PEETA

Neither of us talk about it, but the absence of my hair clings to the silence between us. There's a small cut on the back of my head that stings, which makes it harder to ignore the pain that fluctuates in my leg. I wince, allowing myself a moment to feel the pain before I go back to trying to ignore it. Sae said they could get me morphling, but I refused. Not yet, not if I can help it. Between the pain and the residual adrenaline from the confrontation, I barely sleep. When I see dawn poking through the windows in the kitchen, I give up on trying. I fit the cover over the end of my thigh, secure my prosthetic, and rise.

I make breakfast in silence, stretching my leg the best I can-the prosthetic was about half a size too large, and I try not to think of its previous owner. One of the healers Sae had me checked out by had shown me exercises to do, and I'm surprised when I find it does offer some relief. I practice pointing my toes as I flip the eggs. The leg they'd given me had been high end about ten years ago; it's made of solid metal that moves with surprising grace. Geo had explained to me that I'd probably have pain on and off for quite some time-if not forever. Sometimes, I feel pain in the ankle that is no longer my own-I was assured that it's normal, my body trying to make up for what isn't there.

I feel Katniss's eyes on me from the couch, and that at least provides something else to focus on. I glance up a few times as I continue to cook eggs, over hard. Each time I glance up, she's looking away, seemingly lost in space. She's quicker than me.

Wordlessly, I put the eggs on a large plate and place them on the solid oak table, a neutral space between us. It gleams with a museum-like varnish, still nearly as untouched as it was when it was loaded into this house 74 years ago. Only one Victor from District 12. Well, two now.

I glance up at the couch and catch Katniss's gaze. I'm surprised when she holds it, her gray eyes heavy and hard. I'm the first to look away.

What I would give to know what she thinks of me. Of anyone. About anything. If she even thinks anything at all after the Games. She's a ghost of herself-or maybe Katniss has just always been a ghost to me, haunting my thoughts, just out of reach.

And now I can't even look her in the eye.

Maybe my mother is right about me.

Suddenly the kitchen is too small, it's too hot. It's spinning. I close my eyes, breathing in and out deeply, forcing myself to notice the faux lilac smell of the cleaner that's under the sink. I'm in this house in Victors' Village. My mother cannot hurt me more than she already has.

When I smell bread burning, at first I think the worst. The end. Stress or a blood clot or anxiety gripping me and holding me still forever.

Then I realize I'd forgotten the loaf I'd made hours ago in frustrated exhaustion, punching dough until my hands shook and hurt. I'd put in the oven to prove overnight-the oven I just turned on full blast to heat up for some muffins.

"Damn it."

I move without thinking, my reflexes from years in the bakery taking over. I get the bread in a metal pot and throw it out onto the cold ground outside. I slam the oven door shut, bending and watching with relief as the oxygen-starved flames die.

Katniss is opening windows when I come back in and I help her, coughing as I walk into the kitchen. I grab a towel and start to fan the smoke out, and Katniss joins me.

We work together and clean the smoke from the kitchen. Once it's just a bit hazy, I pause, feeling winded and hating it.

"You alright?" I ask Katniss. She doesn't respond and I follow her gaze.

Bread. Burned. Out in the cold and on the wet ground. Residual smoke rises from the black crust. A sight that's too familiar. I stare too. I close my eyes against the ringing in my ears. I force myself to breathe as my fists clench.

"I'm sorry. "

"It was an accident." Katniss's voice is hoarse.

I hate that this is the most we've spoken.

"I'm not-"

I take a breath, closing my eyes against her. I can't look at her just yet.

"I'm not talking about this. I mean, I am. It was a stupid and dangerous mistake to make. But-"

I open my eyes and meet hers. They're so heavy. With grief. With exhaustion. With things no one could possibly ever understand. I look at her and realize that despite it all, someone who actually has a justification to hate me, she's still willing to listen. What excuse do I have for not saying it? It's too hard to admit? I swallow and speak, keeping my eyes on her, needing to make sure she knows I mean it.

"Katniss I'm so sorry I just threw you that bread. I should've gone out in the rain and handed it to you. I should've invited you in-"

"It's ok. I -You got in trouble."

Shame burns through me when I remember. My mother hit me hard. Something I was used to-but realizing someone else has witnessed it made my skin crawl.

Then realizing who she was. And why Katniss was there. Wrestling with the want to help and my need to stay safe. Dignity didn't matter to me then. I know now how important it is when it's the only thing you have left. The slurred yelling from last night rings in my ears.

"It saved my life. You saved my life." Katniss says. Simple. "You were just a kid."

"So were you." I say. She doesn't say anything. I continue, the words leaving me quickly while I still have my nerve. "I should've disputed Gale volunteering. I didn't know you could do it until I saw it happen with the boy from one-"

"Cato." Katniss says.

"I can stop talking about it. I just-that's what I'm doing here I guess. I want-I mean, I can't change anything that's happened, but I can…."

I peter off, not knowing how to finish.

