Sunday morning is spent lying in our bed, our bodies intertwined as we exchange foot rubs, weaving stories of our lives in Panem. It's a way to conserve energy, but also to help Peeta recover before he has to rely on his crutch again.

The musty scent that filled the room when we came in, last evening, is still in the air, even though the window was open all night and, though it is closed now, it has made the whole atmosphere of the bedroom feel freezing cold.

When the sun climbs higher in the sky and the weather is obviously warmer in the street, Peeta manages to persuade me to go outdoors.

I reluctantly emerge from the bed into the frosty expanse of the room. Peeta turns his back and gets dressed too. With a shiver, I reach for my clothing, draped over the small chair in the corner. Each piece feels cold and clammy as I hastily put on the blue dress I've been wearing for a week now, save for the day we spent at Gale's house, then take a seat at the edge of the bed, pull on my socks and lace up my boots. In the end, we make the bed together and leave.

As we make our way down the staircase and pass by the saloon, we come upon Mr. Boggs and his bandmates, who diligently pack up their musical instruments. The room, which was last night full of people, has transitioned to a quieter, more subdued space. At this time of the day there's no Mr. Crane, his girls or their clients, just travelers like us, the Star Squad and other modest families. Mr. Boggs' attention to the task at hand doesn't stop him from giving us a cheerful smile when we pass him by.

"Are you leaving, Mr. Boggs?" I ask.

"Yes, we're leaving to New Orleans tomorrow," he replies casually. "I'm going home."

"I was thinking we would hear your music again tonight," says Peeta. "My wife liked it so much she made me dance with her, one leg and all."

Boggs eyes me with a grin.

"You like jazz?"

I nod shyly. "I had never heard anything quite like it before."

"Most people here haven't heard it either," says Boggs.

There's an embarrassing moment of silence. I want to thank Boggs again for last night, but the solemnity of the subject renders me unable to find the words.

"I wanted to talk to you two, by the way," Boggs says in a low voice, eyeing me in particular. "Your brother was here asking for you early in the morning. I figured you two don't want to be found, so I told him no one had seen you here. But let me warn you, it's clear your family comes from money. If he comes back and finds Mrs. Coin instead of me, I'm afraid she will give him the information he wants for the right price. Do you know what I mean?"

Two distinct figures come to my mind. The first is Gale, who bears a striking resemblance to me, a resemblance that could make him pass for my brother. On the other hand, there's a chance it may be Finnick trying to find me: we survived the Titanic in the same lifeboat, we became good friends on the Carpathia and I know he cares for my well being.

"Yes," I say. "Thank you, Mr. Boggs. For everything."

Boggs nods with a smile. "You're good kids. I wish you the best."

Good kids, he says. If only he suspected we're not even married.

As we step outside, a wave of apprehension sweeps over us. We had hoped that the past was behind and there was only our future to be concerned about. Questions hang in the silence: Who wants to see me? What do they want? How have they managed to find us?

"Perhaps Gale decided to shoot me after all," says Peeta, breaking the silence.

"He wouldn't do that," I assure him. But, frankly, I have no idea.

We meander through the city, holding hands and talking about the things we see. Most of the newspapers' headlines are still about the Titanic. Tall, elegant buildings reach for the skies, casting long shadows on the sidewalks full of pedestrians from all walks of life. Automobiles share the road with horse-drawn carriages, car horns and hooves echoing off the cobblestone streets. The sidewalks are lined with vendor stalls - selling roasted chestnuts, pretzels, and colorful bouquets of spring flowers, all things we can't buy. There are also street performers. Some of them play, some of them dance.

I take look at Peeta. He's watching the performances with a peaceful smile on his face, and I wonder what he would say if I decided to sing in the street for money. He would sit next to me for protection, I know that. But his missing leg would be exposed, and he would look like the beggar we used to see at the Capitol. The discussion about beggars is still too fresh in our minds to be brought back right now, so I don't suggest anything.

After a while, I catch Peeta looking to the side and follow his gaze. What I see catches my undivided attention.

"Isn't it the Central Park?" I ask.

Peeta beams. "So it seems."

"Oh, Peeta, I want to go there! Please, can we go?"

Peeta chuckles, and I wonder if he remembers that night on the Titanic, the moment we kissed for the first time and planned to visit this exact place one day. By his face, I think he does. He puts his arm around my waist and presses a peck to my forehead.

"That's the whole idea of bringing you here."

"You planned this?" I ask, surprised.

"I may have asked some travelers about it this morning, before you woke up," he says casually.

