Chapter Four

Katniss

After Haymitch leaves I consider doing as he says and going to look for my bow. It's been a long time since I've made a decision like this, and several hours slip by before I lever myself out of the rocking chair and tiptoe down the corridor. I go to stand in the middle of the study. Moonlight pools in through the bay windows, bathing the furniture in a muted glow. Through the front window, directly across the square, I can see Haymitch's house. The front rooms are dark but towards the back, where his sitting room is, there's a warm orange glow. It must be the middle of the night, but he's still up.

I wonder if he always does this. Attempts to keep away the night by staying awake and drinking, his knife no doubt close at hand. The thought makes me sad. Then I shake myself; if he was here he'd tell me to mind my own business and get some sleep.

Remembering why I came in here I go to the desk. My bow and a sheath of arrows lie on the mahogany surface. My breath tightening, I reach out and trace the silken curve of the bow, the feathered fletching of the arrows. Maybe I will go out tomorrow after all. To myself, at least, I can admit that part of me longs to slip back into the old Katniss and walk through the woods on a bright spring morning.

Next to my bow there's a box containing my most precious possessions. I haven't thought about them since I was in the Capitol, but now I touch each of them one by one. There's my parents' wedding photo, Peeta's locket, Haymitch's spile, and my mother's plant book. As my fingers feel each item memories start rising in me. At first I'm terrified. This is why I've avoided leaving the kitchen for so long. I long to turn tail and run, but something keeps me anchored where I am. I can't think about Prim yet – those memories are still locked up tightly. Instead I think of Peeta telling me his favourite colour; Haymitch sipping broth with me in his living room the evening after the Quarter Quell reaping; my father teaching me mountain airs and ballads. Gradually I let go of my fear; these memories are tender; sometimes painfully so, but not frightening. I hold each memory for a precious moment, then allow them to sink back into my unconscious, but just below the surface, not buried deep like they were before. I'm starting to realise that there are some things about my life that I still want to remember, even if they can be bittersweet.

I look out the window; Haymitch's lights are still on. The thought of him sitting there, keeping watch through the night, is comforting. I go to the window-seat and lie down, falling asleep in the space of seconds.

Haymitch

Usually he sleeps in until mid-afternoon, exhausted from his night's vigil, but this morning he wakes a couple of hours after dawn. His head is pulsing with a minor hangover, and the inside of his mouth tastes sticky and metallic. He lies still for a while, then gets up to pour himself a glass of water.

As he reaches the hallway there's a knock at the front door. He opens it, and is assaulted by such bright light that his head feels like it's splitting in two. He has to blink several times before he can see.

Greasy Sae looks up at him dispassionately. 'She left a few minutes ago with her bow. Thought you should know.'

'Oh. Thanks,' he rasps, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Behind his habitual nonchalance, he is more pleased than he can remember being in a long time. He pictures Katniss stalking out of the square, her bow slung on her back, settling against her father's old hunting jacket, her characteristic braid curving around her neck; these are the things which make her Katniss.

Sae nods once. 'See you at supper.' She turns and trudges towards the gates, her steps slow but purposeful. When she's halfway across the square a small figure bursts out from behind a house and runs to join her; her granddaughter.

He watches them with a faint smile, then shuts the door. Fetching a glass of water, he goes back to the sitting room and settles into his armchair. Within a few minutes he's fallen into a doze, from which he doesn't wake for several hours.

When he does it's still bright outside, but something doesn't feel quite right. He goes to his kitchen and stares across at Katniss's house. The windows are blank, revealing nothing. It's unlikely she's back yet. He retraces his steps to his armchair and sits distractedly. Normally it would be almost too easy for him to while away the hours until sunset with a drink or two, but now he can't even manage a sip of the bottle he opens.

He considers turning on the television but he's not in the mood for one of Plutarch's litanies of optimism. After a few minutes he gives in and flicks the remote. Sure enough, Plutarch's face is the first to appear.

Before he's managed to tune into Plutarch's speech, the phone rings, making him jump. He hesitates, then snatches it up.

