I had forgotten about the cameras being present on the way to the train. I'm sure I looked positively ruthless with my eyes squinting into the setting sun. At least the car was only a short walk from the Justice Building and the windows were dark enough that no one could see much of the inside. A peacekeeper pushed me into the backseat where I found myself alone with the driver. He sat gazing forward and didn't even acknowledge the presence of his new passenger. I was just about to say a grumbled hello when the door to my right popped open and Haymich fell into the seat next to me. Slamming the door behind him, he spat out, "Let's get going."

I didn't see another car ahead or behind us, so I could only assume that Katniss was already on her way to the station. I would have asked Haymich, but he seemed occupied drinking from his flask and glaring out the window. I decided to do the same, without the aid of a beverage.

Five minutes later, I was lost deep in the memory of meeting a dark-haired, young huntress in the forbidden woods when Haymich decided to spark up a conversation by bellowing, "Stop shaking your damn knee, kid! It's making me car sick." I'm pretty sure my nervous bouncing was the least of the things causing his nausea. "What the hell are you so worked up about anyway? If you can't handle a ride in a car, you ain't gonna last five minutes in the Games, son."

"I'm not worried about the Games, Haymich." Well, I was, but that was not my immediate concern. To be honest, I was terrified of facing Katniss. I didn't know what to expect. I like to consider myself a fairly even-keeled person. Life in most of the districts of Panem is hell. We are no strangers to loss, hunger, and general awfulness. I managed to keep my emotions about the whole thing in check, not allowing the Capital to invade my very soul too often. Anger was my biggest weakness, and Katniss often found herself the sounding board to my rants. I had to get it out somewhere though, and the solitude of our woods seemed the safest place. She would listen and nod, instilling logic in me when I found myself in a vengeful mood. The cathartic release of rage was enough to get me through another several months of being the surrogate father of my broken family.

Katniss, on the other hand, rarely showed emotion of any kind. It took a lot of work to make her smile, and tears were extremely rare. Her typical disposition could best be described as silent brooding. I often wondered what she was like before I met her, before our dads were killed in that mining accident four years ago. Did she smile back then or laugh? What terrors drove a tiny Katniss to tears before she ever knew what real fear was? Now my Katniss was not a cold, heartless robot. She felt the weight of the world like anybody else. I could see it in her eyes, but she was very, very good at burying any signs of those feelings. She keeps them all underground with the corpses of dead miners.

I noticed over the past year, as Prim approached Reaping age, Katniss began to waiver in her ability to bottle up her feelings. The pressure was mounting and I prepared myself for the inevitable explosion. It hadn't come yet, but this Reaping may be its catalyst. How would I handle an emotional Katniss? Seeing her own fear and anger and loss spill out of her well maintained facade was going to shatter my heart into thousands of pieces. My palms were sweating at the very idea of it and I tried to dry them on my knees.

We arrived at the train station to little fanfare. The cameras had not followed us here. Haymich and I mounted the stairs and the door slid closed behind us. We must have been in the dining car. There was a table piled high with more food than I had ever seen assembled in one place. Haymich immediately took to hunting down a glass and some ice. Apparently his drink was better served cold. I only made it a few steps into the compartment before I was immobilized at the sight in front of me. Across the small car, with her back to me, was Katniss. Her hair had fallen down since the Reaping. It cascaded in dark waves past her shoulders, making her appear broader and stronger than she really was. I rarely saw her hair this way, usually only if I dropped by her house in the early morning or late evening. It was just such a time a couple years ago when I realized that my childhood friend was no longer the little girl I had stumbled upon in the woods. We had been out hunting earlier in the evening and I had gathered some herbs for Mrs. Everdeen's makeshift apothecary business. It wasn't until well after dinner that I realized I had forgotten to give them to Katniss. I walked over to her house to drop them off, hoping that I wasn't interrupting bedtime. Katniss answered the door wearing a once-white nightgown, her hair blowing slightly in the night breeze. I hadn't thought much of it then, but I could never get the image out of my head after that, and I began to have some more than friendly ideas about her.

Now she stood before me in the Reaping clothes that didn't suit her, biting on a fingernail, and taking in the view of the trees beyond the windows. She gave no indication that she heard us come in, and I wondered what occupied her thoughts. I stepped forward, crossing no more than half the distance between us. "Catnip," I said, the name getting caught in my throat and sounding like the croak of a small frog. She spun around to face me, dropping the hand from her mouth. Her eyes were wide like the deer we so often startled among the trees. Everyone in the room was holding their breath, including Haymich, who had decided that our exchange was worth his time to observe.

It was at that moment that Effie came sweeping into the car and the train began to move. "Oh good," she beamed. "You are all here. Now we can have proper introductions." Not a one of us took notice of her. Katniss tried to come towards me, but she didn't appear to have much control over her legs.

"Gale." And with my name as a choked sob, her face crumbled and the walls of her fortress came tumbling down. I caught her up in my arms as she tripped and buried my face in her hair while she wailed and clutched onto the front of my shirt.

"Introductions won't be necessary," Haymich grumbled to a dumbstruck Effie. "Don't you recognize the boy that pulled her little sister away when she volunteered? Clearly they are well acquainted." Was that a hint of sympathy I heard from the town drunk?

Katniss was shaking and sobbing in my arms, and I wanted nothing more than to get her away from everyone else in the world. I turned my head to Haymich and spat, "Where should she sleep?"

"Back that way," he replied, pointing to the next car over. I turned Katniss away from them and gently began to lead her in that direction.

"Your room is back this way," Effie shouted after us. I stuck with the status quo of ignoring her.

"Let it go, Effie," I heard Haymich say as he pushed past her and out of the dining car, cold drink in hand. Effie trailed him mumbling something about inappropriateness.

I eventually found the compartment with a hastily taped paper on it reading "Katniss Everdeen." I was shocked that they even bothered with her name. I lead her into a bedroom that was probably pretty mundane by Capital standards, but seemed like a palace to me. Just inside the door was a large bed with a carved and heavy wooden headboard. How did they even get such a thing on a train? Across the room was a matching dresser and what looked like a radio on top of it. An open doorway next to that revealed a separate room with a sink and I imagined the rest of a small bathroom.

I slid the door closed and locked it. Turning around, I saw Katniss standing at the edge of the bed, leaning onto it and feeling the softness of the mattress give way under the slight pressure. I slipped off my shoes and sat down next to her hand. She did the same and climbed up. Though her sobbing was less violent now, she wasn't done crying yet. I gathered her up and leaned us against the headboard. We sat there like that for the better part of the next hour, quietly letting our mutual despair fall from our eyes, dampening her hair and my shirt. Long stretches of silent companionship were not new to us. Holding her in my arms, however, most definitely was, and I never wanted to let go again.