Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games. This chapter contains major spoilers for Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. Read at your own risk.

Ten years later

We're on Platform 3 at Chilcoat Railway Station. The locomotives hiss on the tracks as they release a flood of passengers from the carriages. My seven-year-old's sideswiped by a large man carrying a plump black briefcase. He doesn't even mutter an apology. I protectively grab hold of my daughter's shoulder and direct a death glare at the man as he passes.

Rachel's hand touches my back, and I know immediately what she's trying to tell me. Chasing away the urge to beat someone into a pulp, I fold my lips tightly together and turn away, still clutching at Elizabeth's shoulder.

It's almost nine o'clock, one of the peak times at Chilcoat Station. Four years ago, they refurbished the concourse and added new tracks. Now there's another line connecting multiple districts and serving Twelve's main station, courtesy of Marlebon Trains. I'm thankful it exists. No more delays while we travel to Mother's house in Twelve for my annual visit. The extended family's going to join us, so we've got to arrive early.

This year, it's a special occasion. I wait for the crowd on the platform to thin out and for my eldest to get back from the bathroom. There's Marion now, her hat nearly flying off her head, the fabric of her coat snapping in the wind as she hurries back to our family. It's when we've all regrouped that I take the time to withdraw the manila envelope from the inside of my coat.

Gathering my spouse and children around me as though they were a brood of chicks, I slowly tear the envelope open and remove the delicate sheet of paper stored within. My three-year-old jumps up and down like a monkey, trying to make up for her short height so she can read what's written on the sheet. Never mind, she can't read very well yet, anyway. I gently push Rosalind down before I start reading aloud.

"Graduating with honors!" The last word comes out as a triumphant shout, and my kids simultaneously break into cheers. "That's my girl," I add, my smile stretched so wide my cheeks ache. "Everyone, come congratulate Demelza!" After this hearty exclamation, I wrap one arm around my second child and squeeze her in a hug.

Marion, who's on Demelza's other side, hugs her as well. Baby Rosalind leaps as high as she can go, so she can throw both arms around her tall sister's waist. She doesn't quite make it, but that's fine by me. Rachel gives Demelza the longest and tightest embrace. As for sweet Elizabeth, she's the last member of the family to reach her big sister's side. That doesn't deter her from hopping into Demelza's arms, getting lifted up so she's level with the older girl's brown face, and giving that face a big wet smack with her lips.

"Making all of us proud, Demi," Marion compliments her sister. Rachel's not done lavishing praise on the girl, either. "Let me give you a kiss," my wife offers, and she does, right on the mouth, making Demelza blush. "I knew you'd do it, sweetie."

"Well," the eighteen-year-old says bashfully, "I owe most of it to you, Mama." She and Rachel exchange smiles and fond caresses, then she turns to me, flings her arms around me, and kisses me gaily on the cheek. "You too, Papa," she adds with a light laugh, one of relief after years of toil and struggle. Well, I know she wasn't the only one who had to, for years, go at it alone.

Her hold on me's broken when Elizabeth indignantly marches up to her and yanks on the end of her sleeve. "Big Sis…" The seven-year-old's already whining. "What about us?" her three-year-old sister adds, in the same demanding tone.

Demelza just laughs. "Okay, Liz and Rosy, too!" she placates the smaller ones, picking each of them up and nuzzling them in turn. "No thanks to you, Mar," she throws in jokingly, with a glance over her shoulder at her eldest sister.

"Shut up," Marion shoots back, but she's also still smiling.

"I'm sure you won't get accepted to journalism school," Demelza pushes her further.

"Ladies." I hold out a hand, signaling for them to quit before it turns into something serious, as it usually does with them. "Don't peck at one another."

They regard me briefly before they obediently drop the subject and move on. Rachel watches over the two young ones while I listen for the station announcement that'll tell us when to approach the platform edge. Here it comes now. "Platform Three… the nine-twenty-two Marlebon Trains service to… District Twelve Undersee Square. Calling at…"

I give my wife a little nudge just in time for her to hear, "Please keep your belongings with you at all times." She turns her head in the direction of our four children, raising her voice and declaring, "The train to Twelve's here." Now she glances at me. "Let the older ones on board first, then we can drag those two kids on," she whispers.

I nod. I'm already bracing myself for when I'll have to pursue Rosalind. "There'll only be more little ones when we get to Mother's house," I remind my wife, but I try not to sound grudging. Gratitude's the appropriate feeling for this occasion, especially when it means our family's stayed together long enough that my wife and I can keep bringing new life into the world.

"Are we there yet?" our youngest demands to know. Her elbows are propped up on the table that separates our two seats. Her little legs dangle in the air, her tiny booted feet kicking impatiently.

I give her the same answer I gave a minute ago. "No," I tell her firmly.

