The reaping goes just as I expect it to.
Effie, shining in a wig of metallic gold, lacks her usual verve. She has to claw around the girls' reaping ball for quite a while to snag the piece of paper with my name on it.
Next, she pull Haymitch's name, and he barely has time to shoot me an unhappy look before Peeta has volunteered to take his place.
As we are motioned to shake hands, Peeta gives me a triumphant smile and I have to hide my scowl. The cameras are back. Even if I am angry, I have to smile. He knows this.
We are immediately marched into the Justice Building to find Head Peacekeeper Thread waiting for us.
"New procedure," he says.
We're ushered out the back door, into a car, and taken to the train station. There are no cameras on the platform and no crowd to send us on our way. Haymitch and Effie appear, escorted by guards. Peacekeepers hurry us all onto the train and slam the door. The wheels begin to turn.
I am dumbstruck, watching District 12 disappear, with all my good-byes still hanging on my lips.
I stand there until the trees have swallowed up the last of my home. All that I have left to take to my dying breath is what I managed to memorize last night from the front porch. This morning I only got that one last glimpse of Mother and Prim, and that one strained smile Gale and I shared on my walk to the reaping.
At my last Hunger Games, I told Prim I would do everything to return. Now I have sworn to myself to do all I can to keep Peeta alive.
Peeta clears his throat from behind me.
"We'll write letters, Katniss," Peeta assures me. "It will be better, anyway. It'll give them a piece of us to hold on to. Haymitch will deliver them for us if... they need to be delivered."
I say nothing and go straight to my compartment.
As I sit on my bed, I sit knowing that I will not write those letters. They will be like the speech I tried to write to honor Rue and Thresh in District 11. Things seem clear in my head, but the words will never come out. Besides, they were meant to go with loving embraces; a stoke of Prim's hair, a caress of Gale's face, a squeeze of Madge's hand. They cannot be delivered with a wooden box containing my cold, stiff body.
Heartsick, I just want to lay in bed and sleep until we reach the Capitol tomorrow morning, but I have a mission. A suicide mission… a dying wish: keep Peeta alive. As unlikely as it seems that I can achieve it in the face of the Capitol's anger, it's important that I be at the top of my game. This won't happen if I'm mourning for everything I love back home.
I do my best, thinking of them one by one, releasing them like birds from the protective cage inside of me, locking the doors against their return.
By the time Effie knocks on my door to call me to dinner, I am empty.
The lightness is not entirely unwelcome.
Our meal is subdued. So subdued, in fact, that there are long periods of silence relived only by the removal of old dishes and presentation of new ones. A cold soup of purred vegetables. Fish cakes with creamy lime paste. Those little birds filled with orange sauce, with wild rice and watercress. Chocolate custard dotted with cherries.
Peeta and Effie make occasional attempts at conversation that quickly die out.
"I love your new hair, Effie," Peeta says.
"Thank you, I had it especially done to match Katniss' pin. I was thinking we might get you a golden ankle band and maybe find Haymitch a gold bracelet or something so we could all look like a team," says Effie.
Evidently, Effie does not know that my mockingjay pin is now a symbol used by the rebels. At least I know they do in District 8. In the Capitol, the mockingjay is still a fun reminder of an especially exciting Hunger Games. What else could it be? Real rebels do not put a secret symbol on something as durable as jewelry. They put it on a wafer of bread that can be eaten in a second if necessary.
"I think that's a great idea," says Peeta. "How about it, Haymitch?"
"Yeah, whatever," Haymitch replies flatly.
He's not drinking, but I can tell he'd like to be. Effie had them take her own wine away when she saw the effort he was making, but he's in a miserable state.
If he were the tribute, he would have owed us nothing and could be as drunk as he liked. Now it's going to take all he's got to keep Peeta alive in an arena full of his old friends, and he'll probably fail.
"Maybe we could get you a wig, too," I say in an attempt at lightness.
He just shoots me a look that says to leave him alone, and we all eat our custard in silence.
"Shall we watch the recaps of the reapings?" says Effie, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a white linen napkin.
Peeta retrieves his notebook of the remaining living victors and we gather in the compartment with the television to see who our competition will be in the arena.
In the history of the Games, there have been seventy-five victors. Fifty-nine are still alive. I recognize many of their faces as the annual recap plays, either from seeing them as a tribute or mentor at previous Games or from our recent viewing of the victors' tapes. Some are so old or rotted by illness, drugs, or drink that I can't place them.
As one would expect, the pools of Career tributes from District 1, 2, and 4 are the largest. Yet, every district has managed to scrape up at least one female and one male victor. The reapings go by quickly.
