"What are you doing here?" Peeta repeats.

"I was… I was…" Trying to speak, I choke back a sob.

Peeta's hands come off my shoulders, and he reaches around to pull me into a hug.

As soon as the man he was walking with leaves, I bawl, letting go of all the emotions I've kept pent up this long, trying day. It takes at least five minutes for Peeta to calm me down. All the while he strokes my hair and whispers "it will be all right," in a soothing voice.

Finally I break away, embarrassed that I've left the front of Peeta's shirt damp from my tears and my drippy nose.

"Let's go to the camp," he says. "Have you eaten?"

"I'm not hungry, and I'm not going back there."

He looks me in the eyes. "Did you run into any trouble there, Katniss?" His voice takes on a different tone. An angry one.

When I don't answer, he asks me for a third time how I came to appear before him on a dirt road somewhere in Indiana. I imagine he's curious because I'm wondering the same thing about him.

What is he doing here?

Haltingly I explain about my uncle's job offer in Oregon that I received after we said our good-byes, worried that he will think I am chasing after him. After all what are the odds we'd both be offered jobs out west that are so near to each other?

To strengthen my story and explain why I'd give up a perfectly good WPA job, I make an embarrassing admission. "Dr. Snow became the owner of our house after my mother died. I couldn't stay there any longer."

"It doesn't surprise me," Peeta mutters. "He's got his noose around the necks of half the people in Dandelion. But you still haven't explained how you ended up here."

"I got off the train to get something to read when it stopped in Abbadon, and my purse was stolen right off my wrist. And my ticket was inside it."

"But Abaddon's over a fifty miles away."

"I went back on the train to get my suitcase and the conductor let me ride until the next stop. I've been looking for a place to spend the night. But then I ran into that encampment. And those men…"

"What happened?"

The ferocity in his voice scares me; I don't want Peeta starting a fight with someone over this.

"A man said he'd pay me to share his tent."

His lips press together forming a thin, angry line. "The hobo camps are no place for decent women. You should have stayed in town."

"Stay where? I don't know anyone and I only have 50 cents."

"All your money was in your purse?"

"Yes." He must think I'm a simpleton.

But he doesn't say anything. Instead he picks up my suitcase from the ground and takes my arm. "Let's go. It'll be all right if you're with me."

I don't want to go back to the camp, but what choice do I have – continue to walk alone down a dark road? Besides now that I've found Peeta, I'm not letting him go. So I allow him to lead me back.

Hoots and catcalls sound as we come upon the bonfire.

"Well, it looks like blondie got the girl," a voice calls out. "How much is she charging you?" It's the same man that offered me money to share his tent with him.

Peeta leans his head toward my ear. "Is that him?"

My heart races. "I can't remember."

Immediately Peeta lets go of my arm and turns in the direction of the man who spoke. "Take that back, or I'll punch you in the face for insulting my wife."

What?

Peeta gives me an apologetic look. But he doesn't need to explain himself because it's immediately clear that his deception worked.

"Sorry ma'am, I didn't know you were married," says the man who propositioned me.

I shudder to think he thought it was okay to make such lewd suggestions to any woman.

An uncomfortable silence falls over the campfire. Peeta attempts to smooth things over. "We only had enough for the one fare across country. My wife was traveling in the coach, while I was riding in a boxcar. But she got off the train in Abbadon for some air and her purse and ticket were stolen. It's a miracle we found each other."

I stare at him in astonishment, amazed at the convincing story he spins.

A chorus of "good nights" follow as Peeta leads me away to a small canvas tent.

"This one's mine for tonight," he says. I stoop down to crawl inside the small enclosure.

Peeta pushes my suitcase in first, and then follows. It's a tight space, as it already holds Peeta's satchel. We sit on the hard ground. I can barely make out his face, but I can tell he is close because his breath warms my skin.

"Why are you even here?" I whisper. "I thought you'd be in Oregon by now."

"I needed to go to Chicago first to collect some money that was owed me."

"But why head back south? You can take a train west from Chicago. That's the most direct route."

"It's the most direct route if you have a ticket. But the person who owed me the money skipped town, so I'm taking a more roundabout route, hopping freight trains and riding in boxcars instead. "

Hopping freights?

"Isn't that illegal?"

"Only if you're caught."

Even in the dark I can sense this brother of a moonshiner's mouth curling up into a grin, mocking me.

"Since we're heading in the same direction, you're welcome to join me Katniss."

I want to travel with Peeta, but hopping freights….

"I don't know. I was thinking I might telephone my sister and ask her to send me some money for another ticket."

Peeta's warm hand lightly touches my shoulder.

"If that's what you want Katniss; I'll walk you back to town in the morning so you can call her. It's late now though, so let's get some rest.

