Chapter 4

Peeta is determined to help and to heal, to become the man he was before. We argue often about how hard he pushes himself, but he's resolute. I think back to all of Gale's rants during our morning hunts so long ago, about how lazy and soft the Merchant class was. How wrong that turned out to be. I've never met anyone who works harder than Peeta, and always with a smile, even in the depths of pain and exhaustion. And though I'm loathe to admit it, I feel far less hopeless when we're working together.

His movements are still slow and pained, but he is resourceful, keeping an eye on our little garden again, as much as he can. Harvesting purslane that grows in the cracks between paving stones and plucking dandelions from around our home. Even occasionally snaring small animals that meander into our yard. It's not enough food, not by half. But we don't starve.

The rest of the District isn't so lucky.

The number of kids signing up for tesserae soars, but they often don't receive their grain. Food shortages begin, and even those with money come away from the shops empty-handed. As more and more people get sick, or outright starve to death, unrest festers in the District. Looting becomes commonplace, the grocery and the Bakery both install bars over their windows. Mr. Cartwright keeps the door to the shop locked all of the time. The stockades fill with thieves.

So does the cemetery.

Then, one late summer day, just on the cusp of fall, the weekly supply train arrives from the Capitol completely empty. Outraged, hungry and hopeless, a crowd of miners riots, destroying two of the boxcars before being brought violently under control. Bodies, dozens of them, litter the street around Lucy Gray Baird station, left to rot in the sun for days as a warning to the others of what happens when the will of the Capitol is defied. I'm terrified my oldest friend, Gale, might be one of them; I've seen him in the stocks more than once, know how his hatred of the Capitol has erupted before. I can't stomach walking among the bodies to see for myself, but news travels fast in a place like District Twelve, even with the brutal new regime, and when I hear that Gale is not among the dead rioters, I'm weak with gratitude. It feels like a bullet dodged.

But the taste of rebellion, however quickly quashed, only whets the appetites of people so long oppressed. People who have never before thwarted authority become bolder, more daring. In small and larger ways, the people of District Twelve defy the Peacekeepers and the rule of law. I can feel something in the air, the rolling boil of a pot about to run over.

As the violence increases day by day, Peeta forbids me from walking anywhere alone, and for once I don't argue. Desperation makes people do crazy things, the streets of our tiny district are no longer safe.

But I'm not expecting the danger to find me on my own back stoop.

Dusk has fallen, each day is shorter and shorter as autumn wraps the community in its killing clutches. Golden light beckons me to come in from the darkness, spilling from my small house with the promise of warmth and comfort as I climb the back steps, a clutch of acorns from the tree on the edge of their yard ensconced in the pocket of my father's old jacket. I'm distracted, planning what Peeta might make when he grinds the precious nuts, and that's why I don't hear it until it's too late.

He grabs my braid, yanking me backwards. A surprised grunt is the only sound I emit as I land hard on my back in the grass, a cold steel blade suddenly pressed to my throat, trapping any other noises. Someone crouches over me, silhouetted by the house lights, shrouded in shadows. I struggle to stay calm before my faceless attacker, struggle to swallow my terror and rationally assess the situation. I could scream; doubtless Peeta would hear me, the house is only feet away. But I can't risk it. With his mangled leg still healing, the chances of my husband causing himself irreparable damage trying to run to me are too great. Besides, it would take him too long, the knife would spill my lifeblood before he even gathered his crutch. And none of our neighbors would respond to a scream, it's all too common now. People have learned to bar their doors and their ears to the sounds of suffering in the district.

I curl my hand underneath me to obscure the thin silver ring that's the only item of any value I own. It's a little looser now than it once was, but every bit as meaningful as the day Peeta slid it onto my finger. Even with how precarious our situation is, I haven't been able to bring herself to consider selling it.

Despite the fear and anger that courses through my veins, I lie quietly in the dew, trying to calm my breathing. Each shuddering inhale presses the knife more firmly to my tender throat; I can feel the prickle of blood slipping down my neck already. Finally my attacker speaks: "Give me all of your food."

I can't help but startle; the voice isn't a wizened old miner's. It's the squeaking, cracking tones of an adolescent boy, probably only just of Reaping age, shaking in what can only be fear. I squint, trying to make him out in the shadows. His face is unfathomable, but I can see the outline of his shoulders. He's not very big, not much bigger than I am, and the hand that holds the blade trembles uncontrollably. I see my chance and grab it.

Before the fire and his injury, I used to play-wrestle with Peeta. It often ended in me spread beneath him as we made love, but I still picked up a few things. The snippets of technique I learned in those long-ago sessions of laughter and delight steer me as I catch my attacker off guard. My arm and leg move in tandem, sending the knife flying even as I heave his body sideways.

I scramble to my feet, hand closing over a rock as I do. I can't help but feel proud of myself, to have shown the same skill as a tribute in the arena. Except this isn't the Hunger Games, and while murder might be sanctioned there, it still isn't here, even in this lawlessness. Except, of course, when it's Peacekeepers doing the killing. The intelligent thing to do would be to run into the house, bolt the door and hunker down. But I can't resist looking at the would-be thief.

Lying in a pool of light, he's wide-eyed and frightened, and even younger than I thought. Younger than Prim. Obviously from the Seam, he can't be more than thirteen, his dark hair falls over his eyes, and his cheekbones jut out over hollow cheeks. He recoils from the rock in my hand, terrified prey cowering before the huntress. A soft sound like a whimper erupts from his throat, and I freeze.

This child - this could have been me, not too long ago, if someone hadn't shown me compassion.

I toss the rock aside; it vanishes into the darkness. I reach a hand towards the boy lying at my feet, and he flinches. "It's okay," I murmur, envisioning that it's Prim starving and desperate, and softening even more.

Behind me, the door creaks open. "Katniss?" Peeta calls. I turn to look over my shoulder, and the moment my attention is diverted, the child scrambles away, disappearing into the night.

