As the blonde Peacekeeper turns to face us, time moves in slow motion. I watch as the sun catches on his hair, turning it different shades of yellow, and he squints against the light as he acknowledges my sister. His eyelashes are so light that they're nearly translucent; I've never seen any that look like that, not even Prim's.

I don't look him in the eyes, though, at least not for more than a fleeting second. I tighten my grip on my sister's bony wrist, pulling her closer even as she fights me, yet she insists on speaking. "Your coins," she says, rattling them in her little hand.

As the Peacekeeper's eyes remain on us, I find myself tugging on my dress with my free hand and smoothing my hair. Worrying about my appearance is a very strange thing to do – for a couple reasons. One, it's not like my horrible appearance is going to improve with just a few minor touches. Two, it's not like this Peacekeeper cares.

Plus, my appearance isn't something I think about. At least, it shouldn't be. There are usually more important things taking up space in my mind, but they all filter out as soon as my eyes catch on the beautiful, yet shy, smile he shows Prim.

"What was that?" he asks, and his voice is very gentle. Usually, Peacekeepers are gruff and impatient – that is, if they talk to civilians at all. You rarely see them doing it, at least anywhere but the Hob, where Daddy used to trade. The only reason a Peacekeeper would be talking to people like me and Prim is if he were reprimanding us.

But that's not what this is. Not at all. At least, I don't think so.

"Your coins, Mr. Peacekeeper," she says, extending her thin arm all the way up. Suddenly, next to his tall and sturdy figure, she has never looked shorter or skinnier. It makes me feel self-conscious. "You dropped them."

Both sides of his lips turn down as he pats his pockets. The motion is dramatic and drawn-out in a way that lets me know he's doing it for her sake. He's not fooling me. But she's only five, so I'm sure she's entertained – and the growing smirk on her face lets me know I'm right.

"I didn't drop any coins," he says, continuing to pat himself down. "I didn't drop anything."

"Yes, you did!" she says, bouncing in place. Her braids fly with her movement, lightly smacking her shoulders when they come back down. "I saw you. I asked my sister if we could keep them, but she said no."

"I don't see a reason why not," the Peacekeeper says, shrugging lightly. "Finders keepers. They aren't mine, but I appreciate you asking."

Prim gasps and flips around, tugging on my skirt with a gleeful look on her face. "They're not his!" she squeals. "Can we get the satin? Please?"

"No," I say firmly. "The money doesn't belong to us. It's stealing."

"It's not stealing," she whines. "I found it."

"Take your money," I say, frowning at the Peacekeeper. It's all I can do to look at his face, it takes every ounce of strength I have, but I still can't look into his eyes. I just can't. So, I stare at his mouth. "I know you dropped it."

"I didn't," he says, taking a step backward. "I have to go now. Do what you want with the money; it's yours."

I watch the back of his head as he walks away, weaving through the crowd, and seethe silently. I don't want handouts. I don't want pity. And that's exactly what these coins are; he feels sorry for me, for us, and dropped them on purpose.

In District 12, no one drops coins without noticing. He must be new here if he hasn't figured that out yet. We're not exactly rolling in riches, and no one, not even the merchants, can afford to throw their coins all over town without caring whose hands they end up in.

The money burns the palm of my hand and digs into my fingers. I'm holding the coins so tightly that I feel them start to slip against each other with the sweat from my skin. I don't know what to do with them. Tossing them in the dirt would prove a point, but it would be incredibly stupid. I won't do that.

Prim needs to eat. We all do. So, I'll buy enough food to make dinner tonight, and that's it. Then, I'll return his money without his consent. I know where he lives, after all.

"What sounds good for dinner?" I ask Prim, taking her hand.

"Rice and shucky beans," she says quickly, like it's been on her mind for a while.

"We can do that," I say. Luckily, her palate isn't expensive. She's never known anything different, of course, but at least she didn't suggest anything with meat. That would've taken too many coins.

I use one to buy a bundle of beans and a small bag of rice. I let Prim carry the beans and she seems happy enough as we make our way out of the market, passing one last stall as we go – one that sells ribbons.

