"What are you doing here?" I choke out, finding my voice, heart thudding in my chest. My instinct to fight or flight is insanely high lately anyway. I'm as jumpy as Buttercup when the neighbor's dog gets loose.

I push myself up on my elbows and glare at Gale, who doesn't seem perturbed by startling the life out of me, showing up at Peeta's house and barging in the way he has.

Life has been wall-to-wall chaos and near misses lately. Over the last twenty-four hours, I've seen children executed as war criminals on television, received threats from Peacekeepers, carried contraband into the District, which, if caught, would have led to arrest and immediate execution or worse. Then there's Peeta's near collision with the fence leading me to injure my foot again, leaving me here on Peeta's sofa with a twisted ankle, immobile and essentially defenseless. I'm defensive, but I think it's understandable, no matter how amused Gale seems with my anger, that bastard.

What if it hadn't been Gale barging in? What if Peacekeepers were coming to arrest Peeta and me?

I wonder if something is wrong with Prim or my mother for half a second. Or maybe Hyacinth is having a problem with her pregnancy, and neither of them is home, so he's looking for them. Gale doesn't seem frantic, though, so I assume there's no life-threatening crisis at hand. That's a good thing, but it doesn't answer anything. As crazy as life has become, he's still the last person I'd expect to show up here because it's not like we all hang out together. Not that I mind. It's just odd to see my past intersecting with the present like this.

Finally, he pulls the door shut behind him and moves further into the living room. He came directly from the mines—he still has on his coke-stained coveralls, and his only clean bits are his hands and forearms. I can see him better now that he's not blocking the sun.

"Nice to see you too," Gale says, eyebrow cocked in a challenge. Old, familiar sarcasm; there's no emergency. He glances around the room before frowning at me. "Where's your boyfriend?"

I huff at the smarminess in Gale's tone. Our relationship is better now than a few years ago, but he's still good at getting my hackles up. I'm not feeling very cooperative, and since two can play the not-answering-questions game, I swing my legs off the couch, grimacing when my bare heel hits the wood floor.

I take small comfort in realizing there's only a slight twinge of pain racing from my ankle down to the sole of my foot. It hurts, but it's not as awful as I expected it to be—more of an annoyance.

"Peeta went to get Prim because of this," I say, pointing to my foot.

Gale's still frowning down at me, and I don't like feeling like a bug under my old hunting partner's microscope, so I place my hand on the arm of the couch, scoot forward, and attempt to stand so we're on equal footing. I have to think better of it because the moment I try to put weight on my foot, my ankle doesn't seem ready to cooperate. Sighing, I settle back in place and look up at him again.

"That the one you hurt last time?" he asks.

"Yep," I say flatly.

"That's shitty."

While I don't see much of Gale anymore, I still know him like the back of my hand. The tension in his stance, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his jaw tight like a wire on his snare line, tells me he's on edge. You don't just unlearn things like that about people.

Gale's an expert at hiding his thoughts—just like me—unless he's angry and in the presence of someone he trusts to vent his frustrations. When that's the case, he's about as subtle as a thunderstorm.

"Of course, he isn't here," he mutters, turning on his heel and glaring at the front door as if the force of his irritation alone will make Peeta reappear. He doesn't give off the air of someone who stopped by to stay and visit over tea, that's for sure.

"I didn't say Peeta hopped a train to another district, so relax. He should be right back. What do you want anyway?" I snap, exhaustion and discomfort catching up and making me the least pleasant version of Katniss. Gale's good at getting her to come out. When he frowns, I wave my hand at him. "Whatever it is, just say it already."

Gale sighs. His gaze drops to the floor. Some of the fight he came in with dissipates before my eyes.

"You didn't say-why aren't you at work?"

"We were shut down, mid-shift. Bosses came around and told everyone to go home for the day. Said they'd let us know when to return. We could think of it as a little vacation. Without pay, of course."

He says all of this dismissively, like no work for the majority of the District for an indeterminate amount of time was a small thing. Like families won't starve, or people won't take desperate measures to survive.

Gale meets my eyes, and I'm not surprised to see fire there. "None of that will matter after tomorrow because that's when everything will begin. That's what I need to talk to you about."

Gale only takes a few minutes to explain what's been happening in the mines. Essentially, they closed down mid-shift today, telling everyone to go home so that they could take security through the grounds and "clean house." There has been too much brawling between workers and a suspicious number of accidents, considering how dangerous mining is on a good day, and management believes the incidents result from worker sabotage. What brought operations to a halt this morning was the superintendent receiving an anonymous, credible threat to blow up the mine entrances to eliminate the Capitol's source of coal.

