The trees whisper back at me.

Katniss. The stream adds a chorus to our song. Katnisskatnisskatniss. It is a musical for which I am unprepared. There are black and white birds flitting back and forth, repeating after the trees, the stream, and I. Mimicking us. Mocking us? No, I remember these birds. They were on the edge of the forest that bordered District Twelve. I never crossed over into their territory, of course, but I saw them. I heard them.

But now they come close and I can see into those dark beady eyes. When they land, the trees bow low and I could just reach out and touch, but I dare not. I dare not disturb the magic of the forest. I am awed and afraid. I am a little boy who has never left the porch of our bakery until today, afraid of the consequences of venturing off by myself. I can still feel the coals against my skin for the last time I wandered off alone.

But somehow now I am in the forest and there is a chorus around me. A five-year-old girl in twin braids stands up in front of us and leads the song. Even the birds listen. I watch her face intently as it steadily grows older and more troubled. The clouds gather and the light in her eyes dies. The rain pours down and I am staring at an older girl on the edge of death, just beyond my direct reach. Her voice fades and then returns, not in a song, but in a scream.

I scream, too, knowing what is coming next. Well, for that, and for the pain in my leg, which brings me crashing back into the present where I can see myself dying and she is still beyond my reach. I scream without opening my mouth, because somewhere in my brain there is a voice telling me to keep quiet. Don't give yourself away, Peeta. As long as you're alive, she's alive.

It's nonsensical, but it keeps me going in those moments between the dreams and the songs. It keeps me whispering her name so they know. And maybe she will know, too. I think I hear a cannon now and again, but I'm so delirious it's hard to tell. Is that a real sound or is it something from my hallucination? The boom of a cannon or a peacekeeper's gun? I try to turn my face to the sky, though my neck is stiff and I'm caked in dirt and mud. There are faces in the sky sometimes. I can't tell if I'm hallucinating or if they are really the faces of the dead. Either way, none of them are Katniss. None of them have the gray eyes of the Seam. None of them have that solemn strength that is unique to Katniss

"Katniss."

I let the word escape my lips on occasion, my real lips, dry and cracked from dehydration and illness. Through all the fog and the hallucinations and the raging fire in my brain I remember that it's important that she stays on top of my mind and at the tip of my tongue. Slowly I'm feeling myself coming back to normal senses. The dreams come less frequently. I have no idea how long I've been lying there. I feel unusually warm, thoroughly exhausted, and so dry. I'm dehydrated and probably starving, but I couldn't eat if I tried. The effects of the tracker jacker venom become less severe, though if I shift just so I can feel the bulbous tumors where I was stung. They still ache, but I can't do anything about that. At least they are no longer giving me hallucinations. The worst of my delusions have passed, but I am still dying. Slowly. Ever so slowly. I am dehydrated and starving and who knows what has become of my leg, ripped open and its blood spilled across the forest floor.

I hear the trumpets sound. This time it's real; it's no heavenly bird music. But it's not the announcement of the dead. That isn't the Capitol anthem and it's not followed by the images of the dead. I have no idea who is dead. I'd like to know for certain, but this isn't going to help me there. It's an announcement. Those are usually made for a feast, which I am definitely not capable of attending, but this is something completely different. Something completely unprecedented.

There are six of us left according to Claudius Templesmith. I am one. Katniss must be another, at least according to my reckoning. Admittedly my own recollections are probably not the most reliable at the moment. Still, it makes sense. I took Cato's sword, made sure Katniss escaped the wrath of the Careers. She may have been stung, but not any worse than us. It should have bought her time. It should have.

Six people left. I am one. Probably Cato is another. Then who? Glimmer and Ariel are dead. That leaves Marvel and Clove in the Career pack. Four. Katniss could be one. I hold onto that hope and fight to process what Claudius Templesmith says next.

There has been a change to the rules. Both tributes from the same district can win together if they are the last two alive. Two winners. Which means probably at least two districts have both their tributes still in play. My head swims but slowly, slowly I start to process what this must mean. At least two districts must have both tributes still in play. At least two to make any sense. It can't be One or Four. Who else is there? Who else could the Capitol audience possibly be so attached to that would lead to an unprecedented change in rules? Who is still alive?

I am alive.

Katniss is alive.