Author's Note

Thank you all for the reviews and favorites - the encouragement is much appreciated. Though now I feel quite a bit of pressure. I must update. And someday finish this albatross. :)

I drift to one end of the hallway after I leave Katniss' room. I don't quite want to go home yet, but I don't want to be able to hear her mother and sister crying through the thin wall. I wonder briefly if she really will wear my pin in the arena; surely the people visiting her after me mean far more to her than I do. My throat constricts at the thought that the one and only person that I can legitimately call my friend probably places me (quite reasonably) at the very bottom of her list of people that are important to her. I immediately hate myself for even allowing that thought to form. Buck up, Madge. You've hardly the right to self pity. Then it occurs to me that none of them will likely have anything to give. The little golden bird will probably become her talisman by default. So I feel even worse.

Mrs. Everdeen emerges looking dazed. Prim is beside her, red-eyed but confident. She believes her sister will win. She doesn't just hope – she knows. A small swarm of Capitol reporters descend upon them with cameras and microphones like mechanical vultures to broadcast their reaction to all of Panem. It isn't good enough for them that Katniss is about to be brutally executed for no good reason; no, her family's emotional torment will make a fantastic sound bite between scenes.

Prim, bless her good, sweet heart, gives them no such satisfaction. I see her take a deep breath and tell the reporter with tangerine sausage curls and matching lips that Katniss will come home, that she is strong and brave and smart, that she will make her family – and all of Twelve – proud. I half expect the media team to be disappointed that she doesn't break down in hysterical tears, but she is so earnest and sincere that they love her. Though, I have to admit, it's hard not to adore Primrose Everdeen.

Just as Prim is prompted to tell how she felt when her name was called and her sister volunteered, I see two of the Peacekeepers behind her struggling at Katniss' door. They extract Gale from the room with some difficulty, and I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a squeak of alarm because he looks for all the world like he is about to pummel them both. At the moment I'd put my money on Gale in that battle, even two against one, but in the end there would only be hell to pay. In an impressive show of self-restraint, he just snaps his arm away from one of the men dragging him and glowers menacingly at the other. I recognize one of them – Darius, with the cinnamon-colored hair and easy demeanor – when he turns to mutter something to Gale, and even his face is pained. Gale's temper flares as he leans in toward Darius and snarls back in response, and though I can't at this distance make out what he said it has the desired effect; both of the Peacekeepers back away to let him go. My heart skips a beat when he turns and takes a step in my direction, and our eyes meet through the cluster of reporters around Katniss' family.

At which point he turns on his heel and walks the other way. I try for a moment to convince myself that he does this to avoid the little circus surrounding the Everdeens, because they would love him, too, with his dark hair and storm-gray eyes and camera-ready features. But I know better. He'd have just ignored them.

….

I do my best to look like I know where I'm going, even though I don't, because I don't want to give any living soul the smallest reason to even consider speaking to me. But I'm not particularly familiar with the justice building as I generally try to avoid it altogether, and the one exit I knew how to find was… well, it takes me a while to find my way out. The first set of doors that I come to I find locked (what if there was a fire? Oh, that's right, they don't care) and the second set give way to a dingy stairwell that I suppose must lead to a basement (which I have less than no interest in exploring). I'm starting to feel claustrophobic – how is it that I can navigate the forest in my sleep, but not a building designed as a square? – when the third set open onto a crumbling set of concrete steps outside. Because in the forest, my friend had not been slated for slaughter yet. Right. And I still had all the time in the world to tell her I loved her.

Reeling, I sit down on the bottom step. Or rather, my knees finally give out under the crushing and very real sense of being alone. Above all the others, Katniss understood. We were cut from the same cloth. I choke on the fact that I had nothing to give her, because if her token from home came from anyone it should have come from me. Instead, I walked into her room empty handed to see her pin on Katniss' collar. Her. The One I Could Never Have. I hate her for it, for giving Katniss what I could not, reminding me that I have nothing to offer. I couldn't even tell her in the end. I should have, I had the chance. And it took me too long.

I give myself a few moments to think, to feel everything, before I have to put all the pieces back together and go back to our families and make sure they continue to survive. Then the anger comes again as I do the math, one less hunting partner and two more mouths to feed. It all comes down to the math. Fucking odds. Every single one of those damn Capitol slogan-writers can go slowly and painfully to hell.

….

