I wake up from my nightmare-riddled sleep, a weight on my legs the only thing restricting me from moving around. Rubbing my eyes, I seek Peeta's warmth, yet only to find Buttercup at the edge of my feet. I wonder how he's still asleep by the way I thrash around at night. I try to pick him up, but notice he's in pain and let out a sigh as he looks at me with such sad yellow eyes. They're so dull and bloodshot, nothing like when they were full of sorrow and alarm years back as we both grieved for Prim. We both still are grieving, I guess. If I try to move him, he growls, or just lets out a round of painful kitten meows.
Carefully, I slip out of bed and am greeted by Peeta in the kitchen with a hug and a cup of something warm. I grin and accept it, hugging him back. "How's Buttercup?" he asks. I reply with a sigh and slump myself down onto a chair. "Still no better, I take it. Maybe we should take him to that place your mother talked about, in the letter?" I recall the letter from my mother, in which I told her about the condition of the little cat. She subscribed all sorts all home remedies you could get from the meadow – I don't think either of us wanted to lose our last connection to Prim, no matter what or who it was - but they had little effect. I'd need some extra-special stuff that no flower or seed off the side of the fence could ever heal.
"Dear Katniss,
I'm not surprised the medicines aren't working; the way you describe Buttercup's activity sounds like something incredibly painful for him, and I don't think there's many ways to help him back at 12. I do, however, know a brilliant section of the hospital here at 4. It heals all sorts of animals. If you do decide to come, let me know so I can come up with someplace for you to stay. I'm sorry this letter isn't longer – the hospital's incredibly busy lately and the weather's taking a turn for the worse.
Hopefully seeing you soon,
Mother."
"How?" I ask. "Buttercup won't move or eat, Haymitch'll just get drunk while we're gone, and then there's the baby to think about..." I mutter. Yes, it's true. I'm heavily pregnant. It took ages for me (at least nine, ten years) and Peeta to agree. By that time, Buttercup stayed with us, through thick and thin. He's so remarkably old for his condition as a half-feral cat, at least 16 in human years.
"We can ask Greasy Sae to keep an eye on Haymitch, we can get a pet carrier or something for Buttercup, and... well, you've got me to look after the baby." Peeta suggests. I shrug my shoulders, relent, and almost immediately begin to pack for our trip to 4. Sure enough, after we announce the news, Greasy Sae volunteers to look after Haymitch and the houses while we're gone, I go to the markets to buy a pet carrier (or something along the lines) for Buttercup, and Peeta hands me all sorts of books on childcare. I think it's the only time I've truly been busy in a long time. But of course, I welcome it.