Chapter 1

At 5 a.m., I slam my fist onto the alarm clock, its quick, insistent beeping yanking me from the shallow, false sleep I'd been drifting in and out of. Usually, the sound grates on my nerves, but today I'm almost grateful for its grip, pulling me out of the nightmares that had me tossing and turning all night. I'd been haunted by images of burning bodies I'd dragged from the flames, their desperate cries for help echoing in my mind, fading only as the dream slipped away. The children, clutching their toys and blankets—the last remnants of their shattered lives—stood alone; their parents reduced to scraps of clothing and ashes in the wake of the blasts. Nightmares from the bombings of District 12 and the Capitol are my only escape from the daily reminders of the scars that remain here in 12. I sit up, swiping a hand over my face in a futile attempt to erase the evidence of sleep, then swing my legs—well, leg and a half—over the side of the bed.

I reach for my prosthetic, a device I was slowly growing accustomed to. I had lost my leg during my time as a medic in the Rebellion two years ago. My team and I had been rushed to the Capitol to support the rebels, fully aware that there would be countless wounded once the fighting began in earnest. I was part of the third wave of medics, watching as the first two waves scrambled forward after the parachute bombs detonated. There was so much blood. So many fragments of men, women, and children scattered across the streets. I quietly wondered if we had enough supplies as we initiated the triage system. Red cards for those with critical but treatable injuries, green cards for those who could be quickly evacuated, and black cards for those we couldn't save. We handed out far too many black cards that day.

I watched as the youngest member of our medic team, a pale girl with golden hair and blue eyes like mine, dashed down the road toward the rubble and the masses. Her braid whipped against her back as she ran, nearly smacking her face as she slid to help a small child. That's when I saw her—the Mockingjay—walking toward the girl, calling out her name. I glanced to my right, where the medic team leader nodded, giving us the go-ahead to move in. Gripping my bag so tightly my knuckles turned white, I started toward the Mockingjay, driven by a desperate need to reach her and pull her out of the chaos.

What are you doing?! I wanted to shout at her. I was just behind her when she called out her sister's full name, and the girl's head jerked up, her eyes wide—not with fear for herself, but with terror for her sister, who had stepped out into the open, exposed to any lurking Peacekeeper or vengeful Capitolite. The blonde girl's lips were forming her sister's name when the bombs went off again.

The world exploded around us. I lunged for the Mockingjay's blue cape, yanking her back with me, but the blast was too powerful. The air filled with the sickening sound of shrapnel tearing through flesh. I was thrown to the ground, the impact knocking the breath out of me. My ears rang with the echoes of the blast, but I forced myself to look up. The Mockingjay's body lay a few feet away, flames licking at her clothes, her skin already blistering from the heat. Blood pooled around her, seeping into the pavement.

I tried to push myself up, but an excruciating pain shot from my thigh down to my toes. I looked down and felt bile rise in my throat. Shards of metal jutted out of my right leg, the flesh torn and mangled, blood pouring from the wounds. My vision blurred with tears, both from the pain and the sight of my own muscle exposed beneath the skin. Gasping, I let my head fall back, the world spinning around me. I used my elbows and my uninjured leg to drag myself toward her, leaving a trail of blood behind me. Through the haze of pain and smoke, I saw medic uniforms rushing toward us, their faces pale with horror.

"Forget me! Just put her out!" I shout at the medic rushing up behind me. A splash of water hits my head, the cold, but pleasant, shock momentarily cutting through the haze. I watch as they drag the Mockingjay away, her flames finally extinguished, steam rising from her scorched skin and tattered clothing. If I wasn't in so much pain, I'd probably find the irony in this. The girl on fire, finally exstinguished. Relief washes over me as my concern for her ebbs, but it's quickly replaced by the stark reality of my own condition. My leg is a gruesome sight—a soaked, bloody mess, with shards of metal and bone jutting out at odd angles, the crimson pooling in the dust of what was once a grand Capitol street. Strangely, it doesn't even hurt anymore. Perhaps my nerves are severed, or maybe I'm so deep in shock that the pain hasn't registered. Either way, I'm grateful for the numbing coldness that's settled over me.

