.Katniss.

The silence is intense and suffocating. There's no eruption of accusation and gossip and vitriol from the rebels like last time. All eyes in the dining hall remain locked either on me or Mr. Mellark. There's a tension amongst the people sitting near him, as if they expect him to detonate any second. Everything suddenly seems heavy and lethargic and slow, and I become very aware of the ticking clock hanging on the wall at the far end of the hall. It's the only sound in the room, and it's deafening. For some reason I recall a memory from a night on the train, and in my head the sound of that deafening, echoing second hand morphs into the beat of Peeta's heart. It isn't until I begin to feel dizzy that I realize I've been holding my breath since the screens went black.

Mr. Mellark and I meet each other's eyes for a split second, and then he very slowly rises from his seat and calmly exits the room without a word. Still no one says anything after the door closes behind him. I can feel all eyes turned to me now, and my mother rises from her seat as well, hastily following after Mr. Mellark. I'm in the process of scooting my seat back and rising as well, but I freeze to my spot when I realize I have nowhere to go. Subjecting myself to a moment of hysteria hidden in a generator closet somewhere is not going to help me right now. Neither will slipping out of the fence and into the woods. What I need right now is information. A five-second glimpse of an immaculate, Capitol-polished Peeta could mean any number of things, but one thing is certain -

"You're alive."

I whisper it to myself just as I did the last time Peeta was in the hands of the Capitol and broadcast to the nation. Only this time, the initial relief that floods through me is instantly replaced with something else - panic, fear...anger. This is clearly different from the last time. He's not being propped up in front of an audience as Snow's puppet in an effort to manipulate me. This isn't a carefully orchestrated propo meant to taunt me. This was merely a casual glimpse of a couple of celebrities, content and carefree and glamorous and whole. Peeta is no longer an accused rebel being tortured in the Capitol to hurt me. He's not a pawn in Snow's game to control me. Peeta is now a celebrity, whose biggest problem is the obnoxious, blinding flash of cameras on his way back from the opera.

"Katniss," Gale says gently. There's that voice again. That familiar tone he uses when he's about to finish off a wounded animal.

"Is it possible he's one of them now?" I speculate quietly, more to myself than to anyone else.

Gale's silent for a long moment, and even though I refuse to look at him, I can still see his expression of bewildered concern as he stares at me. "I don't think that's what's happening, Katniss," he says tentatively. He stares distantly at the blank screen, as if silently working something out, then shakes his head and focuses his gaze on me again. "Do you remember what Finnick said? In his propo on the day we rescued Peeta? 'If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money. If you refuse, he kills someone you love.' Katniss, you saw the way he was dressed. The hair, the swagger, the carefully calculated smile. He's specifically engineered to seduce. ...And he's still trying to keep you alive."

I'm unsure whether I'm more shocked by Gale defending Peeta, again - just as he did that first time Peeta was broadcast across the nation and calling for a ceasefire - or by the realization that he's right...again. The nausea I've been so painstakingly trying to stifle since I woke up is threatening to overcome me, and I push my untouched tray of food away from me in frustration. I have to dry-swallow a few times to force down the bile that's risen in my throat as I recall Finnick's detailed account of strange sexual appetites in the Capitol, appetites he was obligated to satiate. I can't help but think about how many women - men, even - that Peeta's fucked and I begin to feel so dizzy that I think I might pass out.

"Who do you think that woman was?" I ask, my voice detached and dry. I feel like all the air has been knocked out of me, and though I don't know the hierarchy of the government, my mind frantically tries to think of what she does for the Capitol, who she is to President Snow. ...Which of her secrets Peeta might know.

"I don't think you need to worry about her."

All heads at my table turn to the next table over, where Dalton, the cattle guy from Ten, sits alone as he casually eats his breakfast. He doesn't look at us, and he seems to be the only person in the room who isn't obsessively fixated on me and my reaction, or even in the least bit surprised or outraged about what just happened on the screen. He seems to grow a little impatient at our blank stares, and he continues, "Let's just say if he's keeping company with the likes of Sterling St. Claire, the odds are maybe a little in our favor."