Rosalind sulks. But the younger girls won't give up anytime soon. Elizabeth turns her head toward my wife and repeats her sister's question. "Are we there yet?"

Rachel smiles a little. Yet I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. "No, Lizzie," she tells our daughter.

Elizabeth turns to me this time. "Are we there…"

"Yes, we are," I say with pretend seriousness. "You want to jump off the train?"

The seven-year-old stares out the window at the dull farmland rolling by at over a hundred miles an hour. "No," she squeaks, her volume lowered considerably.

My wife relaxes in her seat and closes her eyes. "See how silly you are, girls?" I hear her mutter. "Let us rest for a while."

That won't placate Rosalind. "But how long does it take?" she bursts out.

"To get to Twelve is around three hours," I tell her.

She seems to sag where she's sitting, sinking deeper into the cushioned seat so that the fabric of her skirt bunches up and wrinkles. "Aw, man," she whines. Bored and with nothing else to do, she starts kicking at the table in front of her with the shiny toe of her boot.

The passenger across from us, a bespectacled man in his sixties, stares. I give him an apologetic glance and lift Rosalind by the waist so her booted foot descends below the edge of the table. She screams in protest at first, but calms and then starts to giggle when she sees her sister Elizabeth make funny faces at her.

Nearby, Demelza hides her laugh behind her hand.

I'm grateful for the disturbance. Means my wife and I can have a minute to ourselves. It doesn't last long, however, because within a few seconds an olive-skinned hand's pulling on the end of my sleeve. It's Elizabeth, asking for a favor. "Could I read your book?"

I stare at her in surprise. "You want it?" I push the heavy, dusty tome in her direction. "It belongs to your big sister." Elizabeth shrugs and takes it. Her green eyes skim the words LITTLE WOMEN printed on the front cover.

"Last time I touched that old thing was ten years ago," comments Marion. "How'd it even end?" She yawns before speaking again. "Did Jo and Laurie end up together?"

"No, they didn't," I tell her. "He proposed and she rejected him."

Demelza slaps her tray table in a show of outrage. "What! They were my favorite book couple. You're saying they were never a couple?"

"I heard he ended up marrying Amy," Marion chimes in. She thoughtfully taps on her chin with her finger. "It's like the author did it just out of spite. Like, all of us readers wanted Jo and Laurie to get together, so she was like, 'No.'"

I feel like laughing. "Mar," I say, "that's not what happened. That author knew a thing or two about love. Your 'favorite couple' were too alike. They both had a temper, they both wanted to go their own way, they were both as stubborn as Mr. Abernathy's geese. Fine for a pair of best friends, not ideal for two people starting a family." I look at Marion and Demelza in turn. "The author wrote that ending to teach a lesson to kids like you, who don't know the difference between love and a schoolboy crush."

My two grown daughters gape at me, taken aback by the admission that I spent hours reading Marion's book. "How do you know?" Demelza questions me. "You said you've only ever had one true love, our Mama."

I sneak a look at my wife. She's currently dropping off to sleep. Didn't catch a word of the exchange between me and Demelza.

Turning back to my daughters, I throw my hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Okay," I laugh, "I concede. You're right, I am the least romantic person alive."

Marion and Demelza trade smirks, then they go back to chattering mindlessly while the train whips past the picturesque hills of southern Panem and the inspector walks up and down the aisles.

Elizabeth wades through several overgrown patches of vegetation. Mud sticks to the bottoms of her shoes, emitting a loud sucking sound every time she takes a step. Her long dark hair swishes back and forth in the breeze. I watch her closely to ensure the hem of her dress isn't soiled. She still has a few hundred steps to go before she reaches Mother's front porch.

When she's about fifty steps in, I begin to hear distant honking and the flapping of wings. It's obvious who's making the noise. My stomach does somersaults. I drift closer to my daughter, prepared to scoop her up and carry her away.

"Hello!" Elizabeth chirps. An instant later, those uninvited guests move into my line of sight. Geese. A whole gaggle of them, emerging from behind Abernathy's house like a swarm of those nightmarish lizard mutts. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, but I refuse to let my fear show. I fought in multiple battles during the Second Rebellion, I can handle several of these bothersome birds.

Ever the adventurer, Elizabeth wanders so close to the terrifying winged creatures that I think about just snatching her up and running off with her. I have to restrain myself from doing it, knowing other people will see and assume I need a head doctor. My daughter stretches her hand toward one of the geese, and that's when they start to flap their wings aggressively and snap at her with their beaks. "Whoa…" She tries to back away, but that just encourages them to make chase.

Time for me to intervene. I swallow my terror, grit my teeth, and lurch toward the girl, sweeping her off her feet and lifting her out of range of those horrible beaks. "You do this every single time, Elizabeth," I chastise her. "Don't go too close, they'll think you came to steal their eggs."

