CHAPTER XVIII

"I would have never believed that I would someday wish I had a sister to practice braiding hair," Sam mumbles around the clenched teeth that hold what will eventually be his bowstring. I glance up from the healer's journal and a gruesome entry about a mining accident amputation to watch Sam tightly twisting fibers with a furrowed brow.

For two days, I tended the garden and read the healing journal while Samson grunted and sweat with a smile on his face. He finished the stave, carving out a grip and sanding it smooth. He spent yesterday assembling the pieces for a small sheaf of arrows. Today, after showing him how to strip and dampen the sinew and walking him through the fingering of a tight reverse twist, he has the dexterous task of braiding his bow string.

His technique isn't terrible, but it is slow. I've done this many times, both on bow strings and hair, so my fingers fly into motion without much thought. But for him, this is new and his slow pace displays how very important it is to him. "It looks good, Sam," I compliment, and watch his face light up like the sun.

I probably don't do that enough. Well, for that matter, I don't speak enough in general either. Sam doesn't seem to mind my silence, which makes him excellent company, however, it takes such little effort to acknowledge his hard work and applaud his successes. It's an elite club of kids who would work as hard as he is while filled with such pleasure.

A half-hour later I hear his crow, "Ha! I did it!" I softly smile as he shoots his fist into the air in victory. However that quickly shifts to a frown when he follows with, "Kat, that means tomorrow you'll teach me how to shoot!"

Late, the following morning, the bow string has been properly stretched and is ready to be strung and sampled.

I'm not ready for this. I honestly thought it would take a couple more days, but Samson worked quickly, with very few errors. Perhaps, I shouldn't have stopped him from making the few mistakes I saw coming. Then, he might have had to start over, and I would have bought a few more days of delay.

Sae and Ana were aware of my poor mood by the amount of unintelligible grunting that took place over breakfast. On her way out, Sae laughed and gave me a firm slap on the back. "Pull it together, you're just teaching a kid how to shoot. Everdeens were born ready to grasp a bow. I know you miss it."

It's true I do miss it. Every morning when I check the snares, I am reminded how much I miss it. Snares were where Gale excelled and the bow was mine. My pa taught me their basics, but I we never set them. Traps are just not the Everdeen way.

"Everdeen hunters, little bird, must have three things: Respect, Patience, and Humility," my father's smoky voice whispers to me. "First, respect what nature has given us. It's a gift granted not taken, and we have a responsibility to never abuse that privilege. Second, is to remember the best things worth having often require the most patience. And patience requires trust. I waited for a long time to catch your ma, my songbird, but I knew, I trusted, that it was all worth the wait."

"And humility?" I ask him. "Ah that one's easy. Is there anything more humbling than standing out here? This great big tree was alive during the Dark Days and it will still be here decades after your own days. We're just tiny specks in a colossal world, but somehow we are all connected to one another. Our little ripples have the potential to become great waves. Remember that. Actions and consequences, my moon, actions and consequences."

Yes, snares really don't fit any of my father's three rules. It's time to go back to my roots, back to the fundamentals. Sam should be barreling through the door any moment and I want to be ready to teach him not only the skills but also the values that my father was sure to instill in me. I need to remember this was a part of who I was long before the Games. A delicious idea hits me, frankly it's a stroke of genius. Two birds, one arrow.

I tuck a hammer and a few nails into my pocket and saunter into the formal dining room. I hate this room, preferring to eat all my meals at the kitchen table. From the walls to the furniture, this room reeks of the Capitol. I shiver at how much it reminds me of the tribute apartments.

Worse than the gaudy wallpaper or gilded chairs, there is a painting proudly mounted on the wall that I have detested since the moment we moved in. The focal point of the room is the dramatic oil painting of Tribute chariots charging into City Circle. It even features proud government banners and cheering crowds all encircled by the shimmering gold of the Victor's crown. It's impressive how many things I despise that they were able to fit into one frame. Everything about it is grotesque.