In the Seam, we have no use for hair ribbons. They're silly accouterments without a purpose, and they're a waste of money. But my sister is staring at them, these little pieces of fabric worn by merchant girls; fabric that my mother probably wore during her childhood. Because of our mother and where she grew up, I can't help but think that maybe this love for ribbons and other fine things is in Prim's blood. It must have skipped over me.

All the better for it, anyway. I don't want to buy two ribbons. I don't really want to buy any at all, but I do want to see Prim smile. So, I say, "What color?"

She lifts her face to look at me, and she's beaming. "Really?" she asks, eyes shining. "But you said that wasn't our money."

"It's not," I say. "But I won't tell. Not if you don't."

"I won't," she says, grinning as she laces her fingers through mine. "Can I have pink?"

"Sure," I say, then hand a coin over to the woman working the stall. She hands the pinkest of pink ribbons back, right to Prim, and I say, "Tell her thank you."

"Thank you!" Prim says, lifting onto the balls of her feet. Then, she wraps her spindly arms around my waist and buries her face in my side. "Thank you, Kitty," she says, her voice muffled by the fabric of my dress.

"You're welcome," I say, feeling torn.

I'm happy that she's happy, but I'm not pleased with myself for using the Peacekeeper's coins for something frivolous or, really, anything at all. I don't know how to make the sinking stone of owing him leave my gut, at least not until later, when I return his unwanted gift.

"Put that in your pocket," I tell her as we leave the market. "I don't want Mom or Daddy seeing you with it."

"Why?" she asks, running the smooth material between her fingers.

I take a long look at her face, then the ribbon, then lift my head up to look straight again. I take a breath, then say, "I just don't."

…

After supper that night, Mom gives Prim a bath in the little basin in the back room. Daddy has more strength than he's had in a while, thanks to the rice and beans, so he's sitting up when I go to see him. My stomach is fuller than it's been in a long time, so I can even muster a smile for him.

I get comfortable in the chair I usually find myself in, and sit in silence. It's so quiet that I can hear the rise and fall of Mom and Prim's voices; though maybe that shouldn't be a surprise, given how small our house is. I try to make out what they're saying, if only to make sure Prim isn't giving anything away about our encounter today.

Interrupting my eavesdropping, Daddy says my name. "Katniss," he murmurs. I turn my head, forgetting the other conversation, and look at him. "How did you make supper happen?"

My insides jump. I was worried about this question, but not worried enough to cook up an answer before now. I'm a terrible liar, my whole family knows it, but I have to do my best. I won't admit out loud that I used a Peacekeeper's money to fill our bellies tonight, especially not to Daddy.

"I went to the woods, like you said," I mutter. As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I regret them. I don't think I could have said anything stupider.

"So, you hunted down the rice and beans," he says, his voice soft as ever. His words aren't really a challenge, but they do make a blush flood my cheeks, one I hope he doesn't see.

I don't respond because I can't, and he knows that I can't. He may not know the true manner of which I obtained our supper tonight, but even an idiot would know I didn't get it from the woods.

But instead of badgering me or making me feel dumber, Daddy says, "I hid my bow inside a hollow log about a mile into those woods." He stops for a moment and catches his breath – it sounds ragged, worse than it did just moments ago. "Long time ago. You find that, you won't have to hunt no more rice and beans. You'll get something a lot bigger and better; something that'll feed you three for days. Weeks, even."

I frown as his eyes close. "Four," I say. "I'll shoot something that will feed all four of us."

He doesn't reply. Instead, his eyes close all the way and his breath comes more evenly. He's fallen asleep before he can explain his macabre sentiment, and before he could give me any sort of hint as to what hollow tree his bow is in. There has to be hundreds in those woods, and a 'mile in' could mean anything, depending on where you start.

The likelihood of me finding that bow and using it the right way are about as likely as Daddy making it to see me turn 18. At least that's what it sounds like, the way he's been talking.

…

Everyone falls asleep easily – everyone except me. If I would have laid down with the intent to rest, I'm sure my eyelids would have grown heavy eventually. But there's something I need to do before I turn in for the night.

After Prim's breathing deepens to a point where I know she won't wake up anytime soon, I pick up the coins from where I hid them in the drawer that we share. I dig out a piece of fabric that was once a coin purse and slip them inside, slowly so they won't make any sound. After they're all safe and tucked away, I slink out of mine and Prim's room, through the main living space, and out the door. Tonight, the table is empty and the candle blown out, and I'm thankful that Mom is in bed.