We continue to stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he merely shoots us a bland glance as he stuffs the last of his biscuit in his mouth, then grabs his empty tray and takes his leave.

"What the fuck does that mean?" I whisper. I urgently whip around to Gale. "Gale, what does that mean? Who is Sterling St. Claire?"

He's vacantly staring into his food tray, his brow creased as he shakes his head. Then he pushes up from the table and motions for me to follow. "Come on. I need to show you something."

I'm too stunned to object, and I'm so desperate to get away from the prying eyes in the dining hall that I follow him out without question. He leads me back to his compartment, where he reaches beneath the mattress and pulls out a glossy magazine like so many of the ones that lined storefronts on my visits to the Capitol. It's tattered and dog-eared, and the date on the cover is two years back, so I know it's been circulated quite a bit. The fact that a fashion magazine from the Capitol could even make it to the districts is impressive enough. There's no way anyone outside the Capitol could have the means for a subscription. But when Gale opens the magazine and hands it out to me, I let out a small gasp.

It's the red-haired woman I just saw Peeta with, laying on black silk sheets, her vibrant ruby hair splayed out around her, wearing a dazzling emerald-studded corset and black thigh-high stockings topped with lace. Her green eyes hold a flicker of mischief as she gazes provocatively out at me, and she's suggestively holding a riding crop between her teeth. I flip to another page and it's her again, wearing an elaborate silver gown and sitting straight-backed atop one of the massive black horses that pull the chariots in the opening ceremonies of the Games. Another page has her corseted again, in an olive-green number that's fashioned to look like a military uniform, wedge cap slightly offset atop her head and a cigarette holder held gracefully between black-gloved fingers. I keep flipping through, studying page after page of this surreal Capitol woman who seems to be all thighs and cleavage and white teeth behind parted red lips, and wondering what her association might be with President Snow. Did he reward Peeta to her as a gift for her loyalty, or did she merely buy him?

I flip the magazine shut and chuck it onto Gale's bed. "What's the point of this, Gale?" I ask. I suddenly feel very tired, and I sink down on the bed.

"She's a pin-up model and performer in the Capitol," he explains very slowly, coming to sit next to me. "She's in fetish magazines that get circulated all over the nation - even in the districts. The issues are old by the time they get there, but she was circulated in the Hob quite a bit. Darius and I used to trade goods for her calendars every year..." He trails off, casting an apprehensive, sideways glance at me, gauging my reaction. I'm not angry or jealous, just impatiently awaiting relevant information. He takes a deep breath and continues, "I mean...I don't get why Dalton would say what he did. She's just a model and a dancer. A very wealthy one, but just that."

Gale's still staring at me with such an apologetic expression that it's almost painful. He seems guilty for having admired this woman's pictures, expecting me to be upset about it. I really can't be. Boys will be boys. I'm actually a little grateful that he's at least chosen something tasteful instead of the vile girly mags most of the Peacekeepers would toss around at the Hob. At least the woman in this one isn't completely naked or grotesquely splayed out with everything in view. I think about how Peeta is traipsing around with her, probably fucking her - and I'm oddly at peace with it. I replay the scene that just aired on the television in my head, about the protective nature with which she shielded him from the rabid camera crews. A small, easily overlooked gesture - but one that makes me think she can be trusted. I gingerly reach out and open the cover of the magazine again, this time trying to look at her objectively. I'm surprised to see that she doesn't have any of the cosmetic alterations that most fashion icons in the Capitol tend to have. She's just fresh and clean, and somehow I don't feel threatened by her. Is there a smugness behind her eyes? Perhaps I'm just seeing what I want to see, but there's a cleverness behind her gaze that hints of secrets untold, that perhaps I'm not looking at just a model.

"Gale," I say evenly. "Do you think Dalton was suggesting something?"

"What, do you think he knows her?"

I shake my head, closing the magazine once again and handing it back to him. "I think he knows something."

I'm exhausted. The relief I feel in knowing that Peeta's still alive, relatively safe and in good health, inspires such an overwhelming flood of relaxed lethargy that I feel I might just faint. In this moment, I'm not pissed off or spiteful or vengeful. I'm just relieved. I pitch forward into Gale's chest and he tenses in surprise, but instinctively wraps his arms around me.

