Chapter 4: Stolen Kisses, Stolen Lives

"Ssssshhhhhh…sssssshhhhh…..Only a nightmare….. you were dreaming….. you were dreaming….. you were dreaming…."

"It was me!" my baby sister blubbers into my shirtfront. "It was me who got Reaped!"

"It's your first year, Prim. Your name's only in there once; they're not gonna pick you," I reassure her. I am more confident in this statement than I am in most other things in my life. Prim's name is one piece of paper among thousands in the Girls Reaping Ball. The chance that she is picked for the 74th Hunger Games is about as remote as the chance that the sun falls out of the sky. Wanting to communicate this all to her in some other, soothing way, I begin to sing the song I've lulled her to sleep with since she was a baby:

"Deep in the meadow, under the willow….."

"…..a bed of grass, a soft green pillow…" She meekly sings along, a tiny grin crossing her face for the first time as I tuck her back in bed. I smile down at her.

"You remember that song, right?"

She nods.

"OK, I gotta go."

"Go where?" she pleads so sweetly, it breaks my heart.

"I just gotta go."

"To see Peeta?"

I don't answer, but I probably don't need to. Prim can work it out for herself. She's the only other person in the whole District who knows how I am now connected to the baker's son. After catching Peeta and I kissing in the back alley of his bakery while she delivered medicine to the Baker, she promised she would never tell.

"I'll be back in time for the Reaping. I love you," I tell Prim, as I slip out of her room. I check my appearance one last time in the mirror: my brown hair in one braid down my back. The blue dress that was a relic from my mother's Merchant days. Satisfied, I sneak out the door.

The walk to the Mellark Bakery is not far, as it's just over the unofficial border separating the Merchant sector from the Seam. As I've done every day for the past couple of months, I steal into the alleyway just off of the gray loading dock. I am sure…. yes! I turn, and out of a dark corner comes Peeta. I slide into his arms.

I forget about Prim, the Reaping and everything else. Holding Peeta, kissing him, I feel complete again. Centered. Happy.

When we break the kiss at last, I gasp out, "Thank goodness we have this. I'm whole again."

Peeta's fingers brush the end of my braid. "I missed you, Katniss," even though he just saw me yesterday. In this exact same spot. But I've come to appreciate my boyfriend's style as a hopeless romantic. The fact that ours is a forbidden love only helps his case.

I shiver in the circle of his arms. "I had nightmares….. that you were Reaped. I've been living with unbearable dread." I cling to him, as if to assure myself that he is real.

Peeta chuckles. "I'm all right." His eyes search mine, matched with an effortless smile that puts me at ease.

My eyes soften, grow heavy, as they gaze into his blue ones. I can sense the heat enveloping me as he draws closer, then captures my lips with his own. I let out the tiniest of whimpers before drawing away.

"Wait," and I glance furtively about, afraid that someone might see us; that Peeta's family may rise and discover us. "Not here."

"No, here!" Peeta sighs, insistently kissing me again, and I indulge him. "I'm tired of this deception; I don't care if they know we're in love!"

"Peeta, don't say things like that," I chide. "You have your status here." I smile tenderly at him. "I love you more than anything, but I won't let you give up your life as a Merchant for me."

"I've given my life to my family's bakery," Peeta says slowly, and I can tell he means every word. "But I'll only give up my life for you."

"I wouldn't like that," I admit flirtatiously. "I wouldn't like that at all."

Peeta sighs happily and reaches for me, but I squirm away. "Patience, my handsome Merchant. Come to me later."

I am suddenly swept into his strong arms, my lips annihilated as he holds me close. I break from him, dizzy; I fear I may swoon. Mercifully, Peeta changes the subject.

"How's Primrose?"

"Asleep," I whisper. "Poor baby had a nightmare that she was Reaped."

"Make sure she wears something pretty," Peeta advises. "Though whatever it is, I doubt she will look as pretty as her sister!" I blush, smiling shyly at his compliment.

There's a sharp noise from somewhere in the house upstairs. "I better get back in before Mother finds me," Peeta hisses.