"There's hardly any coal stockpiled in the Capitol—did you know that? They burn through it as fast as it arrives. Think of that!" Gale spits out, really getting going by the end of his story. "Catnip, it makes me sick. It should make you just as angry as it does me. Your father died down there too, just like mine."

I frown at the mention of our fathers. It feels like an unnecessary reminder, bringing that up.

"Us poor slobs, breaking our backs, spending our whole lives in the damn earth digging in the dark for starvation wages, all so they can light up their city twenty-four hours a day. I'd like to see the whole place burn to the ground. The thing is, they only have themselves to blame, living on those thin margins. They deserve cut-off. Hell, they deserve a lot more than that! Those people in the Capitol are parasites, feeding off the districts. Disgusting. They're bloated worms, sucking the life from us."

Gale is fervid now. He stands and begins to pace, full of restless energy. He's like a big cat, slinking around Peeta's living room. "That's why we never have electricity here, why the fence is never on," he says darkly, "giving us access to the product of our blood and sweat isn't something they ever consider."

I groan, realizing I haven't told him about the fence yet! "Gale," I jump in when he's simply glowering, not ranting again. "It's on now. They turned it back on while we were in the woods this morning."

Gale stops his restless back and forth movement. I watch him drop onto the arm of the couch again. He crosses his arms over his chest. His eyebrows screw together, and he frowns, waiting for me to get angry alongside him, but I don't. I can't commit to that level of anger, not at everything. It's not that I don't care; I just don't have a way to reign those feelings in once they're out.

"Don't you see what's going on? They know things are falling apart everywhere. Most of the other districts are revolting. The Capitol is the weakest it's ever been. They're getting desperate. That's why they've turned it back on." How can Gale be so sure? We hear little to nothing of the world outside of Twelve. "Tomorrow, we're taking our chance to strike while they're vulnerable. The plans are all calculated—we're just waiting for the signal to go."

As often as I told myself the day would come when we had to fight back, having it dropped into my lap with little warning has me reeling. "What are you fighting the Capitol with, pickaxes?" I ask.

Gale laughs derisively. I'm not going to argue with him–I don't even disagree with most of what he's saying! Gale won't listen, I can tell, and besides, what good would it do to argue—he'll just sneer. Well, I know a little more than he thinks I do.

"We've got people on the inside, and they've assured us we'll have weapons and cover when we're ready. This thing is bigger than just us," he reminds me.

He stands to leave, pausing when I meet his eyes. "I know that. You sound like Haymitch," I remark drily. "Just promise me you won't start drinking."

Gale grins, the expression on his face reminding me of how things used to be between us. It's a peace offering; he knows he pushed me a little too far, and now, he's trying to backpedal. "Nah, not me. I couldn't afford it if I wanted to."

I'm much too agitated to sit any longer with everything laid out, staring me in the face. I need to get on my feet and regain mobility.

Walking seems like it could be crucial to surviving an uprising in one piece.

One hand on the back of the couch, then stretching for the mantle and wall to support my weight, I make my way to the door, mostly on one leg, following Gale. He says he needs to get home to Hyacinth, that he's been here long enough and doesn't want my boyfriend to get jealous.

I roll my eyes, and he laughs.

Two plus years of tension between us and the filthy overalls he's wearing be damned, I throw my arms around Gale's shoulders, silently thanking him for thinking of me. His skin smells acrid and dirty from coal dust, but it's a reminder that he's still there, that the Capitol hasn't beat us yet, and we're still able to fight.

Once Gale leaves, I stay away from the windows, knowing at any moment a Peacekeeper could come to the house and check on my story at the guard shack. It'll look bad for us if I'm up and walking around too early.

Thinking I probably ought to rest while I can, I make my way back to the couch. I'm too agitated to close my eyes again, and I'm sitting in the same spot when Peeta comes with Prim in tow behind him. She smiles when I show her I can walk reasonably well, and after a quick examination, she agrees it's probably a minor sprain.

When Prim goes to the kitchen for something, Peeta plops next to me on the couch with a sigh. "You're feeling that much better?" he asks, taking my hand and weaving our fingers together.

