10…

This is it.

9…

The final countdown.

8…

Peeta has a matter of days left to live.

7…

Where are they?

6…

Is that the ocean?

5…

I wish I could freeze time.

4…

Where is my son?

3…

Do they have to swim to get to the Cornucopia?

2…

Wait!

1…

Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin.

With each number, new thought replaces the last. Finally, the dreaded sound of the gong rings out. Unlike most years, when the arena becomes complete madness as the tributes are released, only a few tributes dive into the waves and begin frantically fighting their way towards the Cornucopia. Little spikes of rocky land separate each wedge containing two tributes. Beyond the blue water, we can only see a thin strip of sandy beach and beyond that, heavy, condensed greenery. Jungle is the first word to come to mind, however superannuated it may be. The murky depths of the green world are unassuming, yet no doubt, very, very dangerous.

My hands shake a little as I try to concentrate on copying out a recipe that I've been meaning to write down. My family has a yellowing collection of recorded recipes passed down through the generations. Due to everything that's happened in the past year, I haven't really kept it up to date, but this time, I've vowed to keep the Games from controlling my life. Last year, I dropped everything, let the fear and sadness consume me. I can't let that happen. Last night was a brief respite; I could pretend Peeta was still my son, but that's over. The sooner I let this go, the better it will be for everyone.

5 cups of flour

Katniss was among the tributes who dove into the water. How does she know how to swim? Where'd she learn that here in Twelve? And she can't just swim, she's one of the fastest swimmers in the arena, save District Four. Actually, she's one of the first tributes to reach the Cornucopia's little island. She pulls herself out of the water, onto the rocks and sand, and then makes a beeline for the goods piled in the mouth. As is to be expected, she immediately slides a golden bow out from the spread.

Finnick Odair, the Capitol heartthrob, creeps up behind Katniss. I try to force myself to look away from the screen and back down at the paper, to appear nonchalant even though my heart is in my throat. But I can't. My eyes don't obey my brain's commands. The sand barely makes a sound beneath his feet, so comfortable on this terrain. Katniss still has her back turned - by the time she realizes, it'll be too late! Imagine the shock. The favorite tribute dying within the first minute.

Oh well, I don't really care.

But I must because when it turns out they're allies, I feel a knot lessen. Allies. That's a safe word, for now.

"Duck!" Odair commands. For whatever reason, Katniss listens to his words, something she'd not exactly known for. Good thing, too, because she would have been speared by a sailing trident. Instead, the prongs make contact in the man behind her. "Don't trust One and Two." Finnick retrieves his weapon and Katniss slings a sheath of arrows over her shoulder.

"Each take a side?"

The two split and begin to scan the pile, scouring it for anything that could be useful. But there's no food, no tent packs, not even a rope. All we see is metal.

"Weapons!" Katniss confirms. "Nothing but weapons!"

"Same here," Finnick calls as he grabs an extra trident or two. "Grab what you want and let's go!"

Allies are a good thing to have in the bloodbath. Someone to watch your back and protect you from the dozens of attackers. Katniss and Finnick make their way from the horn and fight their way back to the water. About halfway there, Katniss takes off running. She sees Peeta. He doesn't know how to swim, thus still stuck on his plate. Katniss wastes no time in preparing to get him, but Finnick stops her.

"I'll get him."

"Oh sure, so you can drown him," my wife mutters.

I turn to her so quickly I get a crick in my neck. I hadn't realized she'd joined me. "When'd you get here?"

"Just as the gong sounded. Wouldn't want to miss the bloodbath, would we?"

Nope, not in the slightest.

"Better not exert yourself. Not in your condition." On the screen, Odair pats Katniss's abdomen. He's referring to the mysterious baby that gives me a pounding headache every time I try to mull it over.

As it turns out, Finnick wasn't trying to drown Peeta. Katniss hauls my son onto the beach once he's close enough and he greets her with a kiss. Mags, the elderly volunteer also from Four, is the last person to join their group before they head off into the jungle.

A knock on the door interrupts our total concentration on the Games. Just what I'd promised myself I wouldn't do.

"I'll get it," my wife sighs. "It's the laundry," she calls a moment later. "Did you have anything you wanted to add to the bag? Where's your jacket? That thing needed a wash two weeks ago."

I try to shift gears from terror mode to normal, everyday life. Laundry. Anything I want to add. My jacket. "Better give it a wash then.," I conclude at last. "It should be on the hook." Now that the weather has warmed up, I don't need my coat anymore. And she's right, it really is in need of a wash.

"It's not there," my wife calls.

That's odd. Where else could it be?I'm usually pretty good about keeping things where they go - a messy kitchen is the first step to mistakes. I think back to the last time I had it. I wore it one chillier afternoon… where was I going? And then I remember.

"It's at Peeta's house…" I trail off. Because it's not really Peeta's house anymore. They won't clear it until he's dead for sure, but the question for that isn't "if" it's "when".

My eyes flit to the screen. There's still a good deal of fighting at the Cornucopia, but the cameras confirm that Peeta, Katniss, Mags, and Finnick are making good progress in the jungle. The Gamemakers probably won't send anything in until after the bloodbath, so I might be able to run to the Victor's Village and get back before anything major happens.