I consider staying a little longer to offer condolences to Katniss' mother and sister, but watching the Mellark family pass by changes my mind. Mr. Mellark, always kind and quick to smile when I'd bought bread in his shop, stares at the floor and wrings his shirttail with trembling hands. Mrs. Mellark always looks like she swallowed a hornet, but now even the sourness is drained from her, leaving an austere, tear-stained shell. What do you say to that? Even if she dies in the end, your daughter will give them hell? How nice of your sister to offer to get butchered instead of you?

Outside, there are fewer people in the square than usual. People are eager to go home, I suppose, and count their family members over and over again to reassure themselves that yes, they are all still there. I'm dreading the task, myself. Reaping day is always difficult for my mother. I consider the tally waiting for me at home. Dad: zero, probably working overnight tonight. Mom: one, no, half. Yes, half. Me: one, I guess. So one and a half. No one Reaped and still coming up short. I'm ashamed that it makes me sad, because I don't think I've really earned the sadness.

When I get to the bottom of the steps, a boy jogs my direction. "Hey, you're Katniss' friend at school, right?" he says.

I almost look reflexively over my shoulder, expecting him to be addressing someone else (since even though everyone knows who I am no one usually really wants to talk to me), but I stop short and blink at him. He is talking to me, and he is a younger, miniature version of Gale Hawthorne. I blink stupidly again, because miniature is a strictly relative term; he must be half a decade my junior and he looks me dead in the eye. Are all the Hawthornes enormous? This must be his brother, Rory. Yes, because over his shoulder I see a woman who must be Gale's mother, Hazelle, flanked by another boy and a girl, who must be Vick and Posy. Rory, whose name goes into the Reaping Ball next year. Hazelle, who does laundry and whose husband died in the mine. Vick, who wants nothing more than to Be Gale when he grows up. Posy, who will start her first year of school next autumn. Privately, I'm a little embarrassed that I can conjure this information at will. Hell's bells. I've wasted more time and energy than a morning's worth of hair and makeup on this….

"Yeah, you're Madge," he confirms for me, apparently overlooking the fact that I'm flustered. I'm grateful that he does not say my name like it tastes like a lemon. I amend my assessment of him. A younger, miniature, and more pleasant version of Gale Hawthorne. "You were inside, right? Did you see my brother? Gale? He went to talk to Katniss, but… he hasn't come back yet."

Did I see his brother? I flush a little as the honest answer springs to mind: If he's there, I see nothing else. "Uh, well…." I look over his shoulder again at his mother when I can't get words to come out.

"Mom's worried," he says plainly as he jerks a thumb in her direction.

I smile as reassuringly as I can. "Moms do that," I say. "Here, I'll talk to her."

He looks relieved at my offer. Gale or no Gale, the Hawthornes are practically part of Katniss' family, and I ought to do right by that. Which would include giving Hazelle one less thing to worry about. Like her eldest son doing something to land himself in the stocks.

"Mrs. Hawthorne?" I say, and the words feel weird in my mouth. She looks at me expectantly, and though there is recognition in her eyes there is no hostility. It makes speaking a little easier. "They brought Gale out of her room, but he went the other way down the hall. I'm not sure where he went, but nothing's wrong. I think… he just wanted to be left alone for a while." Alone somewhere as far away from me as possible.

Hazelle lets out a sigh and relaxes a degree. "That's what I expected," she says. "Just wanted to be sure. Thank you."

A light tug at the hem of my skirt catches my attention and a small voice chirps, "I like your dress."

I look down at an even smaller, younger, girl version of Gale, who smiles shyly back at me as Hazelle chides her gently. "No, Posy…."

I wave a hand dismissively at her mother. "No, no, it's okay." I look back at the little girl. A tear spills from one eye against my will – damn it – as I say, "Thank you, Posy, it's very sweet of you to say that."

….

Out of the thousands of people in this God-forsaken district, Madge Undersee is the one I find talking to my family as I finally round the corner of the justice building. Granted, it's only a moment before she walks away, but I'm not in an especially charitable mood, so it still grates. It could have been anyone. It could have been Katniss' mother. It could have been Prim. It could have been one of the peacekeepers complaining about my attitude problem. Or a teacher from school. Maybe one of the seedier traders from the Hob. A complete stranger. Hell, I'd rather have it be Bristel, who (I might add) I hoped would never meet my mother because he has more dirt on me than anyone and derives great joy from reminding me every chance he gets. No. It's Madge. In her dress. With her perfect gold hair that matches her mockingjay pin. Fucking odds.