CHAPTER XXIII

"Well darling, your little district may not be à la mode, but I believe it is very promising. I'm just tickled that tonight we will be meeting the ringleaders of this new venture. I have so many ideas, and I am certain they are desperate for my consultation." Effie is awake and perky, daintily sipping coffee at my kitchen table. "I must ask, Peeta seems to think the bedroom I'm staying in is different and after he mentioned it I recalled shopping for those gorgeous chiffon drapes with our dear Cinna. Did you have something to do with that, Katniss?"

My cheeks warm as my two companions look at me expectantly. "When Sae and I cleaned up the house, I didn't think you'd like the room as it was. Cinna's design for my mother's room seemed more appropriate. It was an easy switch."

Misty-eyed, she flutters, "Oh, aren't I the most fortunate of Escorts?"

Peeta speculates, "You stocked the kitchen too, didn't you?"

I scratch at my neck, feeling guilty. "We had plenty from when Sae was cooking here and you needed something to fill the shelves." Peeta chuckles and tossed back, "And the enormous sack of baking flour? That was to just fill up shelf-space too?"

I don a smug grin. "Oh no, that was Sae and me choosing to leave it with a master. It was the responsible thing to do."

"Oh Peeta, isn't that lovely! You didn't get to bake at all at the center." She turns to me to explain, "I know he has been missing it. I remember his lamenting every time they brought another appalling dinner roll. But, alas, they wouldn't let patients into the kitchens." She bats her hand into the air dismissively, causing her rows of bracelets to clang about. "The doctors and their silly rules, they simply would not budge."

"I haven't baked in a long time. I don't know if it'll be the same," Peeta says faintly as his fingernail traces into the grain of the wood table.

I shrug. "Then it'll be different."

Who care's if it is the same? Nothing is the same anymore.

How did I get roped into this? I ask myself for the tenth time in that last half hour.

I look around at my fully occupied table. Worse still, it is not my kitchen table, but the table in the pretentious formal dining room. When not just one but four men walked through my front door, all hopes of this night being bearable evaporated.

Thom, Oakley, Sergeant Major Max, and Vern are seated around the table and chatting amiably with Peeta and Effie. Effie is in her element, the ultimate hostess. I have never been more grateful for that annoying talent. She is more than welcome to that task.

Oakley is blatantly flirting with Effie, showering her in compliments and flashing his dimples. And Effie, I'm stunned as I witness her superlative skills at seduction. Watching the two of them sporting with each other is like watch inga train wreck. I struggle to not stare. The others don't appear to be at all bothered. The other three crew leaders are deep in a discussion with Peeta about building statuses and district infrastructure.

"We are beginning to receive proposals for business permits. There's a lot of interest despite the lack of publicity," Max apprises. Thom continues, "It's surprising. District 12 seems to connect with people. A lot of folks just want to be a part of whatever the new district becomes."

"Will the types of shops be much as they were before or will they be more like Capitol businesses?" Peeta inquires. The contrast of the two couldn't be greater. "It actually seems like it'll be its own new style," Thom answers and Vern elaborates, "There won't be the same kind of fixation on a single district trade. We're trying to build a district of opportunity and diversity."

"Mmm, Peeta, this is delicious!" Oakley licks butter from his top lip and he chews the warm bread. "I hope you'll rebuild the bakery."

Peeta blanches, his skin quickly loosing color. All conversations have stopped and are watching him awaiting a response. I can tell he is floundering for an answer. Don't they understand that what they are asking is a painful thing? Hey Peeta, you want to rebuild your dead family's bakery? It'll be great, good as new. Like the old one didn't go up in flames with every person you cared about.

"That's a question for another time." My voice declares. I think these might be the first words I have spoken this entire meal. Thankfully, my tone clearly says that this in nonnegotiable and the topic is closed.

Effie fills the awkward silence with a barrage of opinions of what the district "simply must" include and ideas for designs and style. Oakley seems genuinely captivated by the way she speaks. This morphs into a discussion of the current plans for Plutarch's grand Remembrance Day, which entrances Effie. It's as if she grows taller and her gestures grow wilder as she passionately vocalizes a topic near and dear to her heart: party planning.

While she unknowingly interviews for a job on the celebration committee, I look over to Peeta. To everyone else, he would seem fine, listening attentively with a pleasant expression painted on. But I can tell. His arms are flexed and I'd gamble his hands are fisted into his thighs. If he's not careful, by the force he's applying, he'll leave a bruise. The previous conversation is still eating at him. The others have moved on, but he's still trapped in thought of the Mellark Family Bakery.

