Disclaimer: I do now own The Hunger Games.

I hunt regularly now. When I go to the woods I'm reminded of how much everything outside of them has changed. Hunting is one thing that I've held on to from my old life, before the Games. I have a different house and spend my time with different people, but the woods, and how they make me feel, are the same.

Today I see a single bone hanging from a wire and realize it must be leftover from one of Gale's successful snares that he never came back to check. The animal caught must have been eaten by scavengers, birds probably. I don't know why, but I find myself walking through some brush, leaning and reaching out for it through the branches. I can't quite get it and when my heels return to the ground, I feel my hair get yanked taut. It jerks my head back a little and makes me panic for a second. I feel trapped, confined. As if I'm back in Thirteen, under the ground, or imprisoned in my room in the Capitol again.

I gasp and quickly reach over, tugging my hair free. The braid is loosened in a spot and I glare at it, then at the branch that caught it. My eyes travel over to the snare, with its single bone, and I glare at that, for causing this. What did I want with it anyway? I start toward home, already forming my plan in my mind. I don't ever want that to happen again. My head feels heavy, as if the branch is still pulling at me. When I reach my house in the Victor's Village I toss my kills into the refrigerator, then take a pair of scissors out of a drawer in the kitchen and make my way to the downstairs bathroom.

I hold the end of my braid in my hand and look at it in the mirror. I remember my mother braiding it up on reaping day. My prep team fussing over it. Part of it getting singed off during the Games. Peeta fidgeting with it, loose, on the roof of the Training Center. Gale's hand over it, pressing it into my back while we kiss.

Before I can change my mind, I position the blades of the scissors around my braid and start to force them together. My hair is fairly thick, so it requires a lot of seemingly blunt chopping, but the long hairs start to narrow and eventually they're all severed, and I'm holding the braid in my hand. It's limp and reminiscent of a dead thing, so I quickly toss it into the little trash bin next to the sink.

I've made a mess of my hair. It's shorter in the back, longer in the front. I do my best to even it out but it's still choppy and far from perfect. I don't really care though. I've never had it this short…not since I was a small child, at least. It's strange how light my head seems to feel, almost as if it's floating up.

I go into the living room and sit on the couch. I've returned from my hunt earlier than I usually do, but don't have to wait long for Sae to arrive and start cooking. She always comes in the back door, which leads to the kitchen, and rarely makes it out of that room.

I have a headache and start to rub at my forehead while I listen to the occasional sounds of a pot clattering or the refrigerator being shut. When I hear Peeta's knock on the front door, I stand up, walk to the door and open it. He's smiling a little and holding a bag that I know contains bread.

"Good morning." Peeta's smile fades as I watch his eyes travel around my head. "What did you do to your hair?"

The way he's looking at me reminds me of when we saw each other for the first time after he came back to Twelve, when he eyed my matted clumps of hair. And I don't like the question he's asked. It doesn't really matter to me if I have Peeta's approval on this matter, but he could have phrased his response differently. Oh, you cut your hair. Oh, that's a change. What made you decide to cut your hair? Any one of those reactions would have been preferable, and not made it sound as if he thinks I've done something wrong.

"Mourning gesture," I say quickly, but I don't think it's the truth. The truth is that I was sick of it. It was one little thing I had control over, one thing I had the ability to change about myself. I step aside, holding the door open, and he walks past me into the house. "You don't have to knock," I say. "I mean, you can come in whenever you want." You're always welcome…

"Okay," he says over his shoulder as he leads the way into the kitchen. Sae is standing at the stove and her granddaughter sits at the table. She's holding a wooden spoon, stirring it around in an empty frying pan. Peeta smiles at the girl and says, "Good morning." She smiles back and lifts her hand, opening and closing it in a kind of wave. I wave back to her.

Sae turns to face Peeta and me. "You might want to go outside," she says casually, tilting her head slightly toward the back door. "Your neighbor seems to be having a problem."

She's talking about Haymitch, of course. I wonder what he's doing outside. Peeta glances at me questioningly and I give a little shrug, then follow him out the door. We see Haymitch right away, and cross the grassy space that joins his yard with mine. Peeta and I both stand over him and look down. Haymitch is lying facedown in the grass with his hands raised so that they rest, palms down, on each side of his head. I wonder if he's able to breathe properly.

