I see Peeta in everything now. Baking has become almost impossible for me. I enter the kitchen only to leave after a few minutes of agony. I can't handle the smell, the recollections associated with this part of my life. My other sons seem understand and take over for awhile.

But it's not just baking. Even something as simple as glancing at the scarred, scuffed stairs can bring back a flood of memories.

"Daddy!" Peeta calls from the top of the steps.

"Yes?" I have to smile. His big grin has a large gap.

"I lost my tooth!" My son holds something out to me, and I can make out a small white thing in his hand. His first tooth.

"I didn't even know it was loose," I tell him.

"It wasn't! It was knocked out! My brothers were wrestling and I wanted to try." He's still grinning, so proud of himself.

"You brothers knocked your tooth out?" I ask, appalled. I've told them over and over not to be so rough with Peeta. He's only six! "I'm going to have a conversation with them."

"No, it's okay!" Peeta bounds down the steps now, coming to hug me. "I volunteered to be their opponent! Don't get them in trouble, they just did it because I asked them to. If they find out I told you, they won't let me do it again."

"Let's go have some dinner," I tell him. I still plan on talking to my sons, but I can't say that to this innocent, ecstatic face beaming up at me.

The ghost of the smile that day brought me flits across my face. He was so proud of himself.

Later, I look out the window at the pigpen, stemming another memory.

"Why do we own that pig?"

"Huh?" I look up from the bowl I'm focusing on and see Peeta staring out at the backyard.

"Why do we own the pig?" He repeats in the patient way that only an eight year old can.

"Well, she's good for eating scraps," I explain. "If we need it really badly, she can also be food."

"So we'll kill her?" He suddenly looks alarmed. "But I've already named her Paprika!"

I try to keep a straight face. Naming the pig. This is why kids are truly the only thing left of worth in this world. Of course my son would name a dirty, smelly animal that people wouldn't pay attention to otherwise. "Paprika, huh?"

Peeta nods. "Please don't kill her!"

"Don't worry, I don't have any plans to."

And we never did kill that pig. I was the one who came up with the idea to breed her. Because I would never be able to kill an animal that had a name.

I half expect to see him coming around the corner or out sketching under the apple tree. It's like I've lost an appendage, a vital something to my survival. Just like Peeta did in the first Games. Damn, even an old saying brings him back to me. Is that what my life will be like now? Just jumping from one memory to the next?

When I hear someone come through the bakery door, I half hope it's Peeta. Every time that bell rings, a tiny part of me fills with hope before I realize why. Which reminds me -

"I think we need a bell," Peeta remarks one afternoon, surveying the rusted old one that hangs on the door.

"What do you mean? We have a bell."

"Yeah, but this one's all rusted," my son explains. "Sometimes I can't hear a customer come in and I keep them waiting. It hardly makes a noise anymore."

"Yes, but bells cost money. We need that money for food and flannel and wax." Peeta is totally right, as usual, but so am I. There's just not enough money for something so trivial.

My son sighs. "Why're we so poor?"

The question squeezes my heart a little. All my boys have asked me that question at one time or another. Now it's Peeta's turn. "We're not poor exactly. In fact, we're much better off than most people in this district."

"But we don't have enough money," he insists. "How can we get more? Can we just bake a lot?"

"It doesn't work like that," I tell him sadly. "Believe me, if the answer was that simple, I'd do it. But people don't have enough money to buy from us, which in turn costs us profits, so we can't buy from them. It's a broken cycle."

"Oh. So you can't fix it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said it was broken," my son repeats. "You can fix anything. But not this?"

"Not this," I tell him. I can feel his disappointment and it makes me dejected even more so at our government's lack of attention to the state we're in.

The night of the interviews, I glance outside for just a moment. A magnificent sunset illuminates the sky. Reds dance with oranges. Pinks and purples streak the clouds. Something breaks deep within me. The sunset is so closely associated with my memories of Peeta. The way his brush could just as easily recreate this masterpiece and how fascinated he was by colors. Even as a kid he'd ask me how certain colors were made, but I almost never had the answer.

"Are you alright?" My wife's voice makes me jump.

"Sure, yeah. Great."

She glances at me skeptically, but for once, doesn't say anything. I guess she realizes how close I am to falling apart completely.

"The interviews will be on soon. Are we going to the square?" she asks.

The square. The square. Are we going to the square? I repeat the question over and over in my head, but nothing computes. Finally, I just shrug.

"The square, Mellark. For watching the interviews?" my wife huffs. "Unfortunately, they're mandatory so staying here and blinding yourself by looking into the sun isn't an option."

