In the stunned reaction that follows, I'm aware of one sound. Snow's laughter. An awful gurgling cackle accompanied by an eruption of foamy blood when the coughing begins. I see him bend forwards spewing out his life, until the guards block him from my sight.

As the gray uniforms begin to converge on me, I think of what my brief future as the assassin of the Panem's future president holds. The interrogation, possible torture, certain public execution. Having, yet again, to say my final good-byes to the handful of people who still maintain a hold on my heart. The prospect of facing my mom—Prim is still here. Her reaction doesn't matter. I stand tall and await to be taken to my cell.

"Good night," I whisper to the bow in my hands and feel the bow go still. I was debating giving the District 12 salute, but I think against it. I feel a hands reach and grab my body, but I feel one go to my shoulder. I turn to see that I'm facing Peeta. I don't even bother to look down. I know it's his hand on the pocket with the nightlock pill.

"Seriously?" I asked.

"Yes," he says. As they pull me away from him, I feel the pocket ripped from my sleeve, see the deep violet pill fall to the ground, a thought crosses my mind as the pill is crunched under a guard's boot. Did Peeta really think I planned on killing myself?

Not happening. The guards lift me above the fray, where I'm conveyed over the crush of people. I start scanning the crowd for Gale. Why? I don't know, I don't want him to kill me, and I don't expect him to either. Gale has a clean shot, and he didn't take it. I know he can see me. I can see the giant screens that were place around the City Circle for everybody to watch the execution. He sees, and even if I wanted him to shoot me, he doesn't follow though. Probably thinks I deserve to be held accountable for my actions. Which I will do.

I'm on my own. I thought.

In the mansion, they handcuff and blindfold me. I'm half-dragged, half-carried down long passages, up and down elevators, and deposited on carpeted floor. The cuffs are removed and the door slams closed behind me. Was that necessary? I thought as reach for the blindfold. When I pushed the blindfold up, I find that I'm in my old room in the Training Center. The one where I lived during those last precious days before my first Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell. The bed's stripped to the mattress, the closest gapes open, showing the emptiness, but I'd know this room anywhere.

I climb to my feet, and slip out of the Mockingjay suit. I crawl up onto the mattress, and doze off.

By evening, I wake stiff and sore from the way the crowd and guards handled my body. I half-walk, half-limp into the shower and program a medium cycle that I somehow remember, free of any soap and hair products, and squat under the warm spray elbows on knees, head in my hands.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I assassinated the person who was the President of Panem. Why am I not dead? I should be dead. This is not what I had in mind when I told myself what would happen after the war was over. And yet, oddly enough, this is a more satisfying ending than if only Snow would have died. Now. How am I going to get out of this?

When I step out on to the mat, the hot air bakes my skin dry. There's nothing clean to put on. Not even a towel to wrap around me. Back in the room, I find the Mockingjay suit has disappeared. In its place a paper robe. A meal has been sent up from a mysterious kitchen with a container of medicine for dessert. I go ahead eat the food, and take the pills. Now I have to focus on keeping my sanity.

Even if I wanted to commit suicide, that's not happening. Any and all attempts would be averted. I'm probably being watched around the clock. For all I know, I'm on live television at this very moment while commentators try to analyze what could have possible motivated me to kill Coin. This surveillance makes any suicide attempt impossible. Taking my life is the Capitol's privilege. Again.

Except, I have no intention of killing myself. I thought

I give up on a plan to figure my way out of this mess, that's useless. Instead I focus on curing the boredom. And the morphling withdrawals. There's nothing in this room so I do the only thing I can do: calisthenics. I have to do something it break up the monotony of an empty room. I do a few exercises, and then take a break and rest. And then something unexpected happens.

I begin to sing. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep. Hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the songs my dad taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little music in my life since. What's amazing is how clear I remember them. The tunes, the lyrics. My voice, at first is rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in. Days pass, weeks. I watch the snow fall out on the ledge outside my window. And in all that time, mine is the only voice I hear.

What's taking them so long, anyway? What's the holdup out there? How difficult can it be to arrange the execution of one murderous girl? I continue with my plan. I continue working out, singing, and eating. If I'm going to die, I plan on being healthy, vibrant, living being. The one thing that's been bugging me is how my actions have affect my mom and Prim. Well, I had no qualms admitting I was nothing more than a blunt instrument, but how did viewing the execution of President Coin affect them? It's too late now to worry about that now.