I can hear the cabinet doors opening and shutting in the kitchen, telling me Prim is on a search for something; she might be a few minutes. "I am—but the thing is, I had to try whether it hurt or not." I let out a loud breath. "Gale stopped by and came in for a few minutes. He wanted to warn us or tell us, and I'm not sure which, now that I think of it." I frown at the wall in thought. "Maybe both?"

I'm proud of Peeta for acting nonplussed about Gale being here while he wasn't, but that changes once I relay everything Gale told me, though it's not jealousy.

"It feels like we're at the point of no return now," he muses, our hands linked between us on the couch. His presence makes me feel better about everything.

My interactions with Gale were never like this. Peeta always reassures me he's there, calming my fears, while Gale only ever tried to sway my beliefs his way.

"Not just here, but everywhere. The rebellion is getting more and more like an out-of-control fire. There's no way to stop it."

We don't get a chance to discuss much of anything because Prim comes back from the kitchen, a steaming mug in hand. I think that's what she was raiding the cabinets for earlier. "You need to drink this. It'll help with the swelling," she says, handing me the bitter tea.

We put aside the topic of tomorrow for now. I can't bring myself to tell Prim any of it, not yet.

Prim brought my things along with her so I could stay the night at Peeta's. There's no reason to take a chance on making the injury worse, so after lingering a few hours, my sister leaves for home.

I stand at the door, watching as she walks away. I linger outside a few minutes after I've lost sight of her. Intense unease is forming in my gut, and it only takes a minute to realize why. Something in the atmosphere feels off, wrong. The temperature is sweltering, and it's humid despite the long-standing drought and dry conditions we've been dealing with. The wind is nonexistent, the air stagnant, and the District is virtually silent.

I hear no chatter from town, no stirring leaves in the trees, no birds, no insects creaking or chirping. There's no trace of the summer cacophony you usually hear. The piglets in their backyard pen are even quiet. Of course, we need rain, but my guess is that nature is cooking up dangerous thunderstorms for us.

"I hope Prim hurries home," I tell Peeta once I'm inside and making my way to the couch again. I sit heavily and prop my foot up while he remains at the front window, staring pensively outside. "I don't like this weather."

"If it's going to turn nasty out, I don't think it'll be for a while," he says, running a hand through his hair. He seems lost inside his head. He's not in a hurry to delve into everything himself, and I'm glad.

While I stay inside with my foot up, Peeta leaves to water the piglets. After coming back inside, he goes straight to the kitchen, where he scrapes together something for us to eat and brews some more tea. He carries everything out to the main room, and we have our small meal on the couch with little conversation between us. We're both exhausted.

There's so much to discuss that we can't seem to bring up any of it; it feels like it would never end if it starts, and I can't process anything more tonight.

Soon after we eat, I start dozing off again on the couch, my head resting on Peeta's lap. I barely register him telling me we should probably go to bed instead of staying up, but I'm too far gone. I know the position we're in can't be comfortable for him, but he keeps twirling my hair around his fingers, and I'm too relaxed to move. I soon close my eyes, escaping into a deep and dreamless sleep.

When I wake up, I realize hours must have passed because it's dark outside. Peeta is still asleep, slumped against the back of the couch, when I stir awake.

I'm lethargic, momentarily confused by where I am. My limbs are heavy, and I'm still not sure exactly what day it is when a clap of thunder startles me. Inside the house, it's dark because we left no lamps or lights going. Outside the window, the sky is black in a way we haven't seen since the last of the spring storms petered out, thick with low-lying heavy clouds, holding a downpour, ready to unleash on the District any minute.

I sit up. Peeta stirs behind me. I'm still blinking, trying to come around enough to make my way to bed, when I hear someone moving outside Peeta's house, then a knock for the second time today. This time it's at the back door leading into his kitchen. Before Peeta can get up to answer it, I hear the door open, followed by a low murmur of voices.

Peeta and I turn wide eyes on each other. "Were you expecting someone?" I whisper. He shakes his head no.

I hear murmurings from whoever is in the kitchen but can't see them. To say I'm frightened is an understatement. Only a Peacekeeper or a government agent is bold enough to bring people into someone's house unannounced. If it were one of Peeta's brothers or a friend, they would use the front door, as Gale did earlier, instead of sneaking in this way.

Peeta slowly unfolds his body from behind me. He gets up from the couch as quietly as he can, trying to avoid drawing attention from whoever is in his kitchen. He stands in front of me and blocks my body from the open doorway.

"Hello?" he calls, "who's out there?"

