I finally got a letter in the mail from Conner. I was worried about him, as he had not sent any mail in over two weeks.

So when the Avox who pushes the mail cart hands me a letter from him, I become scared. What if this is something bad?

Stop thinking like that! Morbid thinking will never get me anywhere. While many times things were exactly as bad as they appeared, the fact is that pessimistic thought does not help a situation.

I tear the letter open, and my eyes scan the letter quickly.

Characteristic of Conner, the handwriting is its own brand of illegible that only trained eyes such as mine could decipher without investing ten minutes. Of course, on three separate occasions Conner described my handwriting as 'girlish', 'flowerish' and 'a mess of unreadable scribbles'. Normally the first two definitions would be mutually exclusive with the third one, but I have no doubt that if I brought it up to him Conner would have a way to explain how they are not.

Conner has never been a man for sharing his feelings or for using what he calls 'too many words', so his letters are often short if not a single sentence long. Usually I will write him a letter describing various things about my day (or describing a new food I got to eat), and asking him several questions. In a few days, I will get back a response from him answering exactly what I asked him. Occasionally he would leave a snarky comment or a dirty joke or an intentionally pointless antidote at the end of the letter, so it is not that Conner is humorless. But sometimes it feels like Conner is forcing himself to do this, because his cynical humor stopped coming natural after his twin brother forced him to pull the trigger.

Peeta,

Sorry I couldn't respond to your other letters, I just received them. I was in the brig, apparently I'm not supposed to get drunk on active duty. My bad. I already told Major Campbell.

Conner.

This isn't good.

Granted, I am relieved that Conner's lack of correspondence was not the result of suicide. But this is not exactly a good sign.

I do not like to drink, and while I have had a beer once or twice I have never gotten drunk. I am not judgmental, so I don't think less of someone who does drink, I still don't want my friend to follow down Hawmitch's path.

Unfortunately, I can not respond until rest period. This means that I will have to wait all day.

I trudge through the day, standing guard at the edge of the hovercraft landing pad. It is a surprisingly peaceful day, with no rainfall and little breeze. A few puffs of white are pulled along the blue canvas above my head, occasionally covering the golden sun.

Only three hovercrafts land today.

One of them is returning from a wildling village. From what I can gather, a hunter from that village gave navigational directions a peacekeeper who got lost. As a result a hovercraft came to give them tools as a reward.

The other two hovercrafts are delivering supplies for the fort.

After guarding the landing pad, I head over to the firing range to squeeze a few rounds out. My accuracy is pretty good, and it feels good to have a gun in my hands. It feels as though I am able to defend myself, it feels like I am no longer helpless.

After dinner, I get an hour of rest before bed.

I spend the rest period writing a letter in response to him.

Dear Conner,

I am glad to know you are all right. I was worried when you did not respond.

However, I would be lying if I told you that I am not still concerned. I know you are having problems, but drinking can not be the best way to deal with them. If you ever need someone to talk to, you can always tell Campbell or I how you feel.

After this, I then go on with the rest of the letter. I,write about myself so that he has something to read and take his mind off of this. I do not want him to feel bad.

I sign it, seal it, send it, and hope for the best.