Edit: Apologies! I was fixing a typo in this chapter and accidentally submitted it as a new chapter, instead of replacing it. Sorry for the confusion if you received an alert!
AN: You know, when it comes to Katniss, I am Team Peeta all the way. But that doesn't mean that for every one of Peeta's triumphs, that my heart doesn't break a little for Gale. Which is probably why I write him. The boy deserves a happy ending. However, for this chapter I'd like to cite Major Frank Burns of M.A.S.H. when he said, "I want foxholes there, there, there and there -- each one smartly dug. The kind of hole a man can throw himself into with pride." Let the digging commence.
Thanks to Ceylon205 for beta-ing. I've decided to put any remaining mistakes up for auction. Any takers?
Chapter 7
Madge's POV
The way the embers flicker looks like rich, orange liquid. I wonder how something solid can do that. They seem more likely to spread into a puddle than to crumble to ash. My eyes are dry from watching them. Is he asleep yet? I wish he would stop watching me and fall asleep, so I can decide if I'm going to go with them – wherever that is – or not.
What kind of a decision is that? What would I possibly do on my own?
My memories flip back on themselves: running from Liquor; seeing Gale in the meadow; recognizing him, Hazelle's words to me by the creek. She means to take care of me. For my mother's sake, she said. Because my mom helped her son.
I feel my lips tremble.
Gale saves me from Piggy. I owe Gale.
I bring Gale morphling. Even.
The morphling belonged to my mother. Hazelle owes my mom, she's decided.
Hazelle sends Gale to drag me out of Twelve alive. Even.
I end up in a meadow, starved and exhausted, after fleeing for my life from my attacker.
Gale shows up. Somehow. Out of the vast wilderness, we pick the same coordinates. Impossible. Serendipitous. Whatever.
Everything tangles together in this complex game of obligation.
Everything's a game.
…
Gale's POV
In the night I dreamed of Katniss. Not the usual dreams where I'm the one holding her instead of him. The ones where she kisses me back. Where it's only us in the woods back home, and I can see her like she always is. Grubby hunting clothes, a long braid down her back. That rare smile. Beautiful. Spunky. Cut throat. No, in this dream she had blotchy, green skin that flaked and scabbed. It's the rash from the nerve gas. The bumps all over her body, scabbing off beneath the green medicine. Flashes of how she helped Peeta rub the scabs off with sand…. My mind rehashing it over and over again. Every time they touched, acting or not, it tore at me. He held her in ways she would never let me, never in the ways that I've imagined and desired for the last couple years
Even in my dreams I can feel the longing and the betrayal. And anger – red hot and blinding. My flashes of rage against the Capitol do not compare. And I wish with all my heart that the District 4 tribute had left Mellark alone the first day of the Quell. Let him die. So I wouldn't have to watch their last goodbye, the goodbye that I never got, as it cinched any hope of her choosing me.
But for the thousandth time, I ask myself what's the sense in feeling betrayed when the one who cut you isn't even alive anymore. What's the point in feeling hurt by a girl who didn't mean it, who doesn't know herself well enough to realize the truth about what she wants. Who it might affect. So stupid.
I love her. But I need to put that love away. Tear it out. Forget it. Need to keep moving forward the way I did when my dad died. It's not a matter of letting her go anymore. I need to let myself go.
When I wake up fully, it's to a clear dawn. Bristel brushes his teeth with the frayed end of a twig. Neither of us sleeps very late anymore, but the others like to wait until after the sun comes up. The Everdeens sleep cheek to cheek. Mom is sandwiched between Posy and Vick, while Rory sleeps behind a log, with his arms over his face. His mouth hangs open. Mouth breather.
A little distance from everyone else, Madge sleeps curled up in a ball under the cover of a gnarled witch hazel tree. The angry, red rash from the poison itch stands out against her ivory skin. Hell's teeth. That must've triggered the dream about Katniss.
How did Madge become our responsibility, anyway? I wonder uncharitably.
I expel an exasperated breath and roll over onto my side, facing away from her. One more person doesn't make a difference out here, so I don't know what my problem is. Out of Katniss's other friends, Madge always managed to get under my skin. Not in the way Haymitch Abernathy or Peeta Mellark did. They are obvious irritants. Madge bugs me, but I'm not sure why. Maybe it's how quiet she is? Katniss and I aren't verbose, but like I've thought before – not talking for us is simply not talking. But Madge keeps secrets. It irks me, the way her face closes off, but there's something going on behind those cool, blue eyes. But she won't just come out and say what she's thinking. And it's infuriating that I to want to know, when I shouldn't.
