The heat of the summer slowly dies along with my faith that my son will ever heal. The Capitol could fix his every scrape, cut, and burn, but there's no way to mend a broken soul.

Peeta doesn't come to the bakery, even though I always prepare a piping bag in case he does. My wife wants me to talk to him, but every time she brings it up I dismiss the idea. He needs time. Time to recover, to process, to forget.

But if it was hard to watch him suffer on TV, it's even more difficult to let it happen here in the district. Finally, I cave and make the trek to the Victor's Village. I don't know what I'm expecting to see. Peeta sitting by the window, desolate and alone. Maybe he and Katniss are having some time away from the cameras. But what I do see isn't at all on my list of possibilities.

Peeta is painting. In the natural light of the room, he pulls the paint brush across the canvas rhythmically. Each thick coat of paint melds with the next, gradually becoming a new hue.

His brush halts mid-stroke when I enter the room.

"Hey, Dad," he says.

I'm mesmerized by the streaks of red, orange and pink swirling across the canvas. It's a sunset sky, ablaze with the final bursts of light the sun has to offer the day. It's so lifelike I reach out to touch it.

"Careful," Peeta stops my hand. "It's still wet."

"Where did you learn to do this?" I breathe, still completely entranced by the brushstrokes.

"Practice. And frosting, too, I guess. Effie sent a letter saying that I needed to pick my talent. You know, now that I'm a victor. So, I chose this."

"Well, it's beautiful. Is this why you haven't come down to the bakery?"

"Partly."

"So…" I shift uneasily. "You're okay?"

"No," says honestly. "But this helps."

The fireplace is unlit, but there are ashes from a recent blaze. I wonder if Peeta built one or if mine was never swept away. I hope that he's at least taking care of himself here.

"How's your leg?"

Peeta pulls up his pant leg to examine the prosthetic. "Strange. I miss my leg."

"Does it still hurt?"

"At times," he admits. "The doctors said I might experience phantom pain." He rubs the place where flesh turns to plastic, then runs his hand down to where his calf used to be.

"At least you're alive," I tell him. He's quiet and I immediately regret my words. Searching for a change of topic, I open and close my fists anxiously. "Why don't you come home - to town, I mean - for dinner?"

My son pauses, considering. "I'll think about it."

Another silence.

"Has Katniss been over here?"

Peeta dips his brush into a dash of scarlet of paint on his palette. A little knot forms in my stomach at his lack of response. "Is everything okay between -"

"Dinner sounds good," he interrupts. There's a warning tone to his voice. I know I shouldn't press it - he seems to be barely holding it together anyway. I need to just go. Pretend that he's fine. But the father in me can't leave him like this. Instead, I place my hand on his shoulder. He shies away like a startled horse, a small noise escaping.

"Peeta-"

"Dad, just don't. Please… just… just go."

Eyes stinging from rejection, I back away. He can't help it. The things going on inside his head I can't understand- how can I expect him to want my comfort? It's survivor's guilt, I know. But the pain in his voice, the way he pushed me away - it hurts my heart to no end.

It wouldn't surprise me if Peeta doesn't show up for dinner. In fact, it's what I'm expecting. But at five, there he is on the doorstep.

"Peeta." There's more surprise in my voice than I'd like. So I clear my throat to cover it up. "Welcome-" I pause, not sure what to call this anymore. Home? I let the greeting hang in the air.

Peeta steps inside gingerly. He looks around, as if trying to reconcile his memories of the place with what he sees now. It's the first time he's been back since he left that morning of the reaping.

Dinner is a lot of small talk. The weather, the Harvest Festival that will happen come fall.

"How's this compare to the fancy house in the Victor's Village?" my oldest son asks jokingly. "Cramped, dim, and we don't have the plus of your girlfriend across the street."

Peeta looks down at his lap, his cheeks flushing.

"How is Katniss? Is that why we haven't seen much of you?" he shakes his head, a bit mockingly. "You two living together yet?"

When Peeta doesn't respond, his brother drops the matter. The subject shifts, but I keep my thoughts on Katniss. It's odd that Peeta isn't talking much about her. I'd have thought they'd be a source of comfort for each other, but it seems that they've only distanced since arriving here in Twelve. I wonder what's caused the drastic change from lovebirds to polite acquaintances, if that.

Now, a silence descends on the room as people run out of safe topics. Just when it seems that things couldn't get more awkward, my wife plows through the ice.

"Well, the cameras left town today. Saw them all pack up and pull out of here. Good riddance." She slathers butter on a slice of bread. It's strange to be eating bread that's not stale or burned. With Peeta's winnings, we can afford to get fresh food. Which reminds me-

"Peeta, I've let your mother manage your winnings. She's always taken care of the budget and I-"

He cuts me off with a startled expression. "You what?"

"I - I let her-"

"Dad, she's never once given a damn about what happens to me. And all the sudden, because I have money, she stops abusing me?"

This isn't Peeta. Peeta's voice so rarely holds that tone of controlled rage. There's resentment as he speaks, years of anger and buried pain coming through. Is this what the Games have done to him? Taken my soft-spoken, honest yet kind, son and brought out his harsher side?

"Peeta, you don't understand. She and I talked. Things will be -"

"No! No, okay? People don't change. I get that she's had it rough, but I don't want to be dependent on her. She can't come in halfway through my life and try to make things better!"

My wife's eyes are narrowed into steely slits. Her nostrils flare and I can tell it's all she can do not to fling her temper to the winds. And I know that if she's silent, it can only mean one thing. She knows he's right.

"Peeta, your mother isn't trying to -"

"She hit me." My son's voice drops to a near whisper. He closes his eyes and rests his head on his fists. The knuckles are white from being clenched. Again, we eat in complete silence.

"I'm sorry," he whispers finally. "I shouldn't have gotten so angry."

"It's okay," his brother reaches across the table to pat his back. He seems to regret teasing Peeta earlier. "We understand.

"I should probably go." The chair screeches as Peeta stands up.

"Do you want me to walk you home?" Even though I already know the answer, I have to ask anyway.

He shakes his head. "Thanks, but I know the way."

"You're welcome here anytime. This - this is still your home, too." I get to my feet as well. At least I can walk him to the door.

Peeta grabs his coat - as autumn approaches, we're starting to see some cooler evenings - and starts off down the road with just a vague goodbye. I can tell by his voice that he's ashamed.

The setting sun ignites the gravel, turning it orange and red. Just like Peeta's painting.

About halfway down the road, my son stops and just stares at the brilliant sunset. The sky dances with pink and gold, the clouds turning to spun sugar. Peeta stands like a statue, his hand shading his eyes. It's not until the sun slips behind the horizon and the colors fade away that he turns and continues his trudge away from town.