The night wraps its arms around me like a cloak as soon as I step off the porch, away from the meager lightbulb buzzing from the entryway. The insects are active; the air is full of the cicadas' songs and a pretty show from the blue lightning bugs, and I don't get very far at all before I'm slapping mosquitoes away.

The air is thicker than it's been so far this season. Summer is coming, which gives me a small hopeful feeling that I can hold onto. Life is always easier in the summer, and once I find a way to earn these coins the right way – once I figure out who will stoop low enough to hire me – I can save up for a fishing pole and go to my secret lake every day.

I'm heartened by that thought, so much so that I don't realize how quickly I'm walking until I'm right in front of The Row. I lose a fair bit of steam when I notice, and my stride is interrupted by a few clumsy steps before I come to a complete stop.

The blonde Peacekeeper's windows are lit with that same warm, yellow light from before, which must mean he's awake. The fact that he's not asleep yet forces me to crouch down, lower than the windowsills, and inch my way to the front porch.

It takes me a while to reach the steps. But, once I do, I carefully lay the small purse full of his coins down and let out a long breath. I already feel better with them out of my possession.

With such relief flooding through me, I stand to my full height and assume I'm in the clear. But, as luck would have it, that assumption is wrong.

I hear the door creak and freeze like a deer where I stand, facing the woods. My breath comes faster and my mouth goes instantly dry – out of instinct, I flip my head around and pull my arms close in a protective stance.

"I thought I heard someone," the blonde Peacekeeper says quietly. "What are you doing around here so late? It's not safe."

Even if I were to respond, I don't know what I'd say. My lips don't even part to try and make an answer happen. So, to get my point across, I focus on the small bundle I just set down, and he follows my gaze after a beat or so.

He kneels to pick up the pouch, then opens it to slide the coins into his palm. "Oh, no," he says, looking confused with furrowed eyebrows. "These were…I didn't want them back. They were for you to keep."

Once again, I don't say anything, but I think my silence only encourages him to keep talking.

"I'll admit that I dropped them at the market, but I couldn't say so with all those people around. They wouldn't…I'm not supposed to…" He doesn't finish his thought, whatever it may be. Instead, he starts a new one. "They were a gift."

Growing more frustrated by the second, I shake my head firmly. I finally get a word out, but I can only manage one. "No," I say.

He still looks confused. Like, in his entire life, he's never had someone reject a gift he's given and he can't understand it at all. I would never expect a Peacekeeper to understand someone's life from 12, no less someone from the Seam. His worst day is probably ten times better than my best.

"Why not?" he asks. "I'm not asking for anything back. There's no catch, if that's what you're worried about."

I clench my jaw and grit my teeth together, trying to keep my breaths even. It's not easy, as I'm both afraid and angry and I feel the need to bolt. He wasn't wrong when he said it's not safe for me to be around The Row so late, at least, not if I'm here for any other reason but to offer favors.

"There's no sense paying me when I haven't done anything to get paid for," I say, my voice low. I try my best to look at him where he's standing with that glow behind him, illuminating his entire figure so he looks somewhat ethereal. It's unusual. I've never seen anything like it, which makes it difficult to keep my eyes on him. "I don't like owing people."

He's quiet for a moment and, at first, I think he'll let things lie. That he'll take the coins and send me on my way, and we'll never interact again. But, once more, he surprises me. "Okay," he says, "come in. I can think of something you can do to earn the money."

I balk at his statement, as that's not what I expected to hear. I didn't think he was like Cray, though I'm not sure what my basis was there. He's a Peacekeeper; they're all the same. It's not like some have morals while others don't. They're all employed to police and abuse us, especially those who work in the poorer Districts. It was stupid to expect anything less from him – this whole thing was probably a setup from the start.

Funnily enough, now that the cards are on the table, my indignance loses its fire. This is a situation that I expected and once that I am prepared to handle. I was prepared a few days ago, at least – I came to The Row for this very reason. Who am I to turn my nose up at it now? I can do this service for him and then I can fairly keep his coins. They won't sit as bricks of guilt and pity in my pocket. Instead, I'll have earned them.

