The cold wind nips at my face, my lips undoubtedly turning a light shade of blue.

I hold out my emaciated, leather-gloved hands in a cupped fashion. "Please sir, a few coins?" I ask a man from the Seam—I can tell because of his appearance. His face is covered in coal soot, like everything else in this pitiful District.

"You honestly think I'm a' spare my money for you? Please! I can barely make enough money to support my own family. Get lost," he complains, spitting in my face.

Times are rough. No one wants to give a homeless teenage girl money when they can't even make enough to sustain themselves. The first few weeks were easy; I milked sorrow out of some older Merchant women, who gave me bread, and I could trade it at the Hob sometimes for strawberries and other small foods. I also got sympathetic—and flirtatious looks from the Peacekeepers, who would give me a few coins here and there. Especially Cray. He's always been quite fond of me.

Now, though, I barely receive anything. Except what Peeta gives me. Every day since his tour ended he travels to find me sitting here, on the dirty steps of the Hob, to give me a small sack of coins. Every day he brings me little cookies and pastries to eat. Every day he comes here and we just sit together, not speaking a word to each other. Once he's satisfied, which usually takes about thirty minutes, he leaves. And every day, right after he leaves, I give away his offerings. I give them to some of the poorer people in the Hob, even though I have myself to worry about. But no longer will I be selfish.

Peeta hasn't shown up yet today, which is a first as far as I can say. So I sit, alone, until Cray walks up behind me and squats over me, petting the back of my head. "Are you still looking for money?"

This time, I don't shudder at his implications, and I don't shrug off his wrinkled hand which now rests on my shoulder. Instead, my lips mindlessly make the word "yes."

"Well," he sniffs, straightening up. "What's in it for me?"

My heart breaks, as I had hoped I would never be at the point where I had to lower myself to this. I take a deep breath, and muster, "Anything you'd like."

Cray picks me up by the arm, and purrs disgustingly into my ear in his District 12 accent. "There, there. If you just imagine I'm like your little boyfriend…"

"Hey!" He is interrupted. I don't recognize the voice, so my head whips around to see a boy version of Katniss. Straight, shaggy black hair, stormy grey eyes. And yes, handsome. I am internally extremely thankful for his intervention. He nudges at me. "Leave 'er alone, Cray."

Cray loosens his grip on my arm, looks at the boy, looks at me, and shrugs as he walks away to the next starving girl to appease his pleasures.

The boy and I exchange a long glance at each other as we stand about ten feet apart. He is staring at me, no doubt scoffing at my haggard appearance, but then I remember that everyone in 12 looks like this. I used to be one of the lucky ones when I had Peeta. Then, the boy walks cautiously over to me and throws a freshly-killed squirrel wrapped in black cloth to my hands. I look at him quietly and mouth the words, "Thank you."

He starts to walk off. "You're welcome. Just be careful, ya hear? Streets aren't any place for a girl like you."

"Wait!" I call after him. "What's your name?"

He looks at me carefully, and continues to walk away.

I slump back on the steps, wishing I could hunt like him. Like Katniss. I wish I was as mentally strong as her. I wish I had her will—her mindset. She's so daring and I've always sort of gone with the flow of life. To my demise, actually.

After few minutes of begging, I notice a large group forming to the north of the Hob. Rubber-soled feet shuffle noisily around the center of this circle, and I decide to get up and move to see what is going on. Which ends up being a terrible, terrible idea.

You would think that after all I've been through, I would be used to death and gore. But this is too much.

The boy who had just shown me a shred of kindness is kneeling on the platform of the Justice Building, hands and feet tied and shirtless with a hardened look upon his face. A Peacekeeper clothed in the traditional Peacekeeper garb stands over him, and then I realize that I don't recognize his foreign face, which looks a lot like that of someone from 3 with its straight nose and thick brows. His muscular arm is raised with whip in hand. Suddenly I remember Marvel, how he said that the Capitol whipped him every day when he was their slave. Because of me. Is that why this boy is in his situation? Was it because he was caught after having slowed down to give me illegally-poached meat?

Once the offence is announced, he admits to his crime, but undermines it by saying his kill had strayed inside the fence. He doesn't mention the squirrel he gave me.

"Gale Hawthorne, for illegal poaching Capitol property, you are hereby sentenced to a punishment of thirty-five lashes. So says the Justice of the Capitol. Long live the Capitol!" The new Peacekeeper waves his arms violently at the crowd in order for them to recite the traditional phrase. Instead, a very faint, extremely familiar four-note whistle that only one with exceptional hearing could detect slips through my ears.

He ignores the silence, and begins lashing Gale. With each lash, my brain hurts worse and worse. I'm beginning to think that there is no such thing as mercy in this world, that there will never be anything but evil. And now we are only at twelve lashes.

Time stretches forever as I count each lash, like a cruel form of counting while stretching in dance class. Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen... Each interval gets longer and longer as the crack of the whip and Gale's desperate screams fill the air.

Twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine… Darius, one of the pre-established Peacekeepers, runs to the platforms, crying, "That's enough, that's enough!" He seizes the new Peacekeeper's arm and shoves him away from Gale, but in a swift, almost undetectable move, the Peacekeeper hits Darius with the butt of the whip, sending him flying into the crowd and onto the ground. The beating continues.

I close my eyes and cry silently because Gale passed out at around thirty lashes, and we are already at forty when the smooth, clear voice that I recognize well moves through the crowd. "No!"

It's Katniss.