Hello! Holy crap, I can't believe this hit over 100 subscribers. 102, to be exact. Like the Dalmatians in that Disney sequel. That's way exciting, and supermegafoxyawesomehot of all of you. So thanks for the favorites and subscriptions. Muchas gracias por los (…reviews?), .Style, Chanceawakening, Thynerdgurl, the Guest, VMars lover, Guest (#2), ShadowCrystal26, PropertyofMe95, herehavesomeberries, Guest (#3), thevixon2010, populardarling (I used "professor" in this chapter! Woo!), it's-Twilliam, and 86. (I have no idea why, but it won't let me put the full usernames of two of you. My apologies to Peetasstyle and mrs.m. Fanfic's being an ass.)

In light of what happened in Connecticut this week, I just want to say one thing. If you feel sick, sad, or lonely, know that there are plenty of people out there who want to talk to you and would love to help you. I'm one of them :)

XXX

Even though I'm already half-expecting it, my heart starts to pound when someone knocks on the door around 9:00. Some paranoid part of me knows it's Peeta coming to find me, even though I left him in the peer office hours ago.

My roommate glances up from the book she's reading, then jerks her thumb towards the door without a word. Unmoving, I stare at her. She scowls.

"I'll remember this," she tells me, getting to her feet.

With the bitter expression left on her face, she opens the door and asks, "Who're you?"

I hear a soft reply. The one I was dreading.

Swearing under my breath, I sit up in bed, listening as my roommate says, "I'm Johanna. Mason." Figures he'd learn her name before I do.

"Is Katniss here?" Peeta asks.

Johanna turns to face me, slightly intrigued, and I shake my head vehemently. She smirks and faces Peeta. "Yeah, shaking her head to get me to lie to you. But dishonesty's one of the seven deadly sins, so—"

"No, it's not," I interrupt, my voice sharp. My chest heaves, and anger continues to well up inside me. Especially when Johanna evacuates the doorway, inviting him in.

As soon as Peeta's in the room, his gaze locks on mine, then flits away again. Like he's uncomfortable, which wouldn't be all bad.

"Can I talk to you?"

Defensive, I just look at him. "How'd you know where to find me?"

"I'm friends with Delly." He pauses, then gives me a weak smile. "And you have a nametag on the door."

I don't say anything, trying to make it obvious that it's in his best interest (and mine) if he leaves. But Peeta keeps his feet planted, casually standing in the doorway like there isn't anything tense between us.

Johanna picks up her phone, probably ready for her Sunday-night call home. That's probably the only thing in the world capable of getting me out of bed.

I stand up. As I pass her, she says, "Told you I'd remember. Shouldn't have made me get the door."

Silently, I brush past Peeta out into the hall. He closes the door behind him, and there's an uncomfortable silence I'm unwilling to shatter.

Peeta scratches the back of his head, shifting his weight. Finally, he says, "Hey."

For a peer counselor, he's pretty awkward about this. But the sooner he leaves, the sooner I can go sit by myself somewhere, so I decide to keep my mouth shut about it. "Hi."

He blinks. "How are you?" Immediately after, his face flushes red.

I furl my eyebrows, incredulous. "Great. You?"

"I was going to come talk to you after you left, but the group for my Geo project found me first." His tone's falsely light and breezy, like he's trying really hard to be likable. Maybe that's a strategy they taught at peer counseling boot camp.

I glance at a clock on the wall next to Delly's door. "And you worked on it for nine hours, then came here?"

"No, I had to think about some things first."

It's almost like he's baiting me, trying to reel me into some long conversation. Like it's a game. One I know I'm not interested in playing.

And yet, I hear myself ask, "What things?"

He pauses, then jerks his head towards the door that leads to the stairs. People used them on move-in day, and when one of the boys accidently set off the smoke detector when he was trying to make toast in his room, but that's about it.

Regretting my choice to come out into the hall at all, I open the door and sit about halfway down the flight of gray stairs. Peeta goes down one step further so he's looking up at me, then scoots back to rest his back against the wall behind him.

He wets his lips, tapping his hand against the top of his leg. His eyes are unfocused, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times.