At the sight of Peeta standing on the threshold of our house, radiating warmth and light, I break. All of the adrenaline that had buoyed me through my brush with death rushes away. I barely manage to stumble up the couple of steps to half collapse in his arms, shaking violently. Where he finds the strength to support most of my weight while balanced on a crutch, I don't know, but before I can regain my sense, he's managed to pull me inside and bolt the door behind us.

In the kitchen light, I can see his eyes widen as he looks down at my face, his expression horror-struck. "Katniss," he gasps, his hand going to my throat, stroking the delicate skin with shaking fingers. "What happened...?"

"I'm okay," I say. "I'm okay. It's just a scratch." My words get caught on a choked-back sob. I push his hand away, burrowing into his embrace, needing his closeness, his comfort.

He falls into a chair, pulling me into his lap, and wrapping me tightly in his arms. I can tell he has a thousand questions, but he simply holds me, the harshness of his breaths against my hair the only sign he's upset. When finally I feel like I can breathe again, I pull back, just enough to raise my tear-stained face to his. "I didn't see him until he grabbed me," I start. "He was looking for food."

I can feel Peeta tense beneath me. "He attacked you?" It isn't really a question. There's a look in his eyes that I've never seen before, an anger, a loathing simmering beneath his calm exterior.

"He was just a kid," I whisper, her voice breaking. "Just a hungry kid."

I don't protest when Peeta lifts me from his lap and deposits me on top of our table, even though I can see him grimace from my weight. His eyes scan every inch of my body, looking for more injuries as he cleans the shallow cut on my neck wordlessly, jaw clenching over and over. Several times, he tries to say something, then abruptly stops. Though he has always had a silver tongue, has never before lacked for words, he seems unable to articulate his thoughts.

The acorns forgotten, we put together a meager meal of hardtack and greens. Silence stretches through the meal, tense and uncomfortable, and though I'm loathe to waste food, neither I nor Peeta do more than pick at our plates.

Normally, we might spend the evening together in our cozy living room, reading or playing checkers or just chatting. But tonight, as soon as the meal is done, Peeta heads to our bedroom.

I wonder if I should let him be, know he's probably sore from the long day and from lifting my weight. I putter a little, tucking the remnants of our meals away and washing up the dishes. But I'm reluctant to be alone, even inside our little home on the border of Town. I don't feel quite as safe anymore.

I find Peeta sitting in the dark, perched on the edge of our bed, head in his hands and eyes downcast. He doesn't look up as I enter the room, not even when I deliberately move my stocking feet into his line of sight. "Are you mad at me?" I ask, her voice no more than a whisper, but he recoils as if I'd screamed it, head snapping up, eyes wide.

"No! Oh Katniss, no." He reaches for my hands, tugging me to stand between his knees and then wrapping his arms around my waist. I relax into his embrace, my arms sliding around his shoulders, my cheek resting against the top of his downy head. "I'm not upset with you," he continues after some time. "I'm angry at myself." He tips his head up and even in the dim, I can see the pain and sorrow in his eyes. "I couldn't protect you," he whispers.

I cup his stubbled cheeks in my hands, heart aching at the self-loathing I see on his face. "It's not your fault," I whisper, dropping my forehead to press against his, reveling in his warmth, his closeness. My eyes slip shut. "Not your fault, Peeta."

The words have barely left my lips when his big hand cups the back of her head, tugging me to close the distance between them. Our lips meet in a kiss brimming with pain and love and relief. I mean to keep the kiss chaste, gentle, comforting. But Peeta's mouth is demanding, his hand holding her firmly in place as he kisses me hard. She can taste months worth of frustration in every shocking sweep of his tongue.

Peeta pulls me backwards onto the bed. He winces slightly as I land on top of him and I pull back, afraid of hurting him, but his grip only tightens. We haven't made love since before the fire, before he nearly lost his life, and while he's healing more every day, he's still covered in patches of sensitive skin, his leg bone still knitting.

"No," he demands, his voice so low and firm, it sends a shiver up my spine. "I need you." And I can't argue; I need him too. I need my dandelion, need the man I love. And more than that; I sense that he needs this, needs me, to help him feel normal again. Like a husband, a partner again.

There's a desperation to the way we make love, a need that supersedes finesse. It's raw and real. I can see that he's hurting by the way his brows furrow, and in the sweat that pops up on his forehead despite the cool night. But his pace never falters. And I pour four months worth of longing into every touch, caressing skin so long off-limits, kissing each scar until we collapse together in a shuddering, gasping heap.

He kisses me over and over as we lie in our nest of rumpled bedsheets, whispering words of gratitude and devotion. I fall asleep cradled in his arms, safe and loved and whole again.

I wake in the pale dawn from a dreamless sleep, still cradled in his arms, as if he's spent the whole night in silent vigil over me. He's watching me in the early morning light, gentle fingers tracing my throat, eyes still so sad. "You can't blame yourself," I tell him, morning-rough voice pleading.

"I know," he says, but I can tell it's just words, that the incident has shaken him more deeply than all of the rest of the horrors that the district has seen. "It's just sometimes I can't stand it anymore. To the point where… I'm not sure what I'll do."

I shush him with a kiss.

I don't tell Mr. Cartwright what happened, though I make no attempt to cover the cut on my throat. But the furrow between his pale brows and the way he hugs me just a little tighter than usual suggest he's guessed.

Days at the shoe shop are long in their boredom, with no customers, no work and no materials. We pass the time quietly, the monotony only broken by periodic visits from Delly, who is teaching me how to knit socks for inventory, with wool unraveled from old, moth-eaten sweaters. We both know the socks will never sell, but we work together anyway, grasping at any bit of normalcy in our frightening new world.

Dusk is falling on a day like every other when Rye arrives at the shop more than an hour earlier than I usually leave. Though I don't want to admit it, I'm grateful for the company of my brothers-in-law, at least one of whom comes every day to walk me home. The streets of District Twelve no longer feel like the home I've always known. I don't complain about leaving early, simply thankful for Rye's stoic companionship on the walk through Town.