I stretch my leg, reaching out under the table, and tap his foot with my own. I catch the slight jolt as he rejoins the present. He quickly glances up through his long eyelashes and offers a genuine smile. I fight to keep the corners of my mouth from mirroring it. I shove another forkful of food into my mouth and prepare for another uncomfortable hour of forced socialization.

"I've brought you something."

Tonight's dinner was thankfully much less troublesome than the last. Effie was in a rush, eating quickly so she could meet with Oakley who promised to introduce her to 'the ladies of the neighborhood'. After she flitted out the door, Peeta remained at the table. I put on the kettle and pull out the leaves of lemon balm picked from the garden to steep for tea. Carrying over two mugs, I find Peeta at the table with a small box placed in front of him.

"What is it?" I ask suspiciously. He shakes his head at my wariness and lifts the flap.

"I remembered something." He pulls out a plate with a small cake painted in chocolate. "I missed your birthday."

My eyebrows furrow in confusion. My birthday? I try and remember what day it is, but I can barely identify the current month. My bewilderment plays across my face and Peeta chuckles. "It was four days ago. You missed it too?"

My head bobs up and down. "Prim was the only one who ever remembered it. "

He slides a fork across the table and plays with his own between his fingers. "Ever since I was… hmm… seven I think, I remembered." My eyebrows jump at that. "It's true. Your father came into the bakery to trade a squirrel for a simple shortbread cookie to surprise you for your birthday. After he left, I ran straight to my room and wrote down the date so I'd never forget. I'd develop these wild schemes to bake you cake and, despite you not even knowing who I was, I'd sweep you off your feet. But then, every year, I'd chicken out at the last minute." He smiles softly, eyes cast down at the cake. "It only took me a decade."

I load my fork and take a bite. The frosting reminds of that first cup I tasted of hot chocolate. Its rich creaminess was so decadent and for a moment it took me away from the Tribute train and the impeding horror of the Games. I moan contently, "This is unbelievable." My finger swipes up the side of the cake, bypassing the fork to filch more frosting. "So good."

He beams, chest swelling up in pride. "I'm glad they couldn't touch those memories."

I swallow another bite. I never really understood what Snow did to Peeta when he was hijacked. "Is that what they did? Tampered with your memories?"

Peeta puts down his fork and speaks pedantically. "Yeah, doctors referred to it as corrupting them. They took video and audio recordings and reprogrammed their own versions of events that overwrote the real ones. They seemed so real, unquestionable. It wasn't until I noticed the shiny quality that I could tell something was wrong. The doctors don't know if the originals are gone forever or just buried." He fidgets with the fork a frown forming. "I think there is something still there from the real memories. When you sent my sketchbook, there were images that didn't match the shiny memories but were so familiar. I knew them. It's like," he stops to find the right words, "like even though the specific memory is gone, the emotion, the flavor behind it is burned into my mind. I can't trust many of my memories from the last few years, but I can trust my intuition."

It sounds miserable. I really only trust myself, how would I live if I couldn't even do that? Peeta has layers of false Capitol memories, shades of the feelings of the lost original memories, and new alternative images from the tapes his doctors have shown him - three realities fighting against each other. His mind must feel like a hurricane.

I wrap my hands around the steaming mug. "I know I wasn't any help after you were rescued. I- I don't have a good excuse, I just couldn't handle it. I'd like to do better this time- if it is something you'd want. I know there're things that can't be answered with footage of propos or the Games."

"You'd do that?" His voice is small and tinged with hope.

"Come on," I stand, grabbing my mug, and lead him to the couch in the living room. Might as well be comfortable while we have such an uncomfortable conversation. "I'll try my best."

He settles in on the cushion beside me. "Um, okay." He leans over, elbows on his knees and hands gripped together. "Should I just dive in?" I nod. "Okay. Well… I have memories of us on a rooftop. I think it's before one of the Games – both maybe? The conversations… well, they're all upsetting." He flinches at whatever the memory holds. I definitely don't want to know what lies Snow created. "They're all shiny, so I know they're not real, but I'd really like to know what they are supposed to be. When I picture the garden, ignoring the false memory, I have positive feelings… almost warm. I wish I understood why."

"Do you remember why we would go up to the roof?" I ask, curious if he can recall their context. He shakes his head. "Not really. I remember it was private."