"Are you still mad at me?" he whispers, stroking my hair.

I don't answer. I merely rest my forehead against his heartbeat, trying to sort out what I do feel. Not that same twinge of suppressed longing I felt for him the day he said goodbye to me in the Justice Building when I volunteered for Prim. Not the sense of protectiveness and sympathy I felt when I kissed him as he was laid out on my kitchen table after being whipped in the square. Not even the dizzying surge of affection I felt for him when we were in District 2, and I was so starved for human affection that I yielded to his kisses despite how guilty I felt about Peeta's rehabilitation back in 13. But I feel a sense of peace for the first time in a while, and it's certainly an improvement from any other emotion I've recently felt toward Gale. Perhaps this is the first step toward me forgiving him.

"I've missed you, Katniss," he continues softly, his voice tense and uncertain by my silence.

"I guess I've just been surviving a little too well without you," I mutter, my mouth forming the words before I've even had the chance to think.

And there it is. After I'd been doing so well. I've come to rely on my contempt and my spite for protection for so long that it betrays me even when I'm not consciously applying it.

"Ah fuck," Gale breathes, stiffening against me but continuing to stroke my hair. His arms give me a light squeeze, and when I pull out of his embrace, his expression is one of humiliated apology. "I'd thought you were asleep - "

"Yeah, well, I wasn't," I say icily.

"It was a ridiculously poor choice of words. You know that's not what I meant."

"Then why did you say it like that? Why was that the first thing that came to your mind?" He gazes at me with such a pitiful, crestfallen expression that it softens whatever hostility is still lingering within me, but I don't let my face show it.

"We're never gonna be okay, are we?" he whispers. A deep crease is forming in the center of his brow, and for a second, his face mirrors the wounded expression I'd seen on Peeta too many times to count. And it feels like a stab in the heart, that I've inflicted this pain on the two people who care about me the most.

"Damn it, Gale, don't. I can't have you being like that. You're no good to me this way. I need you pissed off, like me. Otherwise, we're never gonna win this thing."

A flicker of hope crosses his pained expression, but it's gone in an instant. "Does this mean you're back in the game, then? Last I remember, you were giving up. What changed?"

I lean forward into his chest again, and this time he hesitates before bringing his arms back around me. There's that familiar scent of wood smoke, the heat of his lean muscles, the comforting tempo of his heart. I guess I've missed him a little. Being this close to him again reminds me of our old days hunting in the woods back at home, and though I've never felt truly safe since I was thrown into the arena, I can at least easily grasp the memory of what it felt like to feel marginally secure again. I feel myself quickly slipping into a light sleep, and I begin to let it take me under.

"You know we have to go back for him," I say, my words slurred with drowsiness.

He gives a small, sad sigh. "I know," he whispers, just before I drift off to sleep.

I dream of the afternoon Peeta and I spent on the roof of the Training Center, the day before we were thrown back into the arena. The scent of the garden and the melodic tinkle of the wind chimes are so vivid that it seems real, as is the chill that runs over my skin as Peeta toys with my hair, the soothing touch of his fingertips against my scalp relaxing me into sleep.

I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever.

He took me in the shower that night, and again after he'd carried me to bed, and again from behind with my palms and cheek pressed flat against the panoramic windows overlooking the skyline, not wanting to waste a single moment of the short time we had left together. I'd lain in his arms between bouts of frenzied lovemaking, my fingers tracing the line where his flesh fused with his prosthetic as he explained the details of its mechanics, told me how the top robotics engineer in District 3 had designed it to be water resistant and much stronger than a normal leg. At first it had horrified me, seemed too unnatural on a human body, but I quickly became intrigued by the intricacies of its design, which included phrases like 'advanced polymers' and 'shock-absorbing buffers.' And somehow it had gone from freakish and disturbing to impressive and sexy, an almost mystical wonder that a cybernetic device had replaced part of his body.