I mean, I don't. Let's just get that straight.
"When you've finished daydreaming, how about fixing some breakfast, handsome?" I hear a voice from behind me.
"Make your own damn breakfast, Bristel," I growl, turning on my back again.
"Please, you're overpowering me with your sunny disposition," he drawls.
"Shut up."
"Fine, I'll make breakfast. Where's my blowtorch?"
I sit up with a groan, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes with my palms. "If only I didn't think you were serious."
"Works great for making those little char lines when you don't have a griddle." Bristel replies, grinning through his beard.
"You're the only miner I know who 'grills' his dog and potato pasty."
"Ovens are tricky," he shrugs self-deprecatingly. "At least I got training with a torch."
"Your mother failed you."
The quiet banter continues in this manner while I rummage through the pack containing the rest of our fruit and dried meat from home. Now that we can get the fresh stuff, we might as well use up the jerky. With a little warming it tastes like bacon. Sort of.
"I could go for some eggs," Bristel muses.
I wave a hand at the trees while resurrecting yesterday's fire. "Go for it. Nests everywhere."
Bristel harrumphs and takes the water bucket down to the creek. By now everyone is starting to stir. I dig my boot into Rory's side to subtly let him know that his assistance would be appreciated.
"Gerroff," he says into his sleeve.
"Up, lazy britches." In truth, Rory isn't lazy. He really stepped up while I couldn't work, and I appreciate that. Still, rising early isn't his thing. A trait we'll never share. He rolls onto his other side, away from my boot. "Posy, get him."
The little girl launches herself at Rory, planting wet, giggly kisses on his face while he flails around. "Ugh. Gross!"
"Wake up, Rory!" she cries, giggling. Vick sits up and only takes the time to brush his hair out of his face before he joins the assault, holding Rory down while they tickle him.
Bristel returns with water. He stops to take in the scene. "Still hasn't learned?"
"Nope."
Somehow Rory manages to sit up despite the two bodies trying to pin him down. He has Vick in a chokehold, but Posy clings to his neck. "Posy," he gasps. "Go get the new girl."
"Rory," I start to warn, but Posy scampers toward the hazel tree where Madge…isn't anymore.
When did she…how did I not notice?
"Oh, Ma-adge!" Posy chants.
"Hush, Posy. She'll come back soon." Probably just wanted some privacy.
And she does, face clean, but still red. She's bleeding a little bit on her chin, probably from scratching. Rory's shirt clings where she dried her face. It's unbuttoned, except for one or two below her chest. She's put her undershirt back on. And in her hands – the shredded remains of her pajama pants. Were they really that bad yesterday?
Madge stops when she notices everyone watching her. "Um…good morning."
"Madge!" Posy runs up to her and snatches her hand. "Sit with me."
She follows my sister without a word, and they settle in next to Prim.
The mothers and Prim start asking her questions about how she's feeling physically, careful to steer around anything too personal. I ignore them.
Rory passes around tins and mugs, while I brew a pot of "coffee." Since nobody can afford true coffee beans we rely on the roasted roots of a wayside herb called chicory. I don't know how it holds up, but since Mrs. Everdeen is the only one who's ever had the real thing, I guess it doesn't matter. Tastes fine to me.
Once it's steeped, I pour everyone a mug. Even Posy, although she tends to bully Vick into finishing it for her. Then we pass around the fruit and jerky.
"It's plain fare," I warn Madge, throwing a few strips of meat on her tin.
She blinks, then accepts an apple from Bristel. "I wasn't complaining."
"Just saying." I shrug and move on to offer some to Prim.
We eat.
Eventually Madge pipes up. "Um, my pants were destroyed last night by something. I found them on the ground…" she looks at Rory. "I'm sorry. Do you think…?"
He shrugs. "Keep 'em."
"Thank you, Rory. That's really kind." And she gives him a bright smile that she's reserved for Posy up until now.
Rory looks abashed, yet pleased. Sucker.
"Are they very bad?" Prim asks.
Madge holds up the wad of cloth at her feet. One of the legs is mangled into ribbons. "I wonder what it could have been?" she says.
"Raccoons, maybe," I tell her. "They're mischievous and don't have any qualms about wandering into human company."
Her eyes grow wide. "I'm glad it wasn't something bigger. We hadn't had any trouble with animals, really…." Her voice drifts off, as I assume she thinks over the last few days. Whatever happened, it doesn't seem like she wants to dwell on it too much.