I know better than to pull out the shrapnel; I've seen too many people bleed out that way. So I sit as still as possible, focusing on keeping my heart rate steady, each thump a reminder that I'm still alive, even if its not for long. The air is thick with the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh, mingling with the metallic scent of blood. Rubble and debris are scattered everywhere—once-luxurious buildings now reduced to crumbling ruins, their grandeur lost amid the chaos.

Suddenly, I feel strong arms wrap around my shoulders, and I'm dragged away from the site. As I'm pulled back, the smoke begins to clear, revealing a sky that's impossibly blue, as if mocking the devastation below. It's almost surreal—how peaceful the sky looks, even with the carnage all around. Does the sky not know the horror unfolding beneath it? Why does it not reflect the pain and sorrow staining the earth?

I realize I've been lost in thought when I glance back at the clock, my prosthetic finally in place. The hiss of it connecting always pulls me into the past, even when I don't want it to. I have lost nearly 20 minutes to the gruesome reliving of the pain and fear as if it were fresh. I force myself to stand, to focus on the present. I make the bed with careful precision, smoothing the blankets until they're just right. It's a small comfort, knowing it'll be ready for me when I come back from my shift absolutely exhausted. I fluff the pillows, giving them a few extra fluffs, and head into the bathroom, trying to shake the lingering shadows from my mind.

I flick on the light, squinting as the brightness assaults my eyes. The light floods the small bathroom, even though it barely has to try. The beige tile is slightly cracked, the grout is stained with paint and dirt. It shows that it was made with haste. The district wanted to create homes quickly for all the people who survived and were coming back to rebuild. I guess with how bad everything else looked, this was a masterpiece of an apartment. I shuffle to the tan shower curtain, pulling it back with a practiced motion. The tall showerhead looms over me, still dripping from yesterday's shower. Reaching in, I grab the silver faucet handle and turn on the water, only to jump back as a cold splash catches the edge of my hair. Annoyed, I shake out the damp strands. Why is this dream clinging to me so tightly today? This is supposed to be routine, but everything feels off. Lopsided. Backwards. It has its days of being bad, but not so bad that I forget the same shower that I've used for two years now points up just enough that it sprays you in the face if you get too close.

As I wait for the water to warm, I glance around the bathroom, suddenly struck by how little it reflects the gentleness of District 12. The mirror above the sink is small, bordered by cheap plastic colored gold, and the sink itself is tiny, with just enough room for a single toothbrush and a bar of soap. The medicine cabinet to the right is slightly ajar, revealing a sparse collection of necessities—nothing that speaks of a home, just survival. The shower itself is cramped, with no room to relax, no space to let your mind wander.

This, though, is better than the option of returning to my real home. The bakery didn't survive the bombing in District 12, and I'm not ready to start over. Baking is still a part of me, though, so I spend my free time making bread and pastries to bring to the hospital. It's my way of giving back to people again, as my father did with his treats, finding a place where I can belong, even if it's just in the small, fleeting moments when I hand someone a loaf of warm bread. May not be Mellark's Bakery, but it's definitely Mellark's standard.

I pull off my shirt, wincing as I inspect the pattern of scars that trail up my back and neck. Each mark is a stark reminder of that fateful day, the flames that left their brutal imprint. Sometimes, I need to remind myself that these scars are real, a tangible proof of the horrors I've lived through. PTSD has a way of blurring the lines between reality and nightmare.

I lower my boxers and step into the shower, the cool water cascading over me, easing the tight muscles that have tensed up overnight. The steady stream of water massages my skin, washing away the remnants of sleep and tension. As I lather up with soap and scrub my body, I try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting. I find myself staring blankly, lost in thoughts of what the day might bring.