We walk across the park for hours, even though our feet still hurt from yesterday. We see the picturesque lake that was featured in our school books, the monuments and statues, the Casino, people riding donkeys, the stone fort. I even see a visitor feeding the squirrels, which amazes me.

In the end, we sit on a bench with a view to the swan bridge, watching the children feeding the swans in the beautiful lake. These American people are so eccentric: I would never feed these animals, I'd kill them for food.

"If I had a bow..." I lament, pointing to the swans on the lake.

Peeta chuckles.

"You'd be arrested for that."

"I could try to make a snare trap to catch squirrels," I say. "Gale taught me."

Peeta laughs and kisses me. "I don't think that's legal here. Plus, I have a confession to make," he announces sheepishly. "I don't really like the taste of squirrel meat."

"No? But your father said -"

"I know he did, he believed it," says Peeta. "I asked him for squirrel every day."

I look at him in confusion.

"I figured squirrel was the cheapest meat you traded," he explains, "So my father could afford at least one each day of the week. I wouldn't be able to sleep if I knew you and your family didn't get to eat bread."

"So it was not only the bread when we were children," I say, staring at him. This boy has been giving my family the chance of eating bread almost every day for all these years. Seeing him blush, I kiss his flushed cheek.

"It was a good way to make sure I'd keep seeing a pretty girl everyday, wasn't it?" he says, trying to shrug it off with a smirk.

I don't find it funny. I'm serious.

"Why didn't you show up and talked to me?" I ask. "I could give you another piece of meat, one you liked more."

"Would you have talked to me then?"

"It would have been embarrassing," I admit. "But I would never turn my back to you."

"I didn't know that," he says sadly, pensive, before he murmurs:

"My family could still be alive if I had done it. At this point we could be married in Panem."

I smile and say the exact same thing I had told him on the Titanic when he said it for the first time. "Your mother would have chased you away with a stick long before that happened."

He shrugs. "So be it. I'd do the same thing your mother did when she married your father," he replies, trying to sound light, but I wonder how he knows about my parents' past. "Do you think I would have been a good coal miner?"

"They wouldn't have accepted you with that leg," I reply. "Thank God. I'd never allow you to go to the mines."

He gives me a funny look.

"I could bake, then," he says. "I was the only one who could do the frosting, anyway. People would buy our cakes instead of theirs."

"Good. And better yet," I chuckle, "I would hunt and you would bake some delicious pies with the meat. No one would be able to compete against our pies. Ours would be the best bakery."

Peeta smiles bittersweetly. "We can still do that. We'll have our bakery here, and it will be the best bakery."

"I like your idea."

"Me too," he grins. "But why wouldn't you allow me to be a coal miner?"

I swallow. "Because that's how my father died," I say, staring at the lake. "If you want to have a life with me, you must swear you won't let yourself die before we're both very old."

He puts his arm around my shoulders and eyes me solemnly. "I promise I'll always do everything in my power to live for you."

We stay in silence for a while until Peeta clears his throat to speak again. "Is Central Park what you expected?"

I hug him tightly: it's everything I expected and much more. My heart is too full.

It's almost night when we give in to the hunger. Our bellies have been empty the whole day. We roam through the streets, reading the prices until we reach a Portuguese restaurant that sells cheap food and serves heavily filled plates.

As we get in, we are overcome by the aroma of stew and bread, and my mouth waters upon smelling it. The place is almost full of people; the clatter of dishes and friendly chatter makes for a pleasant atmosphere. The diner's interior is dimly lit, adorned with faded wallpaper and pictures of Portugal.

The waiter leads us to a table for two in the middle of the diner and we take our seats as he presents us the menu.

I feel my eyebrows rise nearly to my hairline; even though nothing is expensive, I don't think we can spend this much money. "We can't possibly afford this, Peeta," I say.

"You have to eat," says Peeta, looking at me with sadness. "You're too thin."

I smile and hold his hand. "I'm used to this. I'll be fine if we just go to back to Mrs. Coin's place and sleep."

But he shakes his head. "Do you trust me?" he asks softly.

"You know I do," I reply.

"I think we should ask for only one dish and two forks. We still have money, Katniss."

"We need it, or we'll be homeless."

Peeta looks displeased. "I insist."

I don't reply; I'm so upset for his stubbornness I can't look at him. I'm the one who has dealt with hunger for years; I've been planning my family's finances all that time, but he thinks he knows better than me. Whatever he wants: it's his money, not mine. When he asks me to pick something from the menu, I point to the cheapest soup.

