," I breathe. I don't even hold my hand out, but he brings me to my feet. His stride covers more ground than mine, and I'm trailing behind him, just as my thoughts are trailing behind me, still caught back in every branch of the trees.

I know there's no way either of us will be able to afford anything to treat my lips, but he was so instantly driven to get something, do anything, that I don't want to bring it up, even though he's certainly aware of it.

Thinking about it, there's no way either of us would be able to afford losing each other to these Games. He is my vision, my hearing. Hunting alone always leaves one half of your surroundings unknown, but with him, I've got sight of it all, even if it's not through my own eyes.

There's only so much game one person can take home by themselves. Losing him would mean not only that his family would suffer, but also mine. Separate from who I am with regards to my family, or who I am in the woods, there's also how I would fair, without him. I hardly socialize with anyone else, even if District 12 is small enough for everyone to be family.

Family. For years I've sworn that Prim is the only thing in this world I am sure I love. And there's absolutely no question about that. And no matter how many years pass, how many times she promises she's better, she's better, she's better, my mother is nothing more than a shell of who she used to be. I hate her for leaving Prim, leaving me, leaving us to live in her delusional world.

I've conveniently shelved Gale — who is, no doubt, a family member — away from that list, not sure if he's really, truly like that, truly what I think, but then again I don't think, he is.

Gale's pace finally notches back to a speed that matches my own, only because for some reason, he's kept his fingers wrapped around mine.

I pull my hand away and come to a stop, but his grip doesn't leave mine. "We can't afford to buy anything in there, what are you thinking!?" I question, but my tone is dipped in anger. "We don't have any meat!"

"Stop it," he replies flatly. "We'll figure it out. My mom washes her clothes. Tomorrow's Reaping Day, she understands."

"Like that's an excuse! Turning Reaping Day, of all days, into a deal for us, for me!" I make a final tug, freeing my hand from is.

Despite us being in the middle of the street and me yelling at him, he hasn't looked away once. "I'll figure it out. Don't worry about it. Just … stop. Relax."

"No!" I repeat. "Why are you, all of a sudden, buying things for me!?"

"I'm not buying things for you!" his voice is rising now. "Stop being so dramatic! You look like hell, I'm just trying to help!"

"I don't need your help! And you're one to talk, I don't know what kind of girl would meet you on the slag heap when you can count every one of your ribs under your scarred skin!" I find myself growing more vicious now.

"Well, not every girl does, but, you wouldn't know, would you?"

I drive my finger into his chest. "You know what? I don't need your charity. I did just fine before I met you."

I'm already storming off, driving each volt of anger into the ground with every step, a lightning storm moving across the prairie.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor," I catch Gale call out, just before I'm out of ear shot.

I wipe finger against my lips, and am only half shocked to see my skin covered by blood. The drought's left us all dry, whether it's our pockets, hearts or stomaches. I've done my best to keep Prim full, whatever it takes. She religiously milks Lady every day and with the herbs I taught her to identify, she can help herself along with the game I am (sometimes) able to bring home.

It'll be an empty night, tonight. My mother won't react when yet another night falls without a meal on the table. It was so hard to get her to eat anything after our father died, that now I wonder if she ever feels anything, anything at all.

I'll put something together for Prim. I'll give her the little bit of bread that's left, and whatever Lady produced for the day.

I quietly slip through our door, letting the hastily nailed together boards fall back against the doorframe. Prim instantly shoots up from the floor and runs towards me.

"Katniss! You're back!" she grins, wrapping me in a hug, pressing her face to my chest.

"Hey, little duck," I reply, returning the hug.

She grabs at my fingers and leads me towards the back door, which is more of a fortunately placed hole in the back of the house, covered by some more rotten boards. "Gale dropped off three squirrels!"

"What?" I crouch down towards the pile of game by our feet. "What? When?"

"Just before you got back," Prim answers. "He said he'll meet you in the woods tomorrow before the reapings tomorrow."

I furrow my brow and turn my head a little. "Alright, then. Go get some herbs from outside while I start to cook these."

Prim smiles at me, and it's one of the most brilliant smiles I've ever seen. I squeeze her hand, and collect the game in my other.

My mother picks at her meal, which I promptly take away from her and give to Prim instead. The hollow, haunting look that hangs behind my mother's eyes isn't enough to pull at my heartstrings. She's lifeless now, barely enough to call a human at all.

Prim is the healthiest of all of us. And well she should be. It's enough for me to look over my bleeding lips, pointy ribs or pale, splotchy skin when I see Prim's glowing face and shining blue eyes. She's still skinny, still stringy, but she's healthy.

Buttercup isn't doing so bad either. He's always been an easy keeper, which is a lucky thing when we've got barely enough food to feed us three. Plus, drowning him in a bucket looks nicer and nicer every day.

This night looks and feels especially dark, when I finally have time to rest and look out the window. Our shack of a home is only lit by one, half alive candle, which dwindles with each draft that slips in through the cracks of every board.

I can hear the crumple of the boards under bare feet. "What are you doing up, Prim? It's late."

Her eyes shine a different blue than usual, and her lip wobbles. "What—what—what if you get picked, Katniss?"

I pull my arms around her neck. "Oh, my little duck," I murmur, pressing my lips against her hair.

Her pale fingers grasp at the neck of my shirt. "What if you do? What if it's you this year?"

I pull her closer. "Don't think like that."

Prim looks back at me. The only thing I am sure that I love in this world. Her little, blonde eyelashes are soaked with silent tears, and her whole body trembles with each sniffle. "But, I can't not. It might be you, Katniss! It might be you!"

I never worry about my mother leaving the security of her bed, where she can pretend she never hears her two daughters crying together, where she can pretend she's still the mother she thinks she is. Prim's sobs are silent, but all the more gut wrenching.

When I don't answer her, Prim parts her lips to speak again. "How many times is your name in?"

"I don't know," I lie. I try to bring her heaving shoulders back into my frame, but she's strong enough to resist.

"No, Katniss. How many times is your name in?" she's almost accusing, but her sniffles separate each word.

"It doesn't matter," I answer softly. I trust myself, never to yell at Prim. I want so badly for her life to be … what mine was not. I want so badly for her to never hear yelling, or fighting, or see blood, or feel tears, or feel pain, or shame, or hate, or anger, sorrow, despair, grief . . .

"Tell me, Katniss, please," Prim begs again. Her lip is starting to wobble, and another round of sobs travels up her spine. "Tell me how many times your name is in there," she manages before her tears leave her speechless.

"Prim," I whisper again, but she's whimpering so pitifully now. I rock her back and forth, holding her tightly, winding my fingers in her curls. She's so sad, so worried, so confused, so scared, because of me. Because she loves me.

A stiff draft lets itself in under the door, and Prim snuggles into my shoulder. I press my eyes together tightly, before I carefully stand up and carry Prim to the bed. I leave her with my mother, knowing my thrashing will leave her even more upset.

Buttercup is the last to enter the tiny room. His yellow eyes are the only thing I can make out in the darkness, and he scratches at my bedpost before jumping up beside me. "Go away, you wretched thing," I hiss at him, pushing at him with my hand. "I'm allergic to you, anyways."

But, instead, the old tom curls at my feet, covering my toes. I roll my head back into my pillow, and clench my eyes shut. The only thing I'm sure about the next day is that Prim will be safe. For one more year. One more lousy year. But, it's one more year, nonetheless.