I peer over Peeta's shoulder as he studiously puts stars by the names of the chosen tributes in his notebook.
Haymitch watches, his face devoid of emotion, as friends of his step up to take the stage.
Effie makes hushed, distressed comments like, "Oh, not Cecelia," or "Well, Chaff never could stay out of a fight," and sighs frequently.
For my part, I try to make some mental record of the other tributes, but like last year, only a few really stick.
There's the classically beautiful brother and sister from District 1 who were victors in consecutive years when I was little.
Brutus, a volunteer from District 2, who must be at least forty and apparently can't wait to get back in the arena.
Finnick, the handsome bronze-haired guy from District 4 who was crowned ten years ago at the age of fourteen.
A hysterical young woman with flowing brown hair is also called from 4, but she's quickly replaced by a volunteer, an eighty-year-old woman who needs a cane to walk to the stage.
Then there is Johanna Mason, the only living female victor from 7, who won a few years back by pretending she was a weakling.
The woman from 8 who Effie calls Cecelia. She looks about thirty and has to detach herself from the three kids who run up to cling to her.
Chaff, a man from 11 who I know to be one of Haymitch's particular friends, is also in.
I'm called, then Haymitch, and Peeta volunteers.
One of the announcers actually gets teary because it seems the odds will never be in our favor, we star-crossed lovers of District 12. Then she pulls herself together to say she bets that "these will be the best Games ever!"
I feel sour.
Haymitch leaves the compartment without a word, and Effie, after making a few unconnected comments about this tribute or that, bids us good night.
I just sit there watching Peeta rip out the pages of the victors who were not picked.
"Why don't you get some sleep? You look tired," he says, without even glancing up at me.
I cannot handle the nightmares, I think. Not without you.
I cannot say the words aloud, even though I know the nightmares are bound to be worse tonight.
"What are you going to do?" I ask.
"Just review my notes awhile. Get a clear picture of what we're up against. But I'll go over it with you in the morning. Go to bed, Katniss," Peeta says.
I feel dismissed, like he is pushing me away. Maybe he is upset about the kissing from last night and my abrupt departure. Perhaps he is getting tired of the spontaneous kissing and my erratic flights without explanation. I feel as if I owe him an explanation, because it is unfair of me to test out my desire on him, knowing how deep his feelings for me run. Except, there is no way for me to explain it.
The pull I feel towards him is new to me and does not easily leap forth into words.
I slump to my feet and depart.
I go to bed, and sure enough, within a few hours I have a nightmare. The old woman from District 4 transforms into a large rodent and gnaws on my face. I am screaming, but when I wake, I feel arms tight around me.
I feel lips pressing against my temple. His hands run along the arc of my back, and then his mouth drops to my neck… and he bites me… and I am ripped from the dream.
I sit, alone, sweating, in my dark compartment.
I pull on a robe to calm the goosebumps crawling along my flesh. I decide to wander the compartments, hoping to find someone to make me tea or hot chocolate or anything to clear my head. Maybe Haymitch is still up. Surely, he is not asleep.
I order warm milk, the most calming thing I can think of, from an attendant. Hearing voices from the television room, I go in and find Peeta. Beside him on the couch is the box Effie sent of tapes of the old Hunger Games. I recognize the episode in which Brutus became victor.
Peeta rises and flips off the tape when he sees me.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks.
"Not for long," I say.
"Want to talk about it?" he asks.
Sometimes that can help, but I just shake my head.
When Peeta holds out his arms, I walk straight into them… almost too eagerly.
I wrap my arms around his neck before he can change his mind. In turn he buries his face in my hair. Warmth radiates from the spot where his lips just touch my neck, slowly spreading through the rest of me.
Being held feels so good, so impossibly better than what the Peeta in my dreams offer, that I know, even as selfish as it is, I will not be the first to let go. And why should I? The moment I decided to die for Peeta, everything else ceased to matter. I'll never see Gale again. I can no longer hurt anyone. I am no longer lying to anyone, nor would I have to worry about marriages or children. If there is comfort to be had, in Peeta's arms, then by the odds, I would take it while I still breathed.
The arrival of the Capitol attendant breaks us apart. Peeta has me sit at his side, squashed between him and the box of tapes. The attendant sets a tray with a steaming ceramic jug and two mugs on a table.
"I brought an extra cup," he says.
"Thanks."
"And I added a touch of honey to the milk. For sweetness. And just a pinch of spice," he adds. He looks at us like he wants to say more, then gives his head a slight shake and backs out of the room.
"What's with him?" I say.
"I think he feels bad for us," Peeta responds.
"Right," I say, pouring the milk.
