Prim makes the journey with us, and I pretend.
As we enter my Victor's quarters, one of the few structures still standing in District 12, I pretend that she and I can play house. I pretend that we can share a bed like we used to. And we do, that night and many others, but it's not the same. I know, in my heart, that she can't stay.
One of us needs to take care of Mother, but Mother will not be coming back to this place. She needs to be in District 4, with its sunshine and its warm air off the sea. Where they have hospitals, real hospitals. And so does Prim. There's so much for her to learn there, my little healer. As much as I want to keep her all to myself, as much as I want her to heal me, I can't. She needs to be among the living. She can't stay here, can't dance on this grave.
For now, I indulge myself. I hover, watching her move about our house, and she's the 14-year-old I should have been. Bright smile, bright future. We watch Buttercup, who is apparently as impossible to kill now as when he was a kitten, chase that flashlight.
Prim asks gently if I'm going to hunt, but I just shake my head. I can't bear the thought of touching a bow. Not yet. But I do coax her out with me to the forest, although she hesitates initially at the sight of the fence, portions of it still separating us from freedom. We picnic by the lake (her eyes wide at so much water), and I try to teach her how to swim. She shrieks and sputters that it's "So cold!" By the time we leave, she can at least float in shallow water on her back.
"I can see those toes touching," I tease, knowing that she's cheating. I'd done the same to Father when I was first learning.
She just sticks her tongue out at me and basks golden in the sun.
Ø
When we make our way home, weary and sun-kissed, we find Buttercup guarding our weekly shipment of supplies and mail, his tail twitching against the porch.
"I've got the cold stuff," I call to Prim, hefting the larger packages down to our freezer in the cellar. When I'm done preserving the new food, the kitchen is still empty. Prim hasn't yet left the porch. I find her sitting next to Buttercup, leaning over a letter in her hand. From over her shoulder, I recognize Mother's barely literate scrawl.
She begins to read out loud. The message is innocuous, mostly comments about the glorious weather in 4. But the note ends with, You'd really like it here. Cold spreads to my extremities. It's Mother's meek way of making a request. Even though she has no right. Not after Father.
Prim folds up the letter, tucks it neatly back in the envelope.
For a moment, we're quiet.
Then I go straight to the point. "You'll really like 4."
Finnik was from 4.
I think Prim's going to say something, anything. Maybe tell me that she doesn't have to go to 4, that she can stay with me instead. But she doesn't say that. She knows better. She just nods once and goes inside. It doesn't take her long to pack her things.
"You can come, too," she says as she deposits her bag (woefully small) at the foot of the stairs. I'm waiting, ready to take her to the station. The return train leaves in half an hour. I'm wearing pretty much everything I own.
Instead, I say, "You'll be great. Both of you." And they will be.
We walk to the train slowly, a far cry from our mood coming back from the lake. The air smells of ash.
"Take care of Buttercup," Prim whispers as she hugs my neck, a catch in her throat. We both know she's not just talking about that blasted cat.
A silver snake of a train swallows my sister whole.
Ø
Now me, I sit. I don't go to the forest or the lake or the town. I don't hunt. I just wait. Maybe to die, maybe to live, I'm not really sure.
Ø
From the moment I see his dark hair through the door screen, I think I might have been waiting for this.
My mind takes me to a promise of endless days between the trees, by the lake, him getting to experiment with a slew of new snares, me perfecting the aerodynamics of my arrows.
I throw open my front door and throw myself into Gale's arms. For a moment, we grip tightly, just breathing each other in. It's natural, the way we fit. Then he sets me down, and I take a better look. He looks different. And there's something in his face.
I ask, "Is Hazelle okay?"
"Yes. She's fine. Everyone's fine," he tries to assure, but his words don't. If anything, my concern grows. His tone is too light, forced. For the first time, I wonder why he didn't come to see me in the Capitol, after. I wonder why I didn't go see him. I wonder if the only reason he's here now is because he's talked to Prim. It's been weeks since she left.
He follows me into the house, where I'm putting the final touches on a meager meal. I'm getting to the point where I can manage not to burn rice. As Gale leans against the back of a chair, I bustle, digging through unfamiliar cupboards for an extra plate.
We small talk. He tells me he's bought the family a house right outside District 2. Not too close to the Capitol, I think. But not too far, either.
"Posey decorated her room herself. It's very…pink." We laugh, and I remember his little sister commenting on Olivia's pretty green skin. Perhaps she'll make a great stylist herself someday. A real one.
As we eat, we talk about each member of his family, how they're adjusting to life outside the Seam. It takes a good half hour to cover everyone. As we talk, a spark lights in my belly. Gale is free now—unencumbered by his family.
"And you?" I fight to keep my voice neutral. From the way Gale palms his neck, I know I wasn't successful. He knows me too well.
"I've been offered a position." He looks up, tentative. "In District 2. They saw my work with Beetee." Of course. Right near the new house he's bought for his family.
"Oh." I should congratulate him, I suppose, but I can't. A fancy position far from home. I can't picture Gale conforming to what remains of Capitol culture. I can't picture Gale indoors, working over monitors.
I can, however, picture Gale blowing things up. Designing experimental new weapons, snares on a greater magnitude than sticks and stones. There's a reason his traps catch twice as many unsuspecting prey as mine.
He watches my face intently. Waiting for me to say something. Anything. He said he'd been offered a position. The phrasing seems important.
"Are you going to accept?"
Instead of answering, he moves to stand at the window by the sink. The one framing the forest a stone's-throw from the house. He places his now-empty plate down with a plink.
"You know," he says, almost idly, "they have the most excellent forests in District 2."
I know what he's asking. I know exactly what he's asking.
"This is our home," I answer. He doesn't miss the our.
Gale turns back to me now, desperation in his eyes. "It doesn't have to be." His face is hope.
But I'm shaking my head. I have to be here. It's the only place that feels right. I couldn't explain it to Prim, and I can't explain it to him.
"Then run away with me, Catnip," he says. A final plea.
And I consider it.
With the Capitol crumbled, our families no longer rely on us for survival. We could crawl under the remains of the fence—knock it over, even. Leave the ruins of District 12. Walk out into the forest—our forest—and never come back. Tag team hunt and gather, take shelter in the skeletons of former cabins by lakes, count stars by night.
But his words are hollow, only a faded echo of my own to him so long ago.
I look down at Gale's fancy clothes and his fancy shoes and his fancy bow slung over his chair and can't see home in these things. We could survive, out there in the wild, but I'm not sure we'd survive each other. We're not the same barefoot hunters dodging trees and tossing berries.
War has torn us asunder.
Gale watches my face and, as always, he knows.
We say nothing.
Even non-moving, he deflates. We finish our meal, our last supper. We make final small talk, words that diminish and slow like sand draining from a sieve. It's time for him to leave, nothing left for him here, and he steps forward. My heart doesn't even quicken in anticipation of a final kiss from those warm lips.
At the last second, he kisses my forehead instead, a benediction for a child.
I'll miss him something fierce. When I'm imperfectly setting one of his traps. Or have a ripe berry in my hand, no open mouth a target.
The liquid of his eyes says he'll miss me, too.
But obviously not enough.