"That's truer than you are probably thinking. It was the only place we could freely talk. Between the strong wind and the chimes, the Capitol microphones couldn't pick up what we said but we had a feeling they were still watching. You first took me there after you covered up for me recognizing the Avox assigned to our apartment."

"Lavinia," Peeta mutters, rubbing his eyes utterly haunted. How could I forget? Stupid, stupid Katniss.

"Um, we were also out there the night before the Games watching the crowds on the street. We um," I pause, "we had a… disagreement I guess you'd call it. We didn't really part on good terms." He tilts his head to face me, "Why?"

"You talked about how you didn't plan on surviving. You said you only hoped to," I take a steadying breath, "you only hoped to die as yourself, that the Games wouldn't turn you into a monster. That's when you told me that you wanted to show the Capitol that you were more than just a piece in their Games. I've thought about that again and again. At the time it just made me feel so selfish, ashamed really, that I was thinking about strategies to survive when you were so… so virtuous." I close my eyes and fall back into the stuffed cushion. "You should have been the Mockingjay."

Peeta mimics my movement tossing his body back to relax into the pillows. He smirks eyes sparkling, "I don't think the outfit would have looked as good on me." The humor takes me by surprise and soon the two of us are giggling like children until we settle down and simply sit side by side. I turn my head to get a good look at him then pull out the leather strap binding my braid. "I have an idea," I say while I unwind. "It might be foolish." His eyes are full of questions.

"Scoot over," I instruct, "No like this." I reposition him so I can lay my head in his lap. I tilt my stubborn chin up to view him from below. He looks down at me like a petrified deer. "Does this feel familiar?"

"I- I-" his fingers twitch to thread them into my hair. There you go Peeta; the memory is still in there somewhere.

"Why?" His voice shakes. "Why do I know this?"

I pull in his hovering hand to remove the distance. "This is what we did on our final day on the rooftop. Haymitch and Effie were still peeved at us for our Private Sessions so we were released from interview prep. We escaped to the roof and spent the day picnicking. You sketched and I weaved vines, we played catch with the force field, and watched the sunset. It was a perfect day."

Above me, whispered words pour forth, "I wish I could freeze this moment and live in it forever."

I snap up and spin around to face him. "How do you know those words?"

"I just do… I just- I just do!" he exclaims. "It's in here," he points his finger rhythmically against the middle of his forehead. " Some part of what's real is still safe in there."

He snatches both of my hands and plants a loud kiss on the top of each palm. "Don't you see Katniss? They couldn't erase everything! It's still there. I'm still me."

"Can I join you?" A deep voice calls from behind me. I squint into the sunlight and see Peeta's looking at me sheepishly. It's the first I've seen him since he cheerfully went home, anxious to draw what he had rediscovered while we were on the couch. He's come prepared this afternoon, wearing well-worn clothing ideal for manual labor. I lift a hand, black with soil, to beckon him my way.

"What are we planting today?" He asks as he bends down to join me on the ground.

Seedlings surround me, each growing in odd containers I found around the house to start the seeds. "These will be tomatoes," I gesture to the collection to my left and then point to the other rapidly growing sprouts gathered a few feet away. "Those should be pole beans. How about you come behind me and drop them in as I dig?"

Between the two of us, we find a good rhythm: dig, drop, cover, repeat. "What brings you out here today?" I ask.

"Effie is going to be spending most of the day making calls. And I love her dearly, but I needed to escape. It can be a lot." He shakes his head with a soft smile. "It's okay that I'm here, right?"

"Of course it is," I reply without pause. "You're welcome anytime you need an escape."

"You might regret that invitation. My house is simultaneously too noisy and too quiet. Painting helps, but I still feel the urge to escape outdoors all the time."

I grin at that. It may be new for Peeta, but I've been that way my entire life. "There's nothing wrong with that." I carefully study him after I finish the final hole. His eyes are tired, dark circles matching my own, and his pallor belies what should be his natural glow. "You've been locked up too long – the Capitol, 13, and then with those doctors. You need some sunshine."

I drag the hose over and water the newest additions. "I don't do well if I'm stuck indoors too long. I'm afraid of slipping backwards. The best part of this garden is that it gives me a reason to get up and work outside everyday without having to shoot something."

"I like keeping my hands busy," he discloses. "My mind doesn't feel so… disordered when my hands are occupied. That's why the sketching helped so much while I was in the facility."

