A knock never fails to drop her heart to her toes. This time, it's even from the formal front door, the one Sae doesn't use. Whoever it is, she knows that the person is here about the barber. Like the bakery, the barber had been another incident.

Even though she's about as welcoming as a wolf, Thom gives her an easy smile. Of all Gale's friends, he's the only one who's never been afraid to talk to her. It's probably why he'd drawn the short straw. That and his duty as mayor.

"You heard about the barber." Something so public, she's sure word got out.

"Yes," Thom confirms. "I did. But that's not why I'm here."

She widens the door. "Okay."

"I came to tell you that the demolition crews from the Capitol are about finished up with our other key areas. They're asking me where to start next." Demo crews, he says, and she thinks of the massive equipment that has captured Peeta's attention recently when they've gone to town. They've seen the machines at a distance, razing the former Hall of Justice like it was made of tissue. "I thought of you."

She doesn't follow. "Me?"

"Well, the Victor's Village. We could get the old houses cleared away, make way for some new ones."

Warmth spreads through her chest, into her face, a pleasant glow. For some reason, she imagined she'd be a little island out here forever, this abandoned wasteland. She's done Peeta a disservice, keeping him so sequestered from the renewed sense of community that's sprung up in town. He always preferred when there were more people around, him growing up with two brothers and in a bakery besides.

"I think that's a great idea," she says, and she really means it.

"Good." Thom beams. "They can start next week. It should take them only a few weeks. You should see the size of their drills." Once a miner, always a miner. "I'll warn you, though, it's a bit loud."

She's not sure how to interpret it, his look. "Okay."

"I mean," he adds, gentle now, "do you think it will be okay for Peeta?"

She hadn't even considered. Peeta had seemed pretty enraptured, watching the machines work at a distance. But there's something in Thom's voice, something he's not saying. Katniss feels a new type of warmth, almost hot.

"What do you mean?"

Thom shifts now, looking away. "I mean…do you think it might set him off?"

Her voice is steel. "Not sure if that's your concern."

"It's my concern," Thom says gently, "because it took three grown men to restrain him at the barber's. He got spooked by a pair of scissors."

Katniss's thoughts spiral swiftly into despair. She knew it. The demolition was just a flimsy excuse for Thom to come speak to her. As mayor, he has to be concerned with the town's safety.

"I called ahead. I told him what to expect." She'd asked him to bring a helper and everything. At first, it seemed like it was going to work just fine. The shopkeeper's son from next door played cars with Peeta while the barber did the back of his head, chair swiveled away from the mirror so Peeta couldn't see.

"I'm not worried about the things you expect. I'm worried about the things you don't expect."

"Don't be," she bites. "Peeta won't hurt anyone."

"Maybe not on purpose," Thom agrees. "Still, I'm worried about you. I'm worried about Granny Sae. And Hana. They spend a lot of time over here." He's the only one she knows who calls her Granny, a sign of respect.

"Peeta wouldn't hurt Hana. And he won't hurt me."

"Katniss, as your friend, I ask: how can you be sure? The Capitol did this to him. Who knows what he's capable of?"

"How do you know about that?" Her tone is ice.

Thom shifts on his feet and looks away, as though he's said more than he meant to. "It's in the papers."

Those blasted papers, which of course everyone in town reads. They're all the rage in Panem these days, the concept that you can tell the truth about what's going on in the town and beyond. Katniss can't even think, who would have told. Haymitch, most likely, in a drunken rant to a reporter. Or perhaps one of Snow's inner circle spilled the beans, in an attempt to make a deal.

Well, it's out. Nothing she can do about that now. So she just raises her chin to Thom. "Peeta will be fine. He'll be just fine. Thanks for the warning about the noise."

Thom just nods, sensing a closing door, and leaves with a promise to be back when the crews get here.

After he leaves, Katniss stands for a long time, her back to the door, feeling a rage grow within like a fire. She's angry, so very angry, an animal too big for its cage. But she finds that she's not angry at Thom, at the townspeople for being concerned, as they have every right to be. She's angry because they're right. Everyone is right—Thom, her Mother, Haymitch.

She's angry because it's time for Peeta's bath, time for their unending struggle, he never learns. Peeta is bigger than her, and stronger. The incident at the barber rattled her, more than she wants to admit. One minute Peeta's crashing cars with the shopkeeper's son and the next he's decking the poor guy in the jaw. No warning, just like when the doctor had first tried to put on a silver helmet.

She can only imagine what would have happened, if she'd tried to cut Peeta's hair herself, as she almost did. Before she remembered, thinking of scissors. It's only a matter of time until one of his elbows at bath time catches her in the stomach or the face. Only a matter of time before blood spurts or bruises bloom.

Not for the first time, Katniss considers that it might do him some good, to be in a facility with others like him. Like Hana. And so, she stands and stares, at the red phone that beckons from across the hall.

One call, that's all it would take.

She stands, alone, for a long time, a rowboat adrift in a vast ocean.

For now, she doesn't make the call. She also abandons the idea of a bath, not tonight. But she does go through the motions, their routine, making sure Peeta has his supper, brushes his teeth, tucks him in, leaves his glowworm on so he won't go berserk if he wakes up to darkness.