"Come to think of it, neither have we," Bristel muses. "For all Gale's talk of bears and wild dogs."
"They're out there," I drawl, "along with snakes and wolves. And cats the size of coal sheds, who have a taste for small children."
Vick's mouth hangs down to his lap. "Have you ever seen any of those for real?"
"Sure." First I tell them about having to hang in a tree while a pack of wild dogs sniffed around at the trunk. Then, I launch into the story about the lynx that kept Katniss company. "I've never seen behavior like that in wild animals. They're normally pretty skittish around people. We tried scaring it off, but it wouldn't budge. So, Katniss shot it. With her aim, I doubt he felt a thing."
"That's a terrible story," Madge murmurs. "It trusted Katniss and she killed it? It didn't even try to hurt her."
I scowl. "It's an animal, Madge. A nuisance scaring away game we needed to survive."
"Still…it's sad." She chews on her food, thinking. "I think it's sad that we live in a world where we have to choose between surviving and being humane." Then her jaw clenches, and she says dryly, "but that's it, isn't it? We're always in the Hunger Games."
No one has anything to say to this.
Eventually, Prim pipes up. "I wish Katniss hadn't killed the poor lynx, too." She looks disappointed, and I'm reminded of how fundamentally unalike the two sisters were.
"I don't think, now, that she would have killed it," Madge murmurs, patting Prim's back.
"Why not?" I ask scornfully.
"The same reasons she kept Peeta Mellark alive," she replies hesitantly. Prim's face lights up at the thought. A ghost of a smile even threads across Mrs. Everdeen's face – her expression dull with grief for so many days.
But the idea makes my blood run cold.
"You don't know anything." I whisper, but it's fierce.
Madge fixes me with her blue eyes, and I can see the uncertainty there for a moment, and the surprise in the way her lips part. But when she speaks it's with quiet conviction. "I know a few things, Gale Hawthorne. Even if you're too blind to see." She puts the tin down, and breaks the circle without a backward glance.
I can hear mom huff, and I can tell that it's not in my favor.
That's the end of breakfast and I want to move on. While everyone packs up camp, I decide it's up to me to hunt Madge down, since she stomped off.
I find her back by the creek, smearing Mrs. E's salve on her arms. Rory's shirt lies neatly folded on the ground by her hip. She looks up at me as I approach, but doesn't say a word.
"So this is where you ran off to." Which is about as close as I'll come to making amends for my share in our brief yet volatile fight.
"My skin is irritating me. I wanted to put more of this on." She holds up the tin for me to see, though she won't look at me.
Huh, right. Madge's cheeks are still red with anger. She's about as good at lying as Katniss. "We're ready to go," I tell her.
"Am I coming with you?" Madge does look then, turning the full force of her blue eyes on me.
"Isn't that obvious?"
Madge bites her lip. "No, it isn't obvious. I don't know your family. And since you seem to be the one in charge…" She lets the implication hang in the space between us.
"We wouldn't leave you behind." As soon as it's out of my mouth I regret it, because I guess we did leave her behind once already.
And she looks like she's about to argue that point, but snaps her mouth shut instead.
"Just give me a minute, please."
I answer by walking away.
…
The ridge we've been hiking along gradually pushes us northeast. We've been in a valley for two days now, and as the hills fall away into a vale, it reveals beautiful grassland. We pass through the small meadow that Vick found yesterday. Dark outline of trees fringe the western horizon, but ahead of us the land smoothes into natural flowerbeds and the occasional, solitary oak. Our scruffy meadow back home does not compare.
But the beauty of it is nearly lost on me. It's clear we won't make my daily mileage goal. The reason lies at the back of our line, hobbling along. I lead in silence, fuming, schooling my features in a mask of cold indifference. I don't push my family to the limit just because I can. Bad weather, disease, poison, wild animals, man-eaters, accidents. Those are all realities out here. I've pushed the kids on because the longer they're out here, the higher the risk. And we need to know if Thirteen is a reality.
And it's all too clear that Madge is messing with my schedule.
"Gale?" It's my mother's voice, calling me. Looking behind I realize that I must have quickened my pace because everyone is straggling far behind me. I slow so that Mom can catch up.
"What?" I snap, when she's only a few feet behind. Everyone else is still far enough away that they can't hear us properly.
She stops for a moment, catching her breath. Then she fixes me with her eyes. "Will you please try to get along with Madge?"
"I am," I reply tritely.
"You're not," she insists, shaking her head. "You've been picking on her since she woke up."
I cock an eyebrow in a way that suggests I'm listening, but won't like what she has to say.