I'm surprised, and worried, when approaching my little house I see that it's dark inside and the curtains are drawn. I rush the last few steps, heart in my throat, afraid that Peeta has fallen or been attacked in our home. I should never have let that boy who tried to rob me run away! But before I can reach for the door, Rye grabs my arm, turning me to face him. I don't have a chance to explain the reason for my panic before he lays his finger across my lips, and though I'm confused, I trust my brother-in-law enough to remain silent.

We step inside my home, and as my eyes adjust to the dim, I realize that it's not empty. My small living room is packed with people, sitting, standing or crouching wherever they can find room. The darkness is split by the flickering light of a single candle, held aloft by my husband, who stands by our hearth, speaking in hushed tones to the assembly.

His usual easy expression is replaced by something more intense and removed. I've seen flashes of it before: when he would barter at the Hob, when he confronted his father after his mother's death, when he realized I'd been attacked in our yard. But I don't know quite what to make of it. I glance around at the motley group in my house, men and women, young and old, Seam and Town, all leaning forward, completely absorbed. Peeta doesn't need a brush to paint images. He works just as well in words.

And the words he's sharing with the breathless group are ones I've heard before, but never from him. Words about revolution, about rebellion. Words about taking back our district, about making it a place where everyone can be safe. Words about overthrowing the Capitol. Gale used to say things like that, in the woods, when we were but children with no idea how much more difficult our lives were to become. And even Daddy had occasionally murmured bits of sedition, when he thought I was asleep or not paying attention. I'd never been swayed by either my father or by Gale, though. I'd always thought their ideas preposterous. But in Peeta's simple, direct manner, the words make sense, almost seem plausible. Coming from him, the words are a beacon of hope.

But I still can't believe it's my mild-mannered husband inciting rebellion.

I glance at Rye, only to find him already watching me. He shrugs, his expression sad but defiant, then without a word he slips out of the house and into the night.

The candle gets passed from hand to hand as others take turns speaking, and I'm surprised by the calm that permeates the group. No one shouts, or even tries to talk overtop of anyone else, despite the number of people and the weight of the discussion. There's a focus, a resolve in the group that I've never experienced. A certainty that what's happening is bigger than all of us.

I pad away silently, shutting the bedroom door firmly between myself and the assembly.

When the last of the visitors has left, Peeta brings a bowl of broth to our bedroom, where I'm pacing in front of our bed from a mixture of anger and fear. He doesn't speak, only sets the bowl on the dresser and waits, watching me warily.

"Why?" I ask, a single word that carries the weight of his betrayal. We've been together nearly four years, happily married for almost two, shared every hope, every dream, nearly every thought, or so I've always believed. But here he is, my husband, organizing a rebellion in the living room of the home we've made together, and he hadn't said a word to me.

Not a single word.

Peeta rubs the back of his neck, averting his eyes. "I can't sit around and do nothing anymore, Katniss," he says softly, missing the underlying meaning in my question. Or avoiding it, maybe. I scowl at him, and after a long, tense silence, he relents. "I was going to tell you."

"You don't trust me." It isn't a question.

"It isn't that." Peeta sighs, world-weary. "I just didn't want to involve you until there was something to say."

"The minute you spoke to a single person about this there was something to say!" My voice rises in anger. "I can't believe you were doing this behind my back! Do you have any idea how crazy this is? The Peacekeepers already know your name, Peeta! They've probably been watching since the Hob! How could you be so careless?"

"This is why I didn't want you involved," he snaps, then blanches. I turn wide grey eyes at him, letting out a little gasp of horror, my heart clenching painfully in her chest. "I didn't mean-" he starts, but I cut him off.

"Yes you did."

We've fought before, we're young and strong-willed. But the stilted silence that pervades our house over the days that follow is new. Peeta tries to explain that he didn't involve me because he was worried about my safety, but I don't want to hear it. I cling fiercely to my anger as a shield from the hurt. The awkwardness, the disappointment that simmers between us is suffocating, and inescapable.

The meetings continue, despite my opposition, once, sometimes twice a week when I'm there, perhaps more when I'm not around. Plans are made and argued and refined. The Mellark house is the perfect place for them, right on the border between Town and the Seam, where no one looks out of place wandering by. And Peeta, with his strong ties to both the Merchant and miner groups, is the perfect man to organize. Organize he does; the number of people who file in and out of our house is staggering. Both Brett's and Libby's fathers make an appearance, the tailor too. Even sweet Madge brings bits of intelligence she's gleaned from her father, the Mayor's connections. It's terrifying. As cozy as our little home is, I'm not certain that sedition is safe even here. The Capitol, and its informants, are always listening. And the Peacekeepers are always looking for excuses to torture the populace.

Though I feign disinterest, I nonetheless watch carefully. At my core, I don't trust easily and worry that any of the men and women who come to speak with Peeta could turn on us, turn us in for nothing more than the promise of a bit of grain. But I don't protest or make any move to disrupt the gatherings either, and Peeta doesn't speak to me about it, doesn't pressure me in any way to join them, seeming instead to try to shelter me from learning too much. Other men and women in the district, however, approach me frequently during my travels to Town, and to the Seam to see Mother and Prim, asking me to carry messages back to Peeta, short coded phrases that I don't understand. "For your safety," Peeta tells me when I ask why they don't simply tell me what they're talking about, annoyance in my voice. "In case…" We both know what 'in case' means.

I come home late one evening, sad and dispirited, my journey slowed and hampered by the cold November rains that pelt the district, turning the uneven cobbles slick, pocketing the dirt road with icy pools. The lights are on in my little home and I sigh with relief when Rye kisses my cheek and leaves me at the door. No meetings tonight. A quiet evening with my husband. Maybe we can try to get past this awful grey cloud. I'm tired of the distance between them, miss him terribly.

Peeta meets me at the door, but he isn't alone in our home. Gale is sitting at our kitchen table, mint-scented steam curling from the chipped mug between his hands. I look up at my husband with questioning eyes as he helps me slide out of my wet coat. "Just hear him out," Peeta murmurs, kissing my temple before hobbling away to the bedroom, leaning heavily on the slender cane he still uses.

