It's another wordless walk home after Gale's last reply. He promises me he'll meet me back in the woods tomorrow, but I don't reply either way. Of course, he knows I'll be there regardless.

I string half of the kills up in the small closet-gone-pantry, but end up throwing the rest of them out onto the porch for the night. It's bitingly cold, I realize as I step out in my undershirt and pants.

It's the same cold Gale and I will have to weather every night. For half a second, I wonder if we're even going to make it through the first night. If we're not going to come running back home, not able to stand it.

Truthfully, he'll be able to withstand it — I haven't seen someone so used to pain, so accepting of it. I've had more than my fair share, but I still have it in me to protest and fight and whine, but Gale never utters a word. He goes off on the Capitol, but when he's in actual pain, when there's a wild dog hanging on to his arm or a rotten berry in his stomach, he's quiet.

It's not like I haven't seen him at his absolute worst. Sprawled across the kitchen table as my mom presses herbs to teeth marks across his chest and arm, or hunched over the table as Hazelle carefully wraps a swath of cotton across an almost sliced off thumb (thanks to barbed wire that neither of us saw), or even in the house of the district doctor as he vomited out his guts from a bacteria in some uncooked meat. Not a complaint.

Prim — though thankfully her time in pain is limited — is not one to complain, either. The only sounds the little duck ever makes when she's suffering are pitiful whimpers, though their intent is never pity. She can't help but let out the small squeaks.

That leaves me as the whiner of the family. Which isn't too hard of a title to accept, even if it's far below dignified. I'm prone to acting out, prone to crying and babbling in tears and sobbing. Whining when life doesn't go away, whining when it does, but I'm not ready to deal with the results. Whining my way through just about everything.

I look over to Prim's sleeping body as I climb into bed. For a moment, it seems as if this is the most peaceful part of my day — climbing in and out of bed, left in a drifty haze before I can bury myself in a few hours of sleep. And then start it all over again.

This is one of the few nights that my mind and body find sleep at the same time. Knees drawn up to my chest, head— slightly below the covers, I lose myself in a fortunately fulfilling sleep.

I feel remarkably rested when I pull myself from the stale sheets the next morning. I manage to arrange the covers back into some sort of neat fashion before I tear out the door, finding the sun deliciously warm on my back.

Gale has come to counting on my lateness recently, as I always come bursting into our meeting spot at a run long after he gets there. But, this morning I'm the first one there, taking the time to pull a few dandelions from the early fall (which seems as if it'll be just as quick as the drought is long) ground and chew them, just to have something to do.

"Who would have thought," Gale manages to call out as he tackles me from across the field.

I shriek out in laughter, letting the chewed up dandelions fly out of my mouth as he pins me to the ground. He grins wider as they stick to his face, and he leans back.

"Well, that's a greeting," he smirks so widely I'm worried it'll leap right off his face.

I giggle. "And tackling is an appropriate greeting?"

He lets himself fall back to the ground, resting his head on his hands. "What, you've never seen them do that in the Capitol? Auuuughhhhhhhhhhh— I haven't seen you in forever!" he draws out every syllable, bringing out the Effie Trinket accent that's normally reserved for the Reaping Day.

"You realize we'll never have to hear that again?" I say as I turn my head to face him, stretched out across the ground, just as we were when we made it to the valley the very first time.

"If we make it," Gale answers.

I make a sound. "And you're the one doubting us now?"

"I'm being realistic."

"And I'm not allowed to be realistic?"

"You're more sadistic about it," he grins.

I laugh again.

"No, I'm serious. But, it's cute actually."

"Cute?" I snort.

"You don't think so?"

"Cute?" I repeat.

Gale's the one to laugh this time. "Beautiful, then. It's beautiful."

I roll my eyes. "Gale, stop."

"Stop what?"

I sit up. "Don't do that. Just stop now."

"I don't want to."

I bring my hands up to cover my face. "Gale, please. Just stop now. Before it gets … weird."

"What's wrong with weird?"

"Gale!" I shriek. "Stop!"

"I'm not done yet," he continues, moving his gaze to the drifting clouds. "Your laugh is beautiful."

"Gale . . ." I trail off, moving over to land a fake punch in his arm.

He easily dodges my attack. "Your hair is beautiful, too."

"I give up," I sigh, lying back down on the ground.

"Good," he answers quietly. "You don't let me tell you that. You don't let anyone tell you that. You're beautiful."