"You talk to her like she's sitting on a couch eating sugar cubes instead of fending for herself in the wild," Mom grouses. "Give the poor girl some credit. We found her in bad shape, but she's been surprisingly resilient. And I can't help but feel that you want the satisfaction of seeing her break down. What that will prove to you, I'm sure I don't know. But I think you're going to be disappointed to find that she will hold up very well."
All right. Maybe there is a side of me that would feel vindicated if Madge Undersee fell to pieces. In my mind, she's a step down from the soft merchant class: the only child of a district official, who always had a full belly, who didn't need to put her life on the line to eat or keep her family from the brink of starvation. Maybe a part of me thinks that she deserves to feel that desperate for once. And maybe it's a little disgruntling to see that she can take it.
Suddenly, the memory of escaping the district with her hijacks my mind. Considering everything, she held up pretty damn well. I remember the look on her face when she realized the district was burning, and what it meant for her parents. And here she is.
Still. It's the principle of the thing. "Madge doesn't get it, what life is like for most people."
"Of course she doesn't. She grew up under different circumstances than you, which makes it doubly hard for her to adjust to what's happened. That isn't her fault, or cause for resentment. As far as I can tell, she's trying very hard to see things from your point of view. You're the one who won't yield."
"Yield? What is that supposed to mean?" I begin walking again, because the others are catching up. I definitely don't want this turning into a crew meeting.
Mom stays in stride with me. "It means you try to understand Madge's side, making allowances for her differences. Maybe she doesn't understand the lengths we've had to go to in order to survive, but that doesn't make her a bad person. And she has her share of good qualities. Generosity, for example, and courage."
I sneer. "Generosity?" Derisive laughter escapes my lips. "I think we're the ones being generous here. What has Madge ever done for us – or better yet – what does she have to offer now? Nothing. Just one more mouth to feed."
"Well, it wouldn't hurt you to help make her feel at home with us. She hasn't got anyone else, has she?" With that, Mom's mouth draws into a thin line. This is the only indication that she is in a rage. She doesn't shout or rant or stomp around or hit like other parents might. But it doesn't matter. That drawn expression screams displeasure. And disappointment. But what have I done? I didn't say anything that wasn't true, as far as I see it.
"So what do you want from me?" I ask.
"Make amends," Mom tells me. "And include her, if you feel she needs to pick up some of the weight. She can help."
"Right."
Mom puts her hand on my arm, stopping me. "Gale, when your dad died, you pushed on. I couldn't have held the family together without you. Madge's parents are dead. And she's pushing on. As far as I can see, you've got something in common."
…
Madge's POV
We stop for the night. Thank goodness. Although we're mostly out in the open now, the creek we're camping next to has a thick growth of trees along it, providing some cover.
What an awful day. I don't think I've ever squabbled with someone so much in my life. Ever since this morning Gale's been picking on everything I say or do. Or don't do. I'm never quick enough, tough enough, human enough, I think sometimes. I've been seconds away from screaming at him to back off.
But then he did. Hazelle must have said something, because after they ran ahead of the rest of us this afternoon, Gale's looked kind of lost. And quiet. Eerie quiet. Not the surly, above-it-all kind of silence that I've come to expect of him.
Thank goodness his family isn't quite so stuffy. Posy, for example. After the initial slap on the forehead, which must be from having three older brothers bulldozing her all the time, we've gotten on quite well. I've never considered myself to be good with little kids, since I'm an only child and don't really know any kids. But we've been nigh on inseparable. And then there's Prim, of course. She and Mrs. Everdeen have been very quiet, especially compared to the constant chatter of Vick, Rory, and their friend Bristel. And although they can be rowdy, they've always been friendly to me.
Then there's Hazelle. I don't know what to do with her.
…
Now that my errand of mercy is done, the stillness of my house feels uncomfortable and I'm not sure what to do with myself. Go to bed? Everything feels so surreal and a wisp of doubt grows in my mind. Have I done the wisest thing? What will happen next? I wish Mr. Abernathy had a phone…although, he's probably still with the Everdeens and Gale. Besides, one never knows who else might be listening.
My chin is resting on my chest when there is a knock at the kitchen door. Startled, my eyes flutter open and I nearly fall out of my seat. The kettle begins to whistle, as well, and I feel disoriented.
Another insistent knock.
