If we harbored any thoughts that we were going to drift into another peaceful unbroken sleep, following our lovemaking, they're shattered fairly quickly tonight. Maybe it's because of the long day behind or the second long day ahead, maybe something unspoken has triggered it, maybe the alcohol has loosened the bolts on those locked doors in our minds. I don't know. I'm sure my head doctor would. He'll probably have to hear all about it, after the scenes of today.

Peeta's the first one to wake screaming, but I wake up almost immediately when he does. His eyes are wide and wild and unfocused and his hands clench convulsively on the bedsheets. His teeth are bared and I get a chill when he looks right through me. The mutt boy returned from the Capitol is all too close at hand. He doesn't see me—not as I am, at least. The tendons in his neck are like taut bowstrings in the moonlight. When I first reach for him, he lashes out at me and I duck to miss the blow. All those nights of watchfulness in hunting and the arena have trained me well. My reflexes are at almost full strength before I'm even fully awake.

"Peeta!" I call his name, which is sometimes enough. Not this time.

"I…I…I…can't! She…she…" His eyes are terrified, confused. My heart breaks having to look into them this way again and I feel a surge of hatred that we're back in this place again…physically, mentally. His movements are uncontrolled, as though he's not really behind them. "I…she wouldn't do that…would she? …No! Don't do it again!" I feel a chill run through me and for a second I falter, afraid to touch him for the first time in months, afraid to provoke him further. Then I steel myself because the love and the pity that wells in my chest, the will to protect, is ultimately what wins out, when it comes to Peeta. I duck his flailing arm and put my hands on his shoulders. His hands jerk up to my wrists and his nails begin to dig in. I shake him, hard.

"Peeta!" I insist. "PEETA!" As his nails begin to hurt, I move in and begin to talk quietly but very fast, the way you might gentle a rearing horse.

"Not real," I whisper. "Not real, not real, not real…Peeta, Peeta, my Peeta." His brows knit pathetically and his eyes close again. I feel his hands go slack on my wrists and the nails withdraw. He's breathing heavily. I listen reflexively to hear if the others have woken, but this time, probably knocked out from the alcohol, no one stirs. I press my forehead to his and we breathe together. By the way his breaths match mine, I know he's back to himself again. Cautiously, I move my hands to cup his cheeks and the tears begin to come. I wipe them away with my thumbs and move in to kiss the trails, his eyelids, the corners of his eyes. He sags and I cradle his head against my chest.

"Was it me?" I ask quietly.

"Yeah," he says. His voice is raspy with sleep and fear and screams. "I'm s…"

I put my hand over his mouth. "Don't."

"Katniss, I d…" He opens his eyes.

I shake my head. We've been through this before. The days where I blamed Peeta for the things he can't control are behind me now. At some point he became more Peeta than not-Peeta. As Peeta, he's never failed me, and I don't believe he ever will. I will not fail him again. I hold him and we breathe, wrapped in the lush blanket. I kiss his hair.

"I love you," I tell him softly. "Do you know that?"

"Yeah," he says. "I know." This is usually my response.

"Do you love me?" I say, teasingly, trying to lighten the mood. His brows knit again and he raises his head. "Don't joke like that," he says. I'm immediately sorry.

"Of course I love you," he says severely, and then those beautiful eyes reflect sorrow and apology again and he cranes up and kisses me. "Did I hurt you?" I shake my head. He's still agitated. "Let me see," he insists. I hold up my wrists. The little crescent indents left by his nails are already fading. By the time Peeta was let out of the hospital and returned to 12, the worst of his outbursts toward me had passed. Most of these are minor, now, and they're very rare, besides. I have no doubt what triggered this one.

"We shouldn't sleep," he says, "Or I should go downstairs. I don't…I don't want to do it again. Wake you up. I don't…you can't trust me."

"We're beyond that," I tell him, shaking my head. "Come here." He looks so sad. I always feel the need to touch him more, love him more, when he looks that way. I pull him down by me and wrap him in my arms, my whole body moving to cover his, encircle it, make it safe even from himself.

