I stand in the town square, transfixed by the screen in front of me. Madge slips her hand into mine and squeezes, but neither of us look away from what's occurring in front of us on national TV, the finale of the Hunger Games where only one tribute survives.

Peeta Mellark, the boy who once gave me bread, who once saved my life...the boy who joked in math class and wrestled his brothers, is fighting for his life. Peeta...who took Madge to the harvest dance last year and (according to his brothers, who I've gotten to know over the past 3 weeks) "totally dropped the ball" on kissing her. Peeta is one death away from coming home. When his brothers told the harvest dance story for the cameras, Madge had shot back that she had a wonderful time anyway, and Peeta was a gentleman unlike Nick, the middle Mellark brother. Bannock, the eldest Mellark, had punched Nick in the arm, and they'd jokingly wrestled. The whole bit had made it on national TV when Peeta made the final 8.

That's what District 12 comes down to...boys to timid to kiss a girl at a dance, and brothers with nothing better to do than roll around on a sooty floor. This is why we never win.

Violet Cleveland, the female tribute this year, died the way most of our tributes die: in the first 3 minutes, at the cornucopia, mowed down by the district 4 girl's sword.

But Peeta had grabbed a bag and run. He'd survived for days and days despite the odds. And now it was down to the final 2. Twenty-two other teenagers have died, and now Peeta and Cato, the District 2 boy, stand on top of the cornucopia. Both had been disarmed in the mad dash to escape the mutts. Both are out of breath, soaked to the skin from the rain, and terrified.

"Why are they so unnerved?" mutters Madge, echoing what I had been wondering myself. Cato had probably been training for this for his entire life. Why is he so upset by the sight of these mutts?

It's Cato who makes the first move. From what I know of Peeta personally, and what I've learned in the past few weeks, he wouldn't voluntarily hurt a fly. Sure, he'd put the district 8 girl out of her misery, and he'd defended the little district 11 girl against the others, but I'm not surprised when he doesn't make the first move.

He's wrestled enough to know that it would put him at a disadvantage anyway.

I hear Nick yell from the front of the crowd "he's got this! If he can keep his center low, he always wins" as Peeta lowers himself and braces for Cato's impact. The two grapple for 5 minutes...7 minutes...deadlocked. Both are slipping on the wet metal, and both look terrified every time they glance down at the pack of mutts at the base. It's clear: whoever falls loses. Whoever stays, lives. The glint in Cato's eyes gets angrier. Peeta stays calm in spite of his likely broken ribs, sprained ankle and concussion. Cato is basically ignoring his dislocated shoulder, and his stomach wound, now partially healed by sponsored medicine, still restricts his range of motion.

Cato backs up, and a primal-sounding scream of rage escapes his throat. As he lunges back toward Peeta, the look in his eyes getting wilder, I see his mistake. Peeta stays low, and manages to take Cato out at the knees. Cato falls from the cornucopia.

I shut my eyes as he hits the ground, screaming with fear instead of rage. The sound of the mutts' attack is sickening. When the cannon booms, I re-open my eyes to see Peeta, still crouched atop the cornucopia, vomiting up what little food he's had in the past 12 hours. His eyes are red and he clutches his side as the trumpets sound and a hovercraft ladder drops down to get him.

"We won..." Madge almost whispers, still grasping my hand. "He did it...Katniss, he's coming home!" Her blue eyes fill with tears and she hugs me tightly, her blonde hair falling in my face. As we clutch each other, tears streaming down both our faces, I hear Peeta's brothers and father screaming the same things. People are banging pots and pans. The reporters (who I swear descend on district 12 in greater numbers every day) wave microphones and cameras in people's faces, and I realize that for the first time in 24 years, it's district 12's celebration on TV throughout the nation.

Prim pulls me away from Madge, taken aback for a moment by my tears. "Parcel day, Katniss...we'll have parcel day!" For 12 months, every resident of district 12 will receive extra fuel, grain and other treats. For a whole year, if I have a bad day hunting or trading, I won't have to worry about starving. For a year, many kids will get to skip their tresserae, confident that their families will be well fed without putting their name in the drawing extra times. I know many people are cheering right now because they genuinely care about Peeta's safety, but many are cheering for the extra food and fuel.

I look past Prim to see Cressida, the capitol interview coordinator (or some other such ridiculous title) directing her cameraman to film me, Madge and Prim. Bile rising in my throat, I whisper to Prim "go celebrate with mom so we can do our interviews." I've tried to keep her away from the cameras as much as possible during this process. I tried to keep myself away, but I didn't know how the Capitol media figured out who to interview once the field was narrowed to eight. It had been almost 15 years since anyone from 12 had gotten that far, so one remembered.

Apparently, one of the reasons they take the tributes to the Justice Building for goodbyes is so they can monitor who came to say goodbye, and grab those people first for interviews.

I'm taken back to reaping day in my mind.

All I had wanted was to thank Peeta. When Effie Trinket called his name my stomach dropped. I immediately thought of that day when we were 11...how hungry I had been...how weak...and how he had risked physical punishment to throw me those two burnt loaves of bread. I owed him. I couldn't save him, but I could thank him. So I went to the Justice Building, shaking with anxiety, intending only to stop for a moment, thank him, and slip back out. The whole time I waited, I had to keep giving myself a pep talk. This might be your last chance, Katniss. This is the least you can do. I didn't expect the sign in process, or to have to declare my relation to him ("friend" I had chosen, as none of the other options fit).

My mind flashes to the part I least expected.

He kissed me.

I had sat down for my allotted few minutes and stumbled over my words. "I just...I don't even know if you remember, but one day...we were eleven. My dad had died, and I was so hungry...you threw me bread...your mom yelled. You came to school with bruises the next day and...I'm sorry. I never said thank you...So thank you..."

As I trailed off, probably looking half crazy and confused, he had grabbed my hands and kissed me. I felt a jolt in my stomach, and I had run from the room, out of the justice building, and into the woods.

Since that day, I hadn't told a soul. But as the field narrowed to 8 tributes standing, I was pulled out of 3rd period English class by Cressida, a woman with a half shaved head and tattoo. She pulled me, Madge, Delly Cartwright, Peeta's middle brother, and 2 boys from the wrestling team into a spare classroom. We were some of the people who had visited Peeta, and we were in school, so we were the easiest to track down. A captive audience, so to speak. I had tried to argue, explain, but Cressida insisted on interviewing me anyway. None of it made it to TV. I was stiff, too quiet, and said nothing of substance. Just the thought of those interviews over the course of the last few days turns my stomach.

I watch as Madge gives a tearful but heartfelt interview, talking about Peeta's good heart. Cressida has given up on getting anything good from me at this point, but keeps asking me a few questions each time she finds me.

"Katniss, you just watched your friend win the Hunger Games. How did you feel during that last battle?"

"I felt..." My mind races with the feelings I've experienced in the past hour. Sadness. Fear. Anger. Pride. Joy. "I felt a million things. I'm just glad he's coming home." Immediately I tense. He'll see this. What will he think? That I liked the kiss? That I have feelings for him? What will my mom think? She has no idea I visited him at the justice building. What will the baker, Peeta's father (and one of my best customers) think? I quickly begin to correct my mistake. "I mean, I'm glad district 12 finally has another victor, and we'll get a parcel day..."

Of course, during the next day's mandatory viewing, it's only the first half of my interview they use, followed by a clip of Madge and I clinging to one another and crying.