Part Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:

Winter

Atoka Menzies

In the two months that have passed since I got off that train and appeared on the platform at District 10, things have been very unusual. I was greeted by the solemn faces of the McKay family, dismayed to find that they appeared with large bruises on their bodies. I wasn't bound to learn more about the history of the bruises though, not as I was bound to learn more about my own District and how it had changed since I had left it less than two weeks previous. For the time being, I was faced with the McKays and my own failure to bring back their children. Mrs. McKay shook her head when I tried to offer my condolences and apologize for getting her children killed.

"Even Seeder put up a good fight," she assures me. "But they weren't expecting to come back, and we were all prepared for it." Even so, when I look at the faces of their surviving children, I can see the deeply set despair in their eyes; even the youngest McKay, a sweet little girl called Laurel (with whom I'd become much better acquainted in the coming months) who shouldn't know much about the world and life, even in Laurel McKay's eyes I can spot a withering of hope. I invite them to come back to my house in the Victor's Village, but when we get closer to the Ranches, the children become very visibly distraught and eventually they thank me but turn away and head back into the Town. When I enter the Ranches, a strange feeling grips me; usually these grandiose houses and their properties – separated from the public by handsome but showy wooden fences – have a touch-me-not effect on visitors, but on this occasion, that effect is heightened by something beyond my vision that causes me to be hushed as I pass them by, like walking on egg-shells. It's like tip-toeing past a sleeping dragon, as the idiom says. Arriving at my own house feels like the end of a very long journey.

In the evening, I'm expected to be entertained at Mr. G. W. Burliss's ranch home. It's a tradition to celebrate the return of the District's only Victor, and usually I manage the evening with grace. The tradition gives the cowboys and their cow-men a chance to do something special and honor the culture of District 10, and part of that culture is to show off as a means for attracting me to a particular suitor. I play along but never choose anyone in the end; a relationship with a cowboy would be too tedious for me, not to mention the courting etiquette that I'd be in charge of observing. In the past, I've seen this gathering as the last phase of the Hunger Games (in other words, something I have to get through), and in order to truly win the Games, I'll have to avoid becoming someone's belle. As the usual entourage of eligible male cowboys comes by to escort me to the Burliss Ranch, I realize that I'm not playing the Games the same way I used to play them: before I had nothing to lose, and now I have Cor. How he touched me will never be matched by the District 10 male cowboys; how he kissed me will never be how the buckaroos kiss me; how he felt against me will never be how they feel on my skin: I never had anything before that last night in the Capitol, and now I have something. Having Cor scares me to death; I don't know how to play these Games.

Mr. Gordon Walkerson Burliss isn't the sort of man you'd look at and want to befriend – not that anyone in 10 has the luxury of choosing their friends. He's squat, looks on the edge of unkempt, has a hungry look in his eyes and when he speaks, it's like he's barking at you. His facts are staggering: he owns close to sixty ranch hands – whom he rooms in two large longhouses at the edge of his property, near the Gaming Reserve – and close to twenty-five buckaroos – thirteen male, twelve female; his property dwarfs that of his neighbors by 320 acres – his neighbors are Mrs. Cheneye Dickson and Mr. Constantine Powell-Cullen, and they own a combined 1,090 acres worked by a combined forty-eight ranch hands and supporting a combined nineteen buckaroos (seven female cowboys); he owns and operates two dairy barns, two livestock barns purposed for meat, a grounds for thoroughbred horses and two small processing facilities – "One's for milk, cheese, eggs, cheese curds for the kids; the other's for butchery and meat packaging for the Capitol folk. We give the hinds to the Townies and save the spares for our Victor." – and he owns a coop for the chickens, hens and roosters, but it is so close to the Gaming Reserve that a few escapees have become wild and roam the Reserve with other wild animals. Mr. G. W. Burliss has no issue repeating these facts to me over a whiskey on these special occasions when I'm invited to dine and be entertained. I've always thought that if I were a ranch hand working for Mr. G. W. Burliss, I'd hate myself for all the work I'd have to do. "Of course the up-side is that there's no threat of going into the Hunger Games and getting killed," Mrs. Dickson likes to remind me when I find time to have a more civil conversation with her. She's the most agreeable cow-man at the Ranches, I think, though I've seen her be tougher than rusty nails. I can identify with her hard-knock style: it's the sign of a survivor, and only the Fates know what has made her that way.