He reaches for his satchel and moves toward the tent's opening.

"Where are you going?"

"I'll just be outside sleeping. Don't worry, you'll be safe."

I lie down and consider my options. Phone Primmie who will chastise me for my foolishness, and may or may not be able to pay for the remainder of my trip. Or travel west with Peeta, who has already declared himself to be my pretend husband and protector. It doesn't take me long to come to a decision.

Despite experiencing one of the worse days of my life, I drift off to sleep, relaxed and even comforted by the thought that Peeta is outside keeping watch.

It's light when he opens the flap of the tent. "Wake up. It's morning."

For a moment I am confused, forgetting where I am and not recognizing Peeta's voice. But then it all comes back to me.

I sit up and rub my eyes. Already my back hurts and I wish I could take a bath.

"Is there somewhere to wash up?" I ask him. In the morning light, I can see dark circles beneath his eyes and thick stubble on his face that wasn't apparent in the moonlight the previous evening.

"There's a stream down the road aways," he says. "I'll walk you there and stand guard."

I drag my suitcase out of the tent.

Peeta's satchel hangs over his shoulder, but he takes my valise from me and carries it as we head off toward the road.

I tell him of my decision. "I'll travel with you in the boxcars if you're still willing to take me. I'm not sure my sister can spare the money to finance my trip west."

A relaxed look comes over him. "Good."

Was he worried about me traveling alone?

He gives me a teasing grin, a twinkle appearing in his eyes. "The fellow I was talking with last night when you tried to attack me with your suitcase said there's a freight train passing through mid-morning headed for Missouri."

Peeta walks me right up to the stream's bank, to a section partially sheltered by some bushes. He sets my suitcase down, and then opens his satchel, pulling out a tin cup that he dips into the stream, filling it with water.

"You can wash up here where it's private. I'll go over there," he says, waving his free arm toward the road. "I want to shave."

I promise to be quick. I squat down and open my suitcase, scowling at the book that lies on top. The Rich Man's Pearl. If it weren't for that damn book, I'd still have my purse and be boarding the train in Chicago this morning.

Of course, I'd never have run into Peeta at all.

I shove the book aside and look through the suitcase. I haven't packed a single pair of trousers. The ones I wore in my library job were old and unflattering. With my high ideals for a new life working as a secretary, I had decided they were unnecessary.

All I have are day dresses, a few blouses and a couple of skirts. Another pair of low-heeled shoes.

I pull out the least form fitting dress I can find and toss it over the top of one of the bushes, along with fresh undergarments. I set the other pair of shoes down on the ground. They are my favorite and go well with the dress I'll wear. Maybe I'm being vain, but I can't help but want to look nice for Peeta.

Looking past the bush I spy him in the distance with his back to me, one hand holding a small mirror, the other a razor as he shaves. Thankful that he's occupied, I strip completely and wade into the icy stream, sitting down on the sandy bottom.

The water just covers my breasts. It's slow moving, so there is no danger of me being washed along. I pick up a handful of sand to rub over my skin because I don't have any soap.

I don't stay in long because of the cold, but when I get out I regret my lack of a towel. I give myself a tiny shake, which is worthless, before proceeding to put clean clothing on my wet body. Putting on stockings over wet legs is tricky.

Once I'm dressed, I unpin my hair, unbraid it, and finger comb through it. Then I rebraid it, and pin it back atop my head. I emerge from the bushes looking far more put together than I entered them. At least I hope so, as I don't have a mirror to confirm it.

"I'm done," I call out to Peeta as I walk toward him.

He turns around and surveys me, as I do to him. A speck of dried blood sits on his chin where the razor must have cut it, but overall he looks far neater than before. His hair is damp; I suppose he used some of the water to comb down his curls so they lie flat.

"That's a pretty dress Katniss, but don't you have any trousers?"

"No, I didn't pack any."

"And those shoes. How are you going to run alongside the tracks in heels? "

"Run? I thought we just snuck into the boxcar before it leaves the station."

"We hop the freights a mile or two past the station so we won't get caught by railroad security.

"Give me your shoes," Peeta says.

Thinking he plans to inspect the grooves in the soles, I take one off and hand it over to him. He turns it over, breaks off the heel, which he tosses to the ground, and then hands it back to me.

My mouth flies open. "What have you done? These are my favorite shoes."

"Well they're no good for running. Give me the other shoe."

I can't walk with one heel on and the other off, so I unbuckle the second shoe and hand it over. He neatly breaks off the second heel and hands my shoe back to me.

Miffed, I bend down to pick up the broken heels and put them inside my suitcase. Maybe I can get my shoes fixed when we get to Oregon.

