A sliver of sunlight slices through the barrier of clouds and shines on my face. This tells me that it's time to get out of bed.

"Get out of bed, Marvel," I mumble to myself, slowly swinging my feet over the edge of the small bed and onto the floor. "Walk, Marvel." My feet trudge along the splintering wood floor as I bring myself to our bathroom. I look into the coal-dust-covered mirror and see a dirty reflection of myself staring back at me. The visage is unkempt; its disheveled, chin-length curls shoot this way and that. Its sunken face is unshaven, and has grown more of a beard than usual. The brown eyes have grown dull and lifeless in their hollowed, black-rimmed containers. And all of this happened in the course of just one night.

I hang my head and grip the sink in agony, not being able to look at this hollow shell of a man I have become. The rage runs vehemently through my veins like blazing fire, and it takes over me. I rip my hands through my hair and violently grope it, letting out an anguished and enraged cry. I'm angry. Angry at myself. Angry at President Snow. Angry at the Hunger Games. Angry at Bree…

Angry at Peeta.

How could she love him, when I'm the one who gave her everything? I surrendered my heart, my soul, my well-being, everything just to get her to love me, but in the end, I still failed. Just when I thought she would return my affections—just when I thought things were going fairly well, she leaves me without even a formal goodbye. That's the least she could've given me.

I've come to the conclusion: I'm turning over a new leaf. I find a pair of scissors in the cabinet and begin cutting. I'm cutting anything on my head, really. Just using the scissors to shed off everything I've done to try to get her to love me. Dark, silky brown curls fall to the floor like petals from a flower; they lie defeated at my feet. I whip out a switchblade and shaving cream and begin to shave my face.

When I am finished, I wipe the dirty mirror with my sleeve to look at the new me. I look much more clean-cut—almost as good as I looked before I left for the Games. A relieved smile crosses my face as though my hair and beard were a ball and chain holding me back.

I dress and head off to the mines, clocking in early so that I can leave early. When I reach to grab my pickaxe, I accidentally knock over some of the others.

A raspy voice calls out angrily to me. "Watch it, asshole!"

My head whips around as I try to match this voice to its carrier, who is a tall, olive-skinned young man who looks like he is about eighteen years old. Something is vaguely familiar about him, but I am not quite sure what. He walks over to me and assertively puffs out his chest. "The name's Gale. Gale Hawthorne."

"Hey, man," I say calmly. "Don't want any problems. My mistake."

Gale takes me in for a second, undoubtedly eyeing my appearance which is so different than the other miners', when an unexpected half-smile crosses his face. "I'm just messin' with you."

"Oh," I reply nervously, suddenly recognizing him from the replay of the Games, where he had been interviewed as Katniss's cousin. "You're that girl Katniss's cousin, right?"

He clears his throat pointedly. "Uh, actually, that's a funny story."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. Just another bowl of shit concocted by the Capitol. We're really good…erm...friends, though."

By his tone, I can definitely tell that there is more to that story, and I can't help but be curious to find out who the oh-so-famous Katniss actually is because I can already infer from Gale that Peeta might not be the one she really loves. Disregarding my previous covenant with myself, I'm hopeful that I am just one step closer to Bree.

Gale's rough voice brings me back to reality. "I know this might be far-fetched, but you really look like the District 1 tribute from this year."

Crap. By having restored my physical appearance nearly to the way it was during the Games, I have made myself totally recognizable. Which was President Snow's biggest no-no.

For some strange reason, though, I trust this guy. "Well, that's a funny story, too."

It takes a good minute to register, but he realizes what I am hinting at and a sort of unspoken bond passes between us.

He slaps my back in a friendly way and talks knowingly to his shoes. "Ah," Gale says under his breath. "Talk to me."

Veering away from the mines, away from responsibility, we stroll into the dying meadow. "I was thinking—rather, hoping," I begin, wary of other listeners that might carry the message back to Snow. "That there might be a way to stand up to them."

"Them?" He ponders, thick eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"You know who I'm talking about."

He nods his head violently. "Right. And how exactly do you suppose we go about that?"

A fervent pinch of fiery hope is tints my voice. "Well, I mean, Katniss could just be the spark of this whole thing. Think about it; the Girl on Fire—a meager peasant from 12—rebelling against the entire, corrupt Capitol in just one act that was so simple, and yet so catalytic. If she alone can do it, why can't the rest of Panem."

Gale raises a condescending eyebrow at my hope. "You know, you're an awfully huge dreamer."

"Comes in handy," I say sarcastically.

"We have no forces, no weapons, nothing. It's going to be nearly impossible to even graze the Capitol with our bullets."

"We don't really need any of that just yet," I respond, voice elevating in frustration and elation at the very strong possibility of a new Rebellion occurring. "All we need is unity for this common cause."

He stares at me blankly. "It'll never work, kid."

I wince at that last word, because I am clearly the same age as him. "You've got to trust me, Gale."

"And why should I?"

I grasp his shoulders firmly in all seriousness. "Because you know that all it takes is a spark."