I struggle to keep my voice from shaking. I must be at least partially successful, though, because the geese stop pursuing Elizabeth and switch to attacking me. I kick at them frantically while retreating. "Move!" I sputter out.

When enough of them back off, I don't hesitate. I clear out of there at the fastest speed I can manage without losing my last shred of dignity.

All the thirty or so people in the room simultaneously raise their wineglasses. "We're all together again," announces Mother happily. "Just in time for the harvest festival."

Cheers erupt from the crowd gathered around the wooden table. "Let's drink to that," suggests Vick. He throws an arm around my shoulder and leans into me as though we were young boys again, not middle-aged men with wives and children. I return the affectionate gesture by squeezing him tight.

"Yeah!" Vick's wife offers her enthusiastic support. The wineglasses all meet at the center of the table with a hearty clink, then we all start to feast.

If memory serves me right, Posy's daughter should be entering the new junior arts high school this fall. She's won local awards for her watercolor paintings, and Posy thinks she can make a career out of what started as a hobby. That's impressive. Far better than anything I could've achieved at her age. In that era, making a living from artistic pursuits with no supplementary income was a pipe dream reserved solely for winners of the Games.

I've no desire to think further about that abomination, so I switch subjects while talking to my young niece. "And you're turning twelve this year," I point out. "Didn't expect you to be taller than me." It's true, she towers above the others in the room at almost six feet two inches.

Posy bursts into a laugh. "She didn't get that from me, that's for sure."

"Her grandfather," I suggest hastily, before the only other option can be considered. No use bringing up a long-since-faded stain on Posy's past on this happiest of days.

My younger sister nods gratefully. "Yeah," she agrees.

Her daughter smiles and starts talking about how eager she is for the new school year to begin. I stop listening after a few beats. Not because I don't care what my niece is doing, but because I just need a minute to process how miraculous this gathering is. All three of my grown siblings, their children, and my brothers' wives are here. So are my mother, my wife, Marion, Demelza, Elizabeth, and Rosalind. Now the twin babies Rory and his wife just had are kicking and squealing on the living room floor, looked after by their mama, while Rory sits contentedly on the sofa chatting with Vick, who's positioned his six-year-old daughter on his lap. Across from them, Vick's wife nurses her year-old son and stares lovingly at the two infants on the carpet.

In the kitchen, my wife and I remain seated around the table, exchanging conversation with Posy and her kid. Mother's busy attending to the leftovers the children refused. Marion holds a restless, still-hungry Rosalind in her arms and stands off to the side talking to Demelza, who grips the hand of an equally squirmy Elizabeth.

My eyes wander to my second-youngest and stay there when I realize she's about to be approached by Rory's son, that freckle-faced ten-year-old whose middle name may as well be 'Mischief'. I'm contemplating stepping in on Elizabeth's behalf once more when I'm startled by soft fingers touching my hand. It's my sister, addressing me directly.

"I'm happy for your family," she says. She gestures to my adult daughters. "Mar and Demi are living better lives than we ever did."

I'm about to smile and say I think so, too. But just then Mother glances up from her chores and cuts in. "They wouldn't be," she declares loudly, "if we didn't make all those sacrifices for the sake of the war."

I want to groan. "Mother, you needn't mention that awful time every single year. Do as the rest of the world's doing and lay it to rest."

She lets out a huff and slams the dish in her hands back on the countertop. "Young ones these days," she mutters, shaking her head. "They'll preserve nothing for posterity." I think I hear a note of anger in her voice, but I can't be too sure.

To relieve the tension, I force a laugh. "Young? I'm forty." I make a little gesture with my hand, pointing out the graying hair at my temples. "If I still lived here, I'd be a decade or two away from planning my burial."

Now my wife chimes in. "Stop speaking like a pessimist," she chastises gently. "Times have changed. This district's more prosperous now. They'd say Mama-in-law's still middle-aged."

My mother's fifty-nine. I study Rachel's face to see if she's joking. Posy also does a double take.

"Don't change the subject, you two," Mother interjects. She fixes me with one of her hard stares. "I still scratch my head when I think about how eager you are to forget your own heroism during 'that time'. It's a disgrace to the same military that liberated our nation. It's unpatriotic."

With how forcefully she's gripping the wooden spoon in her hand, one would think she wants to hurl it at me. I just shrug and say nothing in response. No use starting an argument with the woman who brought me and my brothers up and took care of Posy single-handedly.

My sister speaks up in my defense. "No, I think he's too humble, that's all."

"Well," Mother retorts, still staring me down, "it's high time you lay that humility aside. Accept the award you've been nominated for, should you win, and I know you'll win. And do it with pride!" She waggles a finger in front of my face for emphasis. "If not for your own sake, then for the sake of the nation."