I only know him as Jesse: he's the buckaroo who brings me flowers when it's time to be escorted to the Burliss Ranch and ruthlessly be flirted with. What isn't remarkable about Jesse is that he has weathered skin, short cropped hair, wears a cowboy hat, blue jeans, a large belt and a shirt buttoned down the front; what is remarkable about Jesse is that he speaks slowly and softly, he's quick to smile at me, and he is a genuine gentleman. He rings my bell, always tips his hat at me when he sees me open the door – "Well, hi there Ms. Menzies. You're looking really handsome today, better than the last time I had the honor of seeing you. I brought you these flowers because I know you said they're your favorite, but you'd better get them in some water in a hurry: it's a real dry one out there today." – and when I let him in, he always wipes his boots off on the doormat and asks if he ought to take them off. I suppose I enjoy his company in all these simple moments, and if I had to marry someone from 10, I'd choose him, but that was before Cor. I smile at Jesse sadly, now, knowing something has happened to close this door I've opened between us.

"Come on in then, and let's get these lovely flowers into a vase," I leave the door open for him because I know he'll close it behind him, and I make my way to the kitchen, arriving just as he calls out, "Ms. Menzies, would you prefer me to take my boots off?" And I call back to him, "Oh, Jesse, you ask me every time and every time I say you're okay. Besides, I need to have something to do, so might as well be cleaning." Jesse strides into the kitchen as I'm dropping the flowers into my red clay pottery vase from the healer, Miss Cordwip, in the Town.

"So, will you do me the honor of escorting you to Mr. Burliss's tonight?" he asks, on cue. I offer him the same sad smile in response.

"Jesse, I'd rather go with you than anybody else," I say, only this time I don't mean it because when he blushes, I feel guilty for toying with him. "You look stronger," I say, changing the subject.

"Shucks, thank you, ma'am," he says. "I've been on with the bulls lately. I'm determined to put my roping lessons to use."

"And are you?" I ask.

"Well, mostly I've been practicing but not on the bulls. Them I've been wrestling with 'cause they don't stand still like a barn post does." We both laugh at him. "Ms. Menzies," he begins again, slower and a little hesitant. "Have you put more thought to getting married? I don't mean to be rude or anything, I'm just curious." He gets another sad smile and I see some of his hope fade in his chocolate brown eyes. Nonetheless, he keeps the smile on his face. "Aw, that's okay, honest." He scratches the back of his neck. "I just asked because I know the other guys are going to come and ask you like they always do." I find my way over to Jesse – sweet Jesse – and take one of his rough hands in my own.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Jesse boy. I'd be lucky to have a sweetheart like you. But my life is complex right now, so if you're still interested, ask me again next year." He always nods and that ends the conversation right there.

I'm definitely thinking about Jesse now, as the first snowflakes fall out of the wintry white sky above. I'm sitting beside the fire in my fireplace, warming myself from the bitter cold stillness of District 10 beyond my walls. It's a job to be done on the inside as well as the outside: ten minutes ago, before I began this conversation with myself, I had a call on my phone. It was from the Capitol. It was from President Coriolanus Snow – a propos. It wasn't a long conversation, nor was it a two-way conversation. He congratulated me and invited me to come back to the Capitol on his bill. He'd send a train to District 10 in the morning. He wanted to see how far along I was in my pregnancy, and, he wanted to discuss the fatherhood of the child. I'm sitting by my fire, thinking about Jesse and Cor and President Snow, rubbing my slowly changing womb, shivering.

Deane Scythe and Moxie Tyler

"Get over here to this fire, Mox."

"It's dangerous to be lighting a fire, Deane, how many times do I have to say it."

"Only once more so you can shut up about it."

"Always a comeback."

"First snowfall of the year."