My therapist, whom I started seeing after enduring four sleepless nights plagued by nightmares, called it "dissociating" due to PTSD. It's a familiar sensation—like my body is here, but my mind is somewhere else entirely. I've come to expect it when I'm alone, and solitude is a constant companion. The shower's steam swirls around me, but I feel adrift, disconnected from the present as my thoughts wander through the haze of my memories. Shaking the vice of my own thoughts, I continued showering and attempted to remind myself of the positives that I will encounter today.

Some might grumble about heading into work, but for me, each day is a burst of excitement. It's not just a job; it's a chance to be surrounded by people for 12 hours, sometimes 15 if they'll let me stay. It's a lifeline, a way to break free from the isolation that clings to me outside these walls. The work can be intense—watching people slip away, their lives slipping through our fingers—but I do my best to make each moment count.

I've always had a knack for lifting spirits, turning a grumpy face into a smile, just as I did with our regular, or, "Frequent Flyer", Haymitch. After the bakery was gone and my dream of taking on my fathers legacy went with it, I threw myself into nursing with all I had. People suggested I should aim higher, become a doctor, but I've seen enough to know that doctors often lack the bedside manner that truly matters. I didn't want to be a distant figure who checks in once a day. I wanted to be there, day in and day out, sharing in the small victories and holding hands through the final moments. That's why I chose nursing, and it's a choice I cherish deeply, even in the face of the daily struggles and sorrows.

I step out of the shower, towel-drying my hair in a rush before wrapping the towel around my waist. As I catch my reflection in the mirror, my gaze snags on a stray gray hair near the front. It's a cruel joke, these signs of age creeping in at just 20. After all I've been through—after all the scars, nightmares, and the endless days of numbness—it's ridiculous that something as simple as gray hair can still get under my skin. I smooth my hair back into its usual part with my hand, though styling was never my strong suit. My father used to help with that, turning it into a father-son ritual. I miss the rough feel of his hands, the way he'd mess up my hair only to comb it over again with a few swipes. My hair was shorter then, easier to manage after my mother's skillful cuts, perfected over years of taming the wild locks of three boys.

But now, I just end up running my fingers through it, undoing whatever little order I manage to create. I give up with a shrug—there's no point in fussing. I look fine enough.

I grab my navy-blue scrubs from the hanger, tugging them on with ease. After the Rebellion, the old nurse uniforms—light blue tunics layered over long-sleeved turtlenecks and paired with brown pants—were phased out. They were impractical, the fabric too thick and unforgiving. Stains would cling stubbornly to the fibers, a constant reminder of the bloodshed we couldn't wash away. And with the heat waves plaguing District 12, the healers would be forced to change midway through their shifts, sweat soaking through their clothes.

Now, our uniforms are simpler, borrowed from the time before the Dark Days—dark blue scrubs that could easily pass for pajamas, the loose fabric light and easy to clean. We're allowed to wear more fitted shirts instead of the scrub top, as long as they match the pants. That's what I opt for today, slipping on a tighter shirt for a boost of confidence.

As I turn side to side, I can't help but notice how the sleeves stretch taut across my arms, the fabric pulling against my chest. My muscles have grown over the years, a byproduct of hard labor and trying to rebuild what was lost. I've been dubbed the "hot guy nurse" on the unit more times than I care to remember—a title that sometimes feels more like a joke than a compliment. On some days, I embrace it, but not today. Today, my scars are laid bare, my eye bags darker than ever, and I look every bit as exhausted as I feel.

I hook my badge onto my pocket and head back to my room, rummaging through the drawers for socks. Of course, none match. I curse under my breath—yet another laundry oversight. Even after two years of living on my own, I still forget to move the load over. Digging into the bottom drawer, I pull out a pair of light blue tube socks adorned with Christmas lights and cats. They were a joke gift from our charge nurse last Winter, a reminder of a holiday called Christmas that was supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year before the Dark Days. We all wore different pairs of ridiculous socks because ugly sweaters were a no-go in the hospital—too messy and hot, especially in the Trauma room, where the temperature is kept at 85 degrees to keep the patients warm.