"I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have-" I pause, thinking of my brother's voice ringing out harshly from the darkness. His cruel laugh as Cress Hawthorne heckled us.

I close my eyes again, too aware of the cut on my head again.

"I shouldn't have reacted like that."

"No." She agrees. "You shouldn't have."

She walks, a bit stiff, back to the couch. I realize this is the longest I've seen her on her feet since she'd gotten back.

We stare at each other for a moment longer until I can't take it anymore. What I say next surprises us both.

"I'm going on a run."

"A run?"

Katniss looks like I've just announced my plans to tap dance to the Capitol.

"Yeah." I say, making up my mind. I pull my sweater off over my head and pull my undershirt down. I bend to tie my shoe, my balance better on the prosthetic-I don't even wobble.

"Aren't you supposed to be guarding me?"

"Are you planning on getting off the couch again today?"

It sounds harsher than I mean for it to but Katniss doesn't even flinch.

"No."

"Alright. I'll be back in thirty minutes. I'll lock you in."

I stand, grabbing the key off the hook by the door on my way out.

I hear the lock click, then I press against the door, trying to see if my weight can move it. The door doesn't budge-it's made of solid metal, like the doors on the mayor's office. This comforts me slightly, lessening the twinge of guilt I feel. Should I feel guilty, leaving her alone?

I think of the girl who shot straight. Who didn't miss-not when it mattered most. She'll be fine.

I shake it off as I walk down the porch steps, putting the loop of the key chain around my neck. I tuck it in and the metal feels cool under my under shirt. I can see my own breath, and my fingers numb almost immediately, but there was no way I was going back for a jacket.

I try to start off at the pace I'm used to-often at home I had to chase after the pigs once they got out-but after only a short while I falter, my new leg throwing off my pace.

I slow to a walk, annoyed. I look back and am surprised to see that I'd made it further than I thought. I bend at the knees, allowing my lungs to burn with the cold and the exercise. It's nice out here, away from everything. Peaceful, even. I don't have to worry about neighbors looking at me, and I can actually hear the birds.

I'm still reveling in my love for the country when I am tackled from the side. I yell in surprise and instinctually start to fight back. Rage fills me-it'd been foolish to think they were gone. And now Dyllon or Cress are going to kill me.

My fist connects with his jawbone, and I hear my attacker yelp as he falls off of me.

"For hell's sake, boy I was just trying to talk to you!"

His voice is too old, I realize, to be my brother. I pull back, staying on the ground with my fists up as the other man staggers upright.

I recognized him instantly.

"What is WRONG with you, Abernathy?" I hiss, even though a fraction of my defenses fade.

Haymitch Abernathy looks down at me and scoffs. "Can't be seen talking to you in the open. I don't wanna have to paint my house again."

I raise an eyebrow.

"You're getting blamed too?"

"Not nearly as much as I should be." He says bitterly. He takes me in for a moment before nodding towards Katniss's house. "How's she holding up?"

"About as well as you'd think."

Haymitch chuckles darkly. "I might have a clue."

I hold back a wince; of course he would.

"Why are you here, eh?"

"I'm running. It's an activity some people do for exercise."

"Cute." There's a slight slur in his speech. He glances down at me again. "Would you like a hand?"

I pause, almost having forgotten I'm on the ground. I tighten the bolts on my prosthetic. "Uh…yeah."

He helps me up, letting me use him as a surprisingly steady anchor.

"Thanks." I pause, studying him. I don't think I've ever really seen him up close. He's more handsome than I thought-though I suppose that's typical of most Victors. He looks older than he is-about the age of my father, who was at the reaping where Haymitch was chosen. The only time he'd ever had his name in the bowl he'd been sure to tell me that multiple times. Because the Mellarks had done something about their poverty instead of letting the Capitol give them handouts. He looked down upon kids who got chosen, he'd said, until he'd seen Haymitch.

I wonder what he thinks about me now, watching the ceremonies. If he even told his wife who I was-if I had been on camera long enough to even mention.

"He could've had whatever he'd wanted after that." I remember the wistful tone in his voice. We'd learned about the Quarter Quell in school that day, and he'd been actually happy to answer my questions. A rare treat. "And he pissed it away on booze. The fool. It could've been me."

"Do you think you'd have won too, Dad?"

"Without a doubt."

"Would I win?"

"You didn't answer me." Haymitch's voice pulls me back to the present. "Why are you here?" He points down the lane to Katniss's house.

"Miss Sae told me to be here. I owe her my life, so I do what she asks of me."

Haymitch glances at my leg. "Heard it was a close call."

"At least hatred of me has finally led to my brother having a friend." I say. "That's who it was, last night. My brother Dyllon and Cress Hawthorne."

Haymitch clicks his tongue. "I'll have a talk with Sae about extra security."

"I've got it handled."

"You don't." Haymitch says, his tone placid. "But no one person could. My guess is Sae will already know about what happened…she's good like that."

"She told me she wished she could've helped you. After your Games."