It's not until I'm outside that I wonder why I'm so set on going. On the one hand, everything in me screams to stay away. That was my son's place, it'll only make me upset all over again. I've sworn to forget, to pretend it didn't happen. It's too acute of an emotion and giving into it will rip my body apart. I'm not… not strong enough.

So why do I keep plodding forward, steadily approaching the Victor's Village and Peeta's living space for the past year? Closure. I think that's what I want. One final moment of goodbye before I get on with my life. I'm allowed that, right?

The house looks strangely unchanged. I almost expect to Peeta to open the door with a smile. Maybe a paintbrush in his hand. In a moment of weakness, I even knock. Just in case. But of course, no comes to the door. It's unlocked, which is odd. Why would he have left it like this? Because he knew I'd want to come back?

The unlit living room houses the ghosts. I see my son everywhere. A strange sound escapes as my eyes find a pile of his paintings next to a fireplace that still has ash from a semi-recent blaze. I find myself on my knees, my fingers tracing the steady brush strokes. His hand was here. It made these colors, swirled them together.

My throat begins to burn and a single salty tear rolls down my cheek and drops with a hollow sound on the canvas. I find the sunset painting, the one that is so much like my son himself. Bright and wonderful in the face of an upcoming night. Clutching it to my chest, I let the emotions I've trapped between my ribs tumble forward.

Longing. Pain. Regret. I miss him so much already. But he's gone. I won't see him again. So I just hug the painting and let myself feel the grief of several weeks.

I don't know how long I sit there, but when I finally work up the strength to move, my limbs are stiff. My cheeks feel cold and sticky from tears and my arms ache from clinging to the bulky shape of the painting. I want to take all the canvases home. Here, they'll probably be taken to some museum in the Capitol when Peeta dies and the Peacekeepers come to clear out his stuff. But I can't carry all of them. I make a promise that I'll return for them even though I know I won't.

Tucking the sunset painting under my arm, my feet make for the stairs instead of the door. Just in case he left anything I can't let the Capitol have. Nothing. The upstairs looks strangely unlived in, like he rarely used this part of the house. Too secluded, too dark. Then my eyes find a worn, leather bound journal on his bedside.

His sketchbook. I know this book well because it was I who gave it to him on his eighth birthday. It cost me a fortune and my wife didn't approve, but he needed something more lasting than chalk on pavement. My fingers flip the pages, reliving each wonderful memory captured in pencil or sometimes color.

A dandelion. The apple tree. The pigpen. I find one of large hands kneading dough and I know they're mine. A little girl in braids that can only be Katniss. A bird perched on a branch. When I find a sketch of the two of us sitting side by side, I can almost hear my heart break. The sketch is so lifelike. The light in his eyes, the muscles in my arm. In this picture, I look strong and protective, with my arm guarding him from any harm. It's the only thing about the picture that's false. Look at where Peeta is now. In an arena breathing in the death that's all around him.

The arena! Shoot, how long have I been here? My wife will kill me if I've missed something important. Neither will the Peacekeepers if they find out. I've surely missed the laundry, but what about the Quell? Is the bloodbath over?

I hurry downstairs, carrying the painting and the sketchbook now. My jacket is right where I left it - on the hook. As I snatch it off the hook, something flutters to the ground. A piece of paper with the neat, light handwriting that can only be Peeta's.

I can't deal with anymore memories. I've expended my allotment of tears today. So it's with a strange apprehension that I begin to read the words.

Dad,

I knew you'd come back for this. I don't know how long it took you to figure out you'd left it here, so I'm not sure whether I'm still alive. I just wanted you to know that I'm thankful for everything you've done. I know I've been short with you these past couple of months. I couldn't let you get attached to me anymore than you already were - it would only make things harder at goodbye. So this is my chance to say thank you for everything. You worked so hard to be the dad that you thought I deserved and I know that.
I've already told you I'm not coming home, but I'm reminding you again. Katniss will have my protection until my dying breath, but it's her who's coming home. Just like last time only without me.
Please, don't hold yourself accountable for what's happened. Move on. Remember me, but don't get stuck. This might be the end of the road for us, but it's only for a short while.
I'll see you on the other side.

Love always,
Peeta

I read the words once, twice, three times. Peeta. My son. He loved me. Doesn't blame me. My throat is preparing for tears again, but I carefully fold the note and put it back in my pocket. A guilty weight leaves my chest, not entirely, but it still feels so much lighter. I didn't get to say goodbye, I failed him in so many ways, but he left me this. A note with words so heartfelt, so carefully selected, that I can't help but tear up, despite my precautions.

He's not a word waster. Haven't I said that from the beginning? He chooses the perfect words for the situation with no fillers or falsities.

My Peeta who knew I'd come back, who left the note in my pocket to reassure me, to comfort me, and to try and absolve me from blame. How did I ever deserve a son like him?

The walk back home is so different than the one there. There's a great sadness and sharp longing in my thoughts, but I realize how pointless it was to shove it down. By hiding it, I made it worse. This is much more preferable than the dull, aching feeling that settled everywhere.

"I'm sorry," I call to my wife as I step through the front door. "I got distracted. But I got the coat. Did anything happen?"

In response, I hear a scream from the TV.

"PEETA, NO!"