Peeta asks for one plate of soup and two spoons. The waiter raises his eyebrows, but says nothing and leaves. When he comes back with the plate and spoons, though, he asks us again if we don't want any drinks or bread.

We want them, that's not the problem. "We can't possibly afford anything else," says Peeta, clearly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," says the waiter, leaving us to ourselves.

I take my spoon and start eating. At least I've chosen the right soup, because this one is full of meat. But Peeta doesn't eat anything.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"You eat it," he says. "You need to gain weight."

"You need to eat more than I do," I state. "You're bigger, so you need more sustenance, and you already let me eat almost all the food yesterday."

I don't repeat that I've been hungry for years and I know I'll survive this time too. And I've been fed properly for days now, so I feel stronger than before.

I trace an invisible division of the food and show him his half. After that, he eats in silence. He looks incredibly sad, so I put my hand on his and smile. He turns his hand upwards and wraps his fingers around mine.

"I'm sorry I have nothing better to offer you," he murmurs on the verge of tears.

My anger dissipates. Being perpetually hungry doesn't feel good but, strangely, sharing a plate is the most intimate thing I have ever done with a man.

"I'm sorry you have to be hungry," I say. "But I'm having a good time. There's no one else I could be doing this with while still being this happy."

Peeta smiles. "I promise you we'll get our life together and you'll never be hungry again."

"I know," I say. "Everything will be all right when we get our oven."

He laughs heartily and asks for the bill. The waiter nods, goes into the kitchen and comes back with an old lady who presents herself as the restaurant owner. "You're not American," she says in a Portuguese accent. "Do you need help or something? Do you have a place to stay?"

"We came to America on the Titanic and we lost our possessions there," Peeta explains. "But we'll be travelling to her family's house tomorrow. We're from Panem."

"You came on the Titanic?" the owner asks, perplexed, taking a chair to sit next to us.

The gentle hum of conversations grows softer, and I feel a sudden shift in the air. Curious, I glance around me and realize that the other diners are staring at us. The boldest bring their chairs closer to our table, their eyes filled with a curiosity and awe that shocks me.

A realization dawns on me – we're survivors of the tragedy everyone talks about in the streets and which marks the front page of every newspaper we have seen since we arrived in New York. Even though this will all be forgotten by next week, for now people need answers and closure and only the survivors can provide those.

"Did you lose anyone in the sinking?" the owner asks, and I notice that more people are bringing their chairs closer to us.

Peeta swallows hard. "I lost my whole family," he says. "My parents and my two older brothers."

"How did you survive as a man?"

"I'm disabled," he chuckles darkly, but his expression hardens into a frown.

"That must have been terrifying," the woman says.

Someone offers us a bottle of wine. When I realize Peeta is going to refuse it, I take it. "We don't drink," he reminds me.

"I'll allow it tonight," I say. The truth is, I want to fill his belly as much as I can.

People want to know our story and they buy us bread to make sure Peeta keeps speaking. I don't say much, but Peeta, encouraged by the food we're receiving, tells them a detailed narrative of our ordeal. How things worked in second class, our daily lives, that dreadful night. Perhaps under the effect of the alcohol, or maybe not, he tells everyone he and his family had come to escort me for my wedding, and that I was engaged to a very wealthy man. He sends me an apologetic look every time he speaks, and I nod reassuringly, because I know he's only doing it for the food.

"Did you leave your fiancé for him?" people ask me.

I nod and drink a whole glass of wine. I don't want to discuss the details with strangers, even when their faces are illuminated not with judgment, but with fascination.

People talk about the Senate inquiry, which has already begun, and ask for our opinions. We had no knowledge about the inquiry, but we're sure it is meant for the most important passengers and crew. Everyone starts discussing the details of the inquiry as they have read in the newspapers and I realize they already know more about the Titanic than I do.

Right now, the biggest discussion is whether the ship broke in half or not. We have no idea, but we don't think so. There was a huge explosion in the end, after the lights were out, but it must have been the machinery or something.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" says a sandy-haired man who had been sitting quietly in the front row, bringing a well-dressed woman behind him. "My name is Castor and this is my wife, Cressida. I'm a writer and she's a photographer, and we want to document your story. All we need is your permission to do so."

"I don't think so," I say, more harshly than intended. "We don't want publicity."

"It would do my wife good," the man insists. "She wants to have a career in photojournalism but she isn't usually given a chance. Now, any newspaper would want to publish your story. We can pay you good money and give you a photograph of yourselves."

Peeta and I glance at each other. "How much?" I ask, hating myself for the question and unwilling to look at Peeta. A mercenary, that's what I am. But he doesn't seem to judge me: he gives me his hand and helps me bargain.