Then, after he's in bed, Katniss pulls out a bottle of white liquor she once filched from Haymitch and takes long draughts that burn and burn, hurt so good. She laughs until she cries, and then she stands for a long time, propped by Peeta's door frame, watching him sleep, until the ground starts to spin too much for her to stay upright.

Then she sinks down, into her bed and the cold oblivion of sleep.

Even in her dreams, she's alone.


A door in the hallway is ajar.

Katniss passes it, on her way downstairs to start preparing breakfast, before her bleary mind realizes why this is significant. It's not the door to Peeta's room. Or hers. Or the bathroom.

It's a different door.

One that has been closed the entire time they've been here. Katniss herself closed it, on the first night they arrived, after she realized what was inside. Now, the door is inexplicably cracked, as if the morning sun has forced it open with the tendrils of light crossing her path like lasers.

Trap, her brain screams. Has someone entered the house without her knowledge? The only things of value they own are behind that door. She goes very still, listening to the house. Listening for Peeta. But he's so very silent always, even more so in the mornings as he waits for the sun.

She moves on hunter's feet back down the hall, until she can peer into Peeta's room. From what she can see, it's empty. He's not in his bed or at his window. And she can't hear him downstairs. Sometimes, if he's hungry, he'll forage for something.

She relaxes, but only a little.

Something is different.

Quietly, oh so quietly, she slinks back to the open door, standing for a moment and listening intently with her good ear to the wood. It's quiet, too, but it's a charged type of quiet. With a breath, she pushes the door inward.

The room smells of dust and dreams. Motes fill the air, dancing in the sun. Of all the rooms in the house, this one gets the most sun, from expansive windows on two walls. That's why Peeta had spent so much time in this room, back after their first Games.

The sun blinds her for a moment, and all she sees are shapes, draped in white cloth. As her eyes adjust, she sees that one of the shapes is taller than the others.

It's Peeta.

He's wrapped, as always, in his bedding. She can just see the crown of his head, tinged golden in the light. This morning, he's not at his window. He's here instead, standing before a square draped with white cloth. The room is a graveyard.

But he's here now for the first time, unearthing the tombs, bringing life back to this place. As she watches, he extends a hand and pulls the white cloth down, exposing an easel and an expanse of blank canvas.

Yes, she thinks wildly, and she doesn't know why she didn't think of this sooner. Let him paint. Let him heal. It had worked for him before, as he processed their first time in the arena.

He lets his own sheet fall now, exposing the broad expanse of his back, naked except for a pair of black shorts.

She should look away, leave him to his privacy and this moment, but she can't. Him standing there with his back to her like that, haloed by the sun, she can almost see him. He's here, he's back, and he's exactly where he should be. Any second now, he'll reach over and pick up the brush and start with sure, clean strokes that will coalesce into something, anything.

This is the reason why she took him back from the Capitol, why she was so convinced he could heal here, with her.

He reaches out, fumbles with the brush that he left for himself, neatly, in the tray below the canvas. Pristine bristles, pristine canvas, right there waiting for him to reach out

But he has no paints.

She watches him realize this, cocking his head, and then she's scrambling to help, pushing past him—he's implacable as ever—to do what's she's best at. Hunt. Tear down. Destroy.

She yanks sheets violently from their resting places, unearthing a stack of canvas, a bookcase, a desk. She's a whirlwind of dust and sheets. She doesn't even think what effect this flurry could be having on Peeta. When she looks over, he's watching her, silent, but with the most interest he's shown her in a long time.

Finally, she unearths a small cabinet against the far wall.

She kneels before it reverently, and it's like opening a treasure chest.

There everything is, stacked neatly and perfect, brushes and tubes and chalk lined up, paints carefully preserved behind clear plastic. She sees an explosion of greens and yellows and blues and five shades of orange for a sunrise. In all of it, in the glorious sum of the whole, she sees Peeta. Even this, simple storage for his supplies, he's made beautiful.

She freezes when a soft hand settles on her shoulder. She hadn't even heard him approach, on his bare foot. She doesn't want to move, doesn't want him to ever stop touching her, the first time he's voluntarily touched her in too long His hand is firm, and it takes her a moment to realize that it's too firm, that he's not necessarily touching her so much as pushing her away.

She shifts aside, giving him access. Like her, he crouches and stares. But unlike her, he seems confused. As though he can't see himself anywhere. But finally, he reaches into a shelf and pulls out a simple palette of primary colors. Building blocks for so many more.

The paint is cracked around the edges. Like him.

Water. He'll need water.

She escapes to the bathroom. Her face in the mirror is flushed, hair insane from sleep, eyes shining with a mania. Something is happening, here and now. Something important.

She returns with a tumbler, and he's already standing back in front of the easel, paintbrush between his teeth as he fumbles with the wrapper on the paint.

She's seen him do this so many times.

Her heart beats, and it's saying, him, him, him.

It's really him.

Peeta, it's really you.

She retreats to a corner of the room, out of the sun, and she watches. She thinks of the many afternoons she spent watching Peeta paint. In their book, on an easel, on a cake. He was always creating something.

But this time will be different.

She's watching him do so much more.

As she watches, Peeta plucks the brush from between his lips, dips it first in the water, then smears it in the circle of paint. Blue, like his eyes.

The brush remains poised in the air a moment, a bird about to take flight.

And then, the little bird meets the sky.