"Mother," I say coolly, "I've no idea what award you're referring to."

Posy does another double take. Now even my sister's affected by my indifference. "She means the Presidential Medal," Posy hurries to clarify. "The highest honor anyone could receive in Panem." Her tone's almost as wheedlesome as George's. "Don't you care about your future? With this medal, you'd get Platinum Status in the Panem Film Institute, instead of just Gold."

"And you think I asked for that?" I try to sound as bored as possible. "My wife was the one who told me to apply."

I'm aware of my heart speeding up. But not from exhilaration or delight. I'm actually petrified. Scared stiff that I'll really be handed that award, and be forced into a position where I'll have to reveal to the entire country the whole truth of what I did during the war. It's why I've made up my mind to refuse, and persist in that refusal.

Mother grudgingly surrenders. The end of the wooden spoon smacks loudly against the countertop. "You have no idea," she mutters. "The effect you had on this country."

"I'll believe it," I almost concede, "if one of you can say why Katniss Everdeen got passed over."

Rory, who was probably listening this entire time, pokes his head in the kitchen and says his piece. Complete and utter disdain seeps through in his voice. "Easy. No one wants to give an award to a shell-shocked lunatic. Especially not one who couldn't get her life back together after the war."

A noxious, yet familiar, emotion flares to life inside me. My palm collides with the surface of the table. I look up, rage disturbing the calm expression on my face. "Watch your mouth about her, Rory," I warn him, my voice low but threatening. "You didn't know her half as well as I did."

"I know enough," snaps Rory. He seems almost offended that I'm speaking favorably of the former Mockingjay. He curls his lip with contempt. "I know she was ungrateful for what you did for her, and turned you down in favor of that pasty dough-boy."

My scowl deepens. "You watch your mouth about Mellark, too."

The freckle-faced ten-year-old menace sticks his head in as well, joining his father. "You're defending him now, Uncle?" Nathaniel practically interrogates me. "He didn't even shoot from a real gun during the war, just one loaded with blanks. Pretty sad, I'll say."

"You never went to fight a day in your life," I remind him. "I did. Mellark's a hundred times the man I was."

It's Rory's turn to unleash his fury on me. "Are ya serious?" he nearly shouts. "You're my big brother, the one I looked up to my whole life, and you're saying this shit now?" As if it's too much to even maintain eye contact, he averts his gaze before opening his mouth again. "I tell you, that right there wasn't just an insult to yourself. It was an insult to all the men and women who fought for a new Panem." He spits in my direction and looks up again to glare at me. "You don't deserve this country."

Sensing that a physical brawl's brewing, Mother quickly steps in front of my brother, blocking the path leading him to me. "That's quite enough, boys," she scolds.

Rachel, Marion, Demelza, the younger girls, Posy, and her kid all stare at me worriedly. Like they're afraid I might snap at any moment. Rory's the one they should keep an eye on, I think.

"I still stand by what I said," my younger brother practically snarls at me. He does his best to twist around Mother's bulky form so he can keep glaring at me. "You and I can agree on one thing. You shouldn't accept that award."

He turns around and, with a huff, makes his exit, his son tailing him like a newly weaned wolf pup.

The puff pastries topped with strawberries, chocolate-covered éclairs, and gooseberry tarts look extra scrumptious from this side of the glass case. The Mellarks' bakery hasn't stopped producing the best of the best in the food business. At some point they began boosting their sales by adding espresso drinks, smoothies, and sandwiches to their menu. Well, Peeta's always been a clever strategist. I gaze admiringly at the desserts he decorated while holding Rosalind at the waist with one arm.

"Which pastry you want, Rose? The one with the cream filling?" With my free hand, I point to some of the bread rolls on display, as if suggesting what the three-year-old should eat. Rosalind giggles and holds on tight to my coat. "Looks delicious," I go on, patting her head and smoothing her silky blond hair with my palm.

Rosalind starts to slap at the glass with both hands. She opens her mouth wide enough that her molars are visible, then leans forward until that mouth smacks the barrier between her and the treats. I reflexively pull her back, wiping her lips forcefully with my sleeve to get rid of all the bacteria. "No, don't lick the glass," I chide her. "Look at those thumbprints. Filthier than a sewer."

Footsteps patter in from the back area. A girl, about twelve years old with shiny dark hair and lustrous blue eyes, wanders within view of the counter and sees me and Rosalind. Too young to be a bakery employee. Perhaps the owner's sister, niece, or daughter. Her entire face seems to glow when she recognizes me. "Excuse me," she pipes. "Are you Mr. Hawthorne?"

The corners of her mouth twist up, like she just can't help smiling at the sight of me. I don't understand it, but I'll give her what she wants. "I am," I say simply. "How could you tell?"