"Where does man end and machine begin?" I'd asked in detached fascination, pressing my fingers into the vein-like black lines that ran beneath his skin and into the lightweight metal of his leg. I'd wondered how far up the fiber optic strands went, where the hairlike cables gave way to actual nerves. He'd laughed and guided my hand all the way up to the seam where his thigh met his hip, and I gasped as he pressed my fingertips there, feeling a few small, hardened nodules beneath the flesh - cybernetic implants that served as waypoints between the cables and his nerve endings.

"That's an interesting way of putting it," he mused. "'Man or machine - a prelude to existential crisis.'"

Of course he'd faithfully maintained his wry sense of humor, even as we were faced with our imminent death.

So what should we do with our last few days?

I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you.

I memorized the way he felt inside me, the gratifying soreness of him stretching me apart, his hand in the small of my back and his heart pounding against me as he held me to his chest for every slow, deliberate thrust. Every detail of that night is played out perfectly in my dream - the glistening sheen of sweat on his bare skin, the flex of his shoulder muscles as he braced himself against the headboard, the heated passion in his eyes as he gazed at me in the dim light filtering through the window. I'd climaxed so many times already that on the fifth or sixth time around, I couldn't get there. I was so embarrassed and frustrated, so afraid that Peeta would take it personally, that when I felt the unfamiliar pleasure of his finger sliding into my bottom, sending me into immediate vibrations of release, I was too overwhelmed with ecstasy to be embarrassed by an act that might have otherwise horrified me.

I'm grateful that Gale is gone when I wake up and that he's mercifully pulled a blanket over me, because my hand has migrated down between my legs in my sleep and I seem to have been rubbing myself for some time. The wetness that has accumulated there threatens to soak clean through my pants. However complicated the relationship between Peeta and I may be, it's at least fortunate that he's so sexually adventurous. A morbid part of me thinks there's some hope for him, that this is probably saving his life in the Capitol right now. I consider finishing myself off, but the impoliteness of rubbing myself out to thoughts of Peeta in Gale's bed isn't lost on me, so I hastily leave the compartment.

I need to see Mr. Mellark, anyway.

I rush by my own compartment to change into a fresh pair of underwear and pants, and Johanna's laying on her bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling. I realize I haven't seen her in a couple of days, and when I shoot her a mildly quizzical look, she dryly mutters "Overdose" and I give a single nod. As if the track marks up the insides of her arms weren't a clear indication of that inevitably happening. At this rate, she'll be living in the hospital again, but she'd fare much better there than she would with me. I can't help her. I wouldn't even begin to know how. But I truly hope she doesn't die.

I hesitate for a moment at the door, suddenly at odds with leaving her alone. It's not a good idea, but I can't much take her with me everywhere I go. Then I hear a familiar, questioning warble from outside, and I throw the door open to see Buttercup pacing the space in front of my compartment. There are faint claw marks at the base of my mother's door across the hall, and I feel a lump rise in my throat as I realize he's still looking for Prim. I can't deal with this right now.

I snatch him up and deposit him on the bed next to a confused Johanna, whose mind is still too clouded by detox to really object or even make sense of the furry creature that's just imploringly climbed onto her stomach. I watch them for a moment through a haze of tears as her shaking hand tentatively reaches up to stroke his head, and she gives a small smile as he begins to knead her stomach with his paws. Stupid cat. I swallow hard and hastily leave. I don't have the time or energy to expend on emotions right now.

I enter the hospital wing and a medic glances up from his clipboard at me with a bored expression, gesturing toward a partition at the far end of the ward. I nod and let unsteady feet guide me to the curtain where two shadowed figures hunch toward each other, and I hear hushed voices as I approach. I slow my pace, not wanting to interrupt but realizing the only other alternative is eavesdropping.

"...wanted to go to you, to comfort you. You were in so much pain when he died," comes Mr. Mellark's subdued, gentle voice from behind the curtain. I'm so shocked at how calm he sounds, when I'd expected hysterics or catatonia, that the rudeness of my eavesdropping is completely forgotten. There's something else, too - something about the way he speaks to my mother that gives me pause, and I realize it's because there's a tenderness to his voice that Peeta always used with me, especially when he was confessing his feelings.

I've clearly walked in on something remarkably heavy, and private, but I can't bring myself to leave.

