Chapter 2

Before my mind could grasp the chaos unfolding, everything disintegrated into pandemonium. She had barely been out of surgery when she began to crash, moments after arriving in the room. My hands trembled as I donned gloves, my voice strained as I called out to Delly.

"Delly! Get that bed next to the other one. I'll move her over; you need to get her on the monitor now!" My words came out in a frantic rush, every ounce of my focus on the disaster unfolding before me.

The sight of her was almost too much to bear. Her skin was ghostly pale, bruises darkening her face, her leg swathed in a heavy brace. The portable monitor's beeping was a cruel reminder of the rising chaos within her—a heart rate climbing out of control. Delly's earlier description was an understatement; no words could capture the agony etched across her broken form.

"Why did they bring her up now?" I shouted, my voice cracking with desperation as I moved her frail body into the second bed, feeling the cruel reality of her skeletal frame.

"She was stable until we hit the elevator," the OR nurse replied sharply, her frustration mirroring my own. "We started fluids to stabilize her, but it might not be enough. If her heart rate keeps climbing or if she needs CPR, I'm afraid her already frail body might not withstand it. Not after all she's been through."

The gravity of the situation sank in, and I felt a chasm of helplessness open up within me, swallowing every hope I had for her recovery.

Delly worked swiftly behind me, her hands steady as she hooked up the monitor and began recording initial vitals. My heart pounded as I transferred the pumps from the OR bed to our pole, scrutinizing the medications: fluids, amiodarone to lower her racing heart, and levo to stabilize her blood pressure. The OR nurse's urgent update about lethal rhythms in the hallway only deepened my anxiety. I tapped my leg pocket, feeling the reassuring presence of backup epinephrine, bracing for the worst.

As her heart rate began to slow and her blood pressure stabilized, I drew blood from her IV line with trembling hands, while Delly assessed her weight and blood sugar. The OR nurses conferred with our charge nurse, their voices a blur of medical jargon that at the given moment I couldn't even keep up with. A doctor from our floor stormed in, barking orders for blood samples and cultures, and demanding increased fluid intake. Delly and I exchanged an eye roll—his presence felt like an unwelcome interruption. Delly and I have done this dance many times before, sometimes even without a doctor present. It was almost insulting to be told what to do given we've completed most of his wanted tasks before he even crossed the threshold of the door. The doctor, whom I'd barely seen in the two years I've been here, approached Katniss and gave her a harsh sternal rub.

"Miss Everdeen, open your eyes," he commanded, his tone grating and his touch brutal. I watched, heart aching, as his rough voice and prodding elicited a faint flutter of her lashes. I hastily shoved the blood samples into a bag, handing them to the charge nurse, my throat tight with fear.

"Miss Everdeen, I'm Dr. Thorn. You're in the critical care unit. Can you remember what happened?" The doctor's voice was a relentless drill, causing Katniss to open her eyes halfway before closing them again in exhaustion. Dr. Thorn turned to us with an authoritative glance. "Get another IV in her, she may need blood transfusions. Ensure she has multiple accesses if her condition worsens. Keep me updated."

I nodded, feeling a wave of relief as Delly nudged me aside to check the monitor. Her condition was finally stabilizing, and I released a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I meticulously recorded Dr. Thorn's orders, vital signs, and lab results, while Delly organized the lines and pumps. We both looked down at Katniss, our hearts heavy with concern and silent resolve.

"Peeta, are you going to be okay?" Delly's voice was gentle, her eyes reflecting the understanding of just how difficult this moment was for me.

"Yeah, I… I'll be fine." I managed a sad, weary smile as Delly tossed her gloves into the trash and washed her hands. I glanced at the chaotic mess of wrappers, bloody cotton balls, and syringes strewn across the bed and quickly gathered them up. She seemed stable for now, giving me a brief respite.

I stepped out of the room, the weight of the scene settling heavily on my shoulders. I rubbed my face, trying to shake off the exhaustion that was slowly returning after the adrenaline slipped from my skin, before sinking into my desk chair. Opening Katniss's chart, I exhaled deeply, the breath escaping my lips like a painful sigh. I stared at the first page, the stark reality of her condition hitting me anew with every word.

"EVERDEEN, KATNISS

20 YR OLD, FEMALE

FULL CODE

HT: 5'3

WT: 89 lbs 6 oz

NEXT OF KIN: NONE"

I flipped through the chart, revisiting the harsh reality of Katniss's condition: injuries from a fall, malnutrition, anemia, burns, and the heavy burden of depression and anxiety. Yeah, sounds like Katniss. Next was a note from a physician, probably from the Capitol, from two year ago that made me chuckle:

"Patient expressed a preference for skinning everyone alive rather than staying here. In good health aside from size and past malnutrition. Threw objects around the room and threatened, 'You're all lucky I don't have my bow. I never miss.' Discharge ordered by President Paylor."