Peeta takes my suitcase from me and we saunter back to camp.

It is easier to walk on flattened soles, still I am annoyed that my best shoes are ruined.

Men stand around the open fire when we return. A frying pan sits atop a metal grill. The smell of bacon fills the air.

Opening his satchel, Peeta retrieves a tin plate. He holds it out to the man overseeing the cooking who serves him scrambled eggs and two strips of bacon.

Peeta pulls a nickel from his pocket and pays.

"I only have the one plate Katniss, so we can share," he says.

I ate well enough yesterday, so I tell him that I'm not hungry. He ignores my words and hands me a strip of bacon, which I gobble up. My appetite rears up, but I tamp it down.

We move away from the others and sit on the ground while Peeta eats. I listen to the cook tell that the eggs were stolen from a nearby farmer's henhouse, while the man's wife had given them the bacon.

"Is that how these people survive?" I whisper. "Stealing and begging for food."

He finishes chewing and swallows. "It's not only people in Kentucky that are hurting. The whole country is in a shambles."

Peeta eats half the scrambled eggs on the plate and leaves the rest for me. There is no cutlery, so I eat with my fingers the same as he did. Afterwards I lick my fingers to wash them. It's funny how quickly a person's manners can disappear.

We leave the camp with a small group, many of them teenagers, to catch the freight train.

The boys are friendly to us. Peeta's comment that we are a married couple has apparently spread because the boys are calling me "Missus," and treating me respectfully.

A towering, dark-skinned youth named Thresh, explains the procedure of hopping freights to me. "When you see the train you start running. When it gets level with you, reach up and grab on at the front of the car. Then you can climb along the side and get into an open boxcar, or up onto the roof of the train.

"Be careful though," he adds. "Never grab at the rear of a car cause it's liable to swing in and hurt you, or run you over. A friend of mine was killed that way last month."

My heart clutches. How am I supposed to do all this wearing a dress? And what do I do with my suitcase? Toss it into an open boxcar and hope I can land in the same car? The suitcase and its contents are all I have left in the world and I don't want to lose it.

The thought occurs to me that this exertion must be difficult for Peeta too. Less than six months ago he had a bullet removed from his calf.

I lean close to him. "How do you manage it with your leg?"

He frowns. "It's not easy. On my ride here from Chicago, someone pulled me into the boxcar while I was running alongside it.

A sense of foreboding comes over me, that Peeta and I will end up separated completely. "I don't think I can do this. Isn't there some other way for us to get on board?"

Peeta rubs his chin. "I suppose we could try it your way, sneaking on the boxcar while it's stopped at the station. The worse they could do is chase us off. But if it doesn't work, Katniss, we'll be stuck here until the next train comes through."

I don't want to spend another night at the hobo camp, but I'm willing to take the chance if it means we're safe.

We wish the boys well, as we take leave from them, turning back in the direction of the station.

When we get to town, Peeta stops at a small grocery and purchases a loaf of bread and some cheese slices. I offer to pay for half of the food, but he tells me to save my money. "We'll need it later."

We pass the drugstore that the diner owner told me houses a working payphone. For a fleeting moment I think, I could call Primmie, but I dismiss the thought immediately.

As we get closer to the station I warn Peeta. "I can't go inside there. Someone might recognize me from yesterday."

"We're not going inside."

Instead we make a wide detour around the side of the station. In my upset yesterday, I never noticed a second set of tracks that parallel the main tracks. A few boxcars, their doors open, sit on the second set of rails.

"Maybe we could hide in one of those cars until the train shows up," I suggest.

Just then a man sticks his head out of one of the boxcars to stare down the tracks.

"Looks like someone already had the same thought." I point out the man to Peeta.

But instead of leading me to the boxcars, Peeta walks in a shallow drainage ditch that has been cut into the earth and runs parallel to the main track.

"Why are we going in this direction?"

"That man gives me an idea."

We're a fair distance past the station, when the train's whistle sounds ahead of us. Peeta stops, turns, and reaches for my arm, pulling me out of the ditch and back a few feet away from the tracks.

A blast of warm air washes over us as the locomotive and its cars roll past us and into the station.

"Run and get into the first open boxcar," he says after the last car passes us.

I jump back into the ditch, turn, and dash off in the direction of the station. Peeta stomps after me. There is an open car, second from last. I wait for Peeta to catch up.

He tosses my suitcase and his satchel in, and then picks me up by the waist and propels me inside. I scramble to right myself and then turn to help him on board but already Peeta has hold of the handle of the boxcar's door and uses it to pull himself into the train.

My heart pounds after our physical outburst, but it's not over yet. Shouts sound throughout the train yard around us, while Peeta shifts the colorful grain sacks that fill half the dimly-lit car.