I grab the oil lamp off his end table and balance it in my hands. It's the only thing close to being a weapon in reach, and if all else fails, I can throw it at whoever is out there. If I'm lucky, I'll hit them between the eyes.

There's a motion in the doorway, and although I can't see who's there, I'm so hyper-aware of everything that the tension leaving Peeta's shoulders is unmistakable, even in the dim room. I hear the newcomer speak.

"Hey, kids."

It's Haymitch.

"What the hell!" I yell, exploding as Peeta mutters something under his breath that sounds like the word asshole.

"Hey, don't get excited!" Haymitch insists. I force myself to put the lamp down with shaking hands instead of launching it at his head the way I'd like to—lamps are expensive and difficult to come by, after all.

"Don't get excited. He says," Peeta glares at Haymitch, and it's rare to see, but he is genuinely angry. "Damn it! Haven't you heard of knocking, maybe using the front door?" he demands.

Haymitch shrugs. "Eh. That's not my style."

Giving up the fight, Peeta backs up until the back of his knees bumps the couch. He drops down to sit beside me again.

"You laid up?" Haymitch asks me, nodding at my foot. He looks concerned about the injury, but I feel it's not because he's so worried about my health. He has to want something.

"Eh, I've had worse," I say cagily.

It's not like Peeta or I barged into Haymitch's disgusting house in Victor's Village, throwing out questions but not answering any. Tonight, I don't particularly feel like answering any of his questions. I'm tired of taking orders.

"Good." Haymitch gives me a thumbs-up as he meanders further into the room. "I like what you've done with the place," he comments, rubbing a hand over the heavy scruff covering his jaw as he examines the room. He's acting strange. It must be the day for it.

Peeta looks at me to see if I've figured out anything. I shrug my shoulders, so he speaks up, fishing for hints. "You recover the holo?"

"Yeah—we got it. Don't think we were seen."

"We felt bad that we couldn't hand it off."

Haymitch waves his hands in dismissal of Peeta's apology. "Don't worry about that. Good work, by the way, smart thinking from you two and all."

"So you're here to congratulate us?" I pry, doing some fishing myself.

Haymitch rolls his eyes at me. "Sure, Sweetheart, something like that."

"And you brought the party with you."

"You probably ought to tell me who's out in my kitchen and stop beating around the bush," Peeta says drily.

Haymitch, of course, ignores the hint and addresses me again. "Seriously. I'm glad you aren't hurt."

"Why?" I ask.

"There's something else I need from you," he says quietly.

There's something about his tone, something I'm not used to hearing from him. It's softer, pleading, almost like he's dropped the angry mentor act, and we're hearing from the real man he keeps hidden. I can't even find it in myself to stay surly with him. I'm too tired and emotional, and he's behaving oddly.

Peeta rubs his eyes with his free hand as he stretches back on the couch. "You don't mean right now," he says flatly in a blatant refusal of that idea.

Haymitch shrugs. "Nah, not until tomorrow."

I can't help snorting. "Remember how you told us just a day ago that recovering the holo was the last thing you needed?"

"I said one of the last things, actually. Your memory is too selective." Haymitch turns, facing the kitchen doorway. The low voices out there have died down to nothing.

"Yeah, that's what you keep telling us—" I begin to argue but stop.

In the doorway of Peeta's kitchen are two small figures, looking so unsure of themselves and nervous. I would think I saw a pair of ghosts if they didn't seem so real.

Haymitch gestures for the new arrivals to come into the room and stand beside him. Neither of them speaks; they just stare with wide, questioning eyes.

My thoughts are a complete whir.

Haymitch puts his arms around them. "Don't worry, boys. These are friends. This tiny thing is Katniss, and she's fiercer than she looks, and he's Peeta. He's strong and can protect you real good. They're a real pair of fighters. And I promise they don't bite. Well, the girl might nibble a little."

Boyish, prepubescent laughter bursts out of the pair at the joke, and Haymitch grins before introducing them to us. It's mostly necessary. I watched these boys survive the Hunger Games, escape from the arena, disappear, then be tied up like criminals before a firing squad and executed live on television. It's not strange that I'm shocked to see them. I certainly never thought they'd show up here, alive.

The funny thing is I never knew either boys' name until today. We don't put hopes in the little ones reaped; they never win, at least they haven't until this year. It's easier if those who aren't contenders remain anonymous to you.

