A sob choked Prim even more than the fire wall did. Peeta. Peeta.

But she had no time to cry. Right now…she must survive. She didn't know why, but it was as if Katniss's voice urged her on. Be strong! Get up! Survive, Prim!

She clawed her way up the trunk of the tree until she was standing, just as tongues of fire licked the place she one sat. She stumbled down the hill, running pell-mell through the forest, tears providing the only relief from the heat.

She couldn't breathe.

She couldn't do this.

She couldn't survive.

The heat was too much. It surrounded her. There was no path to take, no way of escape. She continued on, tears burning her eyes and smoke burning her lungs. The fire gave chase until her muscles wore down into jelly, spitting balls of fire that—by some miracle—continued to miss her.

Where to go? Where could she hide? She didn't even know where she was. Rocks. Trees. Nothing.

Down the hill she scurried. Stumbling once. Twice. Resorting to crawling as the fire arched over her, licking its lips and preparing to devour her.

That's when she saw the cove in a small rock face. It was her only chance—the fire wouldn't follow her in there, would it? She crawled, sticks digging into her palms, tucked her arms, and rolled through the opening. It sloped and she bumped down the small escarpment until she finally skidded to a stop.

She lay facedown in the earth, tense. Waiting to be burned up. The fire didn't come. She coughed, sucking in clouds of dirt. More coughing. Choking. Vomiting a nasty black sludge. It looked similar to what the men from the mines would cough up before dying from coal dust.

I'm going to die! She'd die like her father.

How ironic.

Black lungs. Tar for breath. Did the Capitol do this on purpose? To remind her of the horrors of home before sending her to her doom?

Air. Oxygen. Each gasp brought an extra spoonful of the sweet breath into her lungs. Maybe she'd be okay. Maybe that one hurl of sludge was all that was in her. To help herself calm, she imaged bright pink healthy lungs, expanding and contracting as she breathed. The lungs ushered in control, sending pep talks through her body, urging her muscles to wake up.

It worked. Her heartbeat calmed, her breathing steadied, and from what she could tell the fire had disappeared.

"Well, look who's here."

Prim scrambled onto her back, scuttling away from the voice until her eyes settled on the figure in the shadow. Out stepped Marvel, covered in soot, dirt, and sweat. He wasn't breathing hard, so he must have gotten here quite a bit sooner than she did. She must have run a roundabout way to the cave—that was the only way he could have beaten her.

"Oh Marvel, you're alive!" The relief poured from her voice and ended in a sob. "It's just you, I think." Sniff. "Peeta…Peeta…" she choked and fought a coughing fit. "The fire got him. He's dead."

"And you will be too, in a minute." Only then did Prim notice Marvel clutched a knife—Peeta's knife with the jagged edging near the handle and the long smooth blade edge catching a glint of light from the cave entrance.

The relief went out of her. Even the sorrow and grief disappeared. But they weren't replaced by fear. Resignation took their place. "Oh."

This felt like such…betrayal. She knew he was dangerous and that he'd been raised with killing skill and without compassion. But she'd come to view him as family, no matter how foolish it was.

She imagined the Capitol people leaning toward their screens, waiting for him to leap forward and plunge the dagger into her chest. Oh, it would be horrible! What a slow death—a stab wound! Not that! The camera would watch her choke. Marvel might stab her twice. Poor Katniss would be at home, sobbing over Prim's death, having to watch the whole thing…pleading for the cannon boom to just end it all.

Marvel stepped toward her.

"Wait!" She held up a hand, but made no other movement. "Please, Marvel, will you just slit my…my…throat? It'd be faster. I won't fight, I promise." She tucked her hands under her back as though to prove her point.

She wouldn't fight him. In this, she had to be strong.

"Get your hands where I can see them!" He jabbed the air with the knife.

She brought them back out, palms up. Poor Marvel. She couldn't blame him. His people did this to him. Maybe, if he won the Games, he'd go on to learn about compassion and family and love. Oh, she hoped so.

He swooped down and brought the dagger to her throat. She released a pent up breath and closed her eyes. "Thank you." Thank you! A quick death. Her eyes flew back open. "Wait…wait, Marvel, just one more second."

In small, non-threatening movements, she shrugged out of her jacket—half of it was burned away, but it still had a lot of use. She pushed it into his lap. "You'll need this, if you continue alone. It's cold at night and…and I don't want it to get covered in blood."

It was silly, but she wanted to be of some use, even when dead.

His fierce narrowed eyes held her gaze. She tried to look past his anger and determination, but it was too much. She closed her eyes and imagined home, imagined Katniss's smiling eyes when she called Prim little duck. She imagined Buttercup purring and Lady bleating when Prim hugged her too tightly.

"Stop it." He pressed the dagger against her soft skin with jerky, forceful movements. "Stop it!"

Warmth trickled down the side of her neck, under the collar of her shirt. Stop what? What was she doing? Whatever it was… "I'm sorry."

He released a primal yell—the loudest, angriest yell she'd ever heard come from a man. She tensed, cringing against what was sure to come, but the cold metal left her throat. She opened her eyes. He shoved her against the stone of the cave. Hard enough so the rocks bit into her spine. But then he stood up and pointed the knife at her, his eyes blazing with deep hatred, fury, confusion, and rage. "I don't get it. I just…don't get it."

He ducked out the cave, leaving her coat discarded on the ground.

.

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To be continued...

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How would you live if you knew the day you'd die? Parvin Blackwater believes she has wasted her life. At only seventeen, she has one year left according to the Clock by her bedside. In a last-ditch effort to make a difference, she tries to rescue Radicals from the government's crooked justice system. But when the authorities find out about her illegal activity, they cast her through the Wall - her people's death sentence. What she finds on the other side about the world, about eternity, and about herself changes Parvin forever and might just save her people. But her clock is running out.