"The Wild Folk'll be moving out soon. Got to follow the herds."

"The wild turkeys are coming back onto the Reserve. They made you sick the other night, didn't they?"

"We have to eat. I didn't find anything more than snakes in the canyon. But it might be warmer there, if we want to move camp."

"Naw. I like this cave here. It echoes some, I know that, but now that it's winter, who's going to be out here close enough to hear us?"

"Desperate animals."

"What if we tried going back to the Compound?"

"Really? You want to have this conversation again?"

"Come on Deane. We can't support ourselves out here on what we've got. Things might have calmed down in the Compound."

"Yeah? And what about feeding your sisters and brothers? Hmmm? We're wanted fugitives now, whether it's officially in writing or not it's as good as the truth. We're wanted now, and that means there's a price on our heads that is probably big enough to help anyone, Prairie Dog or Townie, in the winter to come. We can't just go back there and expect to be welcomed without mischief."

"We can't stay here, Deane. We just can't."

"I'll figure something out."

"Yeah, you will, all by yourself. B.S. Try again."

"Fine! We'll figure something out. Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"Hey, so last night, I know you get cold, but you don't have to hang onto me so tight, okay?"

"Uhh, you were hanging onto me, mister. And you usually do as soon as I lay on my side, you just shimmy on up behind me and put your stinking arms around me."

"Oh yeah? Why don't you throw me off?"

"Because I'm asleep, dumbo!"

"Oh yeah? Well how do you know that's what I do?"

"Because I can feel you against me! Duh! Hey, catch the meat before it falls!"

"Shit! Burned my finger."

"Give it to me! I'll fix it."

"Ouch! Stop rubbing it and making it worse!"

"I'm making it better, Mr. Scythe! Miss Vetta showed me how."

"You keep talking about this Miss Vetta. 'Miss Vetta showed me this, Miss Vetta showed me that.' Who is this Miss Vetta anyway?"

"Shut up, will you! I don't sound like that anyway. And Miss Vetta's a healer and child-birther."

"A Prairie Dog?"

"No, a Townie." … "Actually, I think she's from outside, but I don't know for sure. I just think it. How's that now? Bend your finger, tell me if it hurts."

"Ahh, it's better, but…"

"But it hurts?"

"Just where you spit on it."

"Oh. It's fine then. It probably just stings, right?"

"Probably, just." … "Oh, now it's nice." … "How can someone be a Townie and be from outside?"

"I told you, it's just something I thought."

"What else do you think?"

"Shut up and eat your food."

"Wanna cuddle?"

"Shut up, Deane."

"No, seriously! It's really cold."

"Shut up, Deane."

"Fine. Just saying, I have more fat on me than you do. Cuddling would make us both warmer."

"Shut up, Deane."

"Goodnight, Moxie Tyler."

"Goodnight, Deane Scythe."

Moxie Tyler

I dreamed. I stood beside the Old Fifty Yards Tree and watched the Ranches burning. I could hear screams of fear and anguish, but I couldn't move toward them. I scanned the horizon as I heard a bone-chilling war cry, and I could see a flock of Wild Folk galloping toward District 10's most western town. I don't know how I knew that. My hands were weathered and calloused, and I remember naming each callous: Sparrowkin, Ehawee, Mika, Winona, Mina, Weayaya, Mato, Napayshni, Skinner. I shaded my eyes to see the war party riding toward me, even though I knew that they were not after me. The ground trembled, the cry rose up louder. Men with red skin and men with tanned skin rode together, and somehow my heart jumped with joy and a mix of fear. And I saw my husband – an appalling idea since there were no models for husbands and wives in my native recollection – with a wild turkey's feather in his hair, riding alongside my father and a small band of red-skinned men. He carried a hatchet in one hand, the reins of his horse in another. His eyes met mine as he passed by, and I offered the Fates and the Wakan Tanka a prayer for his glorious result in battle, even if it meant death. I felt someone approach me from behind, and I swung around and muffled a surprised cry to find the weathered and embittered face of District 10's only Victor looking into mine. "It's time," I heard myself say.