"I don't want to sleep again, though," he insists. I feel like I'll be awake too for awhile but I let this be. "You try to sleep, ok?" I nod to placate him, moving my head against his neck so he can feel it. I kiss the back of his neck, sweeping the hair away. I feel him relax ever-so-slightly. I whisper something to him that only three people have ever gotten from me, to that day, because I know it might be the only thing that will coax a smile.

"Deep in the meadow," I whisper, "Under the willow…" The song brings back all kinds of memories. Prim, the morning of the first Hunger Games, the day she left us the goat cheese. Rue. My father. It's the last thing I remember before, exhausted and despite my assumptions, I drift back into darkness.

The second time it's me. When I wake, I'm already screaming, as I jolt up, my throat burns and my head whips wildly around, trying to make sense of the surroundings. I can't piece together where I am at first and this makes me more panicked. I don't even register Peeta's presence beside me until I hear a startling voice that's not his.

"Katniss," it says. "Hey, hey…" Against all odds, it's Johanna, kneeling by the bed, draped in a sheet. I look perplexed still, but she and Peeta begin to come into focus. They're both holding one of my hands. I don't register the fact that we're both nude for some time. Johanna is squeezing my hand hard.

"You're in a boardinghouse in the Capitol," she recites, as though she's done it a million times. "You're only visiting. It's the middle of the night, and it's April. You live in district 12 with Peeta in your own house, and you'll be home soon." This is as far as she needs to get before I come out of my state and begin nodding to let them know I'm alright. Peeta's wrapped his arms around me and she lets go, but she sits beside me on the bed anyways. Only then do I pull the sheet up to cover my bare breasts.

"Prim?" she asks quietly, and I nod. I swallow and my throat clicks. "Rue, too." The three of us are like one mind sometimes after all we've been through.

"Yeah. I can't sleep here either," she says. "Especially not tonight." I'm about to ask why when I hear what my hunter's senses missed as I awoke in such terror. The rain is pouring down outside the window, erasing the clear moonlit night. I realize a few hours must have passed since Peeta awoke, but it's still full dark. I wince. The hissing of the rain must be making her crazy.

"Thanks," I whisper. My eyes feel hot and tight. I want to cry but I can't. The images pound through my brain. Peacekeepers restraining Gale as he mouths at me to shoot him. Turning to run. Clinging to a lamppost and then red hot, rose red, heat blooming and flowering, and she's there, two blonde braids, and I'm not fast enough…

"Don't go there," says Johanna, slapping my thigh lightly. I shake my head.

"It's okay," Peeta whispers. "We've got you." I only then realize that I'm shaking.

I try to turn my thoughts to something else. It's hard. "How'd you know to tell me…" I address Johanna.

"That's what helps me when I keep ending up in the arena over and over again," she says, grimly. "Or else…" she glances at Peeta and falls silent. "I need to know for sure that I'm not there anymore, that I'm out."

My litany has already kicked in inside my head. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I live in district 12 with Peeta…

"I've got her," Peeta says. Johanna nods and squeezes my hand again before she leaves. I lean back into Peeta and close my eyes.

The third time, I'm already awake. I can't sleep after the first round. This time, it's Darius, for him. In the tunnels, as the pieces slowly come off. After this, we give up. We simply cling to one another's warmth in the bed as the rain, such a soothing sound at home, pours down. I hear Johanna pacing in the next room. To the sound of the rain and the footsteps, we meet the dawn. I dread this day as I've dreaded no other since returning to 12 after the war ended. Our eyes are red and bloodshot when we wake up, and I'm exhausted. I can't think about the litany of expectations that fills today, seeing that ache behind Gale's soldier front. It's only the thought of Rue's family that gets me out of bed. For the first time in a long time, when Johanna, looking as exhausted and rumpled as us, offers me one of her stash of pills in the hallway, I take it, without even asking what it is. It will take awhile to kick in, though, and in the meantime, I'm rancid.

The crew has already coalesced around the food downstairs, except for Haymitch. Fulvia looks surprised not to see him descend the stairs with us. I'm not up for cleaning up whatever mess he's gotten himself into this time, and Peeta is more dispirited than I've seen him lately. I'm filled with fresh unwarranted hatred for everyone in the room except the three of us. My rational brain knows that it doesn't make sense, but I can't help my hostility, especially looking at Peeta, who was doing so well at home and is now slumped next to me in a chair, looking down at a plate of delicious food that none of us feel like eating.