I take the chair across from the man who was once my best friend. We're acquaintances now, having stitched together just enough goodwill to be pleasant to each other in passing. But looking into his solemn grey eyes, I'm struck by their heartrending familiarity, and I mourn the loss of what was once a great fellowship between us.

Gale was never one for small talk or pleasantries, so I'm not surprised when he simply launches directly into what he's come to speak with me about. "I'm leaving the district," he starts. "Soon, maybe this week. A small group, me and five other people. We want you to come too. No one knows the woods better than you do. No one would be a better asset than you."

I sit in stunned silence. "You're running away?" I finally manage to whisper. We'd talked about it before, years ago, before we were both married, but with so many people depending on us it had been nothing more than a fantasy.

"It's the only way we can change things in the district," he says. "From the outside."

There are so many things wrong with that statement I almost don't know where to start. "How?" I murmur. "The fence…"

"Our plan," he says carefully, "is to set fire to the coal depot." The depot, the transfer point between the mines and the trains that take coal away from District Twelve and ship it to the Capitol, sits just outside of Town. Since the coal train only comes twice a week, the depot is almost always full, and highly flammable. "They'll have to cut the electricity to put it out," Gale continues. I'm sure about that either. Gale must see my disbelief because he shakes his head, but still he continues. "Some of the other miners will cause a distraction, and we'll sneak under the fence while they do. With the chaos and disruption they probably won't even notice we're missing for at least a few days. And by then, we'll be long gone."

I know that this is a dangerous plan, both for Gale and his group, and for those left behind. If he succeeds, the rest of the populace will be under even closer surveillance, the families left behind in even more danger. Worse, this ill-conceived plot could destroy everything that Peeta and the others have been working so diligently towards.

And yet, there is something compelling about the idea of leaving the district forever, of escaping into the woods, of never being under the Capitol's control again. Of hunting and living by my own wits. Freedom.

"What about the other plans?" I ask, alluding to Peeta. I'm reluctant to put it into words, but I know Gale understands. Despite his absence from the gatherings that have taken place over the previous weeks, I'm certain he is aware of them, of what's being discussed. Though he's been careful, Gale's been sowing seeds of discontent in the mines himself for years.

"They're not ready yet. We can't wait that long."

"But you'll ruin everything they've been working towards." Gale's face twists in disgust.

"There's nothing but talk, diplomacy and compromise. We need action, and we need it now." I can't argue with that; every single day the district gets worse, more desperate. People are dying in droves. But what can any of them do about it?

"It's almost winter, Gale, you'll freeze out there." It'd make more sense to stick with the rebels' timeline, which would have them acting just before the next Reaping. Surely Gale understands that. "Where would you even go?"

"District Thirteen," he says, and she scowls.

"There's no Thirteen. It got blown off the map seventy-five years ago."

"I'm serious. It's still there, Katniss."

"It's nothing but rubble; we've all seen the footage."

"That's the thing." Gale's eyes glow with excitement and I feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck. "They've been using the same footage for as long as anyone can remember," he says. I try to think back, to call up the images of Thirteen I've seen on television. "You know how they always show the Justice Building?" Gale continues. I nod; I've probably seen it a thousand times. "If you look very carefully, you'll see it. Up in the far right-hand corner."

"See what?" I ask.

"A mockingjay. Just a glimpse of it as it flies by. The same one every time. We think they keep reusing the old footage because the Capitol can't show what's really there now."

I give a grunt of disbelief. "You're going to District Thirteen based on that? A shot of a bird? You think you're going to find some new city with people strolling around in it?"

"No. We think the people moved underground when everything on the surface was destroyed. We think they've managed to survive. And we think the Capitol leaves them alone because, before the Dark Days, District Thirteen's principal industry was nuclear development."

"They were graphite miners," I murmur. But I hesitate, because that's what we were taught in school, propoganda from the Capitol.

"They had a few small mines, yes. But not enough to justify a population of that size. That, I guess, is the only thing we know for sure," Gale says.

"If there are people in District Thirteen, with powerful weapons... why haven't they helped us?" I say, my voice rising in anger. Gale grasps my wrist in warning, and I drop my voice again. The windows are closed, but the walls thin, and even talking about things like this is illegal. "If it's true," I hiss, "why do they leave us to live like this? With the hunger and the killings and the Games?" I can't help but hate this imaginary underground city of District Thirteen and those who sit by, watching them die. They're no better than the Capitol.

"I don't know," he hisses. "Right now, we're just holding on to hope that they exist." He sighs, and in that moment he looks so much older than his twenty-two years. No longer the boy who used to laugh with me in the woods. "We have to do something, Catnip," he says, and his use of the nickname I haven't heard in nearly three years catches my attention, softens my pique. "This is our opportunity, if we're brave enough to take it."

"It's not safe," I whisper, eyes averted, tracing the grain of the worn wood table with a thumbnail.

"Safe to do what?" Gale says gently. "Starve? Work like slaves? Send my son to the Reaping?" I glance up, meeting his eyes. "Leevy's pregnant. I want a better life for my family."

Pregnant. Gale's always wanted kids, I know that, he'd mentioned it once or twice when we were but children ourselves. But I never thought he'd be crazy enough to have them in District Twelve, in Panem, of all places. Where he'd never be able to protect them, not really. With a nod, Gale stands. "You could do so much, Katniss. Think about it," he says. "That's all I ask." Then he's gone.

I sit in the sudden silence of his escape, pondering his words. If there is a District Thirteen, they might be the key to overthrowing the Capitol. And Gale will need my help to get there. No one else would be as useful to him as I could be, with my hunting and tracking know-how.

Maybe Gale is right. This could be an opportunity. But it's not the right opportunity for me, I feel that deep within her bones. I'm a wife now, married. I could never leave Peeta behind, especially not now, never mind Prim. Or Mother, for that matter. And with the fence on, I haven't seen the inside of the woods in months; I'd probably be rusty, at least at first. With Gale's and at least five others' lives on the line, that's not a risk I'm willing to take.