After grabbing a few slices of bread and an apple for breakfast, I slipped on my shoes and headed out the door, descending the creaky apartment stairs. I took a bite of the bread, immediately recognizing the slightly stale texture—it must've been a few days old. Even before the Rebellion, that was a familiar sensation. Merchants might have lived better in District 12, but hunger wasn't a stranger to us. We knew what it meant to stretch what little we had.

June was always a strange month, when fresh-faced eighteen-year-olds started working in the mines, and families could afford a bit more—enough to treat themselves to bakery items. During those times, we'd be overwhelmed at the shop, trying to keep up with demand. By the end of the day, our shelves would be bare, and there'd be nothing left for us to take home. My mother would make us wait a few days, lowering prices as the bread aged, until someone finally caved. But nothing was ever better than fresh. After the third day, we'd finally be allowed to eat what remained, pairing it with whatever stew my father had managed to scrape together—usually squirrel.

This bread tasted about two days old—still edible, but a far cry from what I could make now. With that thought, I mentally added "bake" to my growing to-do list.

The walk to the hospital wasn't bad. Early spring still carried a crisp bite in the air, urging me to keep my pace brisk. As I moved down the road, the houses I passed remained dark, their occupants still tucked away in sleep. The silence was broken by a sudden, blaring noise behind me. I turned to see Haymitch, disheveled as ever, chasing one of his geese down the road toward Victor's Village.

"Get back to the house, you stupid off-brand duck!" he shouted, flinging his hands in exasperation as he tried to corral the bird. I couldn't help but wonder how it had even wandered so far; Victor's Village was a good distance from town, making the goose's little adventure all the more absurd. I shook my head, rolling my eyes at Haymitch's antics, and continued on my way to the hospital. No doubt, I'd see him later—probably in need of a patch-up or just an excuse to come and complain about something we couldn't fix. Porch lights flickered on in the houses nearby, disturbed by Haymitch's outburst, signaling that he was hellbent on waking up the entire neighborhood. Meanwhile, a few shops started to light up, preparing for another day in District 12.

The town had been absolutely demolished during the War. The Mockingjay's arrow, shot into the sky during the Quarter Quell, felt like the spark that ignited everything. They say there was a shot like that hundreds of years ago, one that started what they called "The Civil War"—the shot heard around the world. They drilled that into our heads at school, how history's obsession with repeating itself led to the Hunger Games. How fitting.

After she shot down the arena, I remember stepping outside just in time to see the Peacekeepers piling into their tanks and driving away from the District. It was surreal—normally, they'd be shoving us back into our homes as soon as the screens in the town square flickered to static. But this time, there was something different in the air. Another man, with dark hair and eyes as gray as a winter sky, looked like he'd seen a ghost. He quickly started shoving people toward the Meadow, urging them to run. Some of us fled into the woods, but too many stayed behind, unable or unwilling to believe that something catastrophic was about to happen, or too scared to cross the fence they had grown up knowing was the boundary not to be crossed. Crossing it meant immediate death, whether that be from exposure, or a bullet from a Peacekeeper.

I stayed behind initially, desperate to get my mother and brothers to leave the bakery, to convince them to run with us. But the ground shook beneath us, and before I could even process the blast, the entire bakery rattled. I ran outside, hoping against hope that it was just a bad dream, but as I watched the south side of town engulfed in flames, my heart sank. More firebombs rained down, and I ran towards a family who were gagging on the thick smoke emerging from the blast. I pointed to where they needed to run, now sure that my family would believe me and be more willing to grab necessities and go. By the time I returned, the bakery was gone—reduced to ash and rubble.

They were gone. I knew it, deep down. But there was no time to grieve, no time to let the reality sink in. Not until we made it to District 13. Until then, I had to keep moving, keep pretending that I hadn't just lost everything.

As I pass by the spot where the bakery once stood, I notice it's still just a flat, empty lot. A few stubborn weeds poke up through the cracks in the pavement, but otherwise, it's as if the place is holding its breath, waiting. I wonder if they'll just let nature reclaim it, let it turn into something peaceful rather than building some meaningless shop on top of my family's grave. Thom tried to convince me to look into what we could do with it, to rebuild something new. But I was too angry—angry at Snow, angry at myself for not convincing them to leave, but most of all, angry at the Mockingjay. For a long time, I blamed her for the pain that ripped through our District.

