Holy-

What did he just say?

The square isn't just silent - it's like everyone died, or at least stopped breathing. There's not even the normal purr of the crickets. The full force of what my son just said starts to sink in, registering in strangled cries and outbursts. If it weren't for what?

"Did he just -" my wife chokes on her words. "Did he say what I think…"

But I can't answer. I can't even shake my head. A whirlpool of unconnected thoughts paralyze me. How the hell - it doesn't make sense! What just happened? Peeta is implying that Katniss… that Katniss Everdeen… that Katniss is pregnant?

But is it real? I thought this was all an act, a game within the Games. I've been under the impression that Katniss and Peeta have rectified their relationship, but just barely. They need each other when they're at their breaking points. The only reason this wedding was happening was because of the Capitol and the pressure to keep up the romance. Instinct tells me that this is still part of the performance, but I really can't be certain anymore.

Could I be wrong? Could their relationship be more than just entertainment? I don't know if that's reassuring or depressing. And even if it was real to some extent, would they have really gone and … no, there's no way! Katniss doesn't even look pregnant, though that could go either way. For all we know, it could have happened very recently. In fact… didn't Peeta and Katniss share a bed awhile back? Yes, I remember him blushing. He said nothing happened, but maybe he was lying. No, Peeta doesn't lie. Especially to me… right?

If the Capitol was a wreck before this bombshell, now they're in hysterics. People are literally clambering over each other, shaking their first at the stage, screeching in protest. It's like a riot inside the Capitol itself, which I don't think was ever the intention of these Games. It's called the Quell for a reason - meant to suppress the districts - not create a protest right in their own front yard!

"Stop the Games!"

"She's pregnant!"

"A baby? Come on!"

"Barbaric!"

"Get them out!"

Peeta stands on stage, absorbing the wave caused by his announcement, letting the acquisitions swell. Tears run down his cheeks, but how real are they? I just can't wrap my head around the notion that he might have really gotten Katniss pregnant. Surely they understood the danger. Like my wife said, they've never been safe. Either way, it hurts. What is or what could have been, it doesn't really matter. It all comes back to the same thing: death of the innocent.

By the time he takes his seat, the program is in utter madness. Not even Caesar can do anything to bring it back. People are on their feet and the noise from the crowd is deafening, but somehow, they manage to play the anthem just a little bit louder. It jars me back into the present, if only for a brief moment.

As the victors rise, my son reaches out to Katniss. They both seem so sad, so upset. I want to call out to them, to hug them, to comfort them. The trouble is, I'm not sure if their emotions are true or not. Should that matter?

And then, it happens. The victors form a chain, connected by their hands. Peacekeepers take a moment to understand what's happening, but when they get it, all of them rush forward into the center of the square to block our view. The broadcast shuts off after a moment, the screens flickering to black, but it doesn't matter. They were too late and too slow - we saw enough. The victors were unified.

"Alright, move along," Peacekeepers tell us gruffly. They must not want us to discuss what we saw. Maybe they're hoping we all forget or overlook it.

No one moves. We all just gape at the dark screens, unable to process everything that just happened. How is it that these things transpire so quickly? One moment, we're listening to the victors allude to their rage and then the bomb explodes. We have a seventeen-year-old girl who's apparently pregnant, supposedly fierce adversaries joining hands, a Capitol audience calling for change.

"Clear out!" the Peacekeepers bellow at the loitering people. "Show's over and you no longer have permission to be outside. If anyone's still on the streets in fifteen minutes, we have orders to shoot them on sight!"

"Come on," my wife grabs our sons and pushes them forward, motioning for me to follow. "We're leaving, come on! Let's get out of here."

Still completely disoriented, I blindly stumble after her. People brush past me, all clearing their own path to their front doors, but I barely notice the jostling. On normal occasions, I would be completely overwhelmed by the crushing sensation, but tonight it doesn't even make an impression on me.

Katniss. Peeta. A baby that may or may not be real. Will they cancel the Quell? Katniss. Peeta. Victors united. A phantom fetus.