"I mean it. I don't think the people in the Capitol are going to be all that happy about our going back in," says Peeta. "Or the other victors. They get attached to their champions."
"I'm guessing they'll get over it once the blood starts flowing," I say flatly. Really, if there's one thing I don't have time for, it's worrying about how the Quarter Quell will affect the mood in the Capitol. "So, you're watching all the tapes again?"
"Not really. Just sort of skipping around to see people's different fighting techniques," says Peeta.
"Who's next?" I ask.
"You pick," says Peeta, holding out the box.
The tapes are marked with the year of the Games and the name of the victor. I dig around and suddenly find one in my hand that we have not watched. The year of the Games is fifty. That would make it the second Quarter Quell. The name of the victor is Haymitch Abernathy.
"We never watched this one," I say.
Peeta shakes his head. "No. I knew Haymitch didn't want to. The same way we didn't want to relive our own Games. And since we're all on the same team, I didn't think it mattered much."
"Is the person who won the twenty-fifth in here?" I ask.
"I don't think so. Whoever it was must be dead by now, and Effie only sent me victors we might have to face." Peeta weighs Haymitch's tape in his hands. "Why? You think we ought to watch it?"
"It's the only Quell we have. We might pick up something valuable about how they work," I say, but I feel weird. It feels like some major invasion of Haymitch's privacy. I don't know why it should since the whole thing is considered public knowledge. Except, I have to admit I'm also extremely curious. "We don't have to tell Haymitch we saw it."
I thought maybe Peeta would be that guy who protects Haymitch, who would object to anything that may have crossed any lines... but I think my influence may be swaying him, because there is no hesitation in his voice when he replies, "Okay".
He puts in the tape and I curl up next to him on the couch with my milk, which is really delicious with honey and spice in it, and I lose myself in the Fiftieth Hunger Games. All suggestive thoughts of Peeta fleeing my mind, fortunately, with nothing there but the reminder of him leaning into my side.
The video is long, and the longer it plays, Peeta and I slowly careen toward the screen. We are absorbed in the action: the fourty-eight tributes, Maysilee and Haymitch's alliance, Maysilee's death, and eventually, Haymitch's ironic win.
Peeta clicks off the tape after Haymitch stands victorious over the body of the last tribute.
We sit there in silence.
Finally, Peeta says, "That force field at the bottom of the cliff, it was like the one on the roof of the Training Center. The one that throws you back if you try to jump off and commit suicide. Haymitch found a way to turn it into a weapon."
"Not just against the other tributes, but the Capitol, too," I say. "You know they didn't expect that to happen. It wasn't meant to be a part of the arena. They never planned on anyone using it as a weapon. It made them look stupid that he figured it out. I bet they had a good time trying to spin that one. Bet that's why I don't remember seeing it on television. It's almost as bad as us and the berries!"
I cannot help my sudden rush of humor. I laugh, really laughing for the first time in months. Peeta just shakes his head like I have lost my mind – and maybe I have, a little.
"Almost, but not quite," says Haymitch from behind us.
I whip around, afraid he's going to be angry at us for watching his tape, but he just smirks and takes a swing from a bottle of wine. So much for sobriety. I guess I should be upset he's drinking again, but I'm preoccupied with another feeling. I've spent all these weeks getting to know my competition, without even thinking about who my teammates are. Now a new kind of confidence is lighting up inside of me because I think I finally know who Haymitch is, and I am beginning to know who I am.
Once, I think, Peeta compared me to Haymitch. I had denied it then, but now I see what he means. Surely two people who have caused the Capitol so much trouble can think of a way to get Peeta home alive.
I am still buzzing from the laughter when Haymitch takes him and his drink back out of the compartment. It made me wonder how long he had been standing there, but once he is gone, the confidence settles in my chest, replacing the emptiness I felt earlier.
I sink into the couch, pushing out a long breath, and it feels great. My eyes are closed, but a light touch on my arm makes me open them.
Peeta is looking down at me, and when I see him, I smile on instinct.
"I told you that you're tired," he mutters.
I roll my eyes and close them again. "Yeah, well now I am."
He says nothing, but instead shifts so he is comfortably leaning against my shoulder and the back of the coach.
"You're not a very convincing liar," he breathes after a long time, and I can feel his breath against my cheek.
Yes, I know, I think. That's why we are stuck here. That's why the rebels wouldn't believe I loved you.
I lean into him, resting my head on his chest and after a slight hesitation he gathers me up in his arms for the second embrace of the night.
This time there is no attendant coming to separate us. My eyelids are heavy.
It is enough to be in his arms and to know that somehow, someway I am going to save him.