"Now, let me introduce you. Katniss and Peeta, this is Matty," Haymitch begins, laying a hand on the boy's head to his left and then the other. Two pairs of wide eyes, one a deep brown, the other grey like mine, gaze back at us. "This other young man is Glenn. These two brave fellas traveled a long way, and they need rest more than anything."

"How are you here? Last night you were dead," I say.

The boys glance at each other and shrug.

"I don't know what happened, but we weren't there," Matty admits. "We ain't been in the Capitol since we got out of the arena. We been hiding. I guess no one knew what to do with us until now."

"We needed to keep you safe, " Haymitch says, "so we can get you home as soon as this mess is over. I promised you that, and I meant it."

He addresses me next. "Sweetheart, you shouldn't be so surprised. I told you Capitol scientists have manipulated what we see on television long before this, selling their lie that Snow's still above ground and breathing. Hell, they make things we all know aren't real for the Games every year."

I feel like my brain is stuck, and I can't shake it loose. I hear what Haymitch is telling me, but I can't seem to absorb it.

"You're Victors," Peeta fills in when I falter. I hear the smile in his voice. His eyes are wet like mine when I look his way. He doesn't try to hide them as I do.

The smaller boy, Matty, glances at his companion before answering. "We're not Victors," he insists. "It was the girls who got us out in time. They did all the work."

"He's right. The girls are the Victors, alive or not," Glenn speaks up. His expression crumples. It has to be a sensitive subject, speaking about Kai and Linden. They died saving their lives the last night of the Games, the night of the riot here.

I move toward the boys to get a better look at them. I want to soak in their presence, let the fact that these two symbols of hope are here, alive, tonight. I'll never scorn talk of magic again.

Glenn is the shy one of the pair, I soon realize. He turns his face aside, his wan cheeks flushing under my inspection while Matty grins. They are already perking up since they arrived. All I want to do is hold them both, but I don't. They might not like it.

"I'm so happy to meet you two," Peeta follows me. He extends his hand, and cautiously, the boys take turns shaking it. "It's an honor."

Matty and Glenn look ready to fall asleep on their feet, so Peeta takes it upon himself to take them to the bedroom. We'll let the boys have the bed to get some sleep. Peeta and I can sleep in the living room tonight. Also, there's the unspoken truth that Matty and Glenn need to stay entirely out of sight for everyone's sake.

He's better at pushing his questions aside for the time being than I am. I'm the impatient one.

"Why are they here!" I ask Haymitch, trying to stay calm.

I don't want to scare the boys, who might hear Haymitch and me talking about them. Matty and Glenn are so thin and tired-looking. I know that living through the Games means they've been through a sort of hell I can't even imagine. And they're just little boys, small for their ages like Prim was in her first year of eligibility for the Reaping or even Gale's sister Posy.

"Airspace is restricted," Haymitch tells me quietly, conscious they could still be listening, "eliminating getting them to Thirteen by hovercraft. We can't risk having them shot down. It's too big of a risk to take, not when we have other ways to get them out."

I stare at Haymitch, unsure of what he's getting at, while he gazes back at me steadily.

When I realize what he's none-too-subtly getting at, I laugh nervously. "You don't mean you expect the two of us to take them to Boggs."

Haymitch sighs. "Katniss, that's exactly what I need you to do."

He can't be serious. "You can't be serious," I whisper harshly. "How do you expect us to do that?"

Haymitch immediately becomes animated, gesturing wildly, although he manages to keep his voice down. "The so-called execution we watched last night? That was an act of desperation, a stupid attempt to maintain power. They know they're close to losing, that rebels have heavily infiltrated the Peacekeeper corps and can't be relied on to keep the districts under control. They know workers are sabotaging the goods we send their way—and the thing is, we're going to call their bluff on everything!"

"The Capitol's hold on the districts is nothing but a mirage, a puff of smoke. And the only way to guarantee it'll blow away is to get these brave little fellas to Thirteen and on tv, alive. People need to know what kind of lies they're telling us. Besides, don't you think those two deserve to live a good, long life—a safe life after everything they've been through?"

"But how are we supposed to get them out of the District? The fence is back on. It's not like we can march them through the guard gate."

Haymitch sighs, rubbing his hand over his jaw again. "The fence does complicate things. But we'll figure out a way to get the four of you out of here and deliver them to Boggs."

"How?" I need something, some sort of reassurance he's not asking us to go on a suicide mission.

"I don't know yet, but keeping those two boys here more than a day isn't an option. It's too dangerous, and too much is riding on it."

On that, at least, Haymitch and I agree.