They won't cancel the Quell. It'd be unprecedented. Though, that kind of describes this whole thing. Even if they did pull Katniss out now, we don't have another victor to replace her with. Besides, the Capitol kills children every year without batting a surgically enhanced eyelash. Maybe it'd be better to die unborn than at the hands of a weapon.

And then there's the chain. The unified ranks of victors going to their certain death. Betrayed by the Capitol, been apart of a lie. I've never seen anything like it. You can be sure the districts saw it, as did everyone in the Capitol. The message is loud and clear. This is wrong. We don't agree. You can put us to death, but you can't control us completely.

I barely notice that we've made it home. The moment we're all inside, my wife locks the door and whisks the curtains closed. Not surprisingly, her anger is fueling this burst of energy. It's lucky that she's still able to think clearly because I don't think I'd have made it home otherwise.

My sons begin to argue. Or maybe they've been doing it for awhile and I've just tuned in.

"There's no way she's pregnant!"

"How do you know? Been spying?"

"No, listen to me, there's no way! Peeta and Katniss wouldn't have had enough time to find out. If by some miracle, she really is knocked up, she'd only be like, what? Six weeks along? They'll totally let her compete. They won't care."

"That's inhuman!"

"In case you haven't noticed, the Games are inhuman. I'm telling you, she's going in there."

"Shut up!" my wife hisses, pulling them apart. "Shut up both of you! Are you mad?"

My second son pulls away, a slight spark of fear kindling in his eyes. How sad is it, that after all these years, even though he's a grown man practically, he still fears his mother? "Sorry," he mutters.

"I should be getting home," his older brother says boldly.

"Oh no you won't!" my wife says. "Didn't you hear the Peacekeepers? They'll be out on the streets patrolling and trust me, they're not happy with the things that happened tonight. Stay here for the night unless you fancy your head being blown off. They'd probably prefer the latter, so take your pick."

This induces much grumbling from our boys. The last thing they want to do is get stuck here, but it's not like they have a choice. The Peacekeepers will be looking for any kind of victory tonight, even a small one in the form of a victor's brother out after curfew. And they meant business, too.

"If anyone's still on the streets in fifteen minutes, we have orders to shoot them on sight!"

In the sudden stillness that follows a shock, I try to sort out how I really feel. Fear. Confusion. Exhaustion, mostly. The rebellion is teetering on the edge of action. Could the events tonight be enough to set it in motion? Is that what I want? Could my son's girlfriend or wife or… what exactly do I call Katniss? Is she pregnant? Doubt creeps into my mind. A moment ago I was so sure that this baby was real, but now - Peeta would have told me. One thing's certain, though. This phantom baby will strengthen Peeta's already rock-solid resolve to get Katniss out alive. Which means I need to return to me detachment process. For one shining moment, he was my son again. Peeta was alive and real, speaking even if the words didn't make sense. But that bubble has burst and it's time for me to let go.

"You alright?" my wife asks.

I'm barely capable of a shrug. Am I alright? There are so many things I wish I could discuss with her. She's good at answering questions, she always has been. Maybe, if we weren't being monitored, she could help me sift through the doubts circling like vultures in my brain. Or even give me tips on forgetting. But that's not the case. Our house is still being watched, perhaps more than ever before. We're both trapped, as are the queries pounding on my skull.

"We should get some rest," my wife says. "Big day tomorrow." I'm pretty sure that's a safe thing to say. Unless the Capitol manages to twist it into a code or something. I wouldn't put it past them.

I'm too emotionally wrung out to try and stay awake. Sometimes, sleep is a trap - a place where fear feeds on vulnerability. Tonight, thank goodness, it's an escape.

Big day tomorrow. That's right. Tomorrow, the Quell begins. The victors will enter the arena. The blood will begin to flow. I don't think the chain tonight will stop people from defending themselves. All it takes is one stray weapon, one life threatening situation, and they revert back to their old ways. The arena becomes a bloodbath again, the victors become murders again, and we spiral back into the cycle we've never been able to break.