"Oh, uh…" I kind of assumed we'd watch the interviews at home. I haven't given it much thought. In fact, I haven't even really thought about what it'll be like to see Peeta onscreen talking.

So far, we've seen only scattered shots of training and assorted prep. But now, he'll have three minutes with the camera fully training on him. If I'd had my druthers, I'd have liked to stay home. Maybe even find a way to tune out. It would be so much easier to just pretend that Peeta was already dead. By dragging this out, we're only prolonging the pain. I deal with the loss of him at the reaping, only for the Capitol to show my how pampered he's been for the past week. No sense in feeling any relief or temporary reassurance. Last year, I was just thankful he wasn't dead yet, but this time, I kind of wish his suffering would end as quickly as possible.

So, I guess my choice would be to stay at home, but of course, I'm outvoted by the rest of my family.

As we take our places, near to the screen but not so close that we have to crane our necks, several people offer their condolences. Murmurs and whispers fly from their lips to my ears. A question forms in my brain and I wonder why I hadn't considered it before.

The interviews are supposed to let the country get to know the tributes before the Games. But we don't need to find out about this batch. These victors have been mentors and regular Game attendees. We've already seen them, know their fighting styles, even know much of their personal lives. What's the point of the interviews this time? Tradition? Old times sake?

When the interviews start, it becomes clear just how angry the victors are. A ripple of uncomfort travels through the crowd in the square as the first woman takes the stage.

She's the girl from District One. I remember her Games well, mostly because she and her brother won back-to-back.

"Well, Cashmere, I must say, we're very sorry to see you go. You made this a family affair, didn't you? Now -" Caesar Flickerman pauses, taking a second glance at the blonde haired girl. "Are you okay, dear?"

"I'm so sorry," Cashmere sniffs. "I just can't stop crying when I think about how much you all must be suffering."

"You all meaning, us in the Capitol?"

"Yes, you must be so sad to lose us. We're your victors. You cheered us on and perhaps even got to love us, idolize us. I'm so, so sorry that we can't be with you longer. Really, we're not going by choice. You must know that, but know also that we feel the same pain you do."

Caesar sighs as the buzzer goes off and several people in the audience are crying. The guilt trip is far from over, however, because it seems the victors are just warming up. Cashmere's brother, Gloss, is next.

"Well, Gloss, we've heard from your sister that she's torn up about leaving us all behind. What about you?"

"Well, you have become a family to us. She and I are so lucky to have met such kind people. Every time we've come for a visit or a tour, you guys have been so generous, so loving. I don't think anyone could have done it better."

As the interviews go on, it's more and more apparent that they were a bad idea on the Capitol's part. The Capitol audience becomes more distraught with each victor that takes the stage.

The District Seven tribute, Johanna Mason, spews out profanity that gives my wife a run for her money. Her voice has become shrilly to the point where dogs whine and glass shatters. By this point, Caesar looks very uneasy. Between the crowd's distress and the victors unanimous anger, he seems to have lost his usual flawless execution.

Even here in Twelve, we can't believe what a turn this event has taken. I wonder how they're taking this reaction in the media room.

"If President Snow is all powerful, why doesn't he call off the Quell? Surely, it's in his power," the District Eleven woman says.

Her district partner immediately backs her up. "He must not think it matters all that much. He must think that people don't really care. That this is just another Games."

"Ah, yes, how interesting," Caesar says through a forced smile. "And now, who's next. Uh, of course, the victor of last year's Hunger Games, one of our beloved star-crossed lovers, let's welcome Katniss Everdeen of District Twelve!"

The crowd in the square joins in the applause from the Capitol. She is our victor after all. Katniss emerges wearing…

"Is that a wedding dress?"

"Yes, I remember that one from the photo shoot."

"What were they thinking, putting her in that?"

The cries ring out all around me. Because Katniss Everdeen, our victor, is dolled up like a bride. A bride! The outrage hums through Twelve. It's like rubbing salt in a wound. She'll never get to have her wedding, thanks to the Capitol. For a moment I almost forget the whole thing was an act.

I wouldn't expect the Capitol to share our anger, after all it's because of them that this is even happening, but I'm wrong. From the screen, we can hear people screaming for a change. The camera catches people sobbing, leaning on one another for support. Apparently, the victors' furious speeches have hit home and this dress puts them at their tipping point."

Caesar can only get one question out over the moans and shrieks from the audience.

"So, Katniss, obviously this is a very emotional night for everyone. Is there anything you'd like to say?"

The white dress ripples out into a large hoop skirt, like a tiered cake. I can't take my eyes off it.