A vicious smirk alights my face as I stalk towards the portrait. I've got a much better use for you, my pretty. Heaving the landscape from the wall takes more strength than expected, but I suppose the painting is loaded with such bullshit it must come with some weight. Half lifting – half dragging it through the house and out the back door, I perform my own Tribute Parade. The heinous painting clunks down the back steps and into the dirt of the garden. How wonderful to see its ostentatious gold frame caking with mud.

Now where shall your new home be? I look toward the woods that abut the property. There's a thick tree to the west that looks promising and would provide plenty of distance to practice. Sweating already, I heft the painting to the tree, attempting to boost the base up with my knee. Now how are you going to get the hammer and nails out of your pocket, Katniss.

I drop the painting, carelessly. This is not a one-person job.

My silent call is answered, though I immediately regret it.

"What the hell are you doing, sweetheart?" Haymitch shouts from his porch. He's been drinking of course, but doesn't appear as inebriated as I've seen of late. As he lumbers across his yard and into mine I pull out the hammer. "Whoa, you didn't tell me you were armed," he laughs, "what's the story here?"

"Need to mount a target for shooting practice," I explain with as few words as possible. Haymitch purses his lips, distrusting that is the entire explanation. He looks over my shoulder and spots the corner of the massive frame tipped against the tree. "Is that what I think it is?" He asks as he pushes past me.

The laughter that erupts from him is almost manic. I watch his jaw unhinge, begin sputtering, and then see his entire body double over in full roaring laughs. He wheezes, attempting to catch his breath, but then lifts his eyes to glimpse at the painting, and the he bends over in laughter again. Finally with two large pants through his lips, he wipes at his eyes with his sleeves. "Woo, oh sweetheart, I've got to say," he takes another big sniff in before exhaling a chuckle out, "there are many times where I truly want to kill you, but then there are other times, beautiful moments when you do something like this, when I wonder if you're my long lost daughter."

He's laughing again, but I'm oddly touched by his sentiment. That's as close as we'll ever get to Haymitch telling me he cares about me. If I were to guess, I'd say my cheeks were softly blushing at the unexpected affection.

I move to stand next to him in front of the image. "Just needed a target, huh?"

I smirk and he chuckles again, in response. "I've always hated this painting. I've got an older version of one shoved somewhere. After the first time, I was severely warned not to light the second copy on fire." That doesn't surprise me one bit. "I should hunt it down and make a knife throwing station in my yard."

"Everything about it is hideous," I comment and he nods in agreement. "Yeah, sweetheart. I always thought Snow purposely made it something we'd all hate to taunt us. So you gonna shoot some arrows at it?"

"Mhmm," I hum, "I agreed to teach Samson. Help me mount it?"

With some team effort and a few nails, the cursed painting finds its new home. We back away to properly take in the view. "Oh that's a beautiful sight. This might be one of your best ideas, sweetheart. I may start skipping my afternoon naps to watch this monstrosity get torn to smithereens."

"Watcha' lookin' at, Kat? Oh, hey Mr. Abernathy!" Samson shouts as he scurries, bow in hand, through the garden and down to the forest's edge.

"Setting up a target," I answer upon his arrival. He looks up at the homemade gallery Haymitch and I have arranged. "What's the ugly painting for?"

Haymitch barks out a laugh at that. "Out of the mouths of babes, I tell ya'," he leans down to Sam conspiratorially, "Sweetheart here chose her favorite of Snow's fine art for you to use as a target. Now, look at that," he whistles through his teeth and reaches out to inspect Sam's new bow, "that's quite the weapon you got here."

I smile softly, pleased he recognizes the quality workmanship. "Thanks, Mr. Abernathy," Samson caws. "Kat's spent the last week showing me how to make it. Last week this was just another tree. Now it's my bow. I made it – can you believe it?"

His enthusiasm is infectious and even Haymitch can't help but be charmed by it. His eyes sparkle at the sight of the child, one that could have easily been reaped last summer, displaying such delight. His eyes then turn to me and soften with some kind of significance I can't place. But I can see his mind working, and I wonder at what may have just clicked in his head.

"It's a beaut. And you've got the best shot in Panem coaching you. Be sure to pay attention; she don't say much, but there ain't another person who knows more about how to stay alive."