"Where's Haymitch?" asks Plutarch heartily, and I aim my hate in that direction.

"I'm not fetching him," I snap. "Do it yourself if you need him." Plutarch's eyebrows raise. I see Lyme shoot a quizzical glance at us and then turn and whisper into Paylor's ear. The President regards us quietly and then nods in assent. I look up long enough to see Lyme pull Plutarch aside, too, and then I ignore them. Fulvia is sent up the stairs to fetch Haymitch. Good luck, I think sourly.

We hear a ruckus from overhead and then a short yelp, a pause, a growl, Fulvia saying something sternly, some kind of sound of disgust, and then a door slamming and the shower kicking up. Everyone is staring at the ceiling but the three of us, since this is completely normal for us. I try slowly to work through some eggs. Like Finnick and Annie, I haven't let go of Peeta's hand this morning, trying to provide him with some sense of stability, like he did with me yesterday. I'll have to muster up everything I have to get through today in one piece. The rain, relentless, pounds on the kitchen windows. Johanna hunches into her plate. We eat in silence waiting for Haymitch. Finally, Fulvia clumps down the stairs, looking harried, and a minute later, Haymitch, freshly showered, glowering and looking sullen and hostile, slides into his chair, uncorks a hip flask, and takes a long draw from it. He coughs, and then looks marginally better.

The President takes a breath and then begins to speak as we wrap up eating. Peeta and I push our plates away with a lot of food still on them. I'm loathe to waste food, but my stomach just can't hold any down this morning. Fulvia again passes out an itinerary and I look down at it in dread.

0700: Breakfast and Debrief

0800: Meet at Capitol

0900: Propo Preparation (Salon, #14, D. Street)

1030: Propo Shoot (Washington Park, D. Street)

1200: Break for lunch

1300-1600: Mental Health Check-Ins (Medical Outpost #2)

1700-1830: Mockingjay's Address to Panem (Monument Square Podium)

1900: Dinner (TBD)

My first instinct is confusion. My brain is addled from lack of sleep and I don't know where any of these locations are, and I'm immediately on the defensive because I don't understand what's going on and there are so many areas of the city which we're still all afraid to go. I'm terrified of coming into contact with the smell of roses or the square in front of the Mansion, even though I heard it's been razed and redone as a memorial. I fear the streets and alleys by Tigress's shop, during those hours when we hid and fled through the streets, unsure, half-broken from the losses we'd suffered, so many deaths in so few days. Streets haunted with the ghosts of pods and those who died. We moved only to one building yesterday, a new one, so it was okay, but there are so many locations here. I chew the inside of my mouth until I taste blood just looking at this deceptively simple white sheet of paper. Johanna looks a little green. Paylor must note our confusion because she produces a tiny device from an inside pocket in her tailored jacket and begins to lift it in order to help explain. I recognize it in an instant, though, and I feel my body begin to shake again. Without a word, I shove my plate back and back up. Peeta's hand is on my arm and I know he's trying to pause me, even in his state, to keep me there, but my stomach lurches and my mouth begins to fill with saliva. I feel bile in my throat and without a thought of how this will look, what the stakes are, keeping cool and calm and leading the others, I knock my chair over in my haste, reach the bathroom and slam the door behind me just in time to drop to my knees and retch into the toilet. The little I ate comes back up again. I feel the acid in my sinuses and retch again and again and again. That tiny device…I can't. I can't do it. I can't do it. My head pounds and I lean my cheek down against the cool porcelain tiles. I'm panting.

Why did they bring us back here?

Suddenly I'm furious. The bathroom stinks of vomit and I hear footsteps coming towards the door. Peeta. Haymitch. Lyme. Paylor herself, maybe, holo in hand. "Leave me alone!" I cry. My hand suddenly shoots out and a delicate china dish filled with candy, propped on the shiny sink, falls to the floor and shatters. I'm still raging over my own ineptitudes, all the memories rushing back, the reality that the President would not know what these relics of the past would bring up for us. I ache for Finnick. I hear the doorknob turn and my hand shoots out to thumb the lock but I'm not fast enough. I suspect Peeta, but it's not. Haymitch enters and thumbs the lock behind him. I hear rushed, raised voices. I take one look at him and see in his eyes that I don't have to explain.