After two days of my slow descent into madness, because if I had to stay into that room any longer I was going to scream, the doors to my room open. I stop mid verse to see that it was Haymitch. "Your trial's over," he says. "Come on. We're going home."

Home? What's he talking about? My home is gone. And even if it were possible to go to this imaginary place, why bother? It's going to be a lonely place, but I have a feeling that home is the only place for me anyways.

Entering on Haymitch's heels, strangers who instruct me to eat, bathe, and give me a fresh clothes to put on. I follow Haymitch up to the roof, followed by said strangers—I'm seriously wondering if these people are there to keep me from committing suicide by jumping off the roof—but I see there is a hovercraft waiting on the roof. And who is waiting for us—actually me because Haymitch already knows the details—a beaming Plutarch. A few moments, we're airborne.

I've never seen Plutarch in such a good mood. He's positively glowing. "You must have a million questions!" When I don't respond, he answers them anyways.

After I shot Coin, there was pandemonium. When the ruckus died down, they discovered Snow's body, still tethered to the post. Opinions differ on whether he choked to death while laughing or crushed by the crowd. No one really cares. An emergency election was thrown together and Paylor was voted in as president. Plutarch was appointed secretary of communications, which means he sets programs for the air waves. The first big televised event was my trial, in which he was also a star witness. In my defense, of course. Plutarch even mentions that Finnick, Peeta, and Gale all gave testimony, plus the footage of when Peeta tried to kill me that. I'm shocked that Gale even came to my defense, not that it matters anyways. Although most of the credit for my exoneration must be given to Dr. Aurelius, who earned his naps by presenting me as a hopeless, shell-shocked lunatic. One condition for my release is that I'll continue under his care, although it will have to be by phone because he'd never live in a forsaken place like 12, and I'm confined there until further notice. The truth is, no one quite knows what to do with me now that the war is over, although if another one should spring up, Plutarch's sure they could find a role for me. Then Plutarch has a good laugh. It never seems to bother him when no one appreciates his jokes.

"Are you preparing for another war, Plutarch?" I ask.

"Oh, not now. Now we're in a sweet period where everyone agrees that our recent horrors should never be repeated," he says, "But collective thinking is usually short-lived. But we're fickle, stupid beings with short memories and a great gift for self-destruction. Although who knows? Maybe this will be it, Katniss."

"What?" I ask.

"The time it sticks. Maybe we are witnessing the evolution of the human race. Think about it." he says.

"If another war was to break out, do us a favor would you." I said.

This gets their attention, but Haymitch say. "Us."

"We're a package deal," I say.

"Sad, but true." Haymitch says.

"What's that?" Plutarch said.

"If another war were to break out, don't call us. We're still trying to pick up the pieces after our time in the Games." I said.

"I'll take it under advisement, but that will be up to the brass." Plutarch said.

"Can't blame me for trying." I said.

"No I can't." Plutarch said.

We land briefly in District 3 to drop off Plutarch. He's meeting with Beetee to update the technology on the broadcast system. His parting words to me are. "Don't be a stranger."

When we're back among the clouds. I look at Haymitch. "So why are you going to Twelve?"

"They can't seem to find a place for me in the Capitol either," he says.

"They can't seem to find a place for you, or have you been sent to keep tabs on me?" I asked, not believing for one second that Haymitch didn't have any options at first. I don't doubt that Haymitch wouldn't be able to find a place in the Capitol. Then again, given his ability to destroy a place in record time, I wouldn't house Haymitch there. Haymitch shrugs. Then I realize what it means. "My mom's not coming back."

"No. Not to live, at least." he says. He pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket and hands it to me. I examine the delicate writing. "She's helping start up a hospital in District 4. She wants you to call as soon as we get in." My fingers trace the graceful swoop of letters. "You know why she isn't coming back." Yes, I know why. Because between my dad and the ashes, it's too painful to bear. I guess I should be happy with the occasional visits—if and when they happen—because if Prim would have died, I can guarantee that mom would never visit. But apparently Twelve isn't too painful for me considering what I had to endure from the young age of eleven. I thought. "Do you want to know who else won't be there?"

"No," I say. "I want to be surprised."