The little girl laughs like I just told a stupidly funny joke. "What do you mean, 'how could you tell'? Everybody in town knows you got nominated for that award. We're all really proud." She grins and sticks out her hand, inviting me to shake it. "Thank you for your service."

I take the small, pale hand and give it a hesitant squeeze. "You're very welcome," I tell her in as kindly a tone as I can manage. "Say it to your mama as well."

I have, in fact, worked out who she is. She's the daughter of the owner, who's none other than Peeta Mellark, who is himself the husband of one Katniss Mellark, maiden name Everdeen. The Mockingjay at whose side I fought all those years ago.

Twelve-year-old Willow playfully extends her tongue to me, not in the hostile way my second-eldest daughter used to do when she was eight. Before I can say anything more to her, a door bangs shut in the back, a clatter ensues, and two sets of footsteps begin slapping the floor chaotically. "I'm still hungry…" The plaintive whine belongs to a toddler.

Those words have the effect of a lightning bolt on Willow. Her whole body's energized and she whirls around, so she can look at her two favorite people in the world. "There's Daddy!" she crows. "And that's my baby brother Rye." She points to the squirming, red-faced two-year-old currently wrestling with his father, the baker, then she gives an energetic wave. "Hi, Rye-ly!" she squeals.

The little boy abandons the wrestling match and focuses all his attention on his sweet sister. "Will-a!" he babbles, clapping his hands with the vigor of Effie Trinket applauding a Capitol fashion show.

Poor Peeta's been driven to exhaustion by his son. He plants the kid firmly on his butt on the counter, then moves to check the inventory, completely ignoring his daughter as she goes on with her show of affection for her brother. "Isn't he the sweetest thing!" she baby-talks. "Aren't you? Yes, you are. Yes, you are!"

"Wills," interrupts Peeta, "don't get him riled up. He needs to start taking his nap before Mama comes to pick him up."

He's still stacking the containers full of sugar and flour, not even looking his daughter's way. In response to getting blown off, Willow crosses her arms and puckers her mouth, and in that instant, she shows me a side of her that's probably rarely seen. "Okay, Daddy," she says peevishly.

Peeta eventually gets his task done, and then his body relaxes. He straightens and sops up the sweat on his brow with a dishcloth. Then he turns and spots me at the counter, Rosalind still in my arms. "Gale. What a surprise," he says. His tone's pleasant and he's smiling at me. "You were last in here, how many years ago?"

It's been nearly ten years. But I don't say that. "Too long," is all I tell him.

"Yeah." Peeta maintains his friendly smile as he gestures to my toddler. "And now you've got another little duckling."

"Two," I tell him. "This one's Rosalind." I indicate her with a jerk of my head, and she just stares back at Peeta with her wide gray eyes. "Her sister Elizabeth's with the rest of the clan," I add.

"And where's little Giulia?" Peeta asks.

An innocent question, but one that feels like a puncture to my heart. "The, uh, grass is green above her," I manage to sputter after a few seconds.

"Oh." The joy melts from Peeta's face. "I'm so very sorry."

"The more years go by, the duller the pain." I keep my tone vague on purpose. I may have matured over two decades, but I suspect I'll never feel wholly comfortable opening up to this man in particular. "Could you get us that tart?" I ask, hurrying to change the subject while pointing to a random delicacy.

"Sure," Peeta responds, his smile easing its way back onto his face. With deft fingers, he tugs on a pair of disposable gloves, retrieves the lemon tart from the glass case, and arranges it neatly within a palm-sized, cream-colored box with gold trim.

"So. You're up for a Presidential Medal," Peeta says as a way of making conversation. "No man in Panem deserves it more." He states this as though it were a fact, then casually moves to the register to ring up the item.

I hide my discomfort with a wry chuckle. "You've met my competition, huh?"

"Daddy," little Willow suddenly butts in, "why isn't he thanking you?" She alternates between staring at me and gazing at her father. "You nominated him," she reminds Peeta.

"There you are," Peeta says to me, handing me the box with the tart in it. Rosalind eagerly snatches it before I can.

I'm temporarily struck dumb. Of all people, the man in front of me was the one to suggest I get a medal? I can hardly believe what I just heard from Willow. "She telling me the truth?" I demand to know from her father.

"Course she is," Peeta tells me, still beaming as though nothing's wrong. "No need to even look at your competition."

"You saved Daddy's life when you busted him out of the Capitol," Willow reminds me, clearly so she can back Peeta up.

"As well as the lives of our neighbors," continues Peeta, "when you led them past the fence before the bombs fell. When they asked me for a nomination, I had just one name in mind."

He and his daughter look so sure in their belief that I'm one of the greatest heroes alive. Would it be morally wrong for me to shatter that illusion for them? Would it hurt more than help them? Or perhaps I wouldn't have to. Perhaps if I could find a way to cancel my nomination, I could avoid such a fiasco in the first place.

