Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Katniss

Where I'm standing, there's a flock of little birds facing me. Their eyes alert, their faces bright, their movements identical as they stand tilted slightly forward, like they're waiting to take off into the sky. When I look at them, I can't look too closely. Otherwise I'll start thinking of my old friend Rue, or my sister Prim.

These aren't actual birds, of course. Just a bunch of rosy-cheeked children. Ten to twelve years old, the age group I normally teach. They cluster together on the risers and try to resist the impulse to stomp their feet on the metal. "Who knows the valley song?" I challenge them. Won't be long before the kids start competing to get picked.

"Me!" the high-pitched voices call out, simultaneously. They remind me, in some way, of the overexcited Careers who'd lunge forward to volunteer for the Games. Just less ghastly. They couldn't be Careers, anyway, because like me, they're all from Twelve. A mixture of Seam kids with dark hair and olive skin, and blue-eyed, blond-haired, merchant-class children.

To me, though, they're almost all the same. All descendants of the survivors of that terrible war. "You in the first row," I say to one of them, pointing directly at her. "Is your name Vanity?"

"Verity," she says proudly. She's a short, chubby girl with brown hair in two tails. Her grin makes the dimples in her plump cheeks stand out.

"Ah, that's right," I say cheerfully. Easy to keep the frown off my face, working with these cute kids. "Well, come on down and sing for us," I encourage the girl, and she does.

I sit myself in front of the piano, hoping I've got the notes memorized. I can't play while staring at a music sheet. When I'm tapping them out on an instrument, the notes have to come straight from the heart. Any other way, and it'll sound more artificial than the pop songs recorded in the Capitol.

Course, there was no need for me to worry. All the songs my father taught me are practically emblazoned on my brain. They flow through my subconscious and into my fingertips, released by the keys of the old piano. I'm so lost in the music I'm creating, I almost forget we're here to listen to Verity sing. Her voice is high, clear, and sweet, like a mockingjay's. Almost as pleasant to the ear as Daddy's.

Almost.

When Verity finishes, a hush falls over the music room. I have to be the one to break the spell. "That was just stunning," I compliment the girl, and she smiles. The kids start to clap, but I feel it's not enough. "Children, give her another round of applause," I instruct them.

Now the floodgates are opened. The halfhearted claps turn into cheers. "Wooh!" one little boy hollers, his hands cupped around his mouth. I look again at Verity, and she's beaming from ear to ear.

This is why I started teaching kids.

The bronze plaque on the brick wall reads, DISTRICT 12 ACADEMY OF MUSIC. I stare at it as I wait for the kids to disperse, and for my next class to begin. The bell will go off again in four minutes. I'm still standing in the same place when a finger lightly taps me on the arm. "Um, excuse me," I hear a high, reedy voice say. My eyes go to its source.

Nestled up next to me is a child, a girl no more than eight or nine years old. Not someone from my class. Too young. But I indulge her anyway. "Yes, sweetheart?"

"Are you going to the harvest festival with us?" she asks excitedly. Her hazel eyes twinkle as she looks up at me. "You have the most amazing voice. You should sing for the Capitol people."

I go frozen for a moment, suddenly aware that my stomach's churning.

More than ten years have passed. I shouldn't feel so sick at the idea of a public performance. But what I suspect is, no matter how many years sandwich themselves in between the present Katniss and the manipulated, abused, silenced Mockingjay, I'll always associate the word Capitol with everything I hate. Not that I can admit this to the kids, or my coworkers.

So this is how I reply to the little girl. "Well… I'm sorry. I can't."

I hope my expression's appropriately sheepish. I'm not sure I fooled the child, though. She looks at once crushed and offended. "Why not?" she inquires.

Think, I tell myself silently. Come up with a suitable excuse. But my husband isn't here to help, and I've never been particularly good with words. What I manage to stammer out is, "I… have another event to attend."

The girl's curiosity doesn't let up. "Which is?" she demands to know.

Here is where I'd lie. Let the little chatterbox believe I'll be somewhere else, and hope word doesn't somehow spread to my boss. Then my eyes land on a single piece of paper tacked to the board next to the wall. PANEM COMMISSION FOR ARTS EDUCATION, the bold-faced text reads. Without thinking, I snatch the sheet of paper from the board and hold it up before the child's eyes.

"This, sweetheart," I tell her. To embellish my story, I add more. "It's very important that I show up. They're looking for music teachers."

"But…" The girl's already starting to protest. "Ms. Collins is already going–!"

I shut her up by raising a finger to my lips. "Sorry, little one," I say. One consoling pat to the head later, I'm ready to walk back into the classroom and close the door.

The child doesn't let it go. "Please, Mrs. Mellark?" she begs.

My answer's a quick shake of my head. "No," I say with finality, and it's when the girl's begun to retreat down the hallway that the warning bell finally rings.

"Papa, Papa!" Our two-year-old, Willow, bounces in place like a miniature compressed spring, trying with all her might to get Peeta to notice her. The skirt of the blue gingham dress he picked out for her billows in the air, like the fabric of a tent in the wind. This is her favorite time of day, when my husband lets her sample the sugary cakes he's made in his bakery. Maybe she gets too much sugar per day. But I don't mind. After a lifetime of bitter feelings, I wish I could absorb some of that sweetness.

"Wait your turn, Wills," Peeta coaches our girl. He holds out a hand as if to warn her off, and with that, her rapid-fire bouncing slows noticeably. He lets me try the bite of cake first, and I savor the explosion of flavor in my mouth. Then Willow receives her piece. She chews with her mouth partially open, smacking her lips loudly and rudely. That's something Peeta's trying to get her to stop. I think it's hilarious.