"I would have taken my sons and left her, for you," he continues. My breath catches in my throat. I really should not be here. "I never wanted you to be alone."

There's a stifled gasp that's hinged on what might have almost been a sob, and I see my mother's silhouette raise a hand to her face, possibly wiping at her eyes. "I wasn't in a very good place back then," she says, an undercurrent of guilt and shame in her voice. "I abandoned my own daughters. I wouldn't have been a healthy companion to you."

Mr. Mellark gives an ironic huff. "And my wife was?" I see my mother's shadow awkwardly look down, and there's a tense silence. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice taking on a chastised softness. "I just wish I could have let you know somehow that I would have been there for you. I wanted to comfort you when Katniss volunteered for the little one, too. We've both lost children. At least let me be here for you now, as you've been for me."

I watch their silhouettes fall into a warm embrace, accompanied by the muffled sound of suppressed weeping. Do their lips meet? It's hard to tell from the ambiguous shadow, but I don't want to think about that. I need to go. I can still slip away without being noticed. I begin to slowly back away, but my escape is thwarted when my back slams into the approaching medic who had previously directed me this way, and we awkwardly fumble with one another before he shoots me an annoyed glance and disappears behind the curtain with a sedative for Mr. Mellark. I immediately duck away out of sight as the curtain is swept aside, not wanting to give away that I might have heard any part of their conversation.

There's a short, muffled exchange between them, and then I hear the medic tell my mother that she's needed in triage at her convenience. The medic leaves and I tune out the rest of the departing exchange between my mother and Mr. Mellark, backing as far into the wall as possible when she hurries out, hastily wiping her eyes as she goes. I linger there for a long moment, awkwardly deliberating on slipping away now that I've got a clean escape, but I'm so preoccupied by what I just heard that I remain rooted to the spot. He would have left his wife. I've no love lost for the shrew, but he would have abandoned her entirely? ...And would have raised Prim and me. With his sons. I close my eyes against the thought of what that might have made Peeta and me to each other, and I'm a little grateful that propriety and instability kept that from happening.

"You can come in now, Katniss," says Mr. Mellark from behind the curtain. I'm startled by the calm, welcoming tone of his voice, and I wonder how long he's known I've been here.

I slip behind the partition and his expression is somewhere between apologetic and conciliatory when he looks up at me. I'm too embarrassed to meet his eyes, and I sink down into the chair in the corner and stare down at the floor, having no idea what to say to him. I want to ask him to expound on his relationship with my mother, how he would have dealt with the social fallout of divorcing his wife and taking in two Seam girls, how such a reliably kind man could abandon a wife - regardless of how cruel and terrible she was - with such ease, but the insensitivity of assaulting him with an interrogation at this particular moment isn't lost on me.

"How much do you remember?" I ask instead. I chance a glance up at him, and his eyes are rimmed in red, but otherwise he looks okay.

"Everything," he whispers.

I want to reassure him, tell him that as long as Peeta's still alive, something can be done, but I'm still preoccupied by the exchange I just heard between him and my mother. "You would have just left her? Just like that?" I ask impulsively. He doesn't look surprised by my question, so it confirms my suspicions that he knew I was hovering outside the whole time.

He fixes sober eyes on me, and I see a flare of heated anger behind them, and possibly insurmountable pain. "She killed my other two sons," he says, his voice low and even. "The day the fire bombs were dropped on Twelve, and that Seam boy you used to hunt with ran around to gather everyone for evacuation, she wouldn't go. She said he was just trying to gather rebels for a riot, that no rowdy Seam rat should ever be trusted. I knew there would be no convincing her, so I merely placated her and told my sons to sneak off with the crowd and meet me at the fence. I'd thought they were just behind me, in the throng of escapees from the Seam. When the bombs dropped and I was still alone, I pressed my apron to my face and ran through the flames and the smoke to go find them. My bakery was engulfed by the time I got there, and I could hear my sons screaming as they tried to claw their way out. She'd barricaded the doors and windows from the inside. ...I listened to my boys get burned alive."

