Gale

"Hey, Gale," pipes up Thom, swinging his pickaxe over his shoulder as he rushes to catch up with me. Aside from Katniss, I might as well consider Thom a close friend of mine. We sort of grew up together, albeit in different sides of the Seam, and since Katniss was never in my class or in my lunchroom, I needed to find someone to talk to.

"Thom," I nod in his general direction, busily scraping some coal from underneath my fingernails. True, he's my friend, but at the moment I'm not in the mood to talk to him. Or anybody, at least. Ever since Madge confessed that she'd given Katniss the wedding ring, I was on edge. Would Katniss become sick again? Insane? Would they have to fly in a special medical crew and send her back to a psychiatric ward? Would they take her away from me yet again?

Strangely enough, Thom doesn't seem to notice my odd behavior. Instead we walk in silence, side by side as he recently moved near my house with his new wife, past the small Seam shacks. It's no longer snowing, but it's still cold enough to set our teeth chattering, especially in the ridiculously thin miner's getup that they've issued us. Far ahead, I can just see the barbed wire resting atop the supposedly electric fence. Maybe if I squinted, and if the wind wasn't sending leftover snow and coal dust everywhere, I could make out the hole where Katniss and I always sneak out to the woods.

Suddenly Thom slips—probably on a stray chunk of black ice—and he lets out a whoop just before landing on his back on the ground, my arm grasping at his elbow. He lets out a sigh of relief, his breath exiting his mouth like smoke, before standing up and patting me affectionately on my shoulder. "Thanks!" he says, before shooting me a suspicious look. But I realize he's not looking at my eyes, as one usually does; he's looking at my cheek. His voice hardens. "What is that?"

I subconsciously reach my gloved hand to the brilliant red welt running across my left cheekbone. Images, flashbacks, dance before my eyes as my fingertips press harder, causing stars to appear in my line of vision.

It was just a normal night, and my mother, as usual, insisted I keep sleeping in Katniss's room to make sure she doesn't have any more nightmares. Mrs. Everdeen and Primrose usually spend their nights at the old house, away from the nightly screaming. I was sleeping on the floor, as usual, dreaming about a bear fighting a sly fox over a beehive, when the nightmares began.

Katniss was more active than usual, thrashing around in her bed, flinging pillows across the room. By then I should've known better than to approach her, try to stop her from hurting herself without the least intention to protect myself. It was just so horrifying, seeing her wasting herself like that, crying and screaming and flailing right in front of me when I could take all that and make it disappear. It seemed so selfish and cruel that I finally stepped in.

That was roughly around the time when she punched me.

When she woke up, I denied her involvement, saying instead that someone thrust his pickaxe with slightly too much force and the handle grazed my face on its way down the mine. I could tell she didn't believe me—she glared at me suspiciously the entire time we were out in the Meadow—but I couldn't let her know the truth. I knew she wouldn't be able to forgive herself—anytime soon, at least—for hurting me, and I knew that if the weight of the knowledge was borne by me alone then it would be easier for her to receive forgiveness.

I glance over at Thom and realize he's still expecting an answer. "Walked into a doorframe," I lie, staring at him right in the eyes. As one of my crewmates, he's gotten used to my stealth, and even more so at my clumsiness. It isn't that hard for him to accept the fact that stupid old Gale crashed on his way out a door, so he shrugs it off. Once we reach the fork in the road, we go down our separate ways, waving goodbye at each other.

The moment I step through the door—extra careful not to crash into the doorframe—I feel that something's not right. Not normal, at least. Maybe it's our conflicting past, or the knowledge that I owe it my best friend's life, but as soon as my nose catches a whiff of freshly baked bread, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle up. I walk cautiously into the shabby dining room, where, sure enough, my mother and Mr. Mellark are seated, smiling and drinking mint tea. On the table between them lies a tray covered in baked goods: croissants, bread loaves, iced pastries, integral cookies—you name it, it was probably on that tray.

"Hello, Gale," my mother says, glancing over the baker's shoulder at me. Perhaps it's the way her hair is tousled instead of neatly parted down the center, or the brightness in her eyes, but something about her looks younger. I'm about to utter some sort of halfhearted greeting when the baker turns around to look at me.

And I'm momentarily frozen.

I've only seen Mrs. Mellark, Peeta's mother, a few times in my life. There was a story travelling around the Seam that she was a witch, luring children into her household only to stuff them up with pastries and slowly cook them and eat them, so you made it your goal to stay out of her way as much as possible. In all the times I'd caught a glimpse of her, I couldn't help but notice how unlike her Peeta looked. Now I could see where he'd gotten his most striking traits. His eyes, always blue and full of life, were unmistakably his father's, as is the covering of sandy blond hair that distinctly set merchant kids apart from Seam kids. Even the kind way Mr. Mellark smiles, so genuine and with such compassion, is a ghost of how happy Peeta looked almost all the time.

I was never one for mourning, never have been and never will. But now, looking into the happy eyes of a man who has lost his son to the Capitol's cruelty, and been rejected—at least according to Peeta in the 74th Games—by the love of his life, I find myself missing the baker's son more than ever.

"Mr. Mellark," I say reverently once I've regained the capacity of forming intelligible speech. "What brings you here?" I take a seat in the empty chair across from the jolly baker.

He sighs and gestures towards the tray. "Well, Katniss came by this morning," he drawls out in his town accent, "and dropped off your game. Said she was just the messenger, and since you're the one that shot it, then I should bring you the reward."

I smile, pretending to listen to the man, when in reality I'm trying to piece together the puzzle. I haven't been hunting recently, and all the new game has been eaten or traded off to Rooba, the butcher. There's no way Mr. Mellark could get his hands on one of my kills yet! But if I didn't hunt the game…who did?

As soon as I realize the truth, I bolt out the door, leaving Mr. Mellark and my flustered mother in half sentence. I run straight for the Victor's Village, careless as to the Peacekeepers and Seam people throwing nervous glances my way.

Katniss went out to hunt.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so sorry for the late update! Thank you all so much for your reviews, and once again I'm so glad none of you guys hate me for killing off Peeta! Anyways it took me a long time to write this (well, to start writing this) because I didn't know what I wanted Gale to do, so I kind of let him do it first before putting it in my computer. I'll try to update the next chapter as soon as possible.

PS: I finally moved into our apartment (and out of the hotel). Yay!

PPS: This is the 2nd version of the chapter because I JUST realized there was a mistake on the other one. Cheers!