Peeta, Prim, little Davey Cartwright… even Gale himself. Aren't they the reasons that I have to stay, to try to fight? Because what has been done to us is so wrong, so beyond justification, so evil that there is no other choice? What the rebels are trying to do, whatever any of them might be forced to endure, it is for them. It's too late to help Davey, but maybe not too late for Rory and Vick and Posy. Not too late for Rye's twins. Not too late for Gale's future child.

Peeta's hand on my shoulder makes her jump, so engrossed in my own thoughts I hadn't heard his shuffling return. His blue eyes are cautious; I know he heard everything Gale said, had probably heard the plan even before I came home. I know too that he would never try to influence me one way or the other. It's one of so many things I love about Peeta, that he always gives me space to live my life the way I want to. My residual anger wanes as my understanding grows.

It's just a couple of weeks later when Gale enacts his plan, one of those eerily quiet mornings that have become commonplace in a district hobbled by fear and oppression. A blaring siren clears the streets of Peacekeepers as a tide of white rushes through town, past the front of the shoe shop heading, I know, for the coal depot. Mr. Cartwright flicks uneasy eyes to me, but I shake my head, turning back to the windows, watching the commotion fly by. Though there are other faces in the windows of other shops, no one steps out. As quickly as the exodus began, it ends, leaving the streets empty. A few wayward wisps of smoke snake past the window, a hint of what's happening just out of sight, but nothing more.

The siren cuts off abruptly, and the single lamp in the shoe shop goes dark. Reflected in the glass, I can see Mr. Cartwright's lips thin. The silence is heavy, foreboding. But it doesn't last. We've only just gotten back to working, by candlelight, when a hum filters through the drafty windows, fills the air, growing and growing like a swarm of tracker-jackers.

Mr. Cartwright reacts first; in four large steps, he crosses the room and snaps the bolt on the door. "Upstairs," he says, rushing to the back of the shop, and I follow without question.

The hum becomes a buzz; by the time we reach the apartment, I realize what I'm hearing are voices screaming and shouting, lots of them. I start for the window, but Mr. Cartwright grabs my arm. "Stay down," he murmurs, and I nod.

I creep to the window, careful to stay low, but I can barely believe my eyes. Hundreds and hundreds of men and women charge through the Square, brandishing sticks and clubs, a battle cry rattling the windows. "What's happening?" I wonder, not realizing I've said it aloud until Mr. Cartwright shrugs where he's crouched beside me.

"I thought you'd know," he says softly. I understand what he means; though I've been cautious, my husband's rebel support is not exactly a secret.

"I don't think he has anything to do with this." But even as I say it, I realize I'm not so certain. Peeta and I still don't talk about his rebel activities, and there are too many people outside for the crowd to have formed spontaneously.

The mass of people rushes by, leaving only a swirl of dust to mingle with the thickening smoke. Mr. Cartwright and I stay where we are, hunkered down on the faded rag carpet in front of the window, but nothing more happens. "I should go check on Peeta," I start, but Mr. Cartwright shakes his head.

"No. I don't want you out there. Whatever this is, it isn't over yet." I don't argue with him because I feel it too, an uneasiness to the quiet, a tension.

We don't wait long, though it feels interminable to me. The noise picks up again, a cacophony unlike anything I've ever heard or even imagined. With my nose pressed tightly to the soot-stained window, I can only see shadows, flashes of white as Peacekeepers push back the crowd just out of sight of the little shop. But the sounds tell the story: shattering glass, the popping of gunshots, the screams of the injured and horrible thudding sounds that fill my imagination with terrifying images.

Then the crowd is pushed back, a rippling wave of humanity staggering under the force of the Peacekeepers. I gasp as shrieks sound from below. It's a mob scene! The Square's packed with people, their faces hidden with rags and homemade masks, throwing bricks. Peacekeepers shoot into the crowd indiscriminately, killing at random. I've never seen anything like it, but I can only be witnessing one thing. An uprising.

Mr. Cartwright pulls me away from the windows, barricades the only door into the apartment with a chair under the handle and a dresser in front of the chair. We crouch together in a tiny room at the rear of the apartment, away from the windows. The one that used to be Delly and Davey's bedroom, back in a simpler time.

The noise goes on for hours, waxing and waning as the assembly surges forward and is pushed back. Occasionally, we can feel the building shake, hear glass breaking in the living area and the shop below. The scent of sulphur and smoke permeates the room. I shudder and Mr. Cartwright reaches for my hand, engulfing it in both of his larger hands, squeezing reassuringly. I hate feeling trapped like a squirrel in a tree, hate the helplessness of waiting, but I'm small and unarmed, uncertain of what's even happening in the streets below. Useless.

Thin streaks of amber light spill through the windows when finally there is silence, a cold December sunset bathing the world outside. "I have to go," I whisper, voice hoarse from hours of tense silence. I'm worried about Peeta, petrified that he might have dragged himself into the fray, found a way to be part of it. I shiver with the thought.

"It's not safe," Mr. Cartwright whispers back, his face drawn and haggard, looking if possible even older than he had that morning. "Who knows what's happened out there? Please, I can't risk you getting caught up in any of that. I - I couldn't bear it if anything happened..." He trails off, but meets my eyes in the dim, then pulls me into a tight hug. "You're like a daughter to me, Katniss. Surely you know that. I don't want to lose you too." His fierce protectiveness catches me off guard, fills me with warmth. It's been a long time since my own father died, a long time since a parent was worried for me. But Peeta, my Peeta, is out there, and I need him, need to see him, need to know he's safe. None of our arguing, none of the terrible cloud between us matters anymore. My breath hitches. I've prided herself on staying strong and in control practically my whole life, but I'm hanging on by a thread with my marriage in flux and a war outside my door.

Mr. Cartwright sighs, his arms tightening just slightly. "I'll go with you," he says. I nod wordlessly against his shoulder. Rationally, I know with the darkness falling no one should be out alone, especially after whatever happened in the Square. And I know that there isn't much I can do anyway. Peeta is either safe at home or...

