8. Silver Slip

By the time I pull my body from beneath the beast and trudge into town with my wheelbarrow filled with meat it is nearly 7. The first person I see is a tall slender man who, along with a short, stout friend of his, rushes over to me, seeing the blood and probably thinking it mine. I tell them instead about the bear and where to find it, and soon the two of them and five others are headed into the forest to pick up the bear and lug it into town to join the rest of the meat.

As I make my way through the square of people with my meat barrow, I am unsure who to speak to. It doesn't seem as if anyone is particularly in charge but surely all are hungry, their eyes practically watering at the sight of the stacked animals. I walk to the center of the square and topple over the barrow. The animals slide down and around one another until there is a pyramid of meat in front of me. I carefully root through them sorting the birds from the rabbits from the deer, until there are separate piles of separate sized animals all around me. I pick up the fox and stuff it into my bag. That's the only piece I really wanted.

As I finish sorting, dusk is setting in and I see the tall man and his helpers lumbering towards me with the bear. It is larger than I realized, and I wonder why I was so stupid to try and fight it. Why couldn't I just leave it with the barrow and walk back home?

The tall man who is clearly the lead is staring at me in astonishment as they drop the bear near my meat pile.

"All by yourself? This bear must be 400 lbs.!" he says. "How on earth did you do it?!"

I am slow to understand that he is asking me how I killed it. Mostly because I never understand when people ask these kinds of things. Don't they know that when the situation is life or death, you don't think about size or surrender? You think about survival. It was me or the bear. That's all. There is no amazement to be had because I am not some super-trained warrior who gallantly bested a giant bear. I am a survivor. Plain and simple.

But I look at the wide-eyed men and say none of this. Because what I've come to realize is that no; most people don't know what I do because most people haven't exactly been through all that I have. So, instead, of being honest, and delivering some lecture about killing or being killed, I do what I often do when I am faced with a situation that causes me to have to explain the unexplainable: I lie.

I think back to my days playing the coy fiancé to Peeta's enthusiastic lover and respond with a schoolgirl styled smile and a toss of my head "Luck."

For a few moments the men just blink at me and then they commence to a loud, hearty laughter patting one another's backs and then patting mine as well. Just like that, I know that I have been accepted. Though I am not sure what I have been accepted as.

I tell the two men why I killed all these animals. I tell them about my idea for rationing and ask who's in charge. They say it together "Captain Gale." Ugh. I have no stomach for him at the moment, so instead of trying to follow their explanation of where Gale is, I ask the lead guy to call his wife. The man calls his wife over and soon women are pouring from the tents making their way towards us gathering the meat.

As soon as all the animals have been rationed, someone brings a cleaver and they skillfully hack up the deer and the bear. Those who already have meat only get for their neighbors, and those who don't eagerly wait their turn. The people are civilized, calm, understanding. When it becomes clear that the meat is gone, they all thank me, cheering and saluting before quietly heading back to their homes. As the streetlights begin their hazy yellow glow, I stand near the fountain, exhaustion finally finding its way past the adrenaline filled hours of my day.

I pause, lean my head back and stare up at the sky. Breathe, Katniss, breathe. There is nothing as soothing as the night sky, a dull, starless grey and I feel good. Like I finally have a real reason to feel so tired. Like sleeping might be a little easier tonight. When I finally straighten up, readying myself to head for home, glancing around the square, I see them.

Peeta and the redheaded girl, arms locked through one another's elbows staring at me. They are at least 10 yards away and again there is the wicked thought about the arrows, which I now have, being able to take them both out with one blow. But there is something else:

I was the rebels' Mockingjay. Standing here covered in the blood of a 400 lb. bear that I killed. People milling around who will be blessing my name with their dinner. Who timidly answered "Luck." and was initiated into the group of tent-dwellers with hearty pats to her back. Who nearly fed the whole town in a single day. Yet when it comes to this...? Peeta? I am nothing but a girl. A sad, little girl who can't help but remember being held by those arms, the same arms that are now locked in with someone else's and the feeling disgusts me.