Like a good mentor, Haymitch makes me eat a sandwich and then pretends he believes I'm asleep for the rest of the trip. He busies himself going through every compartment on the hovercraft, finding liquor, and stowing it in his bag. It's night when we land on the green lawn of the Victor's Village. Half of the houses have lights in the windows, including Haymitch's and mine. Not Peeta's. Someone has built a fire in my kitchen. I sit in the rocker before it, clutching my mother's letter.

"Well, see you tomorrow," says Haymitch.

As the clinking of bag of liquor bottles fades away, I whisper, "I doubt it."

I am unable to move from the chair. The rest of the house looms empty and cold. I pull an old shawl over my body and watch the flames. I guess I sleep because the next thing I know, it's morning and Greasy Sae banging around at the stove. She makes me eggs and toast and sits there until I've eaten it all. We don't talk much. Her little granddaughter, the one who lives in her own world, takes a bright blue ball of yarn out of my mom's knitting basket. Greasy Sae tells her to put I back, but I say she can have it. No one in the house can knit anymore. After breakfast, Greasy Sae does the dishes and then leaves, but she comes back up at dinner to make me eat again. I don't know if she's being neighborly or if she's on the government's payroll, but she shows up twice every day. She cooks, I consume. I try to figure out my next move. I don't have to worry about someone coming to kill me. But I seem to be waiting for someone.

Sometimes the phone rings and rings and rings, but I don't pick it up. Haymitch never visits. He must have changed his mind and left, although I suspect that he's just drunk. No one comes but Greasy Sae and her granddaughter. After months of solitary confinement, they seem like a crowd.

"Spring is in the air. You ought to get out," she says. "Go hunting."

I haven't left the house. I haven't even left the kitchen except to go to the bathroom a few feet off of it. I'm in the same clothes I left the Capitol in. What I do is sit by the fire. Stare at the unopened letters piling up by the mantel. "I don't have a bow."

"Check down the hall," she says.

After she leaves, I consider a trip down the hall. Rule it out. But after several hours, I go anyway. Before leaving, I open the window, and then walk away hoping the fresh air would blow out whatever funk I have been basting in for the last few months. Walking on silent sock feet, as to not awaken the ghosts. In the study, where I had tea with President Snow, I find a box with my dad's hunting jacket, our plant book, my parent's wedding photo, the spile that Haymitch sent in, and the locket Peeta gave me in the clock arena. The two bows and a quiver of arrows that Gale rescued the night of the firebombing lie on the desk. I'm on the verge of breaking down, so I put on the hunting jacket and prepare to leave.

My head snaps around at the hiss, but it takes a while to believe he's real. How could he have gotten here? I take in the claw marks from some wild animal, the back paw he holds slightly above ground, the prominent bones in his face. He comes on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or he can't stand it there without her, so he came looking.

"It was the waste of a trip. She's not here," I tell him. Buttercup hisses again. "She's not here. You won't find Prim." At her name, he perks up. Raises his flattened ears. Begins to meow hopefully. I was about to scream at him, but the pent up emotions took over and I shutdown. The feelings of abandonment after the wars ending. I understand that they had work, but I felt like I was eleven again. If Prim were to ever return it would be years, and decades from now. She'll be grown up and have a family of her own. Why would Prim come and live in the burnt out ruins of 12 when she will have prime housing in any district, let alone the Capitol. Buttercup must understand something because hours later, when I come to in my bed, he's there in the moonlight. Crouched beside me, yellow eyes alert, guarding me form the night.

In the morning, he sits stoically as I clean the cuts, but digging the thorn from his paw brings on a round of those kitten mews. We both end up crying again, only this time we comfort each other. On the strength of this, I open the letter Haymitch gave me, dial the phone number, and we weep as well. I guess she realizes that I'm practically in the same position I was in six years ago. Alone, frightened, without an anchor needed to stabilize myself.

After I hang up the phone, I pick the phone up again and call Dr. Aurelius. He's overjoyed to hear from me, but I don't want that. I want one thing. How to get past this? He tells me I just have to go through the motions until I find meaning again. I think of our plant book, and tell him my idea. He says that when the train arrives the supplies will be on it. The train usually takes about two day to arrive. So when Greasy Sae comes by in the morning, she tells me to get out of the clothing. I pull the clothes off and feed them to the fire. At her suggestion, I pare off my nails with a knife.

Over the eggs, I ask her. "Where did Gale go?"