"Ten dollars," Cressida replies.

"That's not enough," says Peeta. "One second class ticket to the Titanic cost sixty dollars. That's our price."

"That's too much," says Castor. "How about twenty?"

"Fifty," says Peeta.

"Forty," offers Cressida, to her husband's evident dismay.

Peeta seems to make the math and conversion in his head, then looks at me and says it's a good deal.

After Castor gives us the money, Cressida rushes to bring her Brownie, as she calls her camera, from the table. "This girl comes with me everywhere," she explains, holding the simple box with pride. "I have better cameras, but thank God for this one right now."

She sets up the Brownie on a stable surface, adjusts the focus and asks us to get closer together. I'm shaking at the idea of having someone take my picture, but Peeta puts his arm around me. I stare at the eye of the camera, uneasy. The woman peers through the viewfinder, carefully frames the shot, and then captures the image with a click.

Other people look at us with anticipation. They ask Cressida to take their pictures with us, which we can't refuse after all their hospitality, even though it doesn't please me at all.

Afterward, Castor poses questions and scribbles his notes of our journey, rescue and love story in small pieces of paper. We only forbid them from investigating or exposing my former fiancé's name. When we tell them we're departing in the morning, Castor gives us their address so that we write to them later. They promise to send us our photograph then.

Our first photograph together.

We're not happy about what we've done, but we're left with a huge amount of money; it could cover one third class ticket on the Titanic. We try to pay for our consumptions, but no one will take money from us, so we drink from the bottle until it ends and leave the place with the promise of coming back one day.

All this because we fell in love on a goddamned ship.

Getting back to Mrs. Coin's place, we find it emptier than last night. The saloon, which bustled with music and loud banter twenty four hours ago, appears now eerily empty. The flickering lamps cast long, wavering shadows on the wooden floor, which seems to be floating like a boat. I find it hard to find my balance here. I don't understand how it could happen. Is this in fact just another boat?

I notice Peeta is tipsy. He's having trouble ascending the staircase.

"This is harder than I remembered," he says, sitting on the stairs and chuckling.

I laugh too as I try to get him up.

"You're drunk," I tell him, kneeling on the stairs and unable to get up.

Peeta smiles, gets me up and helps me upstairs.

"No, you are."

I can't find the door to our bedroom, but he still remembers where it is. I help him open it, because his hands are shaky. He grins at me and warmth bubbles up in my chest upon remembering this man is mine and we're going to our bedroom together. He's so kind, so good, so beautiful. His face and body are too perfect; I wonder what he sees in me.

"You're very handsome," I state in awe.

Peeta's grin widens at my words. He locks the door after we get into the room and asks playfully:

"Who thinks that, you or the wine?"

I giggle and kneel down to remove his shoe when he sits on the bed, but end up resting my head on his knee instead.

"I'm not drunk."

"All right," he replies, pulling me to sit in bed too and taking mine and his boots away. "How are your feet tonight?"

"Good. Can we dance like yesterday?"

"Of course, if Mr. Boggs decides to unpack his instruments," he replies with a smirk, going to the other side of the room to retrieve my night clothes. "Do you want my help?"

I nod. He puts the clothes on the bed, unbuttons the back of my dress and turns his back respectfully. I remove all my clothes and grab the nightdress, but I don't seem able to put it on.

"You can see me," I say, trying to understand how the nightdress works. "You've told so many people we're married, so you should have the right to see me."

Peeta chuckles. "That's a lie we tell them, Katniss. We're not even engaged."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Do you want to be engaged to me?" he asks.

"Yes."

"All right, Katniss, I accept your proposal. From now on we're engaged."

His words confuse me, but I understand that I'm engaged to Peeta and it makes me happy.

"Can you help me then?" I ask, and he turns to me. "I can't -"

"God, Katniss!" he exclaims as I extend my night clothes for him to sort out. He rapidly makes them slide down my naked body.

Peeta starts changing his own clothes on the other side of the room and I think I must go open the window because that's how he likes to sleep.

Getting closer, I realize the opening allows me to crawl to the rooftop and it seems to have an amazing view, so I climb out of the window.

"Do you think that girl fell from here and died?" I ask Peeta.

Peeta comes quickly in my direction. The sound of the crutch is deafening. "Be careful, you might fall!" he says as he pulls me inside.

"Don't speak so loud," I say, wrapping my arms and legs around him and laying my head on his shoulder. "It makes me dizzy."