So I try my best to mimic the wheedlesome way George likes to speak. "You'll find it hard to believe," I say to Peeta, "but I can conjure up a few names other than my own. So if you could pull mine out of the bowl and let me give the honor to someone who wants it…"

The kindly-faced baker doesn't even let me finish. "Bit too late to do that," he says, that infuriating smile of his still plastered on his face. "You could take it up with the local council. I'm sorry, Gale." I know he isn't the least bit sorry.

"He is very humble," Willow tells her papa. I can hear the admiration in her voice.

"You're right," says Peeta. "Want to help me in the back, Willow?" He's already turning away from the counter and resuming his work with the stocked items in the bakery, forgetting all about me.

"Yeah," chirps Willow, as she hurries to join her favorite person.

Nearby, spit's dribbling from little Rye's mouth, so Peeta hands the dirty dishcloth to his daughter and tells her to attend to the kid. All three are preoccupied now. There's no chance I can persuade them to take back the nomination. All I can do is humbly accept defeat, turn around, and walk out the door.

I glance briefly at Rosalind. The three-year-old mischief maker's already ripping the lid off the box with the tart in it. I decide to just let her.

Three weeks have gone by. I'm at the studio doing my interview with a Capitol-based radio station, I forget the name of it, not that it really matters. The space where they do most of their recording is compact and dimly lit, with soundproof walls and a reliable velvet curtain that hangs over the narrow entrance, absorbing all the white noise leaking through.

I feel like diving behind that curtain and scurrying off. I never wanted to do the interview, yet the Panem Film Institute ordered me to accept the call from the station, so I'd be able to speak live on air about the nomination for the Presidential Medal.

At first my reply was an emphatic no. Then Rachel heard of it and advised me to just get it over with. It's why I'm sitting here now, when I'd rather be in the classroom with the second-year film students. This interview being over with can't come quickly enough.

The host is a portly man with waxy orange hair that somewhat resembles windblown stalks of hay. A gaudy tattoo depicting a butterfly covers one fleshy eyelid. His magenta lips stretch into a creepy grin as he babbles into the mic. "Thanks so much for joining us. We are back from the break. I'm your host Troilus Andronicus and with me is former Soldier Gale Hawthorne, now a renowned filmmaker, member of the Panem Film Institute, and Teacher of the Year at Messalla Academy of the Arts. An altogether illustrious career, if I do say so myself."

He aims his scary grin at me before continuing. "Demonstrating quite the turnaround from the attitude they say he used to have," he says lightheartedly, "in which he 'wasn't the least bit willing to smile and play nice for the cameras'." Air quotes for emphasis.

Andronicus punctuates that sentiment with a chuckle. "Well, Mr. Hawthorne, we can only be grateful for your change of heart. Otherwise we'd have been robbed of so many amazing films. Now could you tell us when it was that you first began to enjoy getting behind the camera? Or even getting in front of it?"

"Tough to say," I answer vaguely. For a moment, I allow my eyes to wander. They settle on a few old movie posters immortalized within gold frames, stacked upright in a neat row behind Andronicus. Posters crafted for movies I directed. One's the dreamlike, semi-autobiographical I Was Only Nineteen. The second, the unfathomably bleak Capitol Lapdogs, Do You Want to Live Forever? The third, the one hailed by critics as the greatest war film of the century and "one of the most devastating films ever about anything", the tour de force of insanity and violence called Didn't I Tell You Not to Dig?

Hard to believe I was responsible for all three award-winning motion pictures. But the inspiration didn't come from a vacuum. It came from an incredible person in my life. "In the beginning," I start, "if it'd just been me, I'd have quit. But as you know, I was asked to fill in as Cressida Trojan's assistant, and she had more talent in her thumb than I could muster in my whole career."

An image of the Star Squad's illustrious director pervades my memory. With it comes the dull ache of knowing she passed from late-stage cancer.

Andronicus, meanwhile, has got his mind elsewhere. He's not thinking of the loss of Cressida, but of my accomplishments. "There you go again, knocking yourself down a few pegs," he remarks, shaking his head. "I wonder, if we were to announce on air that you beat out the other nominees for the Presidential Medal, would you crack a smile?"

The neutral expression on my face doesn't shift. "I usually don't smile at all," I remind the host.

"You don't," Andronicus agrees. "But that's beside the point. Going back to Cressida Trojan, your mentor, God rest her soul. How'd she get an ex-soldier to warm up to the idea of an artistic career?"

Now here's something I'd be eager to discuss. Anything to put the spotlight on my late teacher. "Well," I tell the host, "it was shortly after her diagnosis. She was bedridden by then. I was one of the last to see her. She asked me to finish the project for her, and it was one of those requests you just can't refuse."