Samson nods seriously. I'm tempted to reach out and embrace Haymitch, but downgrade to squeezing his arm with all the emotion I have hidden beneath my mask. He'll understand the meaning and be grateful to avoid the hug.

I tell Samson to stretch while I don my aged leather three-finger glove and retrieve my quiver and yew bow. I wrap a spare wrist guard around Samsons forearm, knowing how much he'll regret it later if left bare. He pulls out an arrow, ready to start.

"Best put that away for now, Sam," I warn, "we've got some work before we actually shoot." He attempts to hide his disappointment, which is sweet in its utter failure. "Let's start with your stance." I move in front to show him. "Your shoulder to the target, feet shoulder-width apart. Back is straight and strong. You don't want to lose your footing, so make sure you're anchored." I move to him and nudge a foot and pull his shoulders back. "Better. This is where your body should be every time. Let me see you relax and then find your stance again."

After a few more minutes repeating the motions, I move to his grip then show him how to position his three fingers to pull the string back. "Good. Now point the bow and grab the string, but don't pull yet." I watch. "Relax, walk around then do it again." I catch his pinky and remove it from the string grip.

A half hour later he's consistently standing properly and holding the bow correctly. That's more than half the battle. He looks impressive as he draws back the string to the corner of his mouth like I showed him. At the notice of his arms trembling, I recommend a break for lunch.

Three hours later, we're back at the forest's edge wrapping up for the day. "I think you're ready for an arrow." "Really, you think?" His grin falters, "Can you show me first?"

I suppose the moment has come; yet somehow, I don't feel the anxiety I did a month ago. Maybe it was spending the day with a bow in my hand teaching, but it feels natural in my palm. That feeling of it being an organic extension of my own limbs has returned and I don't have the slightest urge to whisper 'goodnight'. "Only if you watch carefully."

I step forward, my body automatically finding its stance like a magnetic force. With a breath, I draw the bow back, aiming at the painting in the distance. At its center is the dais where I know a miniature President Snow is depicted- the puppet master at work. I release the string and watch the arrow fly. Its aim is true and I feel a tiny bubble of joy from deep within. That felt good.

For the following three days, Samson and I shoot at the ugly painting. Every so often, Haymitch will join us, watching from his porch and cheering 'huzzahs' whenever there's an exceptionally satisfying hit. On the second day, I move Samson closer to the target so he isn't discouraged by the constant misses, but by the end of the third afternoon, I've slowly moved him back to the starting distance without him realizing and he still hits the canvas.

"If you keep this up, by next week, we'll head out into the woods," I tell him, a reward for all his hard work and his inadvertent assistance in resolving my own bow-related issues. "That'd be amazing, Kat," he smiles up at me. "It'd be awesome if I could be good enough to go out and try it for real."

As we return to the back porch, I notice an unexpected figure leaning against the railing next to Sae. From the masculine figure, I notice a smaller one perched in his arms lift a little arm and wave it at us enthusiastically. Ana wiggles out of what I can now perceive is Thom's arms and bounds down to greet us. With a fistful of sweater, she pulls me up to the porch to join the conversation.

"Hello Katniss," Thom greets warmly, sure to make contact with his gentle eyes, before turning to Sam and exclaiming, "and well done Samson! That was quite a sight. Sae here says you only started this week but I'm sure she must be playing me the fool."

"No sir, Miss Sae's not lying," Sam answers respectfully, "Today is my fourth day learning."

"In that case, you'll be bringing us home dinner in no time. Must be some special teacher you've got there," Thom teases. "Yes, our Katniss is a gem." Sae hands me a cold glass, "Here's some lemonade for you, child. Come on, Samson, I think you earned a snack."

I glance between Sae and Thom and realize she has arranged a private meeting. I try to push down the disquiet I automatically feel. This is Thom; I know he's not a threat. With a purposed attempt to show a casual mien, I sit down on the back steps and gesture for Thom to begin whatever it is he's prepared.

"I feel I should tell you about what's on the horizon for the rebuild." I raise my eyebrows but nothing more. He sighs out a chuckle. "Never one to make it easy, are you?