"Haymitch," I say flatly, knowing he won't answer. I glance up at Peeta. "You don't think he's…dead?"

Peeta half-smiles, probably surprised by my question. "I'll check." He bends down and flips Haymitch over. Now that he's on his back, it's obvious that he is breathing. "Haymitch!" Peeta calls his name a couple of times and gets no response. He tries shaking him gently and tapping his face.

"You're going to have to do more than that," I say, remembering when I had to dump freezing cold water on Haymitch in order to wake him up.

Peeta glances up at me. "You do it," he says.

I bend down and give Haymitch a slap in the face. Nothing. I shake him more roughly than Peeta did. Still nothing. "Do you think he's been out here all night?" I ask.

"Probably." Peeta stands up and walks toward Haymitch's house. When he returns, he holds the hose out toward me. "You're going to have to spray him."

I stand up and take the hose, almost smiling. "Why me? Because he already hates me?"

"Because you're his favorite and it won't make him hate you," Peeta says with a grin.

I roll my eyes. We had a conversation just like this in the cave. I wonder if he remembers it. "Fine," I say. I give the handle on the hose spout a test squeeze, and water shoots out, missing Haymitch's unconscious form. I glance up at Peeta one more time and he gives me a nod of encouragement. I aim the hose down and squeeze the handle.

Haymitch's hands fly up to cover his face and he starts coughing and sputtering, then he sits up and one of his hands starts flying out. I release the handle, stopping the flow of water. He coughs some more, then glares up at me. "You," he says. A string of expletives follows.

"We tried calling your name -" I tell him.

"And shaking you -" Peeta adds.

"And slapping you," I say.

"We were worried."

I glance at Peeta and wonder if he really was worried. It didn't seem like he was, and we really should be used to this kind of thing from Haymitch by now.

"Right," Haymitch says sardonically. He's facing the ground and clutching at his head.

"What happened?" I ask.

Haymitch mumbles something that sounds like "Don't remember."

"You should come to breakfast, I brought plenty of bread," says Peeta.

Haymitch glances at Peeta, then glares at me. "Maybe if I survive the pneumonia, I will."

I scoff. "It's not even cold."

"The water was," he snaps.

Peeta reaches a hand down toward Haymitch and pulls him to his feet, then starts leading him into his house. "We'll be right over," Peeta calls to me. I assume he's going to help Haymitch get changed into some dry clothes. I go back to my kitchen and take my usual seat.

Sae is just setting breakfast out on the table when Haymitch comes crashing through the door, followed by Peeta. It only takes Haymitch three tries to successfully sit down in the empty chair next to me, and then Peeta takes his usual seat across from me. Sae takes hold of her granddaughter's wrist and leads her toward the door.

"'Morning," she says, and the screen door falls shut behind them.

As usual, we don't talk much while we eat. Haymitch alternates between resting his head in his hands and taking the occasional bite of the food in front of him. He doesn't seem to be very hungry. When I'm nearly done with my food, I see him staring at me through narrowed eyes. "There's something different about you," he says slowly.

"I don't know what you mean."

"She cut her hair," says Peeta, staring down at his food.

Haymitch nods. "It's a mess," he says with a smirk.

So are you. But I don't feel the need to tell him this; he knows.

"How have you been lately?" Haymitch asks me. I wonder if Dr. Aurelius ever calls him to check up on me. If Haymitch has been told to keep an eye on me, he's not doing a very good job.

"I've been really great," I say dismissively. But I assume it's obvious that the only thing that's improved significantly is my sarcasm.

Haymitch chuckles. "Good. That was easy." He glances over at Peeta. "You?"

"Better all the time," Peeta says. We eat in silence for another minute or so, and then Peeta's the first to finish his food. He stands up and takes his plate to the sink, then washes it and puts it in the dish drainer before turning to face me again. "I guess I should get him home," he says with a glance at Haymitch, who is now face-down on the table.

I feel like I should say something but don't know what. "Do you want to…get started on the memory book today?" I blurt out.

Peeta looks a little surprised. "Now?"

I still have a headache and don't really feel like doing any writing at the moment, but I tend to have more energy at night lately. "Well, maybe this evening after dinner?"

"Sure. I'll see you at dinner," Peeta says. He returns to the table and lightly shakes Haymitch, then slings his arm around his shoulders, and they walk out the door together. I hear Haymitch say something about pills for a migraine, and Peeta responds in a placating tone.