I won't allow myself to think that way. I can't afford to.

But I have to go home, have to know. I hate the idea of dragging Mr. Cartwright out into the unknown. He's a good man, a kind man, but he's slow and stooped; too much heartache has aged him prematurely. If something bad happened, with my speed and agility, I might be able to outrun it. Mr. Cartwright would not.

I suspect I won't be able to talk him out of it, however. It's not just Seam folk who are stubborn.

It turns out that I don't have to. Banging from down in the shop startles both of us, our breaths caught in silent terror. But then someone is yelling my name, Brann, I realize, my heart stuttering in my chest. Mr. Cartwright clearly recognizes the voice too, all at once the tension leaks from his body and he stands, tugging me to my feet and shuffling to pull the barricade from in front of the apartment door. We stagger down the dark steps, hearts thundering.

Brann is wild-eyed, grabbing me as soon as the shop door is thrown open and hugging me hard. "I thought..." he gasps, but doesn't finish.

I'm aware of movement behind her, and the telltale crunching of glass. I pull back to see that Brett has come into the shop too and is holding a candle aloft while Mr. Cartwright picks his way through the wreck of his front shop. The largest of the plate glass windows is shattered, rocks and debris litter the floor where we'd been working just hours earlier. "It's over now," Brann says softly, but unconvincingly. "The rebels have taken the district."

"Peeta?" I whisper.

"At home." I slump at his words, nearly sick with relief. "We went there first, and when we realized you weren't at home…" he trails off, then hugs me again. "I'm glad you're okay."

We can't leave Mr. Cartwright behind; the building isn't safe for him to stay in, especially alone and with night falling. When Brett assures him that his son-in-law's flower shop is still standing, he pastes on the same stoic expression I've seen so many times over the past two years, packs a small bag and lets us lead him from his home, his ruined livelihood.

Smoke still lingers in the air, as we emerge into the twilight, acrid and foreboding. The rat-a-tat-tat of distant gunfire echoes off the buildings, hastens our steps. We pick our way through the detritus, keeping to the shadows. The destruction, the blood-slicked cobblestones littered with bodies, some white-clad, some dressed in bloodstained homespun, is unlike anything I've ever seen. It's almost like stepping into the arena, like on television, I realize. A death match, but on a far larger scale.

I catch Brann glancing at the Bakery as we hurry by and I follow his gaze. Like the shoe shop, its large front windows have been blown out. But there is a broken body on the cement steps, the same steps where I can remember Peeta waiting before our first date, when we were so young, so innocent. In the dim, I can't tell who it is, can't tell if they're even alive. I shift, intending on crossing over to see, but Brann grabs my arm. His face is drawn, his eyes haunted, but there isn't anything we can do. The idea that it could be his father, my father-in-law, crumpled on those steps haunts me. But we can't stop to see.

Delly bursts into tears when we arrive at the tiny cottage behind the florist's shop, and many precious minutes are lost assuring her that we're all okay, that we'll be safe heading for the edge of Town.

The walk home feels like it takes forever, but once I can see my little house, see the candlelight that flickers in the front window, I abandon the idea of stealth and break into a run.

He's there, my Peeta, surrounded by other men, leaning over a pieced-together map that takes up my entire kitchen table, unfurling over the edges. His expression is composed, serious, lines of concentration between his brows as he listens intently to the others. For a moment, I simply stand, drinking in his wholeness, the relief running through me like morphling. Then his eyes lift to mine, and his composure falls away.

My name is a gasp as he pushes away from his post and staggers to me, nearly knocking me over in his haste to hold me in his arms. I cling to him, burying my nose in the crook of his neck, his scent comforting. He's real, this is real, my Peeta, my island in the middle of all of this confusion. Nothing else matters. Not anymore.

People file in and out of our house all evening and deep into the night, bringing information and updates, each more exciting than the last. Taken by surprise and overwhelmed by sheer numbers, the Peacekeepers were overcome by the crowds. Those who didn't die in the onslaught are being held prisoner in the barracks, and the rebels have taken over the Justice Building, Lucy Gray Baird train station, and the mine offices too. They're even attempting to reach rebel factions in the other districts using the communications equipment in Mayor Undersee's mansion. Each piece of news buoys the spirits of the rebels. There is hope that this has not been an act of madness, that in some way, if they could get the word out to other districts, an actual overthrow of the government in the Capitol might be possible.

But Peeta, though pleased, seems guarded, his smiles tempered, his questions sharp. He keeps me by his side all night, unwilling to allow us to be separated even for a moment, as if certain that if a door shuts between us, it will lock and we'll be trapped apart. I don't complain. I need the certainty of his hand in mine.

Dawn is only a handful of hours away when I convince Peeta to come to bed. I'm exhausted and can see he's in significant pain, know his healing body needs rest. It seems like our home has become some sort of rebel tactical headquarters, and I won't let that get in the way of my husband's health.

There's so much I want to ask him, but wrapped in his arms and burrowed under our quilt, sleep overtakes me too quickly. When I wake, several hours later, one glance at Peeta's face tells me he hasn't slept at all. The dark circles under his eyes look like bruises in the muted light of a rainy morning. "What is it?"

He's quiet for so long I think he might not tell me. Finally, he sighs. "It was too easy," he whispers. "I don't trust it."

"Too easy?" My voice is shrill and he immediately raises a finger to my lips. There are still other people in the house, just beyond the thin walls of our bedroom. I squint at him in disbelief. Clearly, he hasn't given thought to the bodies all over the Square, scattered like broken branches after a storm. All of those men and women, and the families they've left behind - they would disagree that it was easy. As if sensing my pique, he draws me closer, his lips pressing against the top of my head. There is a tension in his arms, a quaver in his stuttering breaths.

