AN: Sorry for the lack of updates lately . . . some family stuff going on. Hope you enjoy! :)

Every fall when my father was still alive, he would take one of the last, nice Sundays to bring a potted grapefruit tree into the house for the winter. For the other months of the year it stood on the corner of the porch, just outside the one window of the bedroom.

And without fail, every time when my father heaved it in, Prim and I flocked to the window, our fingers clinging to the sill, observing every detail of the world outside. It was so trivial and small, that the view was so much prettier without that damn tree in the way, but it was. We could see the way the sun rose in the mornings and slipped through the trees and the way the rain fell and made everything so quiet and peaceful and wet and the way spring came and made everything blossom and become new and beautiful again.

And then, when the novelty of the view wore off, we stopped looking out the window every chance we had, stopped pressing our faces to the glass, fogging it up with our breaths. It was just a view, and we couldn't quite wonder why we were so enthralled with it to begin with.

But, then spring would come back around, and my father would wrap his big, strong arms around the pot and heave it back out the porch, and suddenly the view just as beautiful and picturesque as it was when he brought it inside for the winter.

Years later, it occurred to me how we were so fascinated by the new view — whether it was with the tree or without the tree — just because it was, well, new. And in 12, where there is rarely new anything.

So that morning, when I fall back against my bed for yet another sleepless night, I know why I'm going to run away in the woods with Gale.

This isn't a new idea, this isn't something I haven't heard before. In fact, Gale has mentioned it so many times in the past (which, initially, caused me to think he was, indeed, less serious about it) that I didn't think twice when he mentioned it seriously. But, I am only seriously considering it now that I've heard it before. The novelty has long since worn off.

I find it a tad easier to sleep once I've decided that I'm leaving. I couldn't pin a reason as to why, because running away leaves me with a thousand things to say and apologize for and figure out, but the decision is strangely calming.

The only calming thing about the next day is the quiet morning. The view of the dismally destroyed pot, shattered and broken — and the view of my father's precious grapefruit, hastily chopped it into a thousand different slices of wood, tossed into the fireplace, covered with an all too familiar ash.

And the only reason that ghastly stuff is covering the wood of that tropical tree is because of survival. It occurs to me for a moment that my father would have never, never in a million years, think it would come to this. He would never think, no, he would never know, that we're just scraping by and we'll all freeze to death if I don't chop down this tree.

And, briefly, it occurs to me that I have failed him. He managed to keep the family afloat hunting and working in the mines, and my earliest years from when he was still alive were the happiest I remember. And me, I can't do it. I don't even have the responsibility (or the terror, as Gale put it) of working in the mines every day — I have time enough to be in the woods almost every day.

And I still can't do it.

I can't keep Prim alive, I can't keep my mother alive.

I can't keep us surviving, forget thriving.

I can't do it.

And . . . leaving? Is that any sort of solution? I refuse to tell myself that I'm running away from 12, because I fully intend to come back. I fully intend to come back for Prim and my mother and even that nasty little Buttercup, and all of Gale's family, bring them to our forest paradise . . .

I am coming back for them, that is one thing I am sure about.

Really, it's all I have left to my father. Saving my family — no matter how — is enough of a tribute. Enough of a tribute that he taught me well, raised me strong.

I turn from the dirty fireplace, dirtied not with the ash and dust and dirt of living in 12, but of every misdoing I've done, and focus back on preparing.

Gale had taken it upon himself to divide our leave into several different parts. He made sure we had ample time to leave our families with as much supplies and resources as we could. As much firewood as we could collect, as much game and fish to cure, as much herbs and plants as we could gather. As much as everything.

Thankfully, they didn't take our sudden collecting to heart, likely brushing it off because winter was nearing. Which, of course, meant Gale and I's survival out in the woods would be that much more difficult.

Of course, we couldn't leave our families with supplies and us without. Even as the days grew shorter, Gale and I spent as much time out in the forest and valley as possible, trying to build stockpiles of wood and whatever we could before we took off.

We hadn't figured out a shelter yet, but we couldn't make it far enough to find any without raising suspicions. We were close enough to running that risk already as we drug kill after kill through town.

"You ready?" Gale says as we stalk through town the next evening, dangerously close to sunset.

"To leave?" I reply without turning my head.

"What else would I say?" he answers, acting as if the idea of freedom and leaving is all that consumes my thoughts.

I break into a scowl. "I don't know."

Gale stops. "When are you going to warm up to the idea? You're running out of time, Catnip."

"Who said I haven't warmed up to the idea? I'm going, aren't I?" I retort.

He shakes his head and remains remarkably placid. "I'm just saying. I thought—" he pauses, and then shakes his head again, as if telling himself no. "I saw you cut down that grapefruit tree."

I let a harsh gust of air out of my mouth. "And?"

"I know you wouldn't actually cut it down unless it got really bad. And I know it was your father's—"

I cut him off brashly. "I don't even care about that anymore! It's been years, I'm fine!"

Gale readjusts the burlap sack of kills in his palm. "Catnip—"

The sun was quick to set, and I can barely make out Gale's features in the darkness.

But, he beats me to speaking. "You don't have to pretend for me, Catnip. It's not alright to not be fine, but sometimes that's all you can be."