'Yes?' he grunts.

'Haymitch! Aren't you pleased to hear from me?'

Her chirpy optimism back in full force, the speaker is undeniably Effie. 'Thought you were Plutarch,' Haymitch mutters.

'And would that be so bad? Never mind. I don't want to know.' For the next twenty minutes she chatters on about the latest big projects in the Capitol; her new job as an executive in telecommunications. Because he likes her he listens with as much sympathy and patience as he can, but it's a relief when she finally sings out her goodbyes, excusing herself for a meeting of the utmost importance.

When he puts down the phone he's reminded more than ever of how much his life has changed. No more reapings, no more trips to the Capitol to mentor doomed tributes, no more watching, out of his mind with drink, as two more children in his care are slaughtered on-camera.

More than that, he's struck by how much he wants to stay in 12. When did this godforsaken district start to feel like a place he would choose to stay in, not merely out of habit but of his own free will?

Pensive, he takes a sip of liquor. He looks outside and sees the sun dipping close to the treeline. His unease tightens. The woods are a long walk away, and Katniss hasn't walked further than the length of her hallway in months. The snow might finally have melted, but the days are still chilled – and short. In less than an hour the sun will have set.

For a horrible moment he imagines her collapsing in the woods, unable to move as the darkness sets in. He hasn't been in the woods in years; how will he find her?

His fingers tighten around the bottle painfully. He should have gone with her.

Then another thought comes to him, and he shoves the bottle away. Before the rebellion, he'd sometimes see Katniss walking through the town and then the Meadow on her way to the woods. What if she takes that path today? He remembers what Sae said; about the bodies being piled on carts; the mass grave. Katniss shouldn't have to see those things. She's not ready; how could she ever be ready? Suddenly sending her out hunting seems like the worst thing he could have done.

With a jolt of nausea, he heaves himself upright and goes to pull on his boots. As he straightens up he glances out the window.

Over the ruins of the bombed house next door, he sees a figure pushing a wheelbarrow through the wrought iron gates past the fountain. It's one of the young men who survived the bombing of 12. He's wheeling Katniss. Even from here she looks spent and exhausted.

Haymitch goes outside, trudges across the damp ground to meet them. There's a loosening in his chest; like a great weight floating free. He stops when he reaches them, looks down at Katniss critically. Despite her fatigue she lifts her chin and looks right back at him, with a hint of defiance. He has to bite back a smile. She's clawed her way back against all the odds.

He turns to the young man. 'Thom, isn't it?'

Thom gives him a quick nod. He's too young to have developed miner's lung, the condition which drove half the District 12 men to an early grave. Too young to clearly remember all the children Haymitch was unable to save.

'She was almost fainting when I found her,' Thom says, glancing down at Katniss with a sad, perplexed look. 'This was the best way I could think of to get her home.'

Haymitch thanks him, then takes the barrow and wheels Katniss up to her front steps. He leans down for her to sling her arm around his shoulders. Then he levers her upright and helps her inside. She's so thin, he could have carried her without much difficulty, but he knows she prefers to walk.

In the hallway she shrugs his arm away and stumbles into the sitting room, tenderly placing her bow and quiver on the table, removing her father's hunting jacket and laying it over the back of a chair. Then she goes straight to the kitchen, slumping into the rocking chair. He throws a blanket over her and goes to start a fire. Glancing up at her, he's startled when he notices her faint smile. 'No lecture?' she asks.

He laughs; the sound rough. He feels like he hasn't laughed in months. 'Oh I think we're past lectures, sweetheart. When did you ever listen to me, anyway?'

She smiles back at him for a few moments and his eyes linger on the soft pink curve of her lips. He finds himself noticing how snugly her braid lies against her neck; he feels the strangest compulsion to reach out and stroke the tightly plaited hair with the tip of his finger.

The compulsion vanishes as Katniss's expression turns inward and he curses silently; what memories are his words triggering? But to his relief she doesn't seem upset, only thoughtful. They don't talk when Greasy Sae stomps in and starts banging pots about.