"District Two. Got some fancy job there. I see him now and again on television," she says.

Gale's doing well. I don't bother looking for any feelings. I only find relief.

"I'm going hunting today," I say.

"Well, I wouldn't mind some fresh game at that," she says.

I arm myself with a bow and arrows and head out, intending to exit 12 through the Meadow. Near the square are teams of masked and gloved people with horse-drawn carts. Sifting what lay under the snow this winter. Gathering remains. A cart's parked in front of the mayor's house. I recognize Thom, Gale's old crewmate, pausing a moment to wipe the sweat from his face with a rag. I remember seeing him in 13, but he must have come back. His greeting give me the courage to ask, "Did they find anyone?"

"Whole family. And the two people who worked for them," Thom tells me.

Madge. Quiet and kind and brave. The girl who gave me the pin that gave me a name. I swallow hard. Another person to leave and move on, while I still lived. "I thought maybe, since he was the mayor…"

"I don't think being the mayor of Twelve put the odds in his favor," says Thom.

I nod and keep moving, careful not to look in the back of the cart. All through the town and the Seam is the same. The reaping of the dead. As I near the ruins my old house, the road becomes thick with carts. The Meadows's gone, or at least drastically altered. A deep pit had been dug, and they're lining it with bones, a mass grave for my people. I skirt around the hole and enter the woods at my usual place. It doesn't matter, though. The fence isn't charged anymore and has been propped up with long branches to keep predators out. But old habits die hard. I think about going to the lake, but I'm so weak I barely make it to the meeting place with Gale. I sit on the rock where Cressida filmed us, but it's too wide without his body beside me. I open and close my eyes few time as if hoping Gale would appear as he usually did without making a sound, but in truth, without really understanding it, I was saying good-bye.

It's the old Katniss's favorite kind of day. Early spring. The woods awaken after the long winter. But the spurt of energy that began with the primroses fades away. By the time I make it back to the fence, I'm so sick and dizzy, Thom had to give me a ride home in the dead people's cart. Help me to the sofa in the living room, where I watch the dust motes spin in thin shafts of the afternoon light.

Come morning, I get breakfast with Greasy Sae before heading to the train station. I feed all my bacon to Buttercup.

As I'm approaching the station, I see a large box of parchment sheets waiting on the dock, but I also see a few pallets of flowers sitting next to them. I'm a little taken back at first, but when I see the person walk out of the train, I almost broke down in tears.

"You're back," I say.

"Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave until two days ago. He figured that since he was sending the supplies for you, that he could send me along as well. What's with all the parchment?" Peeta asked. I forget about the parchment, and pull Peeta into a long hug. Which he returns.

I explained to Peeta as we got the parchment, and the pallet of flowers up to the Victor's Village what my plan was to move on from the trauma of the last two years. I got the idea from my family's plant book. The place where we recorded those things you cannot trust to memories. The page begins with a person's picture. A photo if we can find it. If not, a sketch or painting by Peeta. Then, in the most careful handwriting, come all the details it would be a crime to forget. Lady licking Prim's cheek. My dad's laugh. Peeta's father with cookies. The color of Finnick's eyes. What Cinna could do with length of silk. Boggs reprogramming the Holo. Rue poised on her toes, arms slightly extended, like a bird about to take flight. On and on. We seal it with salt water and make promises to live well, never forget those that are still alive, and to remember those who had already passed on from this life. Haymitch finally joins us, contributing twenty-three years of tributes he was forced to mentor. Additions become smaller. An old memory that surfaces. A late primrose preserved between the pages. Strange bits of happiness, like the photo of Finnick and Annie's newborn baby.

We learn to keep busy again. Peeta bakes and plants flowers. I hunt. Haymitch drinks until the liquor runs out, and then raises geese until the next train arrives. Fortunately, the geese can take pretty good care for themselves. We're not alone. A few hundred other return, because whatever happens, this place is our home. With the mines closed, they plow the ashes into the earth and plant food. Machines from the Capitol break ground for a new factory where we will make medicines. Although no one seeds it, the Meadow turns green again.

Peeta and I grow back together again. There are still moments where he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I knew this would have happened anyway. That what I needed to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with hatred and rage. I have plenty of fire myself. What I needed is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth and not destruction. The promise that life can go on, not matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that.

So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?"

I tell him. "Real."