I stare at him in horror, wanting to tell him to stop, that I don't want to hear any more, but I can't find my voice. I wonder if he's so calm and detached because of the sedative he was just given, or if it's because he's been so emotionally traumatized at this point that he's expended every bit of grief and distress he may have ever had. Whatever sympathy I may have previously felt for Mrs. Mellark is completely dissolved now. She killed her own children. For what? Spite? I'm silently grateful that Peeta wasn't there when that happened. I nearly lose myself to hysterical laughter as I realize he was safer in the hands of the Capitol than he would have been with his own mother.

"You know she used to beat Peeta," I whisper, unable to draw breath enough to really speak.

Mr. Mellark's jaw flexes as he clenches his teeth, and he gives a curt nod. "Yes. But I didn't find out until after he was reaped. I'd always thought that whatever bruises or contusions I saw on him were from wrestling matches, or times when he and his brothers got a little too rowdy. Peeta was always the type to suffer in silence, so I never even knew about all the broken bones he sustained. He hid it well. It wasn't until after I said goodbye to him in the Justice Building that my oldest son told me everything. I confronted my wife about it and she became hostile and blamed me. She'd seen it as a failure that I'd given her three sons instead of the girl she always wanted. After three attempts, I guess she just took it all out on Peeta. Of course all the contempt and hatred she had for him was completely gone once he became a victor. He saw right through her, though. It's why he moved into the Victor's Village alone. I couldn't leave the bakery, and I certainly wasn't going to expect him to invite her along. He deserved his freedom...short-lived though it was."

I make a shrill sound that's somewhere between a sob and a hiccup, and I clamp my hand tightly over my mouth for a moment as tears spring to my eyes. There's something so devastating about what Mr. Mellark just said, even though it's said in a monotone, that I feel myself on the verge of falling apart. I haven't felt this fragile since I watched the bombs take out Prim. And even then, I was so drained of emotion that I couldn't show it, no matter how hard I tried to make the tears and hysterics come. I think it bothers me so much because Mr. Mellark is almost a reflection of myself, a shell of a human being who hasn't enough tears to give to a world that has taken everything away from them. The hollow look in his eyes, the flat tone of voice, the deadpan delivery of events that should be too painful to recount - it's too familiar to me. Combined with having just seen Johanna and the imploring, nagging attention of Prim's cat who doesn't understand that his owner is never coming back, I feel I might shatter into a million pieces. I instinctively wrap my arms around my chest, as if I might literally hold myself together.

"So what did you do after the bombs dropped?" I choke out, wanting anything to distract me from losing the composure I've worked so hard to maintain.

"The district was going up quick," he says, his eyes glazing over as he returns to some haunting place in his memory, that deadened expression returning to his face. "I don't remember fleeing to the woods, or how long I stayed there. I was on autopilot for days, possibly. I couldn't find the other survivors. I'm not sure I even wanted to. I don't remember trying to look for them. I vaguely remember stumbling back into town, after the planes left and the fires began to die down, with the mines still vomiting clouds of black smoke and the smell of charred earth and death making it difficult to breathe. I returned to what was left of my bakery, and the embers from the melted ovens were still glowing. I found the ashen husks of my sons, clutching one another in a corner. I spread them to the wind, and when I found what was left of my wife, I just left her there. I took to the woods again and wandered for I don't know how long - the hovercraft from Thirteen had already come and evacuated the survivors, and I'd missed it. I don't think anyone even noticed I was still alive during the initial exodus to the Meadow. There were...rovers, though. In the wilds between the districts. Here and there, I encountered them. People who just didn't want to be under the Capitol's control, and wanted no affiliation with a district or the threat of reapings, so they survived on their own in the woods."

"So it is possible..." I gasp, my heart quickening at this new information.

"Don't," he says, shooting me a grave, warning glance. "I know what you're thinking. I'd think the same thing too, if I had your survival skills. But it's bigger than that now, Katniss. We all still need you. But yes, it is possible. These people helped me stay alive, pointed me in the direction of 13 in the hopes I'd find other survivors from my district. I was so dazed that I don't think I was really consciously functioning. Only idly motivated by this one vague objective lingering in the back of my mind that somehow miraculously brought me here. But you can't think about running. You understand that, don't you?"