Oh, yeah, that's Katniss, alright.

I updated her online chart, meticulously documenting everything Delly and I had done, and entered Dr. Thorn's orders, despite having already performed the necessary actions. The hospital's need for paperwork felt absurd against the backdrop of real-life urgency.

Glancing through the window into her room, I saw her monitor: her blood pressure had stabilized, and her heart rate was better—still elevated, but not as dire.

Typically, we'd wait until 8 a.m. to begin our routines. It was pushing on to 8:45 but it felt wrong to not give Katniss a break from the poking and prodding at least for a little while. Critical care isn't known for its social atmosphere, but I'm an oddity who talks to patients, even when they're unresponsive. Managing two intubated patients at once felt like hitting the jackpot. I doodled on the outside corner of my report sheet and waited, trying to buy myself some time to finally calm the nerves that were sparking inside my body. By 9:15 a.m., a little later than I intended, I was already up, stretching, and heading to the med room.

I prepped the medications for both Darius and Katniss, drawing up liquids and crushing pills for Darius, who had a feeding tube. We usually start with assessments, but with Darius's condition stagnant, it felt like we were merely prolonging the inevitable. It might sound morbid, but it's the truth.

After administering Darius's meds and doing at least a little bit of an assessment to gather my own baselines, I washed my hands and grabbed my stethoscope from the desk. With a flick of the overhead light, I approached Katniss's bed. The sight was gut-wrenching—her face was a mosaic of bruises, her body tangled in tubes and streaked with dried blood. The visible bruising on her chest was a stark reminder of her suffering.

I sighed, slipping on a pair of gloves and beginning my assessment.

"Um… he-uh…" My words stumbled out, frustration gnawing at me. What's wrong with me today? Why can't I speak? She's just another patient... the Mockingjay is my patient. No, I need to stop thinking of her that way. That was years ago. This was…

"Katniss," I whispered, shaking off my doubts. I cleared my throat and focused. "Katniss, can you open your eyes for me?"

After a moment's pause, her eyelids fluttered open. Her eyes, those mesmerizing pools of gray, seemed like they held a whole world of quiet sorrows. It was as if they were trying to shield themselves from the pain, gazing forward as if the effort of moving them was too much to bear. Staring into those eyes felt like looking up at a winter sky just before the first snow—a calm, ethereal gray that held both the weight of countless storms and the serene promise of a peaceful snowfall. The depth in her eyes was both heart-wrenching and beautiful, and I felt something inside me give way.

"Hi there, I'm Peeta. I'm going to take care of you, okay? Now, I'm going to shine a light in your eyes for a quick check. It might be a bit uncomfortable," I said, pulling out my penlight. She immediately shut her eyes as the light approached. I gently pried her eyelids open and directed the beam once more. Her pupils reacted normally—thank God.

"Good, now I'm going to examine your throat, okay? I just need to check for any swelling," I explained, my fingers brushing gently against her neck. Her eyes snapped open and squinted from the discomfort. "I'm sorry, I'm almost done." The slight swelling was expected, but her trachea felt intact, indicating that her lungs weren't severely damaged. We looked for tracheal deviation, which could indicate that her lung had been pushed aside by air or blood in the cavity. Thankfully, she wasn't that critical.

"Alright, I'm going to listen to your heart and lungs, and then check your belly. Is that okay? Blink once for yes," I said, resting my hand lightly on the bed next to her head, almost hovering. Her gaze met mine with a newfound focus, and she blinked slowly, uncertain but willing. "It's alright, I know this must be really uncomfortable. I promise I'll be quick, and we'll get you back on your feet and out there shooting squirrels again," I said, offering a sad yet hopeful smile. I fumbled a bit with my stethoscope, feeling my face flush. "I'm going to pull down the gown in front, but I promise, no free show," I added with an attempt at humor. Most patients appreciated my jokes, but I could see she made up the percentage of people that did not find me funny.

I carefully unbuttoned the first two buttons on the sleeves of the hospital gown and pulled them aside. Her chest was a disturbing canvas of black and blue, but only where the gown allowed it to show. I pondered this and realized it might be because she had been wearing her father's hunting jacket. It was so large on her that it probably served as some form of padding. She watched me with a mix of curiosity and apprehension as I worked.