"See you then," I say softly, once the door has closed behind them.

I don't like it when Peeta leaves. I don't understand why he's always so quick to go, after breakfast and dinner. Is it still difficult for him to be around me too much? Does he still have a hard time remembering what's real? He hasn't asked me about the past in a long time, maybe not at all since he came back to Twelve. It's hard to remember, though.

With the fingers of my left hand, I start rubbing my forehead again, then I stand up and return to the couch in the living room, where I lie down and close my eyes. I felt a fleeting kind of hopefulness when Haymitch asked Peeta how he was doing, but his vague answer was unsatisfying. Maybe I should just ask him how he's doing. But what if he doesn't want to talk about it? What if he says that he still gets confused and thinks he might hate me in some ways, because of the hijacking? I don't think he'd hurt me again, physically. I'm sure they were careful before releasing him from the Capitol.

I guess I haven't asked because I'm afraid of what he might say. I don't think he hates me but it doesn't seem like he feels the way he used to, either. I turn toward the back of the couch and bury my face against the cushion. My headache is getting worse.

After dinner, we go into the living room and Peeta surprises me when he reaches out and pinches some of my hair between his thumb and first two fingers. "Can I fix it?" he asks.

"You know how to cut hair?"

"Anyone can cut hair," he says with a shrug. "I can draw a straight line, so I'm sure I can cut one."

Why not? "If you think it matters." I guess I can understand his wanting to fix it, I do look like a bit of a mess. "I left the scissors in the bathroom."

Peeta wordlessly leaves the room. I follow him and see him setting the bathroom stool in front of the mirror. I try to look at him but he seems to be intentionally avoiding my gaze, so I step into the room and sit down, facing the mirror.

Peeta is surprisingly confident. He quickly makes a few quick snips without hesitation. Before long I have a perfect, almost shoulder length hair cut. I'm surprised when he reaches over my head, gets a comb and then starts running it through my hair. It feels funny when he reaches the end after each stroke. There's a little pull and then nothing. Emptiness.

He makes a straight part, down the middle, and combs it flat again, then sets the comb down on the sink counter and we stare at each other in the mirror. "Let me do yours," I say, noticing for the first time that his hair is little longer than he usually keeps it.

Peeta smiles and I know he's teasing me when he says, "Don't mess it up."

"Anyone can cut hair," I say, rolling my eyes. We switch places, so he's sitting on the stool in front of me and I'm holding the scissors. I feel incredibly unsure of myself.

"Just find places where it seems too long and make it shorter," Peeta says, sensing my hesitation.

Obviously, I think. I try to do as he says, starting in the back and working my way forward. I take bits of his hair between my index and middle fingers, pull it straight and then cut it. I actually do pretty well, but now it's a bit shorter than he used to keep it. When I'm done, Peeta looks at me in the mirror and smiles. "Thank you," he says.

I'm still playing with his hair, running the fingers of my free hand through the waves. Realizing this makes me pull my hand away as if I've been shocked. I don't want to see Peeta's reaction to this, so I set the scissors down, say "You're welcome" and leave the room without another glance at him.

I assume he gets my broom and cleans up the hair that we both carelessly let fall to the floor, because by the time Peeta joins me in the living room I've already set out the paper and other materials that we're going to use to make the book. I'm sitting on the floor with my back against the couch and Peeta takes a seat across from me so that his pencils and paint, and the paper, are between us on the coffee table. I pick up a sheet and examine it. It's twelve inches by twelve inches, I'd say, and thick. More like cardstock than normal paper. I'll have to make sure to thank Dr. Aurelius.

"Prim?" he suggests.

I nod. "I've been trying to think of the best way to show her. I was thinking maybe helping someone in the hospital in Thirteen, but maybe that's not right…" Too sad, too much of a reminder of how she died.

"I was thinking about her too," Peeta says. "I have an idea."

"What?"

Peeta reaches out and takes a piece of paper out of the box, placing it in front of him on the table, then he picks up one of his drawing pencils. "Can I surprise you?"

"Oh," I say, already surprised that he even has something in mind for my sister. "Sure."

Peeta smiles, then looks at the paper in front of him. His blond-lashed eyes almost appear to be closed as he stares down, watching his own hand move across the paper. While he concentrates, his face takes on that special look, the one that I remember seeing when we worked on the plant book together. This expression is more intense and removed than his usual ones, and he's biting his bottom lip a little. I feel myself smiling slightly, glad that this part of him seems unchanged.