"Wait!" And when he turns back, I take his face in my hands and press my lips to his in the strongest kiss I can muster. "For luck!" Luck that he's not picked. That neither of us are. That we can continue to meet and kiss and make love like this until we run away and elope or are killed.

"You too," Peeta nods. "I love you!" And he scampers inside.


One would think that there would at least be an umbrella or tree or something useful for shade on a sweltering day like this.

But no, the whole of District 12 is made to stand in the Square in front of the Justice Building - open targets for the sun's blistering rays.

Every year, as punishment for a long ago uprising by the Districts against the Capitol, every District is forced to send one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18 to an annual event known as the Hunger Games. These 24 children train as tributes before being forced into a wild arena to fight to the death. The last tribute alive wins, and becomes a Victor who then mentors future tributes the next year when the whole sick process starts all over again.

Peeta and I have made it through four Reapings unscathed thus far. Though the feat is far more impressive for me. Taking out tesserae for my family means that my name goes into the Reaping Bowl extra times. The chances that my name is called are far greater than my little sister's - only in her first eligible year.

The Reaping itself is treated as a sort of ceremony; a holiday, in fact. Though only the Capitol sees it that way. Nothing about this process is festive, no matter who gets sent to their death.

As usual, Mayor Undersee begins by reciting a standard spiel, telling the story of the Dark Days and how the Hunger Games were born. I know the damn monologue by heart at this point, so I tune out and search the age groups of the boys for my lover. There he is, amongst the sixteen year olds, looking so handsome in a pressed white shirt. His eyes meet mine and he gives a tiny smile.

Bored? His lips form the word and I nod. He smiles gently. It's OK. Then: I love you. I turn away so he doesn't see me blush.

The Mayor moves on to reading the names of past District 12 Victors. In 73 years, we have had exactly two. Only one is still alive. We predictably bow our heads for the first, in a tradition that has been occurring since at least the time I was born: Duke Vedaldi, Victor of the 13th Hunger Games. I do not know much about him, beyond that a statue of him stands at the entrance to our school.

And then, there is our… living relic. Haymitch Abernathy - a paunchy, middle-aged man who became Victor of the 50th Hunger Games when he was just my age. As his name is read, Haymitch stands from the slouched position in his seat, shouting something unintelligible before he tries to give our Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, a hug. He's drunk. Very. It takes at least two Peacekeepers to wrestle him back into his seat like he's a tantruming child. The Mayor looks positively mortified, no doubt because this is currently being broadcast live to all of Panem. By the time he steps aside so Effie Trinket can take over the proceedings, he looks absolutely relieved.

"Happy Hunger Games!" Effie chirps in her usual Capitol accent. "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Effie's cheerfulness is welcomed, if for no other reason than it is relative, at least when measured against the Mayor's clear lack of enthusiasm. Our escort proceeds to select one slip of paper from the first Reaping Bowl. "Ladies first!"

I don't have time to wish that my name is not called, because it is not. It is only half-called. The other half belongs to -

"Primrose Everdeen!"

Time and space stand still. I am vaguely aware of my stupefied face meeting Peeta's to see that he is just as flabbergasted. Prim was one tiny slip of paper in thousands! Only when my eyes find Prim actually walking to take her place on the stage do I come out of my stupor.

"Prim!" My voice comes out in a strangled crackle, but my baby sister continues her shaky march to almost certain death. "Prim!" I am out of my place in line now, rushing down the center aisle. Two Peacekeepers cut me off, so I scream the only thing that might stop them, that might stop her:

"I volunteer! I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

That gets everyone's attention. Except for maybe Effie's, for her call of "Wonderful!" is all that breaks the otherwise uniform silence. To her, I might as well have said I want to grow up to be a ballerina.

All I can do is take the stage, employing all my willpower to ignore my little sister's screams as Gale Hawthorne leads her away. Effie ushers me to the microphone.

"What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen," I answer mutely. My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, as though I am underwater.

"Well, I bet my hat that was your sister!" Effie trills.

"Yes…. it was….." I breathe, still sounding incredibly behind in my thought processes. What have I just done?

"And now for the boys!"