I placed my stethoscope on her chest in various spots, listening for her heartbeat. It was faint, but the gentle rhythm brought a brief, soft smile to my face. Despite the situation, there was something calming about the steady beat of her heart. However, as I moved my stethoscope lower to check her lungs, her eyes widened with clear discomfort. If her body wasn't betraying her so, she would probably punch my lights out.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I should have warned you," I mumbled, almost apologetically. "I'm just listening." Her gaze fixed straight ahead, avoiding mine, and she closed her eyes tightly. I felt a pang of guilt—though it was my job, it felt invasive, as if I were prying into her privacy. I fumbled with another button, pulling the gown down further and exposing her more than I intended. I quickly adjusted the gown, pulling it back up to cover her and sat down to listen carefully. I hoped she appreciated the gesture, even if she didn't open her eyes again.

As I continued my assessment on the other side, I buttoned her gown back into place. "See? Not so bad," I said softly, trying to coax her to look at me again. I didn't want to come across as a pervert, and the deep-seated feelings I had for Katniss only complicated my sense of propriety. Every action felt charged with meaning, and the lack of verbal consent from her made me uneasy.

Moving on to her abdomen, I gently lifted the gown, bracing myself for her reaction. Her eyes flew open with surprise, and I cursed silently, chastising myself for treating this like anything more than a medical procedure. I tried to focus on my task. "Just checking your stomach," I said in a matter-of-fact tone. I listened and palpated her abdomen, noting the silence that suggested she hadn't eaten in days. It became clear we'd need to start her on tube feeding.

"Okay, all done with that," I said, shifting my focus to her arms and legs. I needed to check her pulses. As I held her wrists, the weak throb beneath my fingers was a small relief. But when I turned her arms over, my heart sank. Her arms were marked with fresh scars, not from the fire or the Games, but new, as if made with a straight razor.

I struggled to maintain my composure, though I knew I was staring too long. She looked at me with a mix of worry and, more prominently, embarrassment. She was ashamed of these scars, and the sight of them—so raw and personal—broke something inside me. Oh, Katniss…

I moved on to her legs, gently checking the pulses in her feet and asking her to wiggle her toes, which she managed weakly. Relief washed over me—she wasn't entirely broken, and she wasn't paralyzed from the impact of the fall. I stood up, glancing toward the door, tempted to call Delly for this part. But instead, I closed the door and returned to her side, crouching down to meet her gaze.

"Katniss," I said softly but firmly, wanting her to understand that I was trying to make this as comfortable as possible. "I need to examine another area, but I want to give you the option of having someone else do it if that would make you feel better." Her eyes, heavy with confusion and fatigue, met mine.

"So… you're not able to get up, and your body's in shock. You won't be able to use the bathroom normally, so we had to insert a tube, called a Foley catheter," I explained gently. "I'm sure you can probably feel it."

The realization dawned on her slowly, and her eyes widened with a mix of horror and distress—the discomfort of knowing someone had to perform this procedure without her consent, and now the thought of me having to check it. Normally, I avoid intruding on patients' private areas unless absolutely necessary, but here, with the risk of infection a constant concern, it was unavoidable.

"I can get a female nurse to handle this if you'd prefer," I offered, trying to assure her that her comfort was my priority. "I promise, I won't be offended. I just want to make sure you're as comfortable as possible."

She stared at me, her eyes closing briefly in a moment of introspection. I held her small hand in mine, feeling her tentative squeeze. "If you're okay with me doing it, just squeeze my hand," I said softly. She hesitated, but her fingers tightened around mine ever so slightly. I nodded and gently placed her hand back on the bed. "I'll be quick about it."

Moving to the foot of her bed, I took a deep breath and carefully bent her good leg. With practiced efficiency, I lifted her gown and quickly examined the area, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. I finished and straightened up, trying to lighten the mood with a cheery tone, "All done!"

I cringed inwardly at my own enthusiasm. Jesus, Peeta, calm down.

Katniss gave me a barely perceptible nod, acknowledging that I had finished quickly, and her expression made it clear she wanted me out. Honestly, I was more than ready to leave. I administered her medications through her IV, checked her vitals once more, and jotted everything down. On autopilot, these tasks felt mechanical, almost like a distraction from the emotional weight of the past few minutes.

As I stepped out of her room, I left the door slightly ajar to keep an ear on her. Standing by the doorway, I let out a long, weary breath. Delly's head popped out from Darius's room, and I gave her a look of relief mixed with exhaustion.

"You messing with my stuff?" I asked, trying to mask my discomfort from the last fifteen minutes with a laugh. Delly rolled her eyes and, with a swift motion, tossed her gloves at me like a slingshot.

"Yeah, one of his meds ran out, and the beeping was driving Mrs. Gilbert crazy. I turned it off and capped it for you," she said, settling into her desk a few feet away. I muttered a quiet thanks and turned back to my computer, beginning the painstaking task of documenting my assessment of Katniss Everdeen.