"Finnick tied knots," I remind him. Peeta's drawing, Haymitch's drinking, me and my pearl - it isn't a strange thing. Each of us had a coping mechanism. Finn's stupid length of rope found its way into both my and Peeta's hands when times were tough. I stop spraying and look into the distance. "We do what we can to keep going."

I turn back and meet Peeta's gaze. His eyes tell me he understands me in a way that others cannot. Only someone who has lived through and lost all that we have could understand how having a will to carry on is a daily battle.

"We've spent a long time being forced into things. I got very used to not expecting to live to see twenty. Now…" He shakes his head rapidly, causing his locks to tumble into his eyes. "Now what do we do?"

He looks at me, pleading for an answer. As if I know, I'm just as lost as he is. I place my hand on his forearm and shrug. "I don't know Peeta. I've spent my life protecting Prim. Sae told me I lived for my sister. I built my world around her and every decision I made started and ended with her. Then one day she was gone." Don't you dare start crying, Katniss.

"So I spend each day trying to find something else to live for because I know it would be an insult to so many if I just gave up." I roll up the hose and return it to its hook. "Some days it's to watch the sunrise from the treetops, other days it's to teach Sam something new or help Sae carry supplies from the train. Recently it's been you."

After that regrettable admission, I refuse to look up. Turning around, I walk over to the pile of long branches I gathered last week. Several vegetables, such as the pole beans, are going to need a trellis to climb. With some twine at the top, the branches can connect into a tall cone. A shadow passes over me and I know Peeta has followed me. He doesn't say anything, just takes the growing bundle of branches from my hands and holds them in place so I can tie them. Time passes and the sun inches westward.

"Katniss, why did you become the Mockingjay?"

The question takes me by surprise. How long has he wondering at that? To most, my becoming the figurehead of the rebellion was a given. To me, however, his confusion at how I would agree to such a thing is the mark of someone who knows me well.

"I didn't want to." I justify. "I thought the entire idea ridiculous. Why would anyone listen to me? The whole idea was mad. Plus, I was still furious about all the secrets. How could they not have told us anything about their plans? To trust us so little," I scoff. "They left us hopeless to protect ourselves - made it impossible to protect our families. Then they want me to be some advertisement for the rebellion. Well," I shrug, "it shouldn't surprise you that I wasn't easy to work with.

"There was some part of me, way down deep inside, that knew I needed to do whatever I could to stop Snow. I had to try and fix the wrongs my father had subtly raised me recognize, and if being the Mockingjay was how I was to honor his memory, then so be it." I look up to the empty window of her former bedroom. "But it wasn't until Prim reminded me how important I was to their cause that I actually felt okay about agreeing. She thought I could demand anything and they'd agree to it."

"What was so important?"

"You can't guess?" I look at him and almost laugh. It's obvious, isn't it? "You."

That both shocks and confuses him. "After your first interview, people were angry, calling you a traitor. They didn't understand. I was – I was worried. So I demanded your immunity. Well I got in a mood and expanded it into immunity for all of the captured tributes and killing Snow. You would have been much more diplomatic."

"That was the Mockingjay Deal?" Peeta sputters out and I confirm it with a lazy nod. He mumbles, "I don't really know what to say to that."

"Well next thing I knew they had me in makeup and full costume on a stage pretending I'm talking to, I really don't know, maybe troops mid-battle. It was a disaster. Was any of that footage included in the tape you saw from the war?" I ask, both curious and mortified at the prospect.

"No, there was some raw footage but it must have been from later."

"You should be thankful you didn't have to watch my performance. I don't have your talent. I was always terrible at reading Effie's speeches and you know I'm a bad liar." I wonder if he remembers telling me that during the first Games. "Anyway, they ended up having a huge meeting where Haymitch led a group discussion about my atrocious acting skills and how my performance would kill the rebellion." That makes Peeta laugh. I'd like him to stay smiling so I won't mention that their solution was to toss me into combat.

For the next few minutes we work next to each other in quiet contentedness. "You said you wanted to honor you father's memory? What did you mean by that?" Peeta wonders.

I consider how best to answer. My pa never exactly told me anything specifically, but as I got older and experienced more, I realized he said an awful lot without saying anything. "Pa had a way of hiding important lessons in the stories he'd tell me. Years after he was gone, I'd think back to some of my favorites and realize that the stories weren't nearly as simple as they appeared and definitely not Capitol-approved."

I look around trying to think of an example, when my eyes land on the row of herbs. "Here, follow me."