"I'll tell them you can't do it," he says, and his eyes, though he's already begun drinking today, are now stone sober. "It's okay, sweetheart. We'll figure it out so we can go home. They can do it another way, maybe in 12."

My whole being aches to say yes to this offer, to tell Haymitch to get that horrible train back, to let me leave, go, curl up at home in bed and try to forget. But I know deep inside that if I can't get past my terror at being in the Capitol, if I can never face it, I'll never fully heal. It will remain an open, suppurating wound, maybe forever. I've never shied away from my fears. I've forced myself through them, past them—fear of death, fear of insanity, fear of losing Peeta. I've lost my sister and survived. I've lost dear friends and survived. I'm not here alone. I make these calculations in my head. Haymitch is quiet, letting me work it out. I don't want to quit because I can't take it. I don't want to be the one who can't fight through it somehow—Peeta and Johanna tortured here, hijacked here, Haymitch watching the Capitol kill his family one by one, returning every year with new Tributes, year after year training them only to watch them die one by one. And Annie, who will be there today, Annie who lost the love of her life. Rue's family who had to watch their little girl die on television.

"No," I say, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I clench my fingernails into my palms, and blessedly, I feel Johanna's pill begin to kick in. It's some kind of calming agent, because my mind feels a little fuzzy, but not too bad. It becomes easier to not think too hard about things. "I've got to finish what I started."

"Then tell me what you need," says Haymitch.

"Tell them to put the damn holos away," I snap, not at him but in frustration. For once, he doesn't take it personally. "All of these things just bring up old memories and frankly, we've had a night full of them already."

"I know," Haymitch says, "Peeta filled me in after you left."

"He's not doing any better," I say, feeling ashamed of myself for leaving him there, and further ashamed for my refusal to go upstairs and help with Haymitch, who's being so kind to me now. "And Johanna is paralyzed by the weather, you must know that. I need to know where all these things will be. Paper maps, maybe. I can't go near the places where I was during the war, especially not that mansion. Have them do whatever it takes to keep me from there. I can do the rest if they can manage that."

"Alright," says Haymitch. "I'll tell them. Why don't you wash up. Splash some water on your face and pull it together. We'll help you as much as we can today. His eyes are surprisingly sympathetic as he rises to leave. "Do you want Peeta?"

I nod mutely, trying to collect myself. Haymitch leaves and I pull myself up to the sink, rinse the disgusting taste from my mouth, wipe it with paper, throw it all in the toilet and flush the mess down. I can't get the taste out so I rinse and spit again. I throw a handful of cold water over my face and when that's not enough, stick my whole face under the tap. Peeta finds me like this. He still looks too pale, his face set. When he sees me, he pulls me into his arms and rains kisses down on my hair. I wrap my arms around him and wish more than anything we were home again.

"Haymitch says you want to go on," he says.

I ignore this for the moment. "Peeta?"

"Yes?"

"When we get home, can we just…" I swallow hard. "Can we just lie in bed for awhile and…just rest and…maybe we can make something to eat, just us, and light a fire…" I can barely say it without wanting to cry. Peeta leans down and kisses me softly. Tiny kisses, gentle and chaste. I breathe him in.

"When we get back home to our house," he murmurs, "We'll climb into bed under that big soft quilt and I'll hold you tight, and we'll light a big old roaring fire in that fireplace like the night I found you in the snow, and I'll rub your back and we'll rest wrapped in each other's arms, and then we'll make love and rest some more, just us. I'll make you some cheese buns and we'll have Greasy Sae pick up some food and we'll stay just as long as you like. Maybe take a big hot bubble bath." It sounds so good, I want to whimper. "Okay," I whisper back.

It takes all my willpower to pull out of his arms and rise on wobbly legs to my feet again. I can hear rapid voices speaking over one another outside the bathroom door in low, rushed tones, punctuated by frustrated outbursts from Haymitch, although I'm missing the words. Peeta holds my arms to keep me steady and I close my eyes, inhale deeply, steeling myself to face the room again.