"Don't get any funny ideas about Katniss." Haymitch says, changing the subject. He looks at the trees behind me as he speaks.

"Funny ideas?"

Haymitch scoffs. "The last thing that girl needs is you or anybody thinking she's going to love you."

I feel the burn of a blush bloom across my cheeks and up the sides of my neck.

"It's not like that."

"Good." Haymitch's face twitches into a scowl. "So you're smarter than you look."

"Is that why you tackled me? I look dumb?"

His watery eyes meet mine. I see something in them that's not unfamiliar. Rage, worn out and faded like his clothes, but it's still there. Lit again by what they've done to the Tributes he dared to get close to.

"You look like a Peacekeeper recruit."

I glance down at my undershirt, the key underneath it like dog tags, my shaved head…I think back to the men who would come into our bakery, the only customers my mother ever smiled for. The young men, half from once opulent families trying to remake their name, the other sent there in place of losing their tongues or their lives. They looked a bit sleeker than me-the same white undershirts with the peacekeeper logo, pressed pants even off the base. A few were local boys who had already spent time in the mines, and were willing to train to oversee the miners in an effort to make sure their children's names stayed out of the big bowls brought out every Fourth of July. I think of how close I had been to becoming a Peacekeeper, with some idealistic hope that I could change a thing.

"Oh." Is all I can say, rubbing my hand over the prickly stubble at the back of my head. I hate the idea of who he thought I was. Real regret seizes me about my hair for the first time, but it feels superficial even as it surfaces. There are more important things to worry about.

"You know, Katniss might like it if you stopped by, Mr. Abernathy-"

He puts up his hand, stopping me. "Spare the formalities, skipper. And no, I don't think she would." Haymitch looks away from me now, up the path. He's clearly in work clothes, a far cry from the suits we saw him wearing on tv. I look behind him and see a wheelbarrow with a large amount of kindling, discarded work gloves on the ground beside it. Haymitch's blond hair is haphazardly sticking out of his knit hat, and the rims around his eyes are red-whether from the cold or alcohol I don't know. He looks back at me, sizing me up, before he speaks.

"She blames me for it. What happened with that boy. And she should. I-" He shakes his head. "I really thought we could get them both home. We were so close…"

It hits me then how many Tributes Haymitch has known over the years-child after child, for 24 years, doomed to odds that you can't change. I feel sick when I realize I'm looking at Katniss's future too.

"It'll get better for her." Haymitch continues. "When the food comes, When the next Peacekeeper goes too far but actually gets reprimanded-there's eyes on 12 now, for better or worse. But people are more likely to be optimistic when they're fed." He pauses, frowning as he looks towards the main road.

After a moment, I ask a question that's probably too personal. "Will…what happened be easier for her? Eventually?"

Haymitch looks at me in a way I can't quite place. "What do you think?"

"I want to hope it will."

The corners of his mouth twitch up. "Me too."

"How do I…" I'm embarrassed now, realizing I don't quite know how to ask this. I feel like a little kid again, asking questions I don't expect answers to. "How do I help her? Like actually help her?"

"Don't try to fix it. There isn't a fix." Haymitch says. "And don't get upset when she insists on protecting herself. She's good at it. She'll see you trying to take care of her as you thinking she's weak."

"I noticed."

Haymitch lets out a sound that might be a laugh before he takes a flask out of his back pocket. He looks at it for a moment before taking a swig. He crosses back to his wheelbarrow and starts to walk back down the path to his house. He pauses, looking back at me. "Don't kill yourself trying to make that leg work like it used to."

I nod, intending to ignore this advice. I watch as Haymitch wanders away-he moves almost silently through the trees, knowing exactly where he's going. The only sound is the squeak in the wheelbarrow-a sound that could be mistaken for another animal in the woods.

I walk back to the house, but don't go inside just yet. In the storage shed around back I find exactly what I'm looking for. Paint-a shade lighter than what the house is now in its weathered state. I work steadily, reveling in the labor and loving how even on a house brushstrokes can transform anything. I take the hate and cover it, blending it into a new layer.

I work until the sun gets hot and high in the sky. I know Katniss is awake inside because the curtains have fluttered a few times-making sure the noise I'm making is just me. Once I've got a full coat over the entire house, I cant put it off any longer. I pull the key out and unlock the front door. I'm quiet-it's been a while since she appeared behind the curtain, her shape outlined by the sun.

Katniss is where I left her, but she is actually and truly asleep. She doesn't even stir when I open the door, her brow furrowed slightly against the cushions. I allow myself to look for just a moment. She looks now more like the girl who sang the Valley Song to the whole school than the Girl On Fire. The injustice of what has happened to her makes my pulse quicken.

I leave her, my body knowing what I need to do before my brain even registers that I'm moving.

I find the little bundle in the cabinet I'd left it in. An upgrade from the hole in the wall in the bakery.

I hold the pencil in my hand and finally my chaos and nervous energy are channeled through the soft charcoal. I allow creativity to take hold and finally, for just a little while, lose myself.