I lead him across the way to the feathery fern-like patch. "When I was maybe eight or nine, my father came across one of these plants." I break off one of the thicker green stalks. "He broke off a stem just like this. Here, smell," I hold it out so he can catch the pungent scent of licorice.

"Memorable right?" I smile as I smell it myself, refreshing the memory of so long ago. "He then told me an incredible tale supposedly from the beginning of time. He said there were once powerful giants and a king that ruled over everything. The giants decided that the world seemed empty so they gathered up mud and shaped the first humans. But the king, he believed that humans were only ever meant to be slaves. They should be dependent on the king and had to make sacrifices to him in order to receive protection or food. But one of the giants, the one who shaped the humans, didn't think it was right. So one night, he snuck into the castle and stole the gift of fire for his people. He hid it within a hollow stalk of fennel, and carried it down to the humans. With it they could keep their families warm, prepare food, and forge weapons all on their own. With the stolen fire they took control of their destinies."

I twirl the stalk between my fingers. "As I child all I heard was a magical story that helped me remember how to identify wild Fennel, but as I got older, I saw my own life in the story. What were we but slaves to Snow, sending our children as sacrifices in exchange for Capitol food and protection." I stare down at the stalk wondering again why my father taught me such things.

"So you became the Mockingjay and delivered your own fire to the rebellion." It isn't a question. "Maybe," is all I reply.

The bedroom walls flash white, lighting up the world around me, before plummeting back into darkness. For two days, Peeta joined me in the garden, laboring under blue skies before the weather undermined our plans, sending us indoors by changing blue skies to grey. At first, the rain fell gently, but early this morning the wind came, rattling the shutters in warning before the lightning came. All afternoon, lightning and thunder have played an angry game of tag.

I pull my bedclothes close. I miss my quilt – well, Peeta's quilt. I should have kept it, he wouldn't have noticed. Standing, I shuffle over to the window, covers trailing behind me, and look across the lane towards Peeta's house.

The house is dark except for a soft glow coming from the kitchen. What is that? I drop the corners of the blanket, unlatch the window, and throw them open. Smoke. That's smoke.

Without a second thought, my feet are running down the stairs and out the door. The sky flashes as my toes hit the flooding road. With each step, water splashes up my legs and pounding rain soaks my unbound hair. By the first crack of thunder my feet touch the wood of the front porch.

The front door is unlocked and I maintain my pace as I tear through it. The hallway is hazy from smoke but the layout is the same as my own house so I know my way sightless. As I hurry towards the kitchen, thick air hits me like a wave and a trail of muddied feet placed in its wake.

Pulling my tunic up over my nose and mouth I try to locate the fire, but the stovetop is clear and nothing appears alight. I choke on the air, coughing uncontrollably. There are two windows in the kitchen and I push open both to air out the room. The violent winds of the storm greatly ease the effort and soon I can see the source. Black smoke seeps through the seams of the oven. I reach to the knobs and twist them to off. I'll deal with its contents later. For now my first concern is the huddled mass shaking in the corner of the room.

I want to rush over, but my instincts temper me to approach with caution. Fallen chairs and shattered ceramics block the path to him. I toe around the hazards slowly nearing the boy curled in the fetal position and mumbling incoherently.

"Peeta…" I call out lowly.

His hands are clutching his head, fingers digging into his scalp as he pulses back and forth. This must be an episode. His mind is someplace else entirely. Another flash of lightning bolts across the sky and my ear can barely make out his words. "No, no, no, no I don't want to go. Please don't make me go. Katniss is coming, she promised. She told me she would be back. I have to be there. She'll see me at midnight. She promised she'd be there."

The words twist into my heart: the end of the Quell, where it all went wrong.

I'm afraid to touch him and make things worse. About a foot from him, I stay on my hands and knees, crouching as low as I can to appear nonthreatening. He whimpers, "Please don't take me back there – it hurts, please stop, it hurts. Why are you doing this?" He repeats the question over and over as his body jolts as if being electrocuted.

How do I help him? How do I make this stop? He repeatedly gasps for air and pound at his chest. "I can't- I can't- I can't breathe." My sense of self-preservation finally surrenders to my need to protect him.

Crawling over, I remove the distance between us. His eyes are wide, seeing something terrible from long ago. He is panicking, gasping like a fish out of water and I don't know what to do. The only thing my frenzied mind can come up with is to grab his head and pull it in flush against my chest.