It wasn't until we were in District 13, watching her take on a role far bigger than herself, that I began to see things differently. Here was someone my age, pushing for the fall of the Capitol, fighting for justice not just for her District but for an entire nation. I saw the weight she carried, the fire in her that wouldn't die, even after all Snow had done to her family, to her friends. My anger toward her gradually turned into something else—an understanding, a shared sense of loss, and a devotion to the same cause. I couldn't stay mad at her, even if I wanted to. After all, I had loved her for years.

The hospital was quiet, as it always was at 6:30 a.m.—a time I'd come to think of as "sleepy town." Instead of heading into the truck bay, usually filled with someone's old truck or a wagon, I bypassed it for the side door. I scanned my badge, and the outside door unlocked with a soft click, leading into a staircase. I could've taken the elevator, but I was still trying to erase the last remnants of sleep by getting my heart rate up. District 12 was still a poor district; our elevators were more like the ones they used in the mines—slow, creaky, and far from modern, unlike Districts like 13. I jogged up the stairs to my unit, feeling the burn in my legs as I reached the top.

At the front entrance to the unit, I swiped my badge again, waiting for the green light to blink on before pushing the door open. The unit was small, with only twelve patient rooms, but we handled critical care cases—people who were gravely sick or seriously injured. As I walked past the front desk, I spotted Flora, our unit clerk, nodding off. I couldn't resist. Tapping my four fingers quickly on the desk as I passed by, I watched her jolt awake, a brief moment of panic in her eyes before she recognized me. Small amusements like that made the long shifts a little easier to bear.

Her eyes snapped open as she jolted upright. "Jesus, Peeta!" she scolded, though a smile soon softened her expression, a faint blush spreading across her freckled cheeks. "You're here early, as always."

I smirked and kept walking towards the break room to drop off my bag and grab a cup of hot tea. Coffee was the lifeblood of most nurses, who would argue over a fresh pot as if their lives depended on it, but I'd given it up long ago. It made me too jittery, too anxious—two things I didn't need more of. Tea was my remedy, a small comfort to soothe the nerves. After the dreams I had last night, I could use all the calm I could get. I'd even convinced myself that tea was enough to wake me up—a placebo effect, but one I was happy to indulge in.

I pushed open the door to the break room, tossed my bag on a table, and headed straight for the counter, where the essentials for surviving a shift were laid out: coffee, tea, a microwave, and a fridge—stocked with sweets, thanks to me. Flora followed me in, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, watching my every move.

"Last night sucked, it was so slow. I'm surprised you didn't catch me sleeping," she said, eyes on my hands as I prepared my tea.

I snorted, dipping the tea bag into the hot water. "Right, because I totally didn't see you with your eyes closed and drool hanging from your lip when I walked in," I teased, adding honey and a sprinkle of cinnamon to my cup.

"Why do you do that?" Flora asked, picking up the cinnamon jar I'd brought in for my tea, turning it over in her hands as if it were something foreign. "You're the only person I know who puts cinnamon in tea."

I stirred my tea with a wooden coffee stick, then licked the wet end before tossing it into the trash. "My dad used to do it," I said, the words coming out quieter than I intended. "I got used to it, and without it, the tea just doesn't taste right." I sighed, the memory tugging at something deep inside. Flora's expression softened as she put the cinnamon down, looking a bit deflated. She glanced up at me, her eyes full of apology, but I just shook my head and held out the cup to her.

"Here, try it."

She took a cautious sip, then scrunched up her face. "I'll let you stick to that," she said, handing the cup back with a grin.

I laughed at her reaction and took my cup, heading out the door. Flora fell into step beside me, and we chatted about the uneventful night before. Nothing much had happened, except for the news of an incoming patient in serious condition. An accident in the woods, and they'd be arriving in about thirty minutes. I nodded, glancing over the assignment sheet. My name was next to an open bed, and I noticed I'd be caring for a patient I'd seen before.

