5

I try to turn the doorknob, but the door's locked.

"Shit!" I yell. I see smoke billowing from the windows. Maybe he accidentally left a stove on? That didn't seem like him, unless…

He must have had an episode.

"PEETA! PEETA!" I yell desperately, hoping he can hear my voice. Whether he's hearing me-Katniss or mutt-Katniss has to take a backseat because this is a crisis.

"Katniss? What are you screaming about?" Gale suddenly appears, holding his bow out, prepped to attack.

"Peeta's house is on fire and his door's locked and smoke is coming out the windows, he could be suffocating!" I say this all very fast and frantically and I can't help myself from going into hysterics. I hear a siren and see that the emergency squad has shown up. It's a jeep that's towing what looks like a tank. The rescue workers file out and a couple comes immediately toward us.

"No!" I yell as they try to rush me away. "Peeta's in there! You have to get Peeta!"

The rescue worker signals to the rest with a communicuff. "Civilian trapped in building. Sending in scopers."

Two workers struggle into huge fire-resistant suits and prepare to break down the door. My first sight inside the house nearly sends me into a spiral. Walls of fire. Wood burning. Peeta's living room is an inferno.

Peeta.

"Found him in the bathroom. Seems to be in shock." I hear one of the worker's communicuff's say. "It's too dangerous to lead him out of the front door, prepare to catch him below the north window."

Three workers prepare a sheet and stretch it to act as a net. I see Peeta's body drop into the net, the rescue workers wrapping him up in the sheets. One of the workers gets out some fancy gadget. It produces a needle.

"NO!" I yell. "HE CAN'T TAKE NEEDLES!"

I swear, I see one of the rescue workers roll their eyes. I want to kill them. I make to grab Gale's bow. He easily takes it out of my grasp and holds it high where I can't reach, looking at me incredulously.

The rescue worker puts the needle into Peeta's arm. His reaction is what was to be expected. His arm reaches out, hands clenching, looking for a neck to snap.

"YOU FUCKING BITCH, GET THAT THING OUT OF ME! I'LL RIP OFF YOUR—"

His swear words are drowned out by the sounds of a second siren. The ambulance, presumably.

"Smoke inhalation was minimal," says the worker, cleaning the device and storing it away, "seems to be having a psychotic episode. Found drugs for psychosis in his system."

"So, then why is he psychotic?" another worker asked.

"Beats the hell out of me."

Oh, my God. I cannot take anymore of these people just acting like this is a regular occurrence.

"EXCUSE ME, dickheads, but are you going to do anything or shoot the shit all night?"

Haymitch comes stumbling into the scene, gin bottle slopping everywhere.

"Scouters are in trying to quell the flames. The fire depo should be here shortly. We should get him in the truck. Are either one of you kin to him?" the worker asks us.

"I'm his girlfriend." I answer.

Gale drops his bow. Haymitch's eyebrows disappear into his hair.

"Well, do you want to ride to the Capitol with him?"

"The Capitol?" Gale yells angrily. "Do you KNOW who this is?"

"Not now, Gale." I hiss.

They pile Peeta's now limp body onto a stretcher and transport him to the jeep. It's surprisingly roomier than I expected. I follow and am about to get into the car alongside the stretcher when Gale's hand grips my shoulder.

"He's not right in the head." he tells me as if I don't know this.

I give him an exasperated look. "Neither of us are right in the head. Fuck off."

And I slam the door closed.

The jeep only takes us to the trains. I have to tell myself over and over again that we are going to the hospital. There are no Hunger Games. We are not on a Victory Tour.

I'm jealous of Peeta. At least he's unconscious.

"I need a history. Won't take long." says the nonchalant worker. In my calming state of mind (well, calmer), I notice his features. His face looks like he had to normalize his appearance after the Rebellion. The new government warned against vivid unnatural colors and ostentatious outfits. There were holes on the sides of his face, where piercings or other bodily modifications would have fit. His hair was bleached blonde, though tinged with green. If I had to guess, I suppose he wasn't happy about the new change in government. And that made me hate him all the more.

"We both survived two consecutive Hunger Games. He had his leg chopped off after Number 1 and was nearly tortured to death by the Capitol after 2. He has…episodes of his torture. And of the Hunger Games. We all do." I tell him.

The worker scribbles down all this information on a tablet. I can tell he hates his job. He rather be in his over-stated condo eating expensive food all us District people have had to slave for over the years.

"Well, that could point to PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Sufferers usually develop this after traumatic events such as—"

"Murdering innocent people for the sake of entertainment. Or torture. Got it." I finish.

He gives me a look of displeasure. He goes back to his tablet.

Suddenly, all the rage of the evening fires through the veins like bullets. I unclench my hand and swing it sideways, knocking the damn tablet out of his hands.

"I don't know what kind of brainwashing you had as a Capitol person growing up in your world of make-believe where everything is happy and glamorous, but my boyfriend is ill. And I don't need some half-ass attendant to tell me what I already fucking know. So, in other words, you're fired."

He gives me a look of pure loathing, but I've made my point. He goes to re-collect his tablet and disappears into another room.

"Never heard you use language like that, Sweetheart."

I turn around so fast I almost crick my neck. "Peeta."

He regards me with heavy eyes.

"You're tired." I say. I smooth back his blonde curls from his ashen face. His eyes are so blue in his sickly white pallor, they're almost unnatural.

"I…don't know what happened. I was baking bread and…the house was on fire." he says, swallowing. "I'm so thirsty."

"I'll get you some water." I say. I turn to leave, but I pause. I reach up to plant a kiss on his forehead. Our eyes catch for an infinitesimal second, but it portrays my fears.

I can't lose you. Not again.