Apparently I am not the only fool in the district running about tonight. And then I pause…who would come here at this hour? And why? As panic surges in my stomach, I bite down on my lip. First things first – I remove the kettle from the heat. Be reasonable, I think to myself. I haven't actually done anything illegal…well, not that Thread would know about yet, anyway. If someone official, say a Peacekeeper, wanted admittance to this house, then he would probably come to the front door and not the back. And he probably wouldn't knock twice before showing himself in.
I feel a bit better then, about slipping back the lock and opening the door. Cold air rushes in and the candles flicker. A tall, middle-aged woman with coal black hair stands on the stoop. Snow is caked in her hair and her clothes are worn and wet. She looks familiar, something about the mouth and eyes.
"Madge Undersee?" she asks. There's a note of surprise in her voice.
"Yes?" I reply.
"I just came from the Everdeens when I saw your light on…and…" she hesitates, "I'm Hazelle Hawthorne. May I come in?"
Oh…boy.
She stares at me expectantly, so take a step backward and gesture for her to come in. Still, I gape while she wipes off her boots on the mat.
"What a lovely kitchen," she says conversationally, rubbing warmth back into her bare hands.
Think, Madge, think. She's only his mother.
"Uh, thank you. Would you like some tea? I just ..." I catch Mrs. Hawthorne giving me a penetrating look, her mouth forming itself into a question… "boiled some water."
"It's late…." She continues to study me, standing of to the side of the room, and I think she's about to refuse, when the confused expression on her face turns to one of understanding. "But, I think maybe I will have some tea, yes. Thank you."
I gesture for her to take a seat at the table while I scoop several heaping teaspoons of loose Earl Grey into a filter and pour the water into my favorite yellow rosebud pot. It's a bit chipped, but that just lends it character. It belonged to my grandmother Undersee. Bergamot scented steam curls up through the spout, and I figure it's not too late for more snacking.
I turn back to Mrs. Hawthorne with a tin of shortbread in my hands. "Do you like…" I stop, because she's still staring at me, and close observation tends to make me squirm. "Um."
"Forgive me for staring, but I didn't realize you were…I don't really get to town much…I thought you were…"
"What?" I ask nervously, backing up into the counter, afraid to hear what she thinks about me.
"Well…" and she looks a little sheepish. "I thought you were a little girl. Closer to Prim's age."
I blink. "Oh." Then my nose wrinkles. "Oh?" What does she mean by little girl? And that I'm not one?
She smiles a little. "That's silly of me, of course. I suppose part of it comes from not really accepting that my children are growing up, or that Gale's friends are growing into women."
"I'm friends with Katniss," I instantly reply, and then blush deeply. With my fair coloring, I know it shows like a beacon. I put the biscuit tin down in front of her and then rummage for mugs. I pull out one that has the District 12 logo of a canary and a headlamp, an election gift from Old Cray to my dad years ago. Nice. I put it back deciding it isn't in good taste, and pull out two yellow ceramic tea cups.
"Oh. Friends with Katniss," she replies absentmindedly, helping herself to the shortbread. "But then why…? You did bring the painkillers for my son?"
With my back to her, I reply, "Well, yes."
"I see." But she doesn't sound like she does.
I bring the tea over and mugs, pouring her a generous amount.
"Thank you," she says, accepting the cup. "Feels good on my hands." I look at them, chapped and cracked. Red from the cold. I know that she's a washerwoman who works out of her home. Once, about four years ago, Gale came to our back door asking if we had any laundry that needed washing. It's the first time I remember seeing him. I eavesdropped in the pantry and overheard the conversation. Our housekeeper, Hanna, does most of our cleaning, so she sent him away empty handed. I remember he just looked stiff and, I don't know, empty, as she closed the door on him. Lots of kids have that look at school, so why did it stand out to me? I suppose because in that moment I knew our family could have done something to help him, but we didn't.
"They're not very pretty, are they?" she says about her hands.
I snap out of my reverie. "Sorry. I shouldn't be staring."
She smiles at me, and it makes her whole face warm and friendly. Mrs. Hawthorne is a lot more smiley than her son, that's for certain. She takes a sip of her tea. "Mmm. We usually only drink herbal tea at home. This is quite nice."
"Mrs. Hawthorne?" The suspense is starting to kill me.
She smiles again, and the skin around her eyes crinkles. "You can call me Hazelle. Everyone does."
My dad raised me to call adults by their last names unless they give me permission. Sometimes it sticks, though. Haymitch still gets cross with me when I call him Mr. Abernathy.
"Hazelle, um, is there's something you needed from me tonight?"
She puts her mug down. "I just noticed that your light…"
"You kind of came out of your way to notice that my light was on."