Woods-related accidents had become more common in the years after the fall of the Capitol. With the newfound freedom, people were eager to explore the lush forests that had once been off-limits. The woods had thrived in the years of human absence, just as we were recovering from the devastation of the bombings. Still, no animals crossed the fence. The people of District 12 had decided to keep it up, wary of the unknown dangers lurking beyond—rabid animals, coyotes. We were more afraid of what might come in than what was already there. For some of us, those woods held memories of survival, the only cover we had until District 13 came to our rescue. Many who survived the bombing had sought refuge in those trees—some succumbed to their injuries, some wandered off, and some, seeing the ashes of what was once District 12, decided there was no reason to keep going.

I sighed, glancing up at the ceiling. "Let me guess: I'm the lucky guy getting them?"

Flora nodded, giving me a sympathetic pat on the back.

"Sucks to be the most well-liked nurse on the floor, doesn't it, Peety?"

When I first met Flora, fresh from District 5, she was a whirlwind of chatter, always finding a way to push people's buttons just for fun. The nickname "Peety" was her compromise after I begged her not to call me "Peety-pie." It stuck, and now the entire unit calls me that. I pressed two fingers to the bridge of my nose, letting out an exaggerated sigh.

"Yes, I guess it does!" I announced, throwing my hands up theatrically before walking away. Flora's giggles followed me as she returned to her desk.

As I made my rounds, I glanced into the rooms I passed. The doors had to stay open since our monitors were unreliable; we couldn't hear the beeping half the time. Being the only critical care unit in the District meant we couldn't separate pediatric patients from adults. My heart always ached when I had to care for a child—it was almost always asthma, a cruel consequence of the coal dust that clung to our district. Some of the little ones just couldn't handle it; their lungs gave out too soon. The only child on our floor today was in the room next to my open bed, and my best friend Delly was assigned to them. Delly was the only nurse who consistently handled pediatric patients. She had a way with them, an ability to care for them that the rest of us struggled with, or maybe she was just better at swallowing her emotions and doing her best despite the heartbreak. Her only flaw was her chronic lateness, a habit she'd grown comfortable with since she knew I'd take care of her morning vitals anyway.

I sat down at the computer, the soft hum of the little girl's mother singing drifting from the room next door. The melody was almost hypnotic, pulling me back into the drowsiness I'd fought off earlier. Shaking my head, I stood up, determined to shake off the sleep and focus on the task at hand. I walked into the empty room to prepare for my new admission, checking over the monitor to make sure it was functioning properly. I gathered the essentials: an oxygen reader, a blood pressure cuff, electrodes for the heart monitor, and an IV pole with electronic pumps—my latest favorite piece of equipment.

These pumps were a gift from the hospital, a step up from the old days when we had to calculate the drip rate manually. It was a grueling process, trying to get the exact number of drops per minute for IV medications. Now, all I had to do was insert the IV line into the pump, program it with the correct rate, and it did the rest. It's remarkable how quickly technology advanced for us once the Capitol's focus shifted from killing children in high-tech arenas to actually improving the lives of the people in Panem. But I'm not bitter, of course.

The bed was already made with blankets and sheets, so I stripped it down to the base layer, adding a white pull tarp to make transferring my new patient easier. I restocked the drawers with the usual supplies—tape, disinfectant caps, gauze, needles, syringes, and other necessities. Satisfied that everything was in place, I took one last look around the room, making sure nothing was missing. With nothing left to do, I headed back to my desk between the two patient rooms. I leaned back in my chair, glancing into the adjacent room to see what the day had in store for me.

My other patient had been here far too long. His name was Darius—though that seems like a distant memory now. He was caught in the bombing, saved and brought to District 13, where he's lingered on life support ever since. Eventually, his family begged to bring him back to District 12, where the whispers of ending his suffering began to circulate among the unit. We talk about convincing the family to let him go, but no one ever has the heart to actually say the words. It's been two years, and he's still here. His wife and kids, once daily visitors, now come by once a week, and I can't help but think they're starting to realize there's no coming back from this.