I can do this. I can shut off my thoughts and just do it. What does it matter, anyway? For as long as I've been mature, I haven't cared about sex. I don't think about it like other girls do. No boys from town have ever caught my eye. So, why should there be a fuss as to who takes my virginity?

Glancing at the blonde Peacekeeper's face, I know I could do much worse. In fact, girls from town might even be jealous if they knew. If this became a regular occurrence and I could put supper on my family's table every night, would that be the worst thing?

I decide that no, it wouldn't be. So, I take a deep breath, steady myself, and accept the invitation into his home.

The floor creaks as I pass through the doorway, and it's just as warm inside as it looked from the edge of the woods. It's not much – there's a mid-sized bed on the far wall, a modest kitchen opposite that, and a table in the middle – and even though it's smaller than where my family and I live, it's nicer. The furniture is sturdier, the blankets thicker, and there's actually food on the counter and fresh fruit on the table.

For a moment, I forget why I'm here. Then, after I'm done taking in my surroundings, I remember. So, I start to undress.

I don't bother going slowly. Better to get it over with, anyway. I whip my dress over my head and toss it aside as I face the bed, waiting for the blonde Peacekeeper to come sit down.

The door closes, and I hear a gasp. "Oh," he says, and not in an awestruck, 'you're-so-beautiful' tone. Far from it. He sounds shocked, and not in a good way.

I wrap my arms around myself and try to shrink. I lower my eyes to the floor, wishing I could sink into it, and I don't say a word. I don't know what he's waiting for, but I wish he would hurry up. He's making this so much more difficult than it needs to be, and more awkward too.

"What?" I snap, without lifting my head.

"Here," he says, and the fabric of my dress comes into view as he wiggles it in my peripheral vision.

"Why?" I say, spitting the word out. "This is what I'm here for, isn't it? To earn the coins?"

He pauses and I can practically feel the realization hit him. "Oh," he says again, and this time his tone is much softer. "Oh, no. That's not what I meant."

Surprised and agitated, I snatch the dress from him and shove it back over my head. "What, then?" I say.

He looks me up and down, slowly. I'm beginning to learn that he doesn't move quickly with anything that he does. "Can I make you something to eat?" he asks.

I know why he's asking. I'm not stupid. He saw my back before I put my dress back on, he can see my legs, and the angle of my jaw is impossible to miss. None of it is congruous to my natural body shape; I wouldn't look like this if it weren't for my piss-poor circumstances. There was a point in time where I had meat on my bones – a little bit, at least. Nothing like the merchant girls, but more than I have now.

And even though my stomach twists as I stand here, I won't accept his pity meal.

"No," I say, smoothing my rough, coarse hair. "I came here to do something for you. Didn't I?"

He doesn't respond at first. He spends a while thinking with a placid expression on his face, and then that expression morphs into something more childlike, and almost ashamed. "I've been lonely," he says. "I don't have friends. No one's written to me from back home, and I've been here for almost four months." He shrugs and shakes his head. "So, if you let me feed you and…and you stayed to talk for a while, you would be doing something for me."

I squint and size him up. It's too easy. No one's ever been paid just to sit down, have a meal, and trade conversation. If that were the case, everyone in the Seam would be rich by now. Or, maybe not, given that food has to be a part of things.

This doesn't seem right. No one asks things like this. It's not normal. There has to be a catch.

As I'm wondering what's in it for him, Prim and her pink ribbon cross my mind. I think back to the smile on her face after such a small gift, one that many other children would take for granted. Not her, though. She's so unused to nice things that she'll treasure any little trinket or bauble, no matter how inane. I imagine what might happen if these "conversations" with the Peacekeeper became a regular occurrence, how I could spoil her and put food on our table. Maybe, for once, we'd keep our heads above water.

Perhaps I can figure out the catch later and, for now, I should enjoy the simplicity of this task at face value.

"Okay," I say, involuntarily eyeing the fruit on the table, "I'll stay."

After the words come out of my mouth, something about the Peacekeeper relaxes and he lets out a long breath. As if he's the one who should be nervous about this whole exchange, when the power imbalance between us is so stark and so obvious. I don't say anything, though – probably thanks to the power imbalance itself. It would be stupid of me to draw attention to it.