"Time for what?" Deane asked me, sleepily, shaking me out of the dream. I rubbed my eyes, shivered and tried pulling the threadbare blanket we shared over my shoulders. Deane helped me accomplish this task, and then he turned to the small fire he'd built in the back of our cave. I watched him with cautious, untrusting eyes, searching for both the feather in his hair and the hatchet in his hand. Neither materialized as the dim light of morning attempted to illuminate the world around us. Clouds covered the small patches of sky I could see from my sitting place, and I realized that some of the snow that had fallen the night before was now covering the canyon. "Time for what?" Deane asked again and I got up, stumbling a little as my weary body worked through some minor aches – I was becoming used to the hard ground as my bed, but that didn't make it more comfortable – and found my way to Deane's fire. I took his injured hand in my own and inspected the burn. It was rosy but not bad after the salve had been applied to it: I even believed he was actually healing from my poor healing work.

"Nothing," I said. "It was just a dream."

"Tell me," he said, taking his hand back after giving mine a friendly squeeze.

"There was a war party coming to the Ranches to raid them, I thought. It was both Wild Folk and men from 10; no one else can be sunburned quite like District 10's folk."

"Except for the visitors from the Capitol," Deane offered. I took it for sarcasm and smirked. "No, seriously," he protested. "Whenever they'd come to the Ranches, I mean it was like they'd never been in the sun before! Five minutes and they were redder than a first born babe out in the sun for the first time."

"How often did you get Capitol folk visiting?"

"Only when something important happened. And every time Miss Atoka came back from the Capitol, we had a large welcoming party for her. The cowboys would put on their best," he smirks, looking away in remembrance. "They all thought they had a chance to win her hand in marriage… you know, to become her husband… and they would talk each other up and down in the yard and even in the longhouses we stayed in, sometimes."

"But she's not married," I say.

"No. She never really took to any of them. Mrs. Dickson has a cowboy called Jesse and he seems to be closest to Miss Atoka, but she's never said yes to him." I think about that for a little while before asking my own question.

"Do you ever think about getting married?" Deane gives me a strange look, but he's not unkind.

"I'm not really old enough, I think, for marrying. It's never been much of an option anyway. And I never really had parents so I don't know how to be a husband to a wife. It's just been Thatch and me looking out for each other."

"Well, I'm looking out for you now," I say, surprising us both. "And you look out for me too."

"Yeah," he looks at his feet, nervously raising his hands to warm them by the fire. "Yeah, it's kind of nice, for a change." He stutters. "I mean, I used to despise you… for… you know… the hens."

"I didn't care much for you either!" I laugh nervously. "You were telling Bess and me that you were going to get us killed in the Games!"

"I've come around though," he says, his voice drifting off.

"Yeah," I answer in kind. "You have." We sit in silence, carefully avoiding the other's gaze.

Atoka Menzies

The feast was grandiose, I remember beside my fire in the falling dark. Mr. Burliss was his usual self for the first hour, boisterous and living into his role as host. But when Mrs. Cheneye Dickson found her way over to me during the bull-riding showcase, I noticed Mr. Burliss becoming wary of every movement around him. "He looks nervous about something," she whispered into my ear. "He's never nervous about bull-riding."

"Oh, I hadn't noticed until now," I replied. "He's been up to his usual antics."

"Yes," Mrs. Dickson said, carefully. "And no. I wonder," she faced me directly, and I turned to face her as well. "There's been a rumor mill turning around. Some of the cowgirls think he might make a proposal to you himself. He's never done it before, no, and why should he?"

"I have no idea," I said.

"Neither do I," she said. "Which is why we're all so curious about it." The cowboy riding the bull got thrown off at that moment, and a ranch hand had to jump out and steady the bull as he snorted and turned toward the rider he'd thrown. I remembered one feast where a cowboy had been gored by a bull. I'd had a bad time of it after that… you know, with all my unaddressed trauma from the Hunger Games. "Did Jesse bring you this evening?" She asked with a tone of one prying for answers to questions not asked directly. I knew her game and I nodded. "He's also interested."