I nod. I understand. If only I'd had this information a year ago. How many people are out there? How many citizens of Panem are unaccounted for? Children born who will never have to worry about their name going into a reaping ball, parents who will never have to worry about watching their kids get slaughtered in an arena. I can only imagine the punishment they risk at getting caught, though. Still, it seems the odds are a lot better for the people who live between the districts. It's an uplifting fantasy to entertain, at the very least.

"Katniss," Mr. Mellark says softly, and the abrupt change in his tone causes my eyes to dart to his face. "There's something else I wanted to talk to you about." He inhales sharply and then lets out a strained sigh, as if trying to find the best way to express what he's thinking. "Your mother and I..." He trails off when he sees my frantic expression, and I think he senses my embarrassment because he frowns a little and looks down. "I've loved her for a very long time," he says simply. "I can't help but think this is an opportunity to start over and indulge all the might-have-beens. Just know that I would never, ever endeavor to replace your father. I could never do that to you, since I respect you - and him - way too much for that."

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, unsure how to respond. I give a small shrug and fix him with a defeated expression. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I won't do anything without your blessing."

There's that dizzying moment again where I see a reflection of Peeta in Mr. Mellark's sincerity and politeness, and I have to immediately look away. That he even had the decency to ask me in the first place is admirable enough. "She deserves happiness. I think, right now, you might be the only person who can give her that."

He smiles. "Thank you."

I rise from my seat, feeling like there's so much more to say but unable to make my mind focus long enough to form a coherent sentence. I stop just as I'm about to duck through the curtain, turning my head over my shoulder. "Mr. Mellark? Know that I'm going to do everything in my power to get Peeta back."

I don't remember the elevator ride back to my wing, or the walk back to my compartment. All I know is that I can't get to the bottle stashed in my bottom drawer fast enough. The hollow queasiness of the morning's hangover still lingers in my stomach, but the need for the blissful oblivion brought on by inebriation is a more pressing matter. The aroma of the liquor as I uncork the bottle is enough to make my stomach lurch, but after I've gotten the first shot down, it goes a lot easier. The urge to vomit immediately subsides, and I feel a small bit of my appetite return. I collapse on my bed and numbly stare across the room at Johanna, who sleeps peacefully with Buttercup purring on her stomach. They're better off with each other for support than I ever would have been.

"I'm sorry I'm so fucked up," I whisper to them, and soon I've drained the last of the bottle Haymitch so graciously gave me and somehow I'm still not drunk enough for the morning's events.

My clouded mind keeps constructing vivid images of the things Mr. Mellark told me - too easily done, considering I was just in the ruins of Twelve not long ago. I remember the charred bodies, the partial bones that crunched underfoot, the sickening smear of soot as far as the eye could see. It's too easy to picture his sons, fragile ashen sculptures, frozen in their last moments of terror and agony, then disintegrating with the vibration of his approaching footstep, only to be devoured by the ensuing breeze. I can too easily conjure up the charred smell he described, imagine too clearly the unsettling images of the gaping voids of the mines, still glowing with fires that will likely burn for decades. Coal seam fires are impossible to extinguish. We learned all about it in school. It was a wonder the explosion that killed my father didn't devastate Twelve, considering how easily it would have been to reignite brush and vegetation on the surface, how the ground above could collapse into a sinkhole and forever cut off the entire country's supply of -

Twelve is devastated.

I don't remember actually laying down, but I shoot up into a sitting position so abruptly that I nearly hit my head on the shelf above my bed.

Twelve is devastated.

This was obvious before, when I visited my district a month after it was evacuated and destroyed, but I was too preoccupied with the guilt and the desperation of having caused the death of so many people that it never occurred to me what that might actually mean. What the significance of the loss of Panem's primary coal provider actually meant. Coal is an energy resource. It's the primary source of energy for the generation of electricity. It has been for centuries, even before the Dark Days, even back when Panem was still something called North America. I know this not only because we were lectured about it in school ad nauseam, but also because some of my neighbors in the Seam accompanied the deposits that were mined and shipped off on the train to District 5. They spoke of the amazing technology there that harnessed solar and hydroelectric power, but that they were still primarily dependent on coal, which is why workers in Twelve seemed to work the longest hours of anyone in any of the districts. As poor as Twelve was, and as overlooked and small as we were, we were likely the most crucial in the survival of the nation. Ironic that we so rarely had electricity ourselves.