Almost done, I think. I cling to the thought of Peeta and I home in bed. It feels as though we've been here for a hundred years already. But Peeta's hands are warm and steady as ever and the closer sound of his breathing, matching mine, helps me block out the din outside the door. Peeta squeezes gently.

"I'll go out first, okay?" he says. I swallow hard and nod. I feel guilty again letting him bear the brunt of this agonizing rehashing, but I need he and Haymitch and I can't deny it; need them to carry the message that deep down, I'm still so fragile. I'm frustrated with myself but whether I like it or not, this visit has brought up old aches and pains not yet healed.

Peeta leans in and kisses my forehead and then I hear his footsteps moving away before the voices quiet. The heated dialogue grows quieter, and when I hear them stop speaking, I step back out into the hall. When I enter the room, Paylor is speaking brusquely into a telephone attached to the table. Lyme is on another line, I presume, because I can hear one half of her conversation in another room nearby. Johanna, very pale, is nodding to Haymitch, who is crouched on his haunches in front of her. I can tell from here her jaw is set and almost vibrating. I'm amazed that her body can retain that much tension even mediated by drugs. I know the only sense of calm I possess at the moment is drug-induced. Paylor glances up at me but returns to her conversation. I note that Gale is watching me with unmistakable concern in his eyes, which are red-rimmed. Some of the others are avoiding my eyes entirely, as though I were a dangerous animal who might be provoked. I pour a tall cool glass of water from the crystal jug on the sideboard. Just as I take a seat beside Peeta again, who rests a hand on my leg, Paylor hangs up the phone and Lyme re-enters the room, carrying a stack of paper. When she begins to disseminate them to the rest of us, she begins with me, and I look down with some relief in realizing it's a paper map. Wherever the holos are, they've been temporarily stowed from my sight. Johanna is already analyzing the map closely. I can't help but be slightly impressed by the speed with which these have appeared—they must have been sent electronically somehow. I cross-check them with the schedule that remains at my place, and note several things at once: that the locations mentioned on the schedule are marked on the map, that all of these locations are relatively clustered, and that none of them, at least on the map, appear to be centered around anything that triggers me. From what I can tell, these locations are situated further west in the city than the path we followed in our invasion. They are, in fact, far enough away that I begin to wonder whether we'll be expected to walk that distance. Far off, I can still hear the drizzle of water on the windows, and I'm thinking of Johanna again. My breathing begins to ease in these deductions, though. My hands relax on the tabletop. Peeta merely waits, his eyes fixed on the President. Lyme takes her seat, and Paylor begins to speak. Her eyes are not coy; they are trained obviously in our direction.

"We have adjusted some of our plans for the day accordingly, and we'll go over those plans now, if that's alright," she says. I recognize this as being an open hand to me, and I nod. Haymitch has returned to his chair beside Johanna, but her feet still tap restlessly.

"We will be calling cars to transport all of us across town to the locations at which we'll be shooting the propos and Katniss' address to Panem today," she says. "These locations were chosen so as to provide the highest level of comfort possible, given that we recognize your aversion to travel within the Capitol after all you have suffered during the war." My first impression of this is patronization and my hackles begin to rise, but my eyes shift to Lyme, and there is open understanding in her eyes at my emotional instability, my inability to hide and subsume it. I feel a flicker of that Victor bond between us.

"Johanna, do you think you'll be alright traveling in an enclosed vehicle?" Paylor asks directly.

"Oh, don't worry yourself about me," Johanna deadpans, with the hint of a sneer. I can feel a blameless anger pulsing beneath her words. I doubt, were I to ask her, she'd even be able to verbalize at whom it's directed. She's angry to be here at all. I know the feeling.

Paylor continues as though oblivious to the sneer.

"Alright then," she continues. "We'll be meeting the cars directly here instead of gathering at the Capitol first. Your prep teams and Annie Cresta will be meeting you there." I sneak a sideways glance at Peeta in time to see him wince. Peeta's prep team is long dead, executed as a punishment for him exercising free will during his hijacking and warning 13 about the impending missile strike. I wonder who they've dug up for him.