"No. You can't," Andronicus backs me up. He leans in closer, like we're intimate friends. So close, in fact, that I can see where his makeup's flaking. "But it must've been a burden at the start," he says sympathetically. "Was it?"

"Yes," I admit.

Much to my relief, Andronicus doesn't press me for details. Instead he transitions to a different topic. "When did your feelings start to change? When did you start to love getting up in the morning to do what you do?"

I give a noncommittal shrug. "Don't know," I get out. "I was slaving away at the project, trying hard to complete it, when a realization sort of… crept up on me. I was doing what Cressida had always done, sitting people in front of the camera, trying to get them to talk, to open up and be honest, so the whole country could see them for who they truly were. So we could prove the Capitol's lies about them wrong."

Andronicus just sits back in his chair and nods at my words. Confident that he won't interrupt, I go on. "That was when I realized… I'd been wrong. About the camera."

"Oh." The host blinks in surprise. "How so?"

"I learned," I tell him, "that it isn't inherently evil. What the Capitol used to do with it, that was evil. They'd snatch our kids from their homes. Hurl them in a life or death situation. Make them cry and beg for their lives, and then finally expose them in front of the world for laughs. That was evil. Yet, just as the camera could be used to expose someone, it could also be used to… I don't know." I start to gesticulate with my hands, trying to pluck my point out of thin air. "Shine a light," I finally say. "On someone who desperately wants their story told."

"Like the people you rescued?" I just stare stupidly at Andronicus for a few seconds, having no clue what he just referred to. Awkwardly, he clears his throat to fill the silence, then makes a clarification. "The people of District Twelve?"

"Oh, yeah." How could I have forgotten? Those were my own next-door neighbors. "I was thinking of District Two, where I live now," I say in a hurry, trying to clear up the confusion. "The former quarry workers, former miners, and even ex-Peacekeepers. The stories I heard from those who'd lived through the bombing of the Nut -"

I correct myself just in time. "I mean," I stutter, "the Capitol military base in Two."

Andronicus nods solemnly. He's being generous to me. Must've been told how abysmal my interview skills are. "We remember," he says. "Many of those stories were quite gruesome, I imagine."

"They were." Hopefully he doesn't ask me to elaborate.

"Which one was the most harrowing? You could give us a hint." Shit. So he does want me to fill in the blanks for the unsuspecting listeners. My temper rises before I'm fully aware of what I'm feeling.

"That's what you want?" I almost snap. "To hear that a sixteen-year-old found out her sister was dead after seeing her headless body in a pile?"

"Alright, alright. Spare us those details." Andronicus lifts his left hand to form something like a shield over his face, protecting himself from my righteous anger.

Silence falls over the studio once more. Slowly, I simmer down. It'll take me a minute to form words again. Luckily, Andronicus knows what to say in these quieter moments. "Is this why you have to be convinced of your own heroism during the rebellion?" he asks, somewhat jokingly.

"Partly." It comes out as little more than a grunt.

"You were indispensable in creating the new Panem," the radio host reminds me. "And as someone who benefits from this new regime, I feel it's just right to say 'thank you'."

I can't decide how to respond because over a hundred people have expressed that same sentiment to me. "I can only say 'you're welcome' so many times," I finally get out. "But you're welcome." A sudden impulse seizes me and I blurt out this next question. "Now tell me, would you sacrifice your little boy for the same outcome?"

Andronicus jerks back in his seat. "What kind of question's that?" he demands to know, sounding at once outraged and terrified.

By comparison, my tone's steady. "Just trying to get across that some sacrifices aren't worth it."

Andronicus must sense that something's wrong. He thinks it's just post-traumatic stress, so he assumes the demeanor of a head doctor soothing a patient. "It's alright. Stay calm," he says in a hushed voice. "We all know you took several lives during the war."

Now's my chance to backtrack. My chance to agree with Andronicus and chalk my reaction up to the memories of a few necessary killings. The deaths of soldiers armed with guns, to be precise. Not the sin I actually committed. But I won't retreat now. I feel as though a dam just broke inside me, and the words at my lips are like the waves of foamy water about to spew forth.

"'Several' implies four or five," I point out to Andronicus. "The actual figure's much higher than that."

"Hey. It's alright." The host wears a placating expression. He still doesn't get it. "I know a guy who piloted a fighter jet who killed fifty," he prattles on. "It's no big deal. Just a normal part of warfare."

Then he has the audacity to laugh. My anger bubbles over, and I don't try to put a lid on it, mostly because I know it's appropriate in this context. I interrupt the host with a voice hard as bricks. "Shooting down other soldiers, maybe. Gunning for children? No."

Andronicus quits laughing at once. "Could you elaborate?"