"It was too fast, and the Peacekeepers gave up too quickly," he whispers, the words urgent and for me alone. "I think they know the Capitol is going to send thousands of new Peacekeepers on the train, to slaughter us all. Madge says that's what happened in District Eight." I shudder, images of the bodies in the streets popping again into her head. I envision Peeta among the piles, or Prim, and my heart catches in my throat, a little noise of misery escaping me. "I'm sorry," Peeta whispers, shifting to kiss my cheek. "I didn't mean to frighten you." He sighs again; I can hear the exhaustion. "We have time. It'll take them a while to mount an attack, to get their forces all the way out here. But there aren't any real plans for what to do next, we don't have any allies, and we're too small to hold off the Capitol alone."

"Have you told the others? What you think could happen?" I'm reluctant to give voice to the picture he's painted, as if saying the words might make them real. Peeta sighs.

"I have. But they don't agree. They think the Capitol will negotiate with us since we have so many Peacekeepers held hostage, and all of their weapons."

"Will they?"

"Would you, if you were the Capitol?" I don't know how to answer that, can't fathom how the Capitol thinks. They already treat the districts like vermin. I think Peeta is likely right about what they'd do to vermin who bite. It wouldn't take very many Peacekeepers to exterminate us all, and no one would miss us, all the way out here on the edge of Panem, far from the other districts.

"What about District Thirteen?"

Peeta shrugs, his shoulders shifting under my cheek. "Gale and the others haven't been gone twenty-four hours yet, and that's assuming they got away at all. It'll take weeks to reach another district on foot, months maybe. And who knows if they'll find anything there?"

"You don't think Thirteen exists." It's not a question. Though we haven't discussed that night when Gale came to visit, I know Peeta heard his entire spiel. He shrugs again.

"It'd be just a little too convenient, wouldn't it? That there's this magical, powerful district that the Capitol doesn't interfere with? And if they do exist, what makes Gale think they'd be willing to help us? We've been left out to dry for nearly eighty years, for entire generations, and they've never once intervened?" He tightens his arms around me, shaking with emotion. "We were building to something, and his inability to wait might have cost more than the plans. What if it costs us the entire district?"

I lie silently in his arms, considering his words. It's the same argument I'd used on Gale, that if Thirteen existed, surely they'd have come already. No one would stand by and watch children slaughtered for entertainment and not step in if they could.

Though that's exactly what the Capitol citizens do, and have done every year for decades. I shudder. "Why did you go ahead with the attack, Peeta?" I whisper. "If you knew you weren't ready."

"It wasn't my call." There's anger in his voice, raw and potent. "I didn't know they'd launched the attack until long after it had started." His arms tighten around me, and when he speaks again his voice is choked. "I could have lost you. When Brann told me the main battle had been right in the Square…" Whatever he'd been meaning to say gets caught in his throat. I want to pull back, to see his face, reassure him. But his grip is iron. So I let him cling and pretend I don't feel the way he trembles.

We lie wrapped tightly together beneath the threadbare quilt, each lost in thought. "Promise me," he whispers after some time, voice rough and hoarse. "Promise that if they come, you'll take Prim and your mom and go to the cabin."

"What about you?"

He's already shaking his head. "You know I won't make it, not with this bum leg."

I push away from him, scowling. "I won't go without you." I'm surprisingly angered by the request. I feels like I did the night I found out he'd joined the rebellion, angry that he's trying to take away my agency, and hurt that he thinks I could run off and live without him. How could he not understand?

"Katniss."

"No." The irritation bubbles up again, hot and fast. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to make those kinds of decisions for me. We're partners, a team, Peeta. Have you forgotten?" I lift my hand between us, morning light catching the thin silver band around my finger, the token I cherish above all other possessions, even more than my father's bows. "Doesn't this mean anything to you anymore?" It's a low blow, and I know it, but I'm still unprepared for how his face crumples, the abject agony that floods his features.

He reaches for my hand, enveloping it in both of his own and pressing a fleeting kiss to the warm bit of silver. "Nothing is as important to me as you are," he rasps, a single miserable tear sneaking out, snaking down his nose to plop on the pillow.

"Then why would you ask me to leave?" Weeks worth of hurt choke her, threatening to erupt.

"Because I don't want you forgetting how different our circumstances are. If you died, and I lived, there would be no life for me at all in District Twelve. You're my whole life," he says, swallowing hard. "I would never be happy again." I start to object but he puts a finger to my lips. "It's different for you. I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard. But there are other people who'd make your life worth living."

"Peeta," I whisper, not knowing how to continue.

"No one really needs me," he says, and there's no self-pity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him, Rye and Brann both have families of their own now. They would mourn him, as would a handful of friends. But they would get by. Only one person would be damaged beyond repair if Peeta died. Me.

"I do," I say. "I need you." After all of this time together, he still doesn't truly appreciate how essential he is to me. I'm not good at saying things, I've always known that, but I really thought after everything he knew. "When you were hurt… when we didn't know if you were going to pull through..." I choke on the memory, a knot of misery clogging my throat.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry. I just feel so useless, I can't work, I can't take care of you. I can't keep you safe. And now I've made things worse."

"You give me everything I need, Peeta. We protect each other. I love you." The words are simple and heartfelt, words I don't give him nearly often enough, words that maybe he needs to hear more.

He holds me so tightly I can barely breathe, kissing every inch of my face. "I've missed you so much," he murmurs over and over, a mantra. We don't make love, not with people in the house, but he kisses and touches me reverently, reconnecting and reaffirming. And I revel in his love, his attention, his focus.

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell him, and can feel the tension ease in his body. "I'm going to stay right here with you and cause all kinds of trouble."

It's a relief for me to be in the woods, my woods, again after so long, like breaking the surface after swimming underwater just a little too long. Even in the persistent mist, the crisp, clean air fills my lungs, flushes away the soot and stench of Town. I check all of my old hiding places, relieved to find that my father's bows are safe in their waterproof wrappings, all except the bow that Gale always used. It's missing. He must have gotten away after all. I'm pleased to think that he has the bow with him, and is using it to feed his band of rebels, wherever they may be.