"The Avis family is expected to arrive at midday. While you're in your mental health check-ins, they will settle in to their lodgings for the day and we will update them on our current schedule and objectives. You will meet them afterwards and they will be there for the entirety of your address, Katniss. Beetee will project this address live to all of Panem…." Beetee nods at this… "We have a speech prepared but beforehand, you will be able to sit with an editor and make certain adjustments, and add your own thoughts. We hope to find a reasonable compromise, as there are certain crucial facts we need you to speak about." I can feel the scowl coming across my face. Katniss the marionette, the Capitol's eternal puppet. I don't look at the others. For just that moment, I resent all of them, everyone in the room, irrationally, for the sole fact that in the end it is still me who is expected to stand up for all of us.

Paylor is carefully tracking my facial expressions because she backs off. I think she's probably afraid her Mockingjay might balk after all, might flatly refuse. Good, I think, maybe they'll walk carefully around me. This thought lends some much-needed legitimacy to my defeated mindset.

"Dinner tonight will include everyone," Gale speaks up in her place. His face softens a moment. "My family will be coming out, your prep teams, Rue's family, Annie, and all of us, plus a few others. We'll be working on where the best location for dinner is today. Carefully." He adds this last bit belatedly, and despite myself, I feel my mouth twitch as he gazes at me.

Johanna stands. "Let's get moving already, I'm sick of talking about it." Haymitch grunts agreement and when I glance at him, I see that he's swiftly tucked a flask beneath his long jacket. I don't say a word, though, and neither does anyone else. I'd really prefer he be stable on this long and dreary day, but by no means is it the first time, and being as how I'm feeling a little loopy on one of Johanna's pills myself, I figure I'm not one to talk. I have the feeling that all the details of today haven't yet been filled in, but they'll have time as we go. I hear the splash of water in the gutter and the low hum of idling engines as what must be our transportation pulls up to the curb. We stand, and I see that some of the Ministers are trying to discreetly cover their yawns. I have a feeling it was a long night for them. I don't pity them much, though, because after Paylor has a quick word with them, many of them are dismissed.

Paylor addresses the end of the table once more as we stand.

"Vice President Lyme will be sitting in on your activities today in my stead," she says, and although I fully expect today to be a terrible day, between the paper maps, my reassurance over our destinations, Johanna's pills, the dinner later tonight, and the dismissal of all these stifling government agents, I'm beginning to feel better. Peeta looks a little less pale, too, and despite Johanna's blistering contempt for this entire process, I can tell from her body language she's reassured by the cars. Further, I spot Gale passing her something from a closet that can only be some type of umbrella, a luxury previously unheard-of outside the Capitol. Paylor no doubt has other things to do than babysit a disgruntled Mockingjay and her friends. Lyme smiles at me. Without thinking, I smile back. I don't dislike Paylor and I don't doubt she's doing a better job than any other prospect would, but I like Lyme more.

Randolph and Flora file past us, shaking our hands and murmuring how nice it has been to meet us. Plutarch, who I'm quite glad to see go, though he's been uncharacteristically quiet this morning—I wonder if that was Haymitch—jovially booms his goodbyes, sounding positively jolly, and Fulvia trills alongside him. Both Haymitch and Johanna barely spare a look at him as he goes, and I grit my teeth. After all this time, he still doesn't get it. The President exits with a brusque, "See you at dinner," leaving the four of us, Lyme, Beetee, and Gale. I feel my shoulders immediately descend from my ears. Maybe this day will be manageable after all, though I'm still exhausted.

We hear a few of the cars gear up and pull away, and Gale begins to hand us our new jackets, piled on the back of a couch and forgotten. Johanna shrugs into her leather with the star stitched on the back. For me, there is something more comforting, a brown fitted coat that falls to my knees, lined with feather-soft fur of some kind patterned in spots and swirls. It's comfortable but I hate it, because I know it's not Cinna's. I wonder if he's left any other surprises for my propo today, or if I've reached the end of his beautiful hands. I feel a cramp of sadness in my belly thinking about it. Peeta has a similar jacket, and we file outside together into an enormous black car. It's rare that I've even been around cars, which have been reserved for the rich throughout my life—wagons have been far more common for me. This one has luxurious velvet seats and tube lighting around the roof that lights up in shifting colors when we sit. There's a selection of drinks on the sideboard, and I pour myself a deep red liquid that turns out to be some kind of fruit juice. Haymitch, of course, has two inches of liquor in a tumbler before he even sits down. I pour Peeta some juice and he takes my hand with his free hand as I snuggle up against him. As the car starts up, we descend into silence, no doubt all lost in the logistics of the day. Johanna calls up to the driver through a glass partition.