There it is. The invitation to say more that can't possibly be denied. Pinpricks of fear lodge themselves in my throat, as though a live porcupine were trying to wiggle its way through. I suddenly find it hard to swallow. Yet it'd be impossible not to speak.

"Won't spare you these details." I give a small cough before I go on. "On the day the Capitol fell, but before it actually fell, President Snow sent some children to stand in front of the mansion. To, essentially, be a human shield. I was on the front lines. I saw them."

Andronicus nods along to my words. I'm amazed at how steady my voice still is. Won't be that way for long.

I inhale deeply, then exhale before I continue. "There were about two hundred. All looked scared. Some had frostbite. I watched them to see what would happen next. Then the hovercraft came."

Another nod from Andronicus. I steel myself, then go on.

"It dropped all these parachutes down on the kids. Even in that chaos, the children knew what the parachutes held. Food, medicine, gifts. I saw them pick the containers up. They struggled to untie the strings. The hovercraft vanished, twenty seconds went by," and here I pause, before adding with a quiver in my voice, "then about half of the parachutes blew up."

Andronicus' mouth parts slightly. I can suddenly feel my fingers quaking, like brittle twigs about to snap off a bough in the wind. "You can imagine how red the snow was that day," I go on, my voice strained.

I keep my eyes on the host, so I can examine his reaction. The man's stupefied, but he's for the most part able to hide it. Probably a technique honed over years of watching the Hunger Games. "What happened next?" he wants to know.

"Little hard to remember. I was caught off guard. Medics from both sides ran in to help the wounded. Would've been a touching scene, if not for one little detail." My breaths start to hitch in my throat. "What the medics didn't know was that some of the bombs had been delayed. On purpose."

Both of Andronicus' bushy eyebrows go up.

"They'd been slowed down long enough," I manage to get out, "that they went off… just as the rescuers reached the victims."

No need to explain. The stretch of emptiness within the following seconds says it all. Andronicus, meanwhile, can only listen. He's momentarily robbed of speech.

"I remember watching that," he says at last. "It was on television. I was shell shocked."

"So was I, Mr. Andronicus. But…" Now comes the moment of truth. I steel myself to make my confession. Yet, as the words teeter at the edge of my mouth, I find that it's easier than I imagined, and it also feels strangely freeing. "I had no right to be," I finish. "Because… I was the one who designed those bombs."

Total silence. Andronicus eyeballs me while remaining still. As for me, I feel lighter than a feather drifting on the wind. I don't think I'd be able to explain why.

"You did?" the radio host finally sputters.

Tears should flood my eyes. I should experience a complete mental meltdown, the way I did the night Marion and Demelza read Little Women to me. Instead I'm fully composed. Fully at peace. Ironic, given the subject matter. "I didn't think I'd have to repeat that," I say dryly. "I came up with the idea for the bombs, Mr. Andronicus. I committed a war crime."

The radio host seems unsure how to reply. I have a mad thought that maybe he thinks I'm a psychopath. Finally, he squeezes a few words out. "Don't be too hard on yourself," he attempts to soothe. "You were very young. Perhaps your judgment was clouded by lingering trauma…"

I now have the urge to laugh, inappropriate as it is. "Don't make excuses for me, Mr. Andronicus. I knew what I was doing. I was told my idea might be used on children, but I was too angry to care."

Andronicus won't lose hope. "We've all been overcome by anger at times," he says with too much generosity.

"Not like this," I contradict. "I'd had months to reconsider wanting to kill everyone in the Capitol." It's true. Can never be anything but true. How many opportunities were there for me to say no? "I wasn't just overcome by emotion, Mr. Andronicus. I sinned against the people I was meant to protect. I killed those children."

There. I'm saying it out loud. The act of voicing it for everyone to hear makes the weight of the revelation that much heavier. And yet I feel completely, totally at ease.

It's why I find it bearable to say to Andronicus, "Nothing I could do in a hundred lifetimes could make up for what I did."

What's hilarious is, Andronicus looks more traumatized than I feel. "So you don't think you should get the Presidential Medal?" is all he has to say.

"No." I pronounce the word plainly, devoid of any underlying connotations. There's no despair in my voice, no lingering self-reproach. All that's there is a bare statement of fact, that I'm unworthy of such a distinction. "To the people of Panem, especially Peeta Mellark," I say, "thank you for the nomination."

The chair beneath me squeaks loudly as I push it back and get up. "I don't deserve that award."

I shove the velvet curtain aside and exit the booth, leaving a flabbergasted radio host behind.

AN: Thanks to Nicholas Wilde for beta-ing. By the way, Gale is wrong (and Marion is right) about Alcott's reason for not having Jo marry Laurie in Little Women. Also, the quoted review of "Gale's" most famous film is actually a reference to a real review of the real war movie that inspired the title.