Amazed at the strength he exhibits – those sacks must weight close to a hundred pounds - I gather up his satchel and my suitcase and step aside to watch as he makes a walled-in private area for us to hide behind.

Once Peeta is done, we both squeeze between the sacks and sit huddled together with our baggage next to us.

"Who is that yelling?" I whisper.

Peeta keeps his voice low. "Railroad security, I expect. My guess is that more than one person was hiding in the boxcars on the second track. When I saw that man's head sticking out, it reminded me of what one of the hobos back in the camp told me about people sleeping in empty boxcars.

"I'm sure railroad security knew people were in there. I was hoping they'd be watching them once the train came in so they wouldn't be looking our way."

"Guess you were right."

"Have you done a lot of freight hopping?" I ask, when the train begins to move.

"Only between Chicago and Kentucky," he admits. "But you're right about my leg making it harder now."

I guess that's why he gave in so easily to my request. But how are we going to travel all the way to Oregon by train?

The boxcar picks up speed.

"Stay here," Peeta says, leaving our enclosure and standing in front of the open door. "Maybe I can help pull someone in."

A knot forms in my stomach thinking that anyone jumping on board might just as easily pull Peeta out of the train.

But I worry needlessly because the two boys he helps into the car, Benny and Jack, are scrawny and malnourished.

But it's their faces that haunt me because they're hardened as if those two have seen things that no teenager should know about. Both were with the group walking with us from the camp.

As the train rolls down the track, each boy recounts his story.

"My dad told me to leave home," Bennie says. "He said Ma and him couldn't feed me no more. It's time you make your way in the world."

So fourteen-year-old Bennie hopped a freight train in his hometown in Texas and had been riding the rails for the past three months.

Fifteen-year-old Jack ran away from his family. "My ma remarried and her new husband beat me," he says. "Besides I'm a man and I need to make my way in the world."

My heart aches for these boys who should, in my opinion, still be in school. But when I mention their education, they both stare at me open-mouthed.

"The school closed in our town for lack of money," Jack says.

Later, as the afternoon grows late, Peeta shares the bread and cheese with the boys.

They are grateful. Apparently they have no money at all and could not afford to buy breakfast at the camp this morning.

"How do you get food?" I ask.

"Steal it mostly," Jack says. "We knock on the backdoors of houses. Sometimes the lady inside will feed us if we do some work in the yard."

"Isn't it exhausting to live that way?"

Not knowing where a body will spend each night, continually concerned about where the next meal will come from - well I'm going through that now, and even with Peeta by my side, I'm drained.

"It's hard," Bennie admits.

As I lean against the stacked grain sacks an overwhelming sadness rises up within me. So focused on my own problems, I didn't give much consideration to the despair of others, in far worse condition than the Everdeens.

I wonder if my mother would have acted differently, less selfishly, if she could have seen the little I've seen so far.

With my belly filled with bread and cheese, I doze off, lulled by the rocking motion of the train.

I awake as Bennie calls out. "The train's slowing. We need to get off now. We're almost to the station."

In less than a minute, without even saying good-bye, the two boys leap out the side of the car.

"Katniss." Peeta stands, picking up our luggage.

I get up and look out into the dark night. Fear washes over me, rooting me in place. What if I break some bones or crack my head open? What if Peeta gets hurt?

"I can't jump. Go without me." I reach to take my suitcase from him.

He holds fast to it. "No, I won't leave you."

We go back into our hiding place behind the sacks of grain and wait for at least ten minutes after the car comes to a complete stop before we climb out.

It takes a few moments for our eyes to scan the unfamiliar train yard. In that short time we are caught.

"Stop right there or I'll shoot," a voice shouts.

Peeta grabs my hand and squeezes it. We both turn in the direction of the speaker.

A uniformed officer walks up to us. "You're under arrest for riding illegally on the train."

Author's Note: The term hobo originated in the United States around 1890. A hobo is a migratory worker or homeless vagabond, especially one who is impoverished.

More than two million men and around 8,000 women illegally rode on trains roaming the U.S. in search of work during The Great Depression. It's estimated that 250,000 of those hobos were teenagers, as young as 13 years old. Hopping onto a moving freight train was dangerous – at least 6,500 people were killed each year in accidents or by railroad security hired to make sure that the trains carried only "paying" passengers. Hopping freights became so common, though, that in 1933 Warner Brother's studio produced a film called "Wild Boys of the Road" to scare young people from riding the rails. In the film a boy loses his leg to an oncoming train. If you're interested in learning more about this subject, check out Riding The Rails: Teenagers On The Move During The Great Depression by Errol Lincoln Uys. But keep a box of tissues handy. It is a heart-breaking book, especially if you're a parent.