Hazelle laughs at me. "You're right. I did come out of my way with a purpose. I should've gotten back to my family, but…" She wraps her hands around the still-steaming mug and leans toward me, her face very grave now. "I overheard Katniss and the others talking about the painkiller while I sat with Gale. They said you brought it for my son."
I swallow air, then take a mouthful of tea so that I can hide behind my mug.
"That is true, isn't it?" she's asking gently.
"I brought it," I murmur. "But it's my mom who gave it to him, really. It's hers."
Hazelle's eyes flicker toward the hallway, then back to me. They look watery. "I don't suppose…"
"No. She's not feeling well," I say.
"I see. Well. Then you'll have to convey my thanks. I…I can't tell you what it means to us. Gale is…was…in so much pain. And nothing helped." Hazelle covers her mouth with her hand for a moment. "He kept passing out only to wake up again in pain."
I think she really is crying, or very near to it. I'm not sure what to do, so I just sit there stupidly.
Hazelle takes a deep breath, collecting herself. "I wanted to come by and thank you for bringing the morphling. He never mentions any other friends but Katniss." My heart crunches a little. Of course he doesn't. To Gale, there is only Katniss. "I guess what I'm saying is, I don't know why you helped us. Your family isn't obligated to us in any way, but I'm so grateful that you did. And I don't know how I'll be able to repay you for the medicine. But I can try. Sometime I have extra from the laundry I take in…"
Something in me snaps. Do the Hawthornes really think, in their pride, that they can afford a box of morphling? And what sort of people do they think the Undersees are, that we'd take money from a family that doesn't have any, when we have so much? "My mother gave him the morphling, Mrs…Hazelle." I say as earnestly as I can, "and she didn't mention anything about repayment. Don't even think it. The medicine is a gift from her."
Hazelle blinks at me. "But why? Madge, we don't live in a world that gives gifts. And I think I know my son well enough to say that he will want to pay back as much of the cost of the morphling as he can."
I'll bet. "Does Gale know?"
She hesitates. "No. He kept slipping in and out of consciousness at the time, and probably didn't even know I held his hand."
"Okay then, don't tell him."
"Madge," she gasps.
I hold up a hand, asking her to wait a minute. "How will Gale be able to pay for the morphling, Hazelle? Who knows when he'll be able to get back to the mines," I reason, even though she's more than aware of the pinch her family will be in for the weeks to come. I smile, though. "And no amount of free strawberries will make up for the cost. Don't worry. It's already taken care of."
"What do you mean it's taken care of?" she frowns.
Now I hesitate. I don't want Gale to know I brought the morphling, because I don't want him beholden to me. The idea makes my skin crawl. I also don't want to reveal to Hazelle my personal reasons for delivering the morphling. But it might be the only way to make her accept that she isn't going to repay my family for this.
I study my fingers. "Um, I owed him. He helped me once, and so this pretty much clears my debt to him. My mom doesn't know that, but it doesn't really matter."
Hazelle sits back in her chair. "He helped you?"
"Yes."
"In what way?"
I blush. "It doesn't really matter."
"It must matter if it's equal to six vials of morphling," she says gravely.
"Well," I mumble. "It does to me, but it's private."
Hazelle lifts an inquisitive brow. "And if he hadn't helped you?"
"No amount of morphling would have made it better."
She relents. "I see. Sort of."
"So, we're even."
She nods. "The two of you are even."
While my slow, exhausted brain tries to figure out the hidden qualification, I press on, "and you won't mention this to Gale, right?"
"Don't you think he'd want to know that you helped him?" Hazelle asks, both eyebrows raised.
I wrinkle my nose. "Not really.
Hazelle purses her lips, like she's thinking. And the way she's looking at me feels like I'm a puzzle she's putting together.
"Maybe he'll just think the Everdeens had it?" I continue, to fill the silence.
"Maybe." She chuckles a little. "Truth to tell, he's not very imaginative when it comes to this sort of thing. So, yes, he'll probably assume the Everdeens had it. Unless someone else mentions it."
"You won't—"
"I won't."
"Thank you."
"Well, my children are probably frantic, so I should go." Hazelle swallows the last of her tea and gets up. "Thank you, for the tea and for the medicine. If there's ever anything that you or your mother need, just ask."
"All right," I reply, although I can't imagine when I'll need to take her up on it.
…
She's kept up her side of our agreement, I see. And I'm grateful, no matter how little good it's done. The confusing alliances are still there. And any hope of Gale growing partial toward me without feeling obligated withers in the sun. And that's the point of all the secrecy, isn't it? So that he could be my friend without coercion. But now I know that everything he's done for me, and everything he continues to do, as per Hazelle's instruction, is out of coercion.