I refrain from looking at Peeta, knowing if I see his reaction, it will break me. But even that is not my choice to make, for Effie suddenly calls out: "Peeta Mellark!"

Whatever world I live in now - a world in which my sister was almost sacrificed, in which I will be sacrificed in her stead thanks to my own volition, in which I will have to fight to the death against the man I love and whose hand I am now blindly shaking - it is a world that I want to disappear from forever.

Except now I can't.


The only people who come to visit me are my mother and sister. Prim is inconsolable. "Just try to win, if you can!" she weeps before pressing the mockingjay pin I once gave her into my hand. "To protect you." In return, I give her a kiss on the forehead, and Mother a lecture about how to take care of her surviving child once I am officially gone.

Oh, Gale Hawthorne also pays me a visit. I pretty much learned everything there is to know about hunting from him; we have even acted as partners occasionally, sharing game. All this he reminds me of and more, telling me to get a bow however I can. With all I have learned and all of my skills, I just might win.

"There's 24 of us, Gale, only one comes out," I tell him. I do not want to give him false hope. The last thing I get to say to him is to take care of my family and "whatever you do, don't let them starve!"

Peacekeepers then escort me to a car, in which Peeta and Effie now wait. Our escort blathers on and on happily about how much we'll love the Capitol, as if we are going on a vacation or something. I tune it all out, only focused on the young man beside me. Peeta's face is turned away from me, out the window, the entire ride to the train station. I can only just see that his face is slick with fallen tears that he ironically does not bother to hide from the rest of the District just outside, yet refuses to share with me, the love of his life. I cannot say I blame him, though. Where we are going, there is no room for such frivolities like comfort.


We are on the train and pulling out of my home forever before I can blink. I now find myself in a comfortable armchair, Peeta right beside me. We still have not looked at each other since just before the Reaping, which seems like half a lifetime ago. It's a little unnerving, actually, as in a situation such as ours, I was expecting something more. No kissing? No shared tears, and promises - however fruitless - that everything will be OK?

"Katniss? Honey?"

I turn just in time to feel Peeta's lips touch mine. My eyes droop closed and I return it before he draws away a moment later.

"I'm sorry."

I shake my head. "It's not your fault."

"But it is. I should be comforting you. But if you don't wanna talk, that's fine -"

"We should be comforting each other," I correct him. "And protecting each other. That's what you and I do. Keep each other alive."

Peeta gazes at me with an intensity I have never seen before. "I love you," he tells me fiercely. "The arena will never change that."

I'm about to throw my arms around him and kiss him till they drag us apart in the Capitol, but I don't have time. The door ahead of us suddenly hisses open.

And there he stands. Mr. Haymitch Abernathy. With a nearly full-to-the-brim drink already in his hand and sporting a ridiculous blonde toupee that must be fake, I find it hard to imagine how this guy once emerged victorious from the Second Quarter Quell. Our mentor regards us for a moment before giving a ghost of a smile. "Congratulations."

His salutation is given without a hint of irony. Either he's one of those Victors who thinks training kids for their doom is actually fun, or he's already wasted. I guess the latter and just hope I'm right.

Our district's resident drunk plops unceremoniously into the armchair across from my boyfriend. Ever the eager student, Peeta leans forward.

"So. What do you usually do first?"

Haymitch cocks his head, the brown liquor in his glass sloshing with the motion. "Do?"

"As our mentor."

"Mentor?" And Haymitch is still making that stupid face which indicates a dangerous vagueness. Or is it indifference? I can't quite tell. God, is he that drunk already?

By the look on Peeta's face, he doesn't seem impressed with how this very one-way conversation is going. "Yeah. Our mentor. You're supposed to get us sponsors and give us advice."

Haymitch considers this, pursing his lips in thought. "Hmm. Let me see. How should I put this? Oh! Here's some advice: embrace the probability of your imminent death…. and know. In your heart. That there is nothing I can do to save you."

While perhaps a realistic interpretation, his nonchalant resignation infuriates me. Evidently, Peeta is infuriated too, and done messing around.

"OK, I'm just gonna take that….", as he reaches for the booze.