"Will you sit down?" he asks, gesturing towards the table. "Have you eaten?"

The same question, basically, as a few moments ago.

I shoot him a look because he's making fun of me, surely. Of course, I haven't eaten. Not in the way I should be, at least. He can see that very well for himself. But one look at his eyes and I forget that idea; someone who looks so sincere can't possibly be teasing me. Instead, he's giving me a concession, a polite question that he might ask a colleague or a friend when they spend time at his home.

I don't know how to answer. Because, yes, I ate dinner but, no, it wasn't enough. But it would be selfish to eat here while my family sleeps at home. If I'm not sharing with them, what am I doing?

"It's okay if you've already had dinner," he says, moving towards the sink. "It's late. But I tend to eat late, so my idea of when normal people eat dinner can be skewed. I guess the better question is: are you hungry?"

To keep myself from answering too quickly, I count to five in my head. Once I feel like an acceptable amount of time has passed, I say, "A little."

"Great," he says. Even though he's facing the sink, I can hear the smile in his voice. I'm not sure why it's there – why would feeding another mouth make him happy? The mouth of a stranger, no less. Resources are scarce in 12; it's not like most of us have enough to give away. Not even Peacekeepers. Not without a price attached.

But, according to him, my staying here is my price. I still don't see how that makes sense.

I try to wash the thought from my mind when he joins me at the table with two glasses of water, a large hunk of bread with fruit and nuts baked in, and a wedge of cheese. I can't remember the last time I had cheese, but it's been years. I can barely remember what it tastes like.

He sits down and pushes a stick of butter towards me. Butter. I catch myself staring and force my eyes away – but it's difficult. I don't think I've had butter since I was a little, little girl. I don't think a single person in the Seam has had butter for nearly as long. Only those in town enjoy this kind of luxury, and even then, only if you have a dairy cow or can afford to buy it.

"Go ahead," he says, but I don't move. He looks at me for a moment, only a short one, then looks at what he's spread on the table. Then, he says, "Oh. I don't mean to make you feel awkward or…or that you eating is some sort of show. That's not…" His face pinches in what I think is disgust. "I don't mean to be condescending. I'll go first."

I don't know what to make of him, not at all. I've never known a man, no less a Peacekeeper, to regard others with such thought. It's almost comforting, and that fact is strange. I should not feel comforted where I sit right now.

The blonde Peacekeeper cuts a piece of bread and spreads butter on it, then takes a bite. I try not to watch him chew, but the angle of his jaw and the muscles of his face are much more defined when he does, and I can't help but notice a sort of refined handsomeness to him.

It's probably not that he's handsome, though. It's probably just the fact that he's under the age of 50 and hasn't tried to grope me yet.

After he takes a small sip of water, he sets the glass down and comes back to his mind. "Oh," he says, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry. I never introduced myself. My name is Peeta. Mellark. Peeta Mellark."

He shoots me a smile, and not a small one either. He shows his teeth, and his eyes seem to genuinely twinkle as they meet mine. As I let my gaze rest on his face for a second, I notice the ruddy complexion of his cheeks, the curls of his hair that rest on his forehead, and the way the butter has greased his lips slightly to make them shine in the candlelight.

I know this is the moment where I tell him my name, but is that safe to do? I look at the food in front of me, then back up at him, unable to decide. He's sharing his supper and has invited me into his warm home without harming me. He gave me gold coins and an opportunity to earn them, which is what I wanted. On the surface, there's nothing wrong with any of this. But am I stupid not to look deeper?

"That's okay," he says, his voice light as he shakes his head. "You don't have to tell me yours. I understand."

I look down and stay silent; I don't know what to say. I'm glad that he extended me such grace, but a name is a very small thing to offer up in exchange for all he's done. I should have just told him.

But, no matter how hard I think that, the syllables won't leave my mouth.

Luckily, Peeta is good at filling the silence. "I was shipped here from 9," he says, then tips his head towards the bread. "Grain. So, I know a thing or two about it." He smiles again. He's full of them, it seems, and gives them away so easily. "The oven here isn't great, but it does all right. It baked this through. Here," he says, cutting a piece and slathering it with butter – a thick layer, too, thicker than his, "have some. You can tell me if it's any good or not."