"Hey! How long is this going to take?" It's Gale who answers.

"It's about a thirty minute ride," he tells her.

Not enough time to nap, then, though my eyes are heavy from both lack of sleep and the sedating effects of the pill. I close them anyways, and the rocking of the car soothes me. I don't want to look out the windows. Peeta strokes my hair gently. I hear the clink of bottles, probably as Haymitch pours himself another drink. I have a minute to wonder if he'll be shooting his propo drunk, and then I'm asleep after all.

It's Johanna's slap on my shoulder that wakes me. I'm groggy and I regret the sleep already, since it's not enough. We've stopped in front of a building that is covered with so many decorative flourishes painted so many colors, it looks like it's made of candy. It makes me wince just looking at it. The rain has finally stopped, and I squeeze out the door after Johanna, blinking up at what must be our salon. This part of the city is unfamiliar to me—the streets are wider and there are little tables all over them, presumably outside places to eat. Before I can contemplate any of this further, the doors burst open and my prep team springs upon me, exclaiming over each other in loud, excited voices.

"Katniss, it's so good to see you again!" cries Flavius, just as I hear Octavia, whose skin has returned to a pale lime shade now, cry happily, "Oh, your hair has gotten so long!" Flavius' lustrous red ringlets have returned to full form. They've all gained back vibrancy and the weight they lost after their torture in 13, though I doubt they'll ever forget it. Their clothes lack the elaboration they once displayed, but they're in bright, many-layered shades. I think they actually look nicer this way. Venia, in her wisdom, stands back a little, smiling at me but clearly holding herself back from entering the fray. I break loose from the tearful embraces of the other two and move in to hug her. Her hair is shorter and dyed dark blue, streaked with turquoise. Her good tattoos have descended down to her cheeks, I notice.

"Ready for today?" she asks quietly.

"I miss Cinna," I tell her, trying hard not to let my eyes well up as I imagine his gentle voice, how filled with gladness it would be to be a part of my life again. Residual guilt always wells in me when I think of him. My nails dig into my palms as I clench my fists.

"Me, too," she tells me, and I see that even her face is troubled at this memory. Fortunately for us, the others are clamoring all over themselves exclaiming at the sight of me, rushing over to hug Peeta as well. He too looks sad, and I wonder if he was watching when Portia and his own preps were executed for his actions. From the look on his face, I suspect he was. I wonder how I've never asked this in all the time since. Beetee and Gale are looking impassive, Lyme slightly impatient at this raucous reunion. My prep team can be a little hard to handle. After ten minutes or so of exclaiming about my return, pulling at my hands to examine my nails, pinching my sides to see the shape my body is in, and babbling about their current exploits, their new houses, how different the Capitol is, Lyme finally begins to shoo them inside. The place is enormous, partitioned off into many separate rooms lined with mirrors, filled with tables and showers and swiveling chairs. Peeta only has time to give me a quick kiss as we're split up. New prep teams emerge from each room, sweeping the others into their own prep. I have time to notice one of Gale's team, a vivacious young woman with long, loose, pale pink curls, give him a teasing nudge. She says something in his ear that makes him laugh, and I realize that Gale's preps are not new to him. I feel a flash of what almost feels like nausea before they vanish behind a swinging door and I'm tugged through another.

My prep team unceremoniously strips me, clothes me in a thin blue paper gown, and ushers me into an enormous shower in the corner of the room. I am waxed, scrubbed, dipped, exfoliated, shampooed, conditioned, and lotioned down. Then I'm lotioned down again with something different. Though I'm completely unfazed by any of it, being as how I've been through so many rounds of this in my life, after about an hour, as usual, it gets annoying. I've long since begun to tune my team out as they chatter about their new lodging, and how scandalous some of the new laws are, and how glad they are to be back to the banquet food they starved for, when Flavius says something that catches my attention as he's filing my nails into perfect ovals.