The trouble is that I like Hazelle. But who am I to her but the girl who dragged herself through the snow to deliver a box of painkiller? What kind of basis for a friendship is that?
Yet without it, would I have burned with my parents?
My thoughts are interrupted when Gale pushes past me with an armful of kindling. He and Bristel argue about the best way to light a wood fire.
Meanwhile, Hazelle takes handfuls of a flour mixture she put together using ingredients they took from home and plops them on top of a pot filled with meat, tubers, and fresh herbs Gale brought in.
"Possum pot pie?" I ask, hunkering down next to Hazelle and Mrs. E.
Hazelle grins. "Very tasty."
"You know, I don't think my family's ever eaten possum."
"I never could get used to their tails. So much like a rat's tail." Mrs. E shudders.
"Only bigger." I understand what she means perfectly. But Hazelle seems amused by our reticence.
Gale gets the fire going and I decide it's time to woman up and try to carry my own weight.
Standing up, I say "Gale, is there something I cou—"
"Here," he shoves another pot into my hands without waiting for me to finish. "Earn your keep."
The pot drops to the ground.
Before I can stop, my hand strikes out, connecting with his cheek. Hard.
I recoil away from him, shocked. Everyone stares.
Gale looks down at me, first with surprise and then unmasked fury. "What the hell was that for?" he growls.
I stammer. "I-I'm sorry…I didn't mean…it's a reflex." I cringe away, waiting for him to hit back or yell or both.
Instead, Gale rubs his red cheek and picks up the pot. His anger dissipates as suddenly as it arrived. "I'll get the water, then."
"No, I will," I say, taking it away from him. "Just don't say that again."
"What?"
"You know…about earning my keep," I mumble the last bit. "I don't…like it."
He looks confused. "Okay…sorry, didn't mean to offend you," he says carefully, like a monster might split through my skull, or something.
As I walk to the stream, I feel like his eyes are burning holes in the back of my head.
…
I stand on the bank holding the pot in one hand and a large stick from the thicket in the other. Staring at the water flowing by in long, swirling patterns, my body buzzes with tension.
The first time I felt triggered like this, I thought the man touching my throat was Liquor having finally caught up with me. About to kill me like he promised he would. The second, Gale quoting him nearly verbatim. Ugh. Those memories pound into the back of my eyes against my will until I feel like I'm going to vomit. The pot and stick fall to the ground. My fists clench and unclench. They're clammy. I need to sit down.
Except someone's watching me.
I turn. It's Gale. Déjà vu.
He steps out from the shadow of a tree. "You okay?" he asks softly. I'm thrown by it. Surely, he's never used that tone with me. Especially not today.
"Yeah," I say woodenly. "I'm sorry about hitting you."
He gives me a hard look. "So what happened to make you lash out like that?"
"Maybe you just annoyed me," I reply churlishly. I don't mean to be childish, but his question is getting into things I don't wish to discuss with him, like the context behind my request that he never use that phrase again. A tendril of shame uncoils in my belly, making me want to curl up.
"I might believe that, but you're usually a pretty self-contained individual, soft spoken." Gale continues to step closer to me as he speaks until he's also standing on the edge of the stream. One of the low-hanging branches of a maple dusts the top of his hair. "Seems out of character, I guess, for you to be so high strung and violent."
Hmph. Violent. "I don't think you know me well enough to make that kind of judgment," I say. He just arches a heavy, black eyebrow and waits. "A lot has happened, Gale. You want me to pick something?"
"Madge—"
Exasperation colors my voice. "That's the truth: a lot has happened, and I don't really know what to do with it all. I'm grateful that your family took me under its wing, but I don't know you well enough to confide in you. And I don't think you like me well enough to care."
He's quiet for a moment, arms folded over his chest, then says, "So, that's it then?"
I nod.
"What's that for?" He points to my stick. "Walking?"
"A weapon. Sort of. For hunting with," I mutter with some embarrassment, waiting for him to mock my efforts like he has been all day. I bend to pick it up, but he's already done it, grabbing the stick and the pot.
Gale hands it back to me. "Oh?" His voice is curious, not derisive.
"Something I learned recently, so that I can help earn my keep." I shudder involuntarily. "As you say."
"Madge…"
I hold up my free hand. "You're right. If we're going to be out here for a while, then I should be able to help."
"All right." I expected Gale to say something condescending or dissuasive. Instead, he just accepts it. Wow. What am I missing?