"We've given updates to Sae to pass on to you before, but we should have spoken directly all along. You deserve to know what's going on from the source, not some messenger. Anyway, better late than never, and this week we're in for some big changes. Have you been through the district in the past week?"

I shake my head to the negative. The closest I've been is the route to the train depot a couple weeks past.

"It's a new world out there now. Every day my mind is blown to see the amount they can get done with the tech that the government has sent down. I suppose they had all that fancy equipment laying around to build the next arena."

That's true. They built a new arena every year. So much waste. Thinking about the cost and time invested in creating such a terrible place is nauseating. The Games led to 12's destruction, so there's a sense of justice to using their best technology to rebuild it.

"Those we lost have been buried in the Meadow, and almost a quarter of the new district plot has been cleared and is ready for construction. Don't go near the mines though because that's where the rubble has been temporarily relocated."

"What do you want to warn me about?" I wonder. The previous nights, I haven't snuck over to listen in on any of their meetings. Has there been some change I should be worried about?

"On Sunday, we're getting another train full of crew. With the exception of a few traveling with family members who will be assisting Sae in the increased cooking, they will be living in the unit outside the village and shouldn't be in your business."

Thom asks to join me on my step to which I assent. "The crews know it is in their best interest to keep their distance and they all have a lot of respect for you, you should know that. They are curious though. You must have some idea, Katniss, you've become almost mythic." My whole body stiffens at that. I don't want that. Make them stop. I'm just Katniss.

"I know, I know, but I felt you should know what to expect. And I think you can handle curiosity, as long as they're not intrusive or angry, right?" I focus my eyes to the horizon, where a red and gold sun is setting, and finally nod. Yes, I couldn't expect any less could I? I'd be lucky for only curiosity.

"There's something else. What is it?" I ask when I notice him rubbing his palms.

"There're a lot of questions coming from the higher ups wanting to know about how you are doing. Know that we try to push them off best we can so you keep some privacy. In this district, you've got a lot more on your side than just Sae, Haymitch, and Samson. Between Plutarch or you, the lot of us don't have any worries about covering you at his expense."

I offer him a small smile in thanks.

"That said, I have a feeling we'll eventually be getting some less-than-welcome visitors. I doubt we'll see them before June, but I wanted to warn you that Haymitch may start getting calls. You have any questions for me?"

I'm quiet for a few moments, wondering if I dare ask. I look at Thom and decide to trust him.

"Um," I begin, barely above a whisper and with discomfort surely written across my face. "Do I have to worry about Gale coming here?" Thom furrows his brow looking surprised that I'd voice unease at the idea of being in my former partner's presence. He catches himself and jumps in to reply.

"Gale's now got himself quite the position with the government. He's been assigning his toadies to come out to us. I thought he might have been showing off his importance, but now I wonder if he is actually avoiding coming here. Do you… Katniss I never want to pry, so feel free to tell me to shut it… but do you not want him here? If so, we can watch your back accordingly."

I really don't want to go into this with Thom or really anyone, but the benefit of having an early warning of any invasion is too tempting. "Gale doesn't belong in 12 anymore. I said my goodbyes to him before the execution. Some things should stay in the past where they belong."

I don't want to look into my former friend's eyes and see those bombs being played in my head on repeat. I don't want to feel like I owe him affections I'm not able to give. I don't want to feel judged for how I manage my grief. And I don't want to clash over our opposing views. I want to preserve my pre-Games memory of Gale, our perfect fraternity. Like a jar of strawberry preserves, I'll treasure its sweetness long past when it would have gone rotten. I dread how it could all be spoiled if we don't accept that things are different now, we are different now.

Thom watches my expressions and some vague comprehension takes place. "We'll keep our ears open and I'll be better about letting you know what's going on."

As we finish our goodbyes and he begins to walk away, I remember something important.

"Oh, and Thom?" He turns around. "Please tell Oakley to fill his dreams with something other than my gardening habits."

I smirk as I walk away, Thom still figuring out how to pick his jaw off the ground.