I turn away from them, leaving the barrow and begin to walk quickly. I can't be sure, but I think I hear someone calling my name. By the time the sound hits my ears, however, I am already sprinting towards my home.

The next few days go by in much the same fashion, I hunt, bring food to the square, the people collect it, I go home. Over and over. There is, however, no more sign of Peeta or the red head. I don't look up at his house when I hear the music. I don't make eye contact when I feel him outside as I walk out of the house making my way towards the woods. The evenings are still hard, as I am either crying until sleep or having those awful nightmares, but as the days pass and I occupy myself with hunting, setting traps, getting back into the swing of helping others survive, I notice that I seem to sleep much easier. Longer and more restfully.

After about a week straight of hunting, I begin to spend my days in the square teaching the women there how to best preserve the meat so that they can get the most out of it. Some of them are cooks and they teach me about seasoning everything in such a way that it makes the same kind of meat have hundreds of flavor possibilities. A few times, they persuade me to stay for dinner and when I eat their food, it reminds me of the food in the Capitol; the savory flavors and the thick hearty broths; the bread that is baked largely in clay ovens, with butter atop melting into each bite.

I wonder at the women, men and children who are always in high spirits and laugh and converse with one another every night. I wonder about the happy looks in their eyes that seem to express a feeling of richness that was never here before. Even sitting on the blanketed floor of a large tent that has been deemed the meeting hall for the town, with about 20 other men, women and children all telling tales of their plans for when the government comes through with the houses, feels like a new kind of wealth.

The children talk about wanting to grow up and become councilmen and doctors. The little girl who says she wants to learn to hunt like me. There is an air of calmness and surety. Gone are the looming games that people are forced to offer up their children for. Gone is the worry that some illegally acquired meat could result in a hanging or some other heinous punishment. There is something here in the tent with us that everyone feels but no one has to talk about. There is peace. And I'm not sure that I ever thought anyone in District 12 would feel that.

One evening, I am walking home fresh from a dinner with Meggie Evans, the wife of the head carpenter in town, Markeal, the same tall guy who first helped me with the bear. Meggie and some of her friends say that they are thinking of starting a recipe "potluck" club. I'd read about these before, in some District 2 newspaper on Peeta and my victory tour. It never occurred to me that we would have anything like that here, but when Meggie asked me if I was willing to come tomorrow afternoon and contribute a recipe I agreed. It's not as if I am doing anything else that important these days. And who knows, it might even be fun.

Stomach full, mind occupied with coming up with some tasty recipe, most likely a stew, I'm feeling the closest to content that I can remember feeling in the last few months, as I make my way down the bricked pathway leading to my house.

I am almost at my door when I hear the screaming.

Fear pulses through me and I reach behind my back for the arrows that I keep always draped against my shoulders. Just in case. As I note that it was the sound of Haymitch's scream, the amount of time it takes me to run over and bound up his steps feels far too late.

No!

I already have my arrow pointing as I slide into the unlocked door easily. Survey the room, the arrow going in every direction that my eyes do, my feet silent but quick. My heart is quaking, but my resolve keeps me moving swiftly. Haymitch Abernathy is all I have left, and I don't plan on losing him to anything or anyone. His wailing continues before he begins moaning ferociously, "Help! Help!" and I rush toward the living room letting go of any pretense of a quiet entry.

"Haymitch!" I yell, hoping to distract the attacker so that they will turn towards my arrow and their own doom. I sling myself into the room, my fingers ready to let the arrow slip but I immediately recognize that instead of an intruder…Haymitch is surrounded by Minanaya's children. Tugging his hair, crawling over his back, and keeping him pinned to the ground.

I am shaking as the little boy with the ruddy cheeks and the green eyes stares up at me, fear gripping him as he lets out a low whimper. It is only now that I look down to see that my hands are barely gripping the silver arrow, which is pointing directly at the child's heart.