"What things?" I repeat, growing impatient.

The tapping stops. "I know what those were. On your arm."

"Most people do."

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm supposed to report it." My head jerks up. Frozen in place, I narrow my eyes. He glances up at me. "Well, I am."

"What's the point of talking to a peer counselor if they'll just tell on you anyway?"

"It's not like that. It's—it's only in cases where somebody's going to get hurt. If they plan to hurt other people or themselves." He flinches a little as he finishes the sentence.

Dry, I say, "Good to know."

Peeta sucks in a breath, tries to say something multiple times, then gives up. He sighs and the tapping resumes.

I'm tired of waiting for him to say something that I know will just upset me more, so I get to my feet. "See you later."

As soon as I move to the next step, he snaps out of his trance. "I'm not going to."

I stop. "Not going to what?"

"Tell anyone."

Suspicious, I say, "Why not?"

"Because I...I don't know. It doesn't feel right. Nobody's even given you a chance to get better yet."

My eyes drop to the step in front of me, and my stomach lurches. But not in an unpleasant way, really. I'm not going to be sick or cry. Maybe I'm just feeling a small sting of hope that's so foreign I can't recognize it.

Unsure what to say, I scuff my foot against the step.

His voice is louder as he says, "But you have to try. You have to pick a day to meet with me and actually show up. And talk to Witt sometimes without making him track you down." Where his words were disjointed before, they flow smoothly and quickly now. Like he's rehearsed them over and over in his head. Maybe even aloud.

I nod, silently agreeing, but I see he's not done yet. "You have to go to class and take the medication you're supposed to. And…" He deflates. "And try to find another way to handle things. I can help you, they taught me how to do that, but if something happens bad because I didn't get other people involved when I was supposed to, I don't know what I'll—"

"Okay, okay. I've got it." He takes a deep breath, his stare strangely blank as he looks at me. Like he's still lost somewhere else. To bring him back, I add, "I heard you. I understand."

"Do you promise?"

"I'll try."

He squints at me, apparently deciding whether or not that's good enough. It better be, because that's the best I can do.

My thoughts must be obvious on my face, because he lets a hesitant, sideways smile cross his lips. "Okay."

We decide Monday is our day to meet. He suggests it, mostly because that's tomorrow. I agree since Monday's the worst day of the week already, so it can't get any worse.

He gives me his phone number, and I half-heartedly offer mine in return.

Then, with a one-handed wave, Peeta trots off.

XXX

I've always hated Mondays. Even when I was a kid and nothing in my life had fallen apart yet. But then my dad died on I-90, and I lost Prim, and my mom and I turned into a pair of ghosts that are more dead than alive. And suddenly, every day was a Monday.

Johanna's still snoring when I leave the room, dressed in my cleanest pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, just like I've worn every other day since I returned to Bohm.

It takes me a few minutes to remember where the classroom is, but eventually, I find it. I'm one of the last students to show up, and I'm forced to take a seat right in the front row, almost in the center.

Someone behind me whispers, "I thought she died." The voice belongs to a girl and is familiar enough that I think she lives in my dorm. But I'm not willing to face her, so I stiffly pull out my notebook and pencil, trying to ignore her.

I notice the boy next to me watching with not-so-discreet interest. His hair is dark and oily, and as soon as I catch him looking, the blood rushes to his face and his head jerks in the opposite direction.

I slump down in my seat.

XXX

By the end of class, I fully understand how stupid it was to stay in bed last Monday. I only have this class for three hours once a week, which makes it all the more important that I don't miss it. Because I have no idea what's going on.

I'm just about to leave when my professor speaks behind me. "You alright, Katniss?"

I am, actually. Mostly because I can't bring myself to care whether or not I'm going to pass.

"Yeah, I'm good," I say quickly, ducking out of the room.

XXX

I grab a box of crackers from the mini-store on the base level of my dorm, then head upstairs. Johanna's gone, so I curl up in my bed and wrap my blanket tightly around myself.

When I wake up, I've still got another two hours before it's time for my next class. I toss and turn for awhile, hoping to slip back into unconsciousness. For some strange reason, I can't.

