(Point of View: Peeta)

While rocking our baby in the ICU, I thought about how I'd never liked rocking chairs. My mother had one. It was her chair. She never let anyone else sit in it. The cushion smelled musty, which shouldn't have even been possible above the dry heat of the bakery. I didn't even want to sit in my mother's rocking chair, but the fact that she wouldn't let me bothered me. I had no idea if she'd rocked me in that chair when I was a baby. I wished that I could ask my brothers or father if she had. Oddly, I didn't wish that I could ask my mother. She often misinterpreted harmless questions as accusations and replied with stinging remarks. I learned to avoid most conversations with her.

The rocking chair at my home with Katniss was a place of comfort for my wife. I was wary of it though; Katniss usually used the rocking chair when she was very sad. I had learned that too much sitting in the rocking chair by the fire was a warning that a downward spiral might be on the horizon. Rocking our baby gave me a new appreciation for rocking chairs though. I thought I might even learn to like them.

As we rocked gently the baby struggled to reach her most important goal at that time - learning how to drink from a bottle. She breathed well and maintained her temperature well most of the time. The bottle was more difficult for her. She couldn't go home until she mastered it. At first I felt completely inadequate in trying to help her learn, but I tried. Soon the nurses said the baby actually drank more for me than for them. So I came to visit at as many feeding times as possible. On that particular day, she seemed exhausted after a few minutes. She refused to drink any more despite my repeated attempts to feed her. That happened sometimes. She tired so easily. I couldn't help but think that I could relate. I was exhausted too. I held the bottle up to see how much she actually drank and found that it was more than she had the day before. Satisfied with her progress, I smiled down at her. Briefly, her gray eyes stared back up at mine. Then she closed them. I lifted her up to my shoulder and whispered in her ear about what a good job she'd done. I talked to her often. I didn't know whether or not that would seem odd to others, and I really didn't care. We both liked it. The baby was two weeks old already, and she hadn't even met her mother. I sighed and rocked a little more quickly since the feeding was over.

"How'd she do, Dad?" The baby's nurse asked.

"Very well." I said holding up the bottle. "She still needs to burp though."

"I'll take over if you want." The nurse said.

Grateful, I accepted the offer. I wondered if the nurse could see the exhaustion I was feeling. I wondered if she could see the conflicts in my mind. My biggest "conflict" was going to see my wife. I knew I should go to see Katniss, but I couldn't bring myself to do it some days. It was so difficult to watch her lie motionless, seemingly lifeless in a hospital bed. Delly stayed with her much of the time, but Delly would be leaving soon.

Why can't I be around Katniss? I asked myself. Is it because I love her too much or because I don't love her enough?

The doctors could not explain exactly why she remained unresponsive.

"Muttation copperhead bites are very unpredictable. Sometimes they cause a loss of function in only the limb that's bitten and sometimes they cause a kind of overall lack of function. I can't really tell you why she's unresponsive though. Again, these are very unpredictable situations." The specialist had told me. He made it very clear that he couldn't predict when or if Katniss would wake up. The only positive news was that the leg looked better than expected. The bite area itself was healing.

I forced myself to walk down the hall. I had to see Katniss no matter how hard it was for me.

(Point of View: Katniss)

I could hear muffled voices. Most of them were unfamiliar to me. I had no idea where I was, how I got there, or how long I'd been there. A soft surface was underneath me. It felt like a very soft bed. The voices usually came from in front of me as if the people to whom the voices belonged stood over me. Sometimes I felt hands move me, and it hurt. Other times I felt someone pinching my fingernail really hard, and I would pull it away. Pulling away wasn't under my control though. It just happened. The voices would mumble something I didn't understand. When I tried to move without any provocation, it seemed impossible. I did move my fingers a few times, but the voices did not mention it. Mostly, I just seemed in and out of sleeping. Nothing seemed to matter much.

Sometimes I would hear Delly or Peeta. It made my chest feel warm to hear their voices. I yearned to talk to them but couldn't. I made extraordinary efforts to move my fingers when I heard one of them, but they never mentioned it. One day Peeta's voice sounded different as soon as he started speaking. I felt his hair against my arm.

He probably has his head lying next to me. I thought. I wished that I could run my fingers through his hair.

His voice was desperate and pleading as he told me, "Katniss, I can't do this. Not by myself. I know you might think I can, but I can't. I need you. She needs you too."

He sounded so distraught. I struggled to move the hand nearest him. I wanted to comfort him so much, but the air around my hand didn't shift at all. It wasn't moving.

"I don't even know what she needs. I feel sorry for her that she only has…me…right now." He went on. I couldn't feel his hair on my arm anymore. The soft surface under me shifted. Peeta must have moved.

Who is he talking about? I thought. He couldn't be talking about the baby. I lost the baby. I haven't felt her move at all. There's no way she's still alive.

"She's so beautiful, Katniss. She looks so much like you. She has your eyes. They are the same color as yours, and they have that same intensity that yours have." His voice was really starting to fail him. He started whispering. He sounded hesitant, perhaps ashamed. "I don't want to accuse you of not trying hard enough." He paused before continuing, "but we both know that there have been times when you've given up. If you're giving up now then don't. If you can't survive for yourself or for me this time, survive for her. She's your daughter. She's worth it, and she needs you."

He is talking about our baby. I thought. Where is she? Where is she? She's not with me. I have to find her.

I felt an overpowering need to go and look for my baby. Of course, I couldn't. So I tried again to move my hand and reach out for Peeta. I knew that he would help me find our baby. My arm ached, but nothing stopped me. I felt the air shift around my hand as I managed to move it upwards. Then my hand plopped back down onto the bed.

I heard Peeta gasp. "Katniss, do that again. Please. Do that again." He said.

I tried. I really tried. I failed. I heard a beeping sound from behind me.

"What's going on in here?" Another voice said. "Her heart rate just shot up."

"She moved her hand." Peeta said frantically. "I swear. She lifted it off the bed an inch or two."

"Huh." The other voice said.

Then there were unfamiliar hands on me, and I felt someone pinching my fingernail very hard. My hand pulled away from the pain, involuntarily. A small moan left my raspy throat. The sound startled me. I'd been unable to make any sounds. Voices were speaking in hushed tones. I could only hear words and phrases.

"not sure…false hope…encouraging…need to see it for ourselves…not sure…can't tell you that."

Peeta's voice was there again. It was close to me, right beside my ear.

"Katniss," he said as he kissed the side of my neck, "just keep trying. I love you so much."