"Shhh, you're safe, you're safe Peeta, I swear. I'm sorry I wasn't there when I promised. I'm here now; I'm here. Close your eyes for me." His eyelids seem to war between open and shut. "That's it; close them all the way." I pull his ear against me. "Can you hear my heart? I bet it's loud. That- that is real. Can you feel me breathing? Slow deep breaths- try to follow, okay?" I take a large but shaky breath in. "In," I blow it out through my mouth in a slow hiss, "and out. And again, in… and out." I repeat it over and over for what feels like hundreds of times until his breathing finally slows and begins to mirror my own.

With each slower breath, more of his weight eases into me. His hands untangle from his hair. I notice his right hand, which has moved to tightly grip my tunic, is bleeding into its pale fabric. He must have cut himself during the fray.

Peeta is not small, and between my slight build and rain-soaked body I struggle to keep him upright. I feel his head move as he tries to pull back to look at me. I watch as his eyes lock onto mine and witness the moment where his pupils dilate and his mind is triggered by the sight of me: muttKatniss.

You won't hurt me Peeta. I can feel it. Don't let me down.

I still prepare for the blow, for the attack that I know he is programmed to execute. I feel his hands clench into my sides like steel claws. His grip is firm and desperate, but it is not violent. He is locked in and frozen in place; his eyelids are clamped so tightly his entire face grimaces while his mouth voicelessly mouths, "Not real. Not real. Not real." I decide to take another risk and lean forward, tenderly touching my forehead to his, offering a small anchor to reality. I close my eyes and force my breathing to remain slow and calm.

We sit, fastened together in silence, the rain hammering down out the open window. My mind pulls me towards a memory of my father from when I was not much older than four. A storm was shaking our ramshackle home and I was hiding under my blankets hands covering my ears to muffle the crashes of thunder. My father wrapped me in his arms, pulled away one of my hands, placed his lips next to my ear and sang. I keep my eyes fastened, angle my lips to his ear, and release its melody:

We'll find peace yet again, dear one, when over us
The sky will be bright, and the grove will be green,
And the visions of life will be lovely before us
As the showers of springtime wash the world clean

We'll find peace yet again, when the pain, disconcerting
The calm of our minds in a moment like this,
Shall soon melt away, like the tears of our parting,
Or live only memory to heighten our bliss.

We have clung to each other when a hope scarce could find us;
We've clung when our hearts were the lightest of all,
And the same tender tie that has bound still shall bind us,
When the dark chain of fate shall have ceased to enthrall. *

Harsh sobs burst out with such force the anguish feels as if it could burrow under my own skin. With pants more than breaths, his lungs are unable to catch up with his heaving emotions. I pull his head back down to my chest and stroke his hair like I would when Prim would wake from a nightmare.

"You're okay, Peeta. You can get through this; you're doing so well. Stay with me. We're in your kitchen in 12. I know you can hear me, just listen to the sound of my voice. Stay here with me." I continue to murmur passing thoughts and encouragements as his cries diminish into wet sniffles.

"I hurt you," a hoarse voice utters miserably. I peer down and see his fingers tracing over the dark red smeared across my tunic. "No Peeta, you didn't hurt me. It's yours - you were bleeding when I found you."

He shakes his head but doesn't say anything. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"Effie got stranded while she was visiting Oakley – said she didn't want to get her hair wet. It- it was so quiet here alone. I couldn't sleep. I was – I was trying to bake some bread, but the storm… the storm… so loud. I got confused. Forgot where I was. Then there was smoke everywhere. Why was – oh, no. I burned it didn't I?"

I nod against the top of his head. "But the smoke is what warned me you were in trouble, so I'm grateful for it."

He tries to pull away. "You shouldn't be here. I'm not safe. I could have killed you, Katniss."

I refuse to let him retreat. "No, Peeta. You were a lot of things- scared, disoriented, in pain- but you were never a threat. I know when I'm not safe; it's my greatest skill. Listen to me," I tug his face to meet mine, "I was never in any danger."

His deep blue eyes well up, reminding me of my afternoon's spent fishing in my father's lake. "If I had hurt you, I could never live with myself. I already see myself strangling you in 13 or attacking you in the Capitol. They never go away, they play over and over again." His voice drops to a whisper. "I don't want to live like this anymore," he admits exhaustedly.

I swallow thickly and squeeze him tighter. "I know it's hard. I know you're feeling like you can't possibly take all this pain any longer. But I need you to remember something. When it comes to making it through unlivable days, you, Peeta, have a perfect track record."

*Adapted from We'll Meet Yet Again by Henry Scott Riddell (1798 - 1870)