Curiosity tugs at me, so I walk into his room, finding Layla, a nightshift nurse, prepping his medications in the corner.

"Still nothing, huh?" I ask, folding my arms and leaning against the doorframe as I watch Darius. There's less equipment attached to him now—something that could mean either a breakthrough or the beginning of the end.

Layla shrugs, moving to check his line and remove the disinfectant cap. "Nope, he's off dialysis, but that's about it- shit, hey, can you hand me another flush?"

I stride over, grabbing one and popping it open, a bit too forcefully, sending some of the liquid onto the wall. "Whoops," I say with a smirk. She shakes her head, smiling, and takes it from me.

As she administers his meds, I move to the other side of the bed, taking out my small light. I pull up his eyelid, shining the light in, waiting for his pupils to respond. They do, but sluggishly, like a dying flame. "Damn, he's on his way out," I say, the weight of it barely registering in my tone.

Layla nods, her lips quirking to the side. "Yeah, I think you're going to have to talk to the family today. I know he's yours. I got your drawers all stocked and fresh sheets ready if you need to change anything. He doesn't have much going besides his sedation meds and morphine," she says, tossing out the remnants of her work. "I also checked all his IV sites; he's good for now."

"Thanks. I don't think we'll get too crazy today with all that," I say, adjusting Darius onto his side so Layla can tuck a pillow beneath him. "Did you hear about the new admission next door? Flora mentioned something about an accident in the woods."

Layla grunts as we lift Darius higher on the bed, getting his head closer to the pillow. She shrugs. "Woods accidents happen all the time. I'm not sure why this one's such a big deal."

We finish the last of our tasks with Darius, and as she walks by, Layla gives my shoulder a quick, reassuring rub. "Thanks for the help. It's 7:30, so I'm heading out. Need anything else?"

I shake my head, nudging her gently away from my desk. "No, get out of here. Get some sleep."

An hour passes, and Delly finally makes her way into the unit, looking pale and disheveled. I've already finished the morning vitals on her two patients, written them down, and even got them their breakfast. Darius, of course, was just so chatty that I barely got it all done in time. I run a hand through my hair, messing it up on purpose, just to match hers.

"Delly, Delly, Delly," I tease, shaking my head. "Late night with Marcus?" I swing an arm out to playfully smack her leg, but she dodges, setting down her coffee and attempting to fix her hair.

"I've been here since 7, thank you very much. I was downstairs in Trauma. Your new admission is a hot mess," she breathes out, grabbing the napkin where I'd written down her vitals. "And thanks for this, by the way," she says, waving it at me.

"What happened?"

Delly lets out a low sigh, shaking her head. "She fell out of a tree. Already super malnourished… it's bad, Peeta. Her ribs snapped on one side and punctured her lung. She hit her head several times on the way down. I won't be surprised if there's brain trauma, though the scans say she shouldn't have any, luckily. But she's so anemic that the branches tore into her so badly, she looks like she had been beaten. I think one of her legs is broken, but I couldn't tell…" Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head. "Just let me know when she gets here, okay? I want to help."

I stand there, stunned. Delly never reacts like this. We've seen so much death and violence in the last four years that we've almost grown numb to it. "She? Delly, do you know her?" I ask, my voice slow, cautious.

Delly looks into Darius's room, her gaze laden with an almost unbearable weight that I can't fully grasp. She lets out a shaky sigh, her eyes brimming with anguish, before turning back to me. "Peeta… i-it's—"

Suddenly, a deafening call from down the hall yanks my attention away. I spin around, my eyes widening as I see a bed hurtling towards us, flanked by a team of frantic personnel on every side. My breath catches in my throat, a strangled gasp escaping as my heart begins to race uncontrollably. Each beat feels like it's tearing me apart, a chasm of terror and despair widening within me. I feel an overwhelming surge of panic, the kind that makes your whole body tremble and threatens to choke out any semblance of composure.

And then, I see her.

It's Katniss.