AN: Put up 3 chapters tonight ... kind of proud of myself, haha. Hope you guys enjoy!

"Do you think the tributes from 12 could win?" Prim asks, pulling at my fingers when I hesitate to answer.

I still want to protect her, and death is one of those demons reaching for my little duck. Even worse is the idea that those people marched right into the Capitol knowing they had no chance of coming back alive. "Maybe," I finally answer, squeezing her hand.

Prim jerks her arm from mine. "You don't think they can come back, do you?"

I step back. "What? No, that's not what I'm saying. Weirder things have happened."

"Is it because they're from 12? You think they're too weak?" Prim protests, planting her feet into the ground when I try to motion for her to start walking.

"Prim, they're Seam kids, they can't possibly fight against people who've eaten every day of their lives," I say firmly.

"They might! They might be smarter!" she continues.

I reach for her arm. "Prim, be realistic."

"I'm not the one who thinks they're going to die!"

She steps back when I try to gab her arm. "Prim, please, stop," I utter.

"What if it was you, Katniss? Would you appreciate people thinking you were going to die? Or, wait — would that not happen, because you're such a good hunter?" Prim really is strong now.

"Prim," I repeat, giving her an eye. "You've eaten every meal you have because of me. If I didn't hunt, you would be dead."

"I heard you tell Gale that you don't need his charity," she jeers. "And maybe, I don't need yours."

I open my mouth in disbelief, shaking my head. "You're not old enough to get by on your own! And if you can take care of yourself, where am I going to go?"

Prim shrugs carelessly. "It doesn't matter. I'm sure Althea and Tug in the arena wouldn't care."

"Is that who this is about?" I move fast enough this time to grab her elbow and drag her towards the path to home. "Some people in the arena?"

Prim glares at me, and it's the very first time she's ever looked at me like that. "I also heard you and Gale talking about how they're not going to live. Because they're Seam kids. You're a Seam kid. He's a Seam kid, I'm a Seam kid. Were you saying that just because of where we were born, we're not going to be anything?"

My returning gaze immediately softens. "You know we don't come from the best district," I say fondly. "And that we don't have the best clothes, or the best food. Or sometimes food at all. But, when you get older, no, as you get older, maybe things will change."

"But, what if they don't?" Prim pushes.

I find myself still holding her elbow. I let it fall to her side, and then kneel to her level. "You can be like Hazelle. You can have kids, and a family. You're good at tending the house, aren't you?"

Prim shakes her head, and brushes my hands off her shoulders. "What if I end up like Mom?"

I close my eyes. I finally understand what she's been getting at. "You're not going to end up like her. She's happy. She has you."

Prim presses her small lips together. "She doesn't have you. And I see the way she just … is. She doesn't really do anything. You're the one who gets food and water and takes care of the house. Sometimes, she doesn't even get out of bed."

"It's because of Dad," I reply quietly. "You know that, don't you? That was— that was really hard for her."

"But, it was hard for you, too. You're okay now, aren't you?" Prim eyes widen a little, almost as if she's about tear up.

"People … people get better in different ways. And sometimes, people don't get better. Sometimes, the world after, the world without that person is too different from the world with that person, for someone to be okay."

Prim scrunches her face together. "Will she ever be like Hazelle?"

These are all of the things I would kill for her to never know about. "She …" I trail off. If I lie to her, even if it's in the name of protecting her, I will pay for it when she's old enough to realize what I did. And if I tell her the truth, I have let her (and myself) down. I let her know about the real world. Which is such a horrible, ugly place.

"Mom was taken out of a world she knew, by a man she loved, maybe a little more than made sense. And then when the man she loved— when he went away, she realized that it didn't make any sense. None of it did. But, there was nothing she could do, it was too late to go back and change anything. Her only way of dealing with it is acting like she's still living back then."

I let out a light laugh. "I wish I didn't have to tell you. And I wish she was there for you. But, she is, just a little differently."

I can tell by the way Prim clings to my pants, that she doesn't want to speak anymore. She doesn't really understand why our mother isn't really there, but she understands that she likely never will be. Which, is completely the opposite of what I wanted her to take from it, but it is the truth.

"Let's go home," I say, with another smile. She's bent on staying close to me, but whether that's because I grabbed her arm or I scared her when I explained a terrible thing to her, I'm not sure, and I'll likely never know.

We make it for a while in silence. Her, fingers wound in the extra fabric of my pants, and me, struggling to walk with her so close. When we come into view of our house, I add, simply "Don't be sad."

Her petite fingers brush my leg as she loosens her grip a little bit. I move the door out of the way after we've climbed the steps, and usher her inside.

My mother is sitting blankly in one of our few, actual chairs. Prim usually runs to her, but she stands frozen, worried today. She turns to face me, eyes wide, features moved together in worry. She doesn't want my mother, now that she knows.

Or, for the fact that my mother could replicate a corpse in her chair. Her eyes are glazed over, and she's been still for so long that when she slowly turns her neck to face me, I swear I hear rust.

I stare flatly back at her. Her gaze is icily nonexistent. Several moments later, when she remains just as motionless as we had found her. I twist my lips into a simple smile.

Prim stumbles backwards when my mother's lips mimic the action. Prim knits her brow together and slips into the bedroom.

"Have you eaten yet?" I ask.

My mother almost looks as if she's made of glass. "Not yet."

"Not yet. That means you will?" I raise an eyebrow as I hold up one of the squirrels. "Come on, you either are going to eat it or not. Don't make me waste a perfectly good squirrel."

"Yes, Katniss."

I look over to her from the counter. "'Yes, Katniss', what? Are you going to eat this squirrel or not?"

"Yes."

"Not so hard to give me an answer," I murmur as I slide logs into the fireplace. The cinders fly up as the logs crash into them, and my mother's eyes widen.

She then warns "Be careful around the fire."

I turn my head as I look at her. "You're one to talk. I've cooked every meal lately. When was the last time you went near a fire?" I figure if I keep asking questions, I can bully her into coming back. Even if it's for just a little bit, for Prim.

"Be careful," she repeats.

"I will."

My mother brings her hands from the arms of the chair into her lap. She stares at them, as if she's surprised to see them at the end of her wrists, and then bends her long, pale fingers into fists.

It doesn't take long to cook the squirrel. I'm not half as good at preparing meals at Hazelle, who knows what herbs and what spices make what meat taste even better. When my mother is having a good day, her only attribute in the kitchen is making the herbs into pastes.

I toss them onto a plate and hold it out to her. She stares at me this time, and then raises a feeble arm to take the plate. "Thank you."

Her next stare is gifted to the meat. She finally picks it up in her hands, and brings it to her mouth. She looks uncomfortable as she chews, but a certain sort of relief crosses her face when she manages to keep it down.

"Eat the rest," I urge.

"Prim?" my mother answers.

I shake my head. "There's enough. Eat the rest."

She eats a few more pieces, and then I watch her grow more comfortable. She quickly finishes the plate.

"First meal you've eaten in months," I remark.

My mother looks up, and then down at the dress she's wearing. When I look closer, I can see the patterns of lace, trailing not only up and down the sleeves, but also down the bodice. At the waist, spotless, white silk billows out. When I look back up to the neck, I notice the pearls, woven into the lace, the high collar, that covers her thin collar bones and makes her look strangely elegant.

It must be her wedding dress. It's the most beautiful I've ever seen my mother.