"You're a hazard," he whispers, carrying me to bed. "I'm the one who won't allow you to drink ever again."

"I bet you won't," I reply, rolling my eyes. "I'll be the one who doesn't allow you to do things. That's what you get if you want to be my man."

"Are you sure you'll make the rules? Who'll be the strong one in this marriage?" he asks, holding me in the air.

"That doesn't count," I giggle at his logic.

Peeta laughs, tucks me into bed and puts himself next to me.

"It will count every time you get drunk and decide to put yourself in danger," he says with a dopey grin.

"I'm not drunk," I say. "I only drank three glasses, you drank four. See? You're the drunk one."

He chuckles. "That's not how it works, little girl. I'm bigger than you, and had you ever drunk alcohol before?"

I giggle. "No, and I won't ever again. It tastes bad."

Peeta smiles.

"That's my Katniss. Try to sleep now, we need to wake up early tomorrow."

I don't want to sleep, I want to see him. He's too handsome not to be seen.

I sit on top of him on the bed, a leg in each side of his hips and my hands resting on his shoulders. I stop to steady myself and calm the rush I'm feeling through my veins.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I don't know."

Peeta mumbles something incoherent and I let my body do what it wants to do: I cup his cheeks and kiss his lips. In response, he pulls me closer to him and I feel the tip of his tongue sliding into my mouth, apparently trying to find mine. I look at him in surprise. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted. When the tips of both our tongues touch, my whole body tightens and I let out a gasp.

Peeta separates himself from me in horror.

"I - I was -" he tries to explain, all flushed.

"It was very good," I say. "Do that again."

I put my mouth on his. He smiles against my lips and pulls me against him while we kiss. When his tongue slides into my mouth again, it sends a rush of electricity through me. I hold him in despair and notice my body is rocking against his hips.

Peeta sighs and lets his head bump against the headboard. I'm sure it hurts. "Oh God," he says, letting his hips thrust forward. That's when I feel it, the part of him I shouldn't be feeling, fully clothed, but still noticeable. My hips keep their movement over his, and he starts moving his hips back and forth too, his hands holding my waist and helping my movements. He smells amazing, a mixture of sweat and something entirely his.

"You smell good," I say as I try to kiss his jaw.

Somehow I think maybe we shouldn't be doing this, but I have no control over my actions: my body rubs itself against him urgently, my hands hold him tightly. I know it's embarrassing, but I can't stop. I know what I'm looking for, and I know it's inevitable, so I fumble with the button of Peeta's trousers and try to focus my sight as I try to unbutton it.

Suddenly Peeta separates me from him.

"We must stop," he mutters.

"Why?" I ask.

"Do you know what happens if we don't?"

I look at him in confusion.

"I may get you with child," he says.

I exhale an irritated sigh. I don't care if he gets me with child, I want to do what I was doing until he stopped me.

"We don't know when we'll have a roof over our heads or food to eat, so we should think twice before bringing a child to this life," he adds.

I throw myself to my side of the bed, feeling defeated and frustrated. Peeta's fingers stroke my hair.

"What do you think about it?" he asks.

"I'm a fool."

"You're not a fool, you're tipsy. You're in no state to know if you want to do this."

His words annoy me. Of course I want it, I may die from wanting it so much. He's ruining everything and I can't stop the tears that start falling from my eyes. "You're so boring."

Peeta cleans my tears with his thumb and kisses my nose.

"We should talk about this tomorrow, when we're sober."

"Don't you want me?" I ask.

"I want you so much. But you need to make sure I'm the one you want too. I've liked you my whole life, but you're only getting to know me now. I don't want you to see me for what I am when it's too late."

"What are you?"

He chuckles with sadness. "I'm just this, that's the problem. I'm a disabled man who bakes. There's nothing else."

"But I love you so much as you are!" I exclaim.

Each one of us occupies one side of the bed. I've put as much distance between us as I can, so that my body calms down, but it refuses to calm down. I'm incredibly frustrated, but Peeta is facing me with a grin.

"Why are you laughing at me?" I snap.

"I'm happy because you want me as much as I want you."

It doesn't seem true; I feel desperate and he doesn't want to help me. I don't know what to do. He holds me in his arms and I sob against his chest. A part of me wants to hold him and the other part wants to send him away. But I cling to him and cry for a long time.

"I love you so much, Katniss," Peeta whispers when I start to drift off. "I hope you still remember this conversation in the morning."

Note: the 40 dollars Katniss and Peeta received from their interview with Castor and Cressida are equivalent to 1266 dollars in 2023.

They will really meet Haymitch in the next chapter!