And now Twelve is a wasteland.

I shoot up from my bed with such force that I startle Buttercup into fleeing under the small desk against the wall. I stagger a bit as the vertigo hits me, suddenly realizing that I'm much more inebriated than I'd initially thought, but I can't worry about that right now. I need to speak to Gale. I want to think he's already entertained this idea, but something tells me he hasn't. He's always been so focused on a rebellion that he hasn't realized that half the work is already done for us. I wish there was a more effective way of communicating with others in Thirteen, because I have no idea where to find him and I'm too frantic to even think about what time it is or remember what his typical schedule was. It's a fortunate accident that I slam right into him just outside Command, and he has to steady me with his hands wrapped around my shoulders so I don't go careening backward onto the floor.

"Gale," I pant. "I need to talk to you." I try to fix him with my sincerest expression, but it's difficult to focus my eyes so I squeeze them shut for a moment as I sway on the spot.

"Katniss...are you drunk?" he asks in mild disbelief.

I sigh, realizing how this must look. "Yes," I admit hastily. "But this is important. Just listen. Gale, Twelve is gone."

He stares at me in concerned silence, his fingers tightening their grip around my shoulders, and I see a flicker of pain cross his face before he looks away and sighs. "Fuck, Katniss. Come on, let's get you into bed."

He begins to steer me back down the hallway but I resist and shake him off. "No, Gale, you don't understand," I say impatiently. "Twelve is gone. There's no more coal. The mines will be condemned for decades."

Gale immediately ceases his efforts to commandeer me back to my compartment, and his arms go limp at his sides as understanding settles grimly onto his face. We stare at one another in silence for a long moment, and then he reaches up and gently guides me through the door of Command, where all heads - including Coin's - whip up to face me. I don't even look at them. I don't address them when I speak. I'm talking solely to Gale.

"I'm listening," he says steadily, easing me down into a chair as he takes a seat facing me.

"Remember Leevy's dad?" I say slowly, taking extra effort to enunciate my words so I'm coherent enough for him to understand. He nods. "He used to accompany the payloads to Five, and he would always come back and tell us that their solar and hydro power weren't producing enough output to match up to the demands of coal. That's why they kept extending your hours in the mines. So what are they going to do now? You'd think their reserves are probably dwindling now, with a complete halt in production."

"Katniss," he whispers, a hopeful glint flashing in his eyes. "'The Capitol's fragile because it depends on the districts for everything,'" he repeats, quoting what I said in my propo the night he rescued Peeta and the other victors.

I hastily snap my fingers as I recall something else, a vague memory from Thirteen lessons I rarely attended, but I've got everyone's attention now and I'm picking up steam, so I continue - "And that day in War Tactics, what was it they said? Something about how if you want to cripple a nation, a city, anything - you attack its infrastructure. Halt commerce, disable the ports, take out communications and - "

"Cut the power." We say it in unison, and his face slowly breaks into a grin. "Katniss, you're a fuckin' genius." He takes my face in his hands and I don't resist his kiss. I'm actually drunk enough that I kiss him back.

"So, what are you suggesting?" Coin asks.

I don't look at her. I keep my eyes locked on Gale's when I answer. "We go to Five. Destroy what's left of the coal reserves."

I see the vague motion of nodding out of the corner of my eye, and I hear Plutarch mumble under his breath, "Five has been compliant so far, it shouldn't be a problem."

There's a short silence, and then Coin rises from her seat and retrieves something from a locker behind her and holds it out to me. I tear my eyes away from Gale and stare blankly at the neatly folded uniform that she holds out to me, one that's a little more decorated than the one I used to wear in training. One that looks a lot like the one Boggs used to wear.

"Pardon the lack of ceremony or fanfare, but I figure this is as good of a time as any. You're one of the only soldiers left who still knows how to fight. Let's only hope you make it down to training more often, because you have plenty of soldiers who could use your instruction. Enjoy your new stripes, Commander Everdeen."