"Yes," I said. "He asked me."

"You said no," she states.

"Correct. I told him to ask me again next year."

"That's fair," she replied. "Do you think you'll have changed your mind next year?"

"Definitely," I said, trying to ensure her that Jesse had a chance. Realistically, I was stalling in hopes that there'd be another offer coming for me from afar, even though I could guess that such an offer would never come. I was still, in the end, a girl from the Lower Districts, and to be considered a wife of a Capitol man … even for a Hunger Games Victor … was a fairy tale without much weight. But if Cor did ask… I'd say yes.

"You know you'd break his heart if you said no again," Mrs. Dickson said, cutting through my thoughts. "Atoka."

I check the clock on the mantel and decide it's too late to make any calls to the Ranches. I'd be glad to have a little company on this stormy night. I reconsider my choice about five times, and finally I push myself up off the floor and go to the telephone to make the call. It's a remarkable thing to hear Jesse on the other end, after I've summoned him from his lodging by way of a reticent ranch hand.

"Well hi there Ms. Menzies. I'm glad to have a phone call from you, but," he pauses. "Well, you don't really sound yourself, Ms. Menzies. Are you alright?"

"Oh Jesse," I begin to cry, shocked at how comforting his voice is to me.

"Okay, you hold tight. I'm coming over." Before I can say anything, he cuts the line on his end, leaving me with a cruel buzz in my ear. I clutch the phone and continue to cry, feeling very small and broken down. That's how he finds me when I don't answer the door. He lets himself in and calls out a few times before finding me, crumpled in a ball on the floor, the phone still in my hand and at my ear. "Ms. Menzies…" he says, shocked at the sight of me. "What have they done to you?" Before I can answer, he's crossed the room (in his boots still, which makes me laugh later), picked me up in his arms and brought me back to the couch where he holds me tight. I smell him… the real Jesse… for the first time, and it's a comforting smell. He's not yet washed the sweat off his body, but he's taken time enough to mask it with some cologne. It's not an overpowering splash of scent, but just enough – economically applied – so that he doesn't smell like body odor. I let him comfort me, which is another way of saying that, for the first time since I've begun to get morning sickness and have needed Cor to be there for me, I feel like someone is in my corner enough to let myself go in his arms.

Jesse gets me to sit down, but I won't allow him to let go of me, so I end up partially on his lap. His heart is racing; I can hear the quick thump-thumps. They center me as I count them, and as I slow in my crying fit, his heartbeats slow in unison. Finally, I manage to sniffle and break away from him. He looks so pathetic as I look into his face, and in the absence of conversation, I notice he's still wearing his boots. "You forgot to ask about your boots," I laugh, sniffle and say at the same time. His smile lights up the room, accompanied with the prerequisite blush, and he scratches the back of his neck, chuckling nervously.

"Yeah, I guess I did," he says. "Shucks. Well would you like me to take them off now, Ms. Menzies?" I laugh, feeling more grounded by his return to familiar formality.

"Oh Jesse," I begin to say, but I stop myself. The way he's looking at me, hanging on my words… no, on my desire… it changes me deeply. "Jesse," I repeat, but again I go no further, and he doesn't seem to care.

"You got my shoulder good and soaked," he chuckles.

"Sorry," I say in a tone more like his than mine.

"Naw, you don't have to explain yourself to me, Ms. Menzies," he says softly, echoing my well-rehearsed reply back to me.

"It's late. I called you out of bed. I shouldn't have…."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," he repeats, but this time he takes ownership of the phrase in a way that surprises me. I always thought he was more of a cowboy who did what he was told and didn't bother thinking too much about anything else except what he was told to do. But with this new tone I hear him use, it's as if he's assured me that he can think for himself. I wasn't expecting it. "Anyway, I was getting badly beat by a few cowboys in cards, so you actually bailed me out." He smiles, dryly.

"That makes two of us then," I say back. "You bailed me out."

"Can I ask why?" He treads cautiously.

"Yes," I say feeling certain but sounding hesitant. "I'm not positive, really, myself. Its sort of a lot of things."