I lay there for about ten more minutes, then I start to pace around the room. The old familiar restlessness begins to invade me, and my mind wanders to the blade waiting in my desk drawer.

My arms cross my chest, squeezing so tightly that it cuts off some of the air, but that doesn't help anything. Even when I let them fall back to my sides, there's a weight pressing down on me, and I realize I'm gasping for breath.

I don't have to go outside this time. Johanna's not here, I can lock the door and stay in my room. Maybe I'll even be calm enough to go to my other class afterward.

On my way to the desk, my foot snags on a cord. I trip and catch myself on a standing lamp.

My computer, pulled from its hiding place under my bed, is connected to the cord tangled near my feet. I pause, then move over to it, just to make sure I didn't hit it against anything.

I turn thing on, wiping dust away from the screen. Skype pops up as soon as I'm logged in and shows that I missed a call from Gale yesterday around midnight.

His status is set to "away," which provides the perfect opportunity to slip offline before he ever noticed I was here and didn't call him back. But guilt gnaws away at me, and I decide to sit in front of the computer until he comes back.

When he does, it's not more than two minutes before he messages me.

You there?

I think I could learn to like this medium much better than talking face-to-face. But when I begin to type a message, even a simple greeting, I can't find the words.

It'll annoy him, but I settle with: Yeah.

He starts to type, then stops.

Frowning, I add, What's up?

Not much. One of the guys is bitching because we had to get up early this morning. You?

My first impulse is tell him about Peeta and returning to class, but both of those topics will bring us right around to the pills I swallowed. I choose the easiest response.

I got a new roommate, and I have no clue what's going on in Calc.

What'd I tell you? Should've taken Stats.

The tiniest smile reaches the corners of mouth, and I shoot back, We can't all slack off like you.

Yeah well don't work yourself to death. I heard shit gets crazy up there when winter hits.

Really?

Yeah, Marvel said this kid just got beat to hell on the edge of campus last week. And somebody saw an ambulance outside a dorm after somebody OD'd.

I wince, pulling my hands back from the keys. As far as I know, there haven't been any other ambulances besides the one that came for me. But it's a big campus. I could've missed it.

After a significant pause, Gale starts to type again. You busy or what?

Closing my eyes, I think up a decent, non-incriminating response. Who was the kid?

Who got beat up? Don't remember. Marvel thought he was going back to school sometime next week since he's still in the hospital. Something like that. Why?

Just curious.

The anxiety is stifling now, and my hands are shaking. From experience, I know they'll just get worse if I don't do something about it.

I've got some homework to finish up. I'll call you soon.

Just as I move to sign off, he types: Sure you will.

Irritated, I close the laptop, then stand up. Careful of any cords or other things to trip on, I move back to the desk and open the drawer.

By the time Johanna returns from working out, the blood's dried.

XXX

My next class, Intro to Spanish, is easy. I get an extension on a vocab quiz, and no one seems to care that I missed last week. Especially the teacher, who doesn't say a word in English the entire time.

XXX

I meet Peeta outside my dorm at 8:00.

"Hey!" he greets, surprisingly cheery given our circumstance. Probably something else he learned in peer training. "How'd your classes go?"

"Fine." To turn his attention away from me, I ask, "Where are we going?"

"Are you hungry?"

Now that I think about it, all I really ate today was a few handfuls of crackers. But my stomach aches and I'm not interested in food.

"No."

"Is there anywhere you want to go?"

I think on it, imagining us cooped up in a restaurant, or his café, or the library. The thought makes me want to crawl back to my room.

I shake my head, and he looks around, like our surroundings will give us an answer.

Shrugging, he moves towards a line of trees that aren't far from my tree, the one I always visit when Johanna's in the room.

"Just for now," he says, plopping down on the ground. "Until we pick a better spot."

I can't help staring at him. I don't know how he picked this spot, or why it didn't occur to me before when it's about the only place I feel comfortable. But him sitting here, sharing the trees and sanctuary I've found, seems oddly intrusive.

But I don't have any other ideas. It's the very first day after I agreed to meet with him, too. And it's only for an hour.

I zip up my coat, feeling the breeze, and sit.