"Your new stylist will discuss that with you, of course." At the words "your new stylist," I snap back to attention. "What?" I say. The three of them exchange nervous glances.

"Well, Katniss," says Octavia tentatively, "Of course, they needed to assign someone to help get you ready to appear on camera again today, and, well…" she falters, "Plutarch and Fulvia are quite busy, of course."

More like they couldn't wait to hand me over to someone else. I was never exactly easy for them to groom and train and mind, though at the time and under the circumstances, they didn't have much choice in the matter. I feel my skin actually crawl a little at the thought of a new stylist, because even in 13, I was still shooting propos in Cinna's Mockingjay outfit, after all.

"Who is this person?" I demand.

"We don't exactly know," says Venia, the only one who seems to speak directly to me. "We received directions to remake you to Beauty Base Zero. No further instructions were given."

"They have new clothes for me?" This is the only thing I can fixate on, and I feel my chest get tight, like I'm going to cry or stop breathing. Cinna's clothes have become so much a part of my comfort in these awkward situations, always gentle reminders that there is some humanity in this entire process. What if I get some horrible primping, simpering, spoiled Capitol pet? What if I get the stylist I was so dreading ending up with in my first Games? Just as I begin to feel that sense of helplessness rushing back in, Venia hastily fills the void.

"Oh, no, Katniss, of course, Cinna left you enough clothes to last a whole lifetime!"

I exhale slowly and I feel my heart rate begin to return to normal. I momentarily forget the news because of the curiosity that buoys the question to my lips. "But how is that possible? He already left me a whole closet full of things back at 12."

For the first time, Venia laughs. "Katniss, do you remember your talent?"

It takes me a moment to place this comment, and then it comes back to me. At one point, I had an entire train car filled with clothes, because Cinna was covering for my utter lack of talent by producing excess clothes that I supposedly designed, of course. This was really the furthest thing from my mind after the need for such niceties became obsolete.

"They've kept those clothes all this time?" At this, I actually feel a twinge of bittersweet happiness. A whole room filled with Cinna, that I never saw.

Octavia sounds aghast. "Well, they went in storage, didn't they? They would never be thrown away!" Her scandalized tone recalls child murder.

"When can I see them?" I ask. My questions about the stylist issue have totally escaped me at this new information, but then I'm reminded when Flavius glances at the clock. "Well, we have to do your makeup and hair and then you should be about finished with us, so I guess you'll find out soon."

My stomach flutters uncomfortably throughout the tedious process of evening out my skin, brushing, massaging and trimming my hair, exfoliating my lips and curling my eyelashes and yanking painful strips of wax off my forehead. I'm growing steadily more impatient throughout the hour, until the preps step back and fall silent, regarding me. My arms are covered in goosebumps beneath the blue gown and I try not to glare back. After a moment I realize that they're reluctant to leave, and I feel myself soften.

"Look, I'll see you again later today," I tell them. "For that speech, remember?" They look slightly mollified at this, but I see Octavia give a small sniff as she pats my hair. "So good to see you again, Katniss!"

I can't help but smile. They wish me luck and depart, and I have a minute to flash back to that first impression of relief at meeting Cinna, the gold eyeliner, his low, almost musical voice, the hands that could conjure beauty from the air. I swing my feet below the edge of the table and feel about a thousand years old. The minutes tick by. The rooms around me all seem quiet, and so I look up in a flash, the second I hear the creak of a spring.

***So, I have news for you, readers. In honor of next week's big event (got my Double Feature XD tickets over here!), I'm going to extend an offer. Anyone who writes a review for TL&N between midnight tonight and midnight Friday will be entered into a drawing, and I'll pick a winner on Friday. That person will get written into the new chapter of TL&N as a substantial character.

Here are the rules:

Submissions must be posted on the review section by 12 AM Eastern Time, 11/1/13.

Only one submission per person.

Reviews can be positive OR constructive criticism (or both)! Just be honest!

Reviews have to address at least two of the following: plot, characters, compatibility with canon, innovation,writing, setting.

Reviews should be about the entire story, not just one chapter.

Reviews should be edited so they are legible and comprehensible.

If you win, you must be ready to promptly respond to some questions about yourself on Friday, as the new chapter will go up on 11/21.

Happy reviewing!