"What's the easiest thing you can say?" He asks me.

"Well, I'm pregnant," I blurt out before I can catch my own words. He makes a face I find hard to describe until he responds.

"Well… I said easiest but I guess that works too." I laugh, relieved that he's taken that news with a bit of tension-relieving wit. "I don't know anything about childbearing," he says shyly. "But I'm a fast learner."

"Well, that makes one of us," I say back, matching wit with wit.

"Shucks," he says, scratching the back of his neck again. "Was it something you agreed to… or…?" he asks, hesitantly.

"Yes," I say. "I agreed to it."

"In the Capitol?"

"It had to be. I've never had relations with anyone here." He blushes deeply and looks away. "I'm sorry," I laugh nervously. "This is not the conversation I was thinking about with you."

"It's alright Ms. Menzies," he says. "I've birthed foals before… but the first time I did that, I think I fainted." We both laugh. "D'you mind not mentioning that to any of the cowboys?" I nod. "Mrs. Dickson knows, of course; she was there. I did fine until I thought about it, and that's when I got to thinking about how many ways I could have gone wrong and killed the foal or its mother or both, and that's how I got myself into trouble and fainted."

"I think it might be easier with women," I say, hoping to reassure him. He still seems nervous. "Do you mind not telling anyone else about it?" I say. He grins and nods. "We can make it our secret."

"Our secret," he says. "You know, I can help you with this. I'm gentle. But you already know that. I can bring you things, you know, for extra. Folks in Town might know more than we do, but if I'm asking for a 'whoopsie'… that's what we call them when the cowgirls get a belly-full… no one will have suspicions."

"Hey," I say, interrupting him in the beginning of his planning stage. "The President has invited me to the Capitol to have a chat about it." He seems to understand what that means. I'm beginning to think that we're not from such different worlds after all. "So I'm going to have to go. I can maybe ask for someone to escort me."

"You don't have to ask, Ms. Menzies," he says quickly. "I'm your man. Never had a function I didn't escort you to and from. No one will suspect if it's me who goes with you." I smile at him.

"Truly?"

"Truly."

I am looking at Jesse through different eyes. "Oh Jesse," I say finally. "I think we're in for a really great friendship." I watch as he lets a smile silence the words he wished to say, and for the first time ever – with Jesse – I'm madly curious to know what they were.

Deane Scythe

"The trouble is that I don't know how to make any sort of weapons," I'm saying to Moxie as we both look at the small pile of stones she thought up collecting to fashion into knives or something sharp. "We got all our tools from the cow-men. I told you that already."

"You did," she says sharply. "Which is why I suggested going and raiding the Ranches. We are certainly able to get tools for killing animals from there…."

"But I also told you that if I go back, they'll catch me." She mustn't understand what the cow-men and their lackey cowboys are capable of if she's being so insistent upon this raiding plan.

"They're not going to catch you, Deane! We're going to cause a distraction. The Prairie Dogs will help us. They like me. And anyway, the Peacekeepers are gone from the Compound as of yesterday. So who's going to catch you? You've been gone so long, how do you know they don't think you're already dead?"

"I never assume I know what they're thinking," I caution her. "You shouldn't assume either. I swear they know things."

"Well, then we're going to have to learn how to turn these rocks into weapons." And we're back on square one.

"What is your plan, then?" I say, huffing and crossing my arms.

"Go to the Compound, recruit some kids to help us…."

"Wait a minute… haven't you all got tools in the Compound?"

"You don't steal from the poor, dummy! You steal from the rich."

"So we recruit some kids, then what?"

"And then we send them onto the Gaming Reserve, looking for ranch hands to distract and stealing whatever they can. And then…"

"Wait," I stop her again. She doesn't like it and crosses her arms. "How can we trust that they won't just steal game animals and go right back to the Compound?"

"It's winter, Deane. They'll leave tracks in the snow. Not to mention the tracks that the ranch hands will leave. It's going to be fine. Prairie Dogs do what we need to survive. Trust me."

"I trust you, Moxie… just not them."