"Only that I'm so sorry you won't get to be at my wedding…" Katniss starts off in a quavering voice. It seems she too is pulling the guilt card. "But I'm glad you at least get to see me in my dress. Isn't it just… the most beautiful thing?" And then she begins to spin.

I don't know what we're expecting here in Twelve, but none of us expected her dress to go up in flames. I mean, sure, we figured it'd have something to do with fire, but the fake stuff. This looks incredibly real. It burns away the silk and pearls skitter in all directions. When the smoke clears, I half expect Katniss to be gone. But she's still swaying in place, clothed in a coal - colored gown much like her wedding dress.

Only this one has wings.

"She's a mockingjay," someone gasps.

Indeed. Katniss has transformed into a feathery creature of the woods, free and beautiful even though she's anything but.

My breath catches just looking at her, so tragically draped in the feathers of a bird. I wish she could fly away, soar high above the Capitol and the Quell. If only those wings were real.

My wife however, doesn't seem as taken by the fancy clothes swap. She's eyeing the Peacekeepers that surround the square. They seem to be on edge, shifting their weapons as if expecting an outburst.

"What are you doing?" I breath. "What's wrong?" The cheers from the Capitol are enough to drown my words.

"That's the symbol," she says cryptically in a low voice. But the shouts are dying down and my wife shuts her mouth tightly.

Symbol. The symbol for what? Katniss is lowering her extensive wings now, and Caesar is almost beside himself with excitement. At his request, Cinna stands an takes a gracious bow. For a moment, everything seems like a normal interview again. Flashy costume changes. Stylists.

But there's an unfamiliar note of… something in the air. I can't tell what, but people and Peacekeepers are on edge. Waiting for something. But what?

And then it's Peeta's turn. The boy with blonde curls is like a breath of clear air. It's like I'm seeing a ghost, old memories of a boy I knew. I've been seeing him in my head, memories vivid as this footage, but nothing can compare to the sound of his easy going voice.

"Well, aren't you a cool drink of water?" Caesar sighs dramatically. Peeta is dressed in a white suit, so clean pressed it hurts.

"Well, after that small blaze I can imagine so," my son laughs.

"You sure like them spicy, don't you?"

"What can I say? I had no idea how hot she could get. I have a feeling I'll be spewing out feathers after our next kiss." The whole audience and the square laughs as one. Peeta can bring anyone together.

"Hopefully you don't overcook the poultry by adding more sparks." Caesar then segues into the interview itself. "So, Peeta, what was it like when, after all you've been through, you found out about the Quell?" says Caesar.

"I was in shock." That much is true. "I mean, one minute I'm seeing Katniss looking so beautiful in all these wedding gowns and the next…"

"You realized there was never going to be a wedding?" says Caesar gently.

"Caesar, do you think all our friends here can keep a secret?"

Uh oh. Secrets aren't good, especially because the entire country is watching. Peeta has a habit of revealing things via national television.

"I feel quite certain of it," Caesar promises. Oh shoot.

"We're already married."

Okay, was not expecting that. While the Capitol was planning some blowout, Peeta and Katniss created some other wedding? For show? For the act? Or could it have possibly been real? Their relationship was so confusing, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe it changed.

Caesar is just as confused as I am. "But… how can that be?"

"Oh it's not an official marriage. We didn't go to the Justice Building or anything. But we have this marriage ritual in District Twelve."

The toasting. Peeta describes it and I'm once again reminded of my own. Because I guess I haven't been transported to the past enough today. Caesar is still gaping when Peeta assures him that no one else was there. Not even Haymitch.

My son starts to get more upset as his time ticks away. "Who could've seen it coming?" he asks angrily. "No one. We went through the Games, we were victors, everyone seemed so thrilled to see us together, and then out of nowhere - I mean, how could we anticipate a thing like that?"

"You couldn't, Peeta," Caesar comforts him by putting a hand on his arm. "As you say, no one could've. But I have to confess, I'm glad you two had at least a few months of happiness together."

The camera makes a quick round to Katniss, who looks like she's tearing up. She's had her face buried in her dress for half the interview, but now she gives us a watery smile. The audience is going wild, clearly adoring these lovers and so upset to see them go.

"I'm not," Peeta cuts in, halting the applause. "I wish we had waited until the whole thing was done officially."

Now where's he going? As if reading my thoughts, my wife whispers to me the exact same question. But I'm as lost as Caesar.

"Surely even a brief time is better than no time?"

"Maybe I'd think that, too, Caesar." There's a strange bitterness to his voice and I feel a sudden shiver of dread. "If it weren't for the baby."