We stare at each other silently for a moment or two. The only sounds come from the water, the birds, insects. The muffled noise from the camp. Then I get the nerve to ask him something that's been troubling me since last night.
"Gale?"
"Yeah?"
"Is there anything out there at all? Towns or settlements of people who aren't in a district?" I wave my hand around at the world at large. "Do you think we're going to wander around like this for the rest of our lives?"
With the vessel tucked under his arm, he starts rolling up his trousers so that he can walk into the stream where the water is clearer and cleaner. "I hope not."
"So, where are we going?"
He pauses for a bit while he takes off his boots. "District 13."
Is he nuts? "There isn't a District 13," I say slowly, as if to a child. "The Capitol wiped it out. Completely. They show the footage all the time." Why am I explaining this? He's watched the vids.
Gale gives me a look of long suffering, the look a shepherd might give when talking about the stupidity of his sheep. "There might be. We're hoping that somebody found a way to survive." He wades out into the water.
"Might be is kind of a flimsy tip to follow," I point out charitably. Walking into a nuclear wasteland is not my idea of survival.
He shrugs. "Katniss…she ran into some women in the woods who escaped from Eight a little bit before the Quarter Quell announcement. They were heading that way just after some factory explosions or something."
Factory explosions. Disruptions in District 8 during the Victory Tour…I found that out in the newspapers…my mind reels. Katniss met someone involved in it…meaning I guessed right, my hunch. "But how would…did anyone else know?
He shrugs again. "She probably told Haymitch and her friend."
Haymitch? My body actually twitches. "Haymitch knew about Thirteen? About the possibility of Thirteen?" This last piece of information is too much. I back away from the water, pacing around in circles, trying to make sense of this latest piece of news until I'm staggering on the uneven ground.
"Madge?" Gale asks, unnerved by my reaction.
Haymitch didn't say anything to me…and I'm so angry that I start bawling. "Why didn't he tell me?"
"Haymitch?" Gale's face contorts with confusion and alarm. "Why would he talk to you?"
"He should have," I snarl through my tears. I've been running and starving and surviving that I haven't had time to feel so betrayed. But now I do. "He should have said."
"Why would he? Haymitch hates everyone. He wouldn't bother helping any of us."
I'm so angry that my filters aren't up. "Because he must have known about the uprisings in the other districts, and the possibility of firebombing, and about Thirteen. There's a whole damn network for that sort of thing! We all could have escaped – my parents – and had somewhere to go. Not gotten led around and around in circles by sick—" I snap my mouth shut, closing my eyes against the emotions exploding in my gut like the incendiaries that crushed our home.
But Gale stopped listening at one word. "Network?" he asks. I don't answer. "What are you talking about?"
The network. The lines of information that I have contributed to for almost two years. Feeding Haymitch clips from newspapers. You'd think that would have earned me some loyalty, or the right to information. Some information that would have secured my family's safety. But in return he didn't tell me anything.
But I don't say that.
Instead, I collapse onto my knees as though all the bones holding me up are broken. "He should have told me."
Gale's eyes hone in on me. "Are you saying there's a rebel network? How do you know?"
This sobers me up. "Uh...I'm sure there's one, you know, with all the unrest. Like the first rebellion."
"And naturally Haymitch Abernathy, the district drunk who head-dives off of stages, would be involved," Gale sneers.
"It makes sense, doesn't it?" I ask defensively. "He's always going to the Capitol, has access to loads of information that we don't."
"Huh," he grunts, coming out of the creek. He sets the water down, then crouches next to me. I have to crane my neck back to look at his face, though, because he's that much taller than me. His eyes search mine for something. I don't know what, but it's hard to maintain contact. "So this rebel network, that's just some story you've fabricated in your head to idle away the hours? And you just happened to pick Haymitch Abernathy to be your unlikely hero."
"Um…"
"Which is interesting," he goes on to say, "because you're the only person to mention that the bombing had anything to do with a rebellion. And until now, I thought Katniss was the only one who knew about uprisings in the other districts."
"Um…well…"
"Madge, don't lie." There's something about the set of his face that convinces me it would be foolish to try - and when I say foolish, I mean detrimental. "What do you know?"
TBC – following a short break
AN: I'm going out on a limb here, because we aren't told that Katniss said anything to Gale about the women from Eight. And she has some good reasons for not telling Gale – wolfshead that he is. However, the book also doesn't say that she didn't tell him, so…I guess the canon here is fair game, and in this version I need for Gale to know.