I spend the day going back and forth from the woods to the Seam to Town, delivering much-needed medicinal herbs to Mother and Prim, willow bark and yarrow and honey, bringing rosehips and dried elderberries to Libby for the babies who are malnourished. With so many sick and wounded to care for, my family is desperate for supplies, and I'm happy to help in my own small way. Happy too, to be in the woods instead of assisting the people who are identifying bodies in the Square.

Heavy clouds, the kind that get stuck between the mountains and pummel the district for days, blanket the sky, making the landscape flat and foreboding. I'd gotten a late start, torn between wanting to stay with Peeta and needing to hunt and to forage, and now it's much later than I would usually be in the woods at this time of year. My fingers are numb from the cold, my legs exhausted, but my game bag is nearly overflowing with katniss roots and hickory nuts. Two fat squirrels hang from my belt. I didn't get them through the eye, I'm out of practice, as I knew I would be, with the bow after nearly six months trapped in the district, but between them and the rabbit I snared earlier, Peeta and I will go to bed with full stomachs for the first time in months.

I'm a little reluctant to head back, the forest a long-missed friend, a comfort. But the winter solstice is approaching, night falls early these days, and the encroaching darkness makes staying longer dangerous.

I decide to stop at Delly's house before heading home, to bring her and Weston some of the food I've foraged. The way Mr. Cartwright took care of me yesterday, the way he's been helping me and looking out for me for years, is a kindness I'll never be able to repay. But some fresh meat and mushrooms are a start. I've just reached the gap under the fence closest to Town when all at once every bird falls silent. All but a single bird, which shrieks shrilly, as if giving a warning cry. It stops me in my tracks, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

They appear out of nowhere, silently skimming the treetops and I duck under a prickly juniper instinctively. Though they move unfathomably quickly, I know what they are, I've seen one once before, a long, long time ago.

Hovercraft.

As the shiny Capitol machinery speeds overhead I realize that Peeta was wrong.

We don't have time after all.

The idea is almost too horrifying to consider. Will Twelve suffer the same fate as Thirteen did all those years ago? I'd never thought about the possibility of the Capitol wiping out the whole district until now. They could do it; District 12 is tiny, we'd hardly even be missed. And while the coal we mine is useful, the Capitol could easily bring in workers from other districts, districts that are more obedient, more complacent. Fill train after train with people from the Career districts to work in the mines. I try to imagine a world with no District Twelve. Peeta's father's Bakery, the shoe shop, the Square, all gone. My friends gone. My sister… fear claws from the pit of my stomach up my throat. It suddenly seems very plausible. I don't even try to contain my scream; the woods echo with my terror.

The ground shudders as a series of booms sound, a percussive quake matching the pounding of my heart. But before I can decide what to do, the hovercraft are again sliding soundlessly by, accompanied by the cries of a lone mockingjay, and vanish as if they'd never been there at all.

I am stunned into stillness, huddling beneath my tree for far too long, trying to comprehend. Are the hovercraft coming back? I don't think there were enough bangs for them to have destroyed the whole district. Was this just a first wave?

By the time I shake off the inertia a purple-blue twilight hangs heavy in the air and I'm half frozen, a cold drizzle falling, saturating my hair, biting my cheeks. The last weak threads of daylight barely penetrate the clouds, but even in the dim my feet know the paths. I pick my way towards Delly's little cottage, but there seems to be nothing amiss, no screams of terror, only the low hum of voices in the distance. Maybe just people still working on the grim task of identifying the dead. Could I have imagined the hovercraft? Did Peeta's words lodge in my brain, make me see things that aren't real?

The scent of smoke carries in the air, too strong for simple heating fires. Funeral pyres, maybe. The mental image makes me shudder. But it's nothing compared to the reality of the situation. Once I round the bend behind the sweetshop, my nightmares become reality. It isn't funeral pyres burning. It's the Justice Building.

Fifty or sixty people stand in stunned witness before the smoldering remains of what was the main building in District Twelve, it's roof caved in, one of its columns listing dangerously. I drift into the crowd, wide-eyed and horrified. There's a shell-shocked calm, a grim acceptance of yet another atrocity. When a hand closes around my arm, I jump, nearly knocking Delly to the ground. Before I can say a word, or even ascertain that she's all right, Delly has me enveloped in a huge hug. "Madge," I whisper, before bursting into tears, and my heart sinks. Even without seeing it herself, I know what Delly is saying. But Delly drags me there anyway.

The Mayor's mansion, with its sophisticated communications systems, one of the only links between District Twelve and the far-away Capitol, is a shell. Nothing remains but shards of scorched wood of the house where I spent so many afternoons listening to Madge play piano, cultivating a friendship that went deeper than I had ever realized. People pick through the rubble with stony determination, but their faces carry a hopelessness that is far too familiar. I know no one will be found alive.

Delly and I wander the district hand in hand, slipping through the rivers of mud and past bodies still laying where they fell the day before, two girls forced to grow up far too quickly. The somber, mud-flecked men and women we encounter fill in the story in bits and pieces. The Capitol hovercraft had dropped a total of six bombs, targeting the Justice Building, the Mayor's mansion, Lucy Gray Baird train station and the tracks leading out of town and, most stunningly, the Peacekeeper Barracks. Firebombs, the others call them, designed to catch and spread, to incinerate the district. But they hadn't accounted for the rain.

Even still, the damage is stunning. Where the Peacekeeper Barracks once stood near the railway tracks is a smoking crater; there will be no survivors. The steel rails too are obliterated, blackened bits of metal twisting towards the horizon.

I stagger home in the blackness, sloshing through icy puddles on my way to the edge of Town, not even noticing the cold anymore, completely numb. When I push open the door to my home, the sight that greets me punctures the fog. Peeta, my Peeta, slumped on our couch, arms wrapped around Brann while Brett sits on the other side of his husband, holding on tightly. My mind flashes to the broken body on the Bakery steps. But when Peeta lifts red-rimmed eyes to my own, the name that falls from his lips hurts so much more.

Rye.