His hand doesn't even touch the glass. With a liveliness I never expected, Haymitch plants his bare foot right into my lover's chest and slams him back into his armchair with such force, it wobbles.

"You made me spill my drink," Haymitch notes, his voice laced with a calm yet chilling anger. And with that, the older man rises and marches out of our train car.

The door has barely hissed shut before Peeta is out of his chair, recovered from Haymitch's shocking assault. "He's gonna come around."

"What? - It's no use!"

"I'm gonna go talk to him." And he follows Haymitch out the door, leaving me all alone.

I burrow into my armchair, arms folded, and scowl. Once Peeta puts his mind to something, he never gives up on it. In the year that we've known each other, this quality has had the ability to annoy me to no end. Perhaps it's because, truth be told, I'm a very stubborn person myself. Even when I know I'm beaten, Peeta never seems to. Now that we're headed into the arena, that mentality makes me fear for him.

Finally, when Peeta doesn't return to me after a good ten minutes, I rise with a huff and march to the door.

It turns out he and Haymitch are in the very next car. Eating together at the table. I observe Peeta talking, and what's more, Haymitch actually seems to be listening.

I gape. Peeta has always had a way with words, but I didn't think he could actually get the old drunk to show some investment in us. And why didn't he come to get me, if he managed to find some opening into this guy and how he operates? Already peeved and with the feeling growing, I stalk into the car and sit down at the head of the table, between them.

Peeta naively does not seem to notice my obvious annoyance.

"…. You'd freeze to death first," Haymitch is saying.

"No, cause I'd have a lot of fire."

"Well, that's a good way to killed."

"What's a good way to get killed?" I interject, seemingly alerting Haymitch to my presence for the first time.

"Oh, joy," Haymitch mutters with a sarcasm that indicates anything but joy. "So nice of you to join us. I was just giving some life-saving advice."

I lean forward, my expression neutral even though my interest is now piqued. I make a mental note to shower Peeta with praise for his remarkable feat - getting this loser off his ass - later. "Like what?"

"I was just asking about how to find shelter," Peeta offers up helpfully.

"…. which would come in handy if you were, in fact, still alive," Haymitch finishes while giving me a pointed look that I do not quite get. If he's blaming me for what happened back there…..

"How do you find shelter?" I move on.

"Pass the jam," Haymitch orders with a sigh, as if I really had just asked him how he would like to butter his toast.

"How do you find shelter?" If this clueless dick can run out the patience of my boyfriend, then he is well on his way to expiring mine.

"Give me a chance to wake up, sweetheart," Haymitch growls, as he produces a small flask from the bathrobe he is still somehow inexplicably wearing in the middle of the afternoon. "This mentoring is very…. taxing stuff."

If blandly pouring your liquor into a coffee cup is what Haymitch considers 'taxing,' then he obviously has never met me. Much less knows the meaning of the word.

"Can you pass the marmalade?" he asks, even though he's already reaching for it.

That does it. I seize the nearest knife I can get my hands on and impale it into the table, just missing Haymitch's thumb and forefinger. "That is mahogany!" Effie Trinket indignantly shrieks from somewhere behind us, but I ignore her. Honestly, I don't even know what mahogany is, and frankly, I don't give a damn. I do, however, give a damn about the gentleman who cannot seemed to be bothered to help my boyfriend and I save our own skins.

My sudden tour de force clearly catches Haymitch off guard, but he does not let his surprise show for long. "Look at you," he drolls, thoroughly unimpressed by my actions. "You just killed a…. placemat." He plucks the knife from the wood as though it is a twig.

"You really wanna know how to stay alive?" he queries rhetorically. "You get people to like you."

My silence seems to egg on his prodding, as he must feel he has somehow hit a nerve. Worse, I don't know if he's wrong. "Oh. Not what you were expecting. When you're in the middle of the Games, and you're starving, or freezing, some water, a knife or even some matches can mean the difference between life and death. And those things only come from sponsors. And to get sponsors…. you have to make people like you. And right now, sweetheart? You're not off to a real good start."

His diatribe against my personality ends in him stuffing his face with a roll.