"Fine! Figure out how to make weapons out of these rocks. I'll go to the Compound and do it myself. Then we'll see who's right." She storms out of the cave and I'm inclined to follow her and make her stop, but I'm not really happy with her suggestion anyway, so I sit down and stare at the rocks, hoping they'll offer some answers. I can still hear her stomping around in the snow and as long as I can hear her, I'm reminded to stick to my guns. But there comes a moment when I can't hear her anymore. I step out of the cave cautiously and look down. She's left footprints in the snow, but it's so cold out that the prints have become ice, and the grooves and contours of the land make it difficult to see her prints clearly. I begin tracking her anyway, a feeling of dread overcoming me. Several yards out of the canyon, her tracks begin to blend with other footprints. At first there are a few – one or two – but as I get closer to that big old tree, a few becomes about twelve. I can't track Moxie's prints anymore and that feeling of dread grows. That's when I look up and see what I had been dreading: the Compound – still more than fifty yards out, is deathly still and silent. It is the middle of the day, and yet, there is no activity there whatever. I spin around as I hear the ground break underfoot and before I can positively identify the bearded man who's approached me, he's knocked me out. As I go down, I hear the laughs of a handful of men, and one somewhat distinct voice says, "That's them both. Sling him over…" and I'm out.

Atoka Menzies

The day has come. Jesse meets me at the door. I'm wrapped up to conceal what is a slowly developing belly. He's right that no one suspects us as we walk from the Victor's Village through the Ranches and out to the train station behind the town hall. Ever since returning to District 10, the Town has been very quiet and there have been a lot of shifting glances. Some shop windows and doors are being mended, and several Townies sport deep bruises, but when I've asked them where such signs of devastation have come from, they won't talk to me. Even the Peacekeepers seem more stoic than normal. Something has been going on that makes this place feel less alive than usual. It's easier to hide the depression of this town in the winter, but in the cooling autumn season, it's absurd to think that no children's voices are heard in the street, and no shoppers can be heard from the market on Market Day. Even the abominable Miss Vetta Cordwip wears a smile less frequently, and she seems to have developed a nervous tick; she's always looking to the corner of her ceiling as if she's listening for something. She speaks less and uses shorter words. In the end, my conversations with her last less than five minutes. I meant to get to the bottom of it, but then the morning sickness began, and suddenly I had no time.

No one sees us off. Jesse gets upset when the train starts moving, but I do my best to calm his nerves. It isn't until he touches my stomach and gets a strange glow in his eyes and face that I see him calm down gradually. Anyway, with District 10 being one of the districts closer to the Capitol, we arrive shortly before nightfall. For Jesse, this is a moment that he never dreamed of, and he looks about as strangely out of place as the Capitol folk look out of place. He tries to start up a conversation with an Avox, but that ends quickly. In all, he's handling his first trip to the Capitol very well. We are taken directly to the President's Mansion, bypassing the Avenue of the Tributes, but I know Jesse recognizes it from the screening of the Hunger Games because he looks up at the exterior of the great Circus and lets his mouth drop to the ground.

"That's where…" I nod, pushing his hand down and curling his pointing finger.

"Remember, only one comes back." I say. He curls all his fingers around my hand and shivers. There are no banners announcing the 19th Annual Hunger Games hanging from the exterior of the Circus, but the celebration banners are being hoisted up as the Capitol leads Panem in preparing for the Victory Tour of its 19th Hunger Games Victor. Despite the protection of the mountains, the streets of the Capitol have a light dusting of snow on them. Jesse works hard not to drop his jaw again when we reach the imposing but regal mansion of President Snow. Outside and above the entrance archway, the maroon and gold flag of Panem is draped from the building. There is a small welcoming party waiting for us beneath it. When we are brought in and offered something hot to drink, we're separated and led to our respective rooms.

Mine is on the second floor, down a corridor that echoes when it is trodden. The escort and her Avox companion step aside as they open the door for me. I thank them in dismissal and then turn and enter the apartment. And I jump. Because there, in the flesh, waiting for me is the man himself: President Coriolanus Snow.