I notice that the movements of his hand started out small, but have gotten bigger. Maybe he began with the details of her face and then proceeded to draw the rest of her body.

I can't help thinking that this is nice. When I'm with Peeta, I feel better. I want to start spending even more time with him.

I don't know how long I've been staring at him, but it's a bit embarrassing when he looks up and his eyes meet mine. He smiles. "Ready?"

I nod and force a smile. Peeta lifts up the paper, holding it in front of him so that his blue eyes are just visible over the top of it. I stare at the picture and my smile becomes a genuine one. Peeta has drawn Prim in a grassy, outdoor setting. Prim is sitting on her knees and has a sweet smile on her face. Her chin is tilted toward Lady, who's licking her cheek.

I blink back tears and say, "It's perfect."

"I'm glad you like it," Peeta says, lifting a hand and pointing to a blank spot in the corner of the paper. "I thought we could put a photo here. You have one, right?"

"Yeah," I say. "There must be one of her alone. Upstairs, probably."

"Great," Peeta says, sliding the picture toward me. I take another piece of paper out of the box and hand it to Peeta.

"Your father?" I suggest.

Peeta nods and starts to draw. I look down at the blank space on the paper in front of me. I loved Prim more than anyone else in the world, I want to write. But that feels wrong. I think for a moment and realize that it is too much about me. I don't want this to read as if it's my diary, I'd rather it resemble a story or article. Everyone loved Prim, I begin, in my most careful handwriting. I go on to describe how much she loved Buttercup and Lady and what a good helper she was to my mother. How she wasn't squeamish and didn't shy away from sick people. She loved to look at Peeta's cakes and she wanted to be a doctor. By the time I'm done, more than a few tears have dripped on the page. I wipe my eyes and start to blow on the wet spots. "I've ruined it," I say.

Peeta looks up from his sketch, then down at the tear-stained words. He smiles just a little and then his eyes meet mine. "It's not ruined, just sealed with saltwater."

I nod. "Okay." We'll think of it that way. At least I didn't cry on the drawing.

We swap papers and I write about Peeta's father trading with me generously, and the cookies he brought me. How he was always kind and assured me, before I left for the Games, that Prim would be all right. "I left some room for you to write about your father," I tell Peeta, holding up the partially blank sheet.

Peeta nods, taking the paper from me and setting it on the table next to him. "I'll give it some thought," he says, then resumes painting the picture of Prim.

I realize that I might want to devote even more pages to Prim, and am glad these sheets are all loose for now. But we've made a good start. Peeta has just finished colorizing the picture of her when he stands up. "I'm going to get some water," he says. "Do you want anything?"

I look up at him and realize how formal we've been with each other since we got back to Twelve. I don't like it. It reminds me of the way we acted around one another after the Games and before the victory tour. I remember seeing him at Haymitch's house the morning we left for the tour. Peeta politely offered me some bread, which I even more politely declined. "Brrr," Haymitch said, "you two have got a lot of warming up to do before show time."

Does Peeta think I want him to talk to me like that? Maybe. It is the way I talk to him. But I'm not really sure what to make of him. He's recovered from the hijacking, as far as I can tell. But he's not the way he used to be; he's more subdued. Maybe he sees me the same way and isn't sure what to think about me either.

I want to be friends, though. After everything we've been through together, and now that we're all each other has, it would be nice if we could be more comfortable around one another. I force a smile that I hope looks warm and welcoming. "No, thank you."

There's a flicker of something in his face. His eyes seem to light up for just a second and he returns my smile, before nodding his head and leaving the room. I stare down at the lovely picture of Prim and feel so relieved that Peeta is here to help me with the book and keep me company. If he hadn't come back here, what would I be doing now? The book would have no pictures, or maybe I would be attempting stick figure drawings. There certainly would not be any beautiful and vivid colors like this. He's perfectly captured the bright shade of her hair.

I want to tell him I'm happy he's here. Though, maybe 'happy' isn't the right word because I don't know if I am happy. But I'm glad. I should tell him, when he comes back. I should just say, Peeta, I'm glad you're here. Thank you for helping me with this. The pictures are lovely.

What's taking him so long? "Peeta?" I call out. The only answer I receive is the sound of glass shattering.