My hunger acts before I can tell it not to. I reach forward and let him set the piece of bread in my hand and, while keeping my eyes on him, I take a bite. When I do, it tastes so good that it's all I can do not to slip off my chair and onto the floor. The bread is thick and moist and the butter is rich and creamy; the flavors together are enough to make me want to devour the rest in one bite.

"What's the verdict?" Peeta asks, taking a strawberry and eating all of it. Even the leaves, which I used to do too, back when strawberry bushes grew outside our house.

"It's good," I say, then realize how little that word does for how the bread actually tastes. I try again and say, "Very good."

I take my time chewing and do my best not to stare at Peeta. When I do look his way, though, he wears a content expression and eats slowly. Not because he's forcing himself like I am, but because he's used to it. He knows the food isn't going anywhere and that he can make this same supper tomorrow night, if he wants to. He's relaxed and comfortable. Happy, even.

Seeing that in him, I find myself feeling envious of a man I barely know.

After I finish eating my slice of bread, he pushes the bowl of strawberries my way by an inch or two. But after he does, I shake my head and refuse. I don't want to look greedy.

"I insist," he says, "they'll go bad if they sit out for much longer."

I shake my head again, and he makes a pensive expression with his lips. "All right, then," he says. "If you won't eat them, can I convince you to take them home to your sister?"

My eyes flick up to his face from where they'd been cemented on the table.

Prim. He remembered Prim, and he's thinking of her now. He's offering to share this food with her when he shouldn't have even wanted to share it with me.

I think of her at home, tucked under our threadbare quilt. I think of the way her stomach growls me awake every morning and the look on her face when I tell her that there's nothing in the house to eat. But, if I bring these home, I won't have to say that. I'll be able to return with my hands full with something more than cattails.

"Sure," I say quietly. "Yes, okay."

"Good," he says, practically beaming. "I'll wrap them in something for you."

I watch the muscles of his shoulders move as he gently ties the strawberries up in burlap and secures them with a piece of twine. He sets the bundle on the table and I meet his eyes for a longer beat than I've done yet and say, "Thank you."

"No need," he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. This time, I'm not the first to break our eye contact – he is, with redder cheeks than normal.

"I should get going," I say. I try to gather up enough words to explain why, but there are too many and they all evade me, like they do most all the time.

"Right," he says, then walks me to the door. "Get home safe."

I nod.

"I enjoyed tonight," he says, leaning against the door jamb as I linger on the porch. "I…thank you."

I have no idea why he's thanking me, so I just nod again and wrap both hands around the extra fabric of the burlap.

"Good night," he says, and I turn around with a small wave and descend the steps of his little cabin.

I think I'm in the clear, the edge of the woods is right in front of me, when I hear Cray's horrible voice sound from the neighboring shack. "Hey, Mellark," he crows. His words force me to a dead stop and, like a prey animal, I whip around like I might need to defend myself. And, with Cray, that idea isn't out of the realm of possibility. "You give that Seam bitch a nice fuck?" He laughs loudly, throwing his head back so the sound echoes through the night air. "Keep her warm for me tomorrow night. I'm gonna take my turn with her."

With a sharp inhale, I look at Peeta to see that he's frowning. He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, then says, "I don't know about that."

"What, you don't wanna share?" Cray says. "Too bad. I've seen her hanging around too much, anyway. Maybe she needs to learn her lesson." He stumbles down his front stoop, towards me, and I step back. "Get her here tomorrow night. I'll teach it to her good."

With another guttural, grating laugh, Cray turns on his heel and stutter-steps his way back into his house. After he's gone, Peeta hurries down the stairs of his own cabin and mutters to me, "Don't come back."

My first reaction is to tell him that I'm not stupid. But then, directly after that, I feel a small twinge of disappointment that tells me that I was going to come back tomorrow night, at least that I wanted to. And now, unless I plan on being assaulted by Cray, I can't.

I nod and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, saying, "I won't."

Peeta shoots a quick glance over his shoulder, back towards Cray's place. As he does, we both register movement inside. "Go," he says, turning to me again and speaking in a soft, yet urgent, tone. "Go."

I don't waste any more time. I listen to him, and I go.