Now my husband's looking at me, and it's odd how there's none of his usual mirth in his eyes. "It's been more than ten years," he reminds me. "I think you could start venturing out a little." I know what he means. The shadow of the war no longer looms over us. The barrier between the districts and the Capitol should've been torn down. Why can't I step beyond my boundaries and sing out loud, as that child wanted me to do?

I let the bite of cake slide down my throat before I speak. The feeling's unpleasant, but not because Peeta isn't a skilled baker. He is. It's the reminder that everyone still has unrealistic expectations of me, long after I shed the wings of the Mockingjay. "I'm fine with being seen as a hermit, thanks," I tell Peeta. Even he can't convince me to sing for a Capitol audience.

But it doesn't mean he won't try. I attempt to distract him by putting the focus on our riotous daughter. I bend down next to her and wipe the cream and cake crumbs from her mouth and chin, then I start to pick her up. "Papa…" She stretches out a hand toward Peeta.

"No, Willow," he says coaxingly. "Go with Mama."

For a second, her face crumples and tears dampen her blue eyes. I run my hand over the top of her head, smoothing out her dark brown hair. She relaxes at my touch and leans into my chest, her separation anxiety forgotten. For now. On the days when Peeta's shop closes late, leaving me to care for Willow by myself, this usually happens.

My husband hasn't forgotten the dispute over my absence from the festival. "You may be okay with it, but the Board of Education won't be," he warns me.

"To hell with them," I say bluntly.

Peeta smiles a little. But the tension remains in his eyes. "If you insist. But now that you've said you're attending that conference thing, you've got no excuse to miss it."

I let out an annoyed grunt. "Peeta, I do this for a living. I bounce around from obligation to obligation like a puppet on strings. It's what the Mockingjay's good at."

The magic word is what does it. Once he's reminded again of the trauma he was put through, Peeta softens and decides to let me win. "I'm sorry, Katniss," he says. I don't answer, so he goes on. "I mean it. Sometimes you just have to endure. It's not like it's for me. It's for the sake of the job you actually love."

"Okay," I say. "Now you're getting through to me." I actually feel a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. Peeta always knows what to say in any situation. When I imagine myself showing up at that conference, it doesn't fill me with as much foreboding. Yeah, I think I could tolerate the presence of the Capitol folks, for the sake of those sweet children I teach.

"I'll see you at home," Peeta says, waving me off. "Bye, Wills!" Our daughter squeals in response and smiles at him with all her teeth, before I carry her out the door. I can't believe I ever said I wouldn't have kids. I guess I had doubts about my mothering skills, but now I believe Willow when she says she loves me. It seems when I'm with Peeta and I can lean on him, just about anything's possible.

Gale

It's the day these twelve-year-olds have all been waiting for. The day I finally start loaning out the professional cameras, stabilizers, and lenses. Each piece of equipment costs more than fifteen thousand. I don't know if it'd be wiser to tell the kids this, or to keep the fact hidden. In the end, I hand each of them a form and tell them it'd better come back signed by their parents the next day. Or else I won't let them take their gear home. I don't want the school breathing down my neck over the smallest bit of damage.

Speaking of damage, the wound on my hand's healed now. In the two weeks since Demelza inflicted it, it's closed up neatly, leaving only a couple of shallow puncture marks. The students never asked about it. Nor did they say anything about the angry welts on my cheek. Either they don't want to be a bother, or they assume I was the loser who started that Tuesday-night bar brawl. Well, if the second option's correct, it's still better than having to tell them I can't control my eight-year-old daughter.

I keep my anger relegated to the back of my mind. I can't think of Demelza while I'm at work. Now's the time to assist each small group of students while they shoot. "Jennifer, you're doing really well," I tell her. "You're going to be first in line to get the boom mic."

She pauses in the middle of adjusting her tripod. Her whole face glows after I give her this praise. "Swell," she says with a noticeable grin. "Thanks, Mr. Hawthorne."

"You keep up the good work. A Castor Award just might be in your future," I say. Jennifer doesn't look at me again, but I see her hold her hand over her mouth. Most likely because she's wearing a big smile, and she's too mortified to let the others see. Paula's one of the people in her group. That little show-off gets envious easily.

There's a high-pitched ringing from the opposite wall. It grabs my attention. I step around a couple of mounted cameras and dodge Lenny, who's striking a ridiculous pose, to get to the telephone. "Hello?" I shout into the handset.

"This the Department of Film Studies?" the voice on the other end demands. "I need to reach the chair."

"You're speaking to him," I say, not missing a beat.

"Alright. Stupendous." I recognize this guy's voice. It's Professor George, that elitist from the university in District One. When we first met, he had a whole arsenal of "Twelver-accent" jokes ready. He even mimicked me, and in front of my wife at that. He's lucky I didn't put him in a chokehold. "Well," he continues in that awful nasal voice, "I take it you already know about the upcoming Commission for Arts Education."

"I do," I say curtly.

"And that you're required to attend," he drawls on.

"I'll be there," I reassure him.

He sounds pleased. "Fantastic." Then, out of the blue, he hits me with this. "Well, we've got ourselves a location. It's… drumroll, please… the former Justice Building in District Twelve." Silence hangs on the line, and I just listen, stunned.

"You're joking," I say at last.

"I certainly am not," replies George.

Frustration blooms inside me like a pool of blood from a wound. "Travel to the remotest part of the country for this meeting?" I protest, trying to find a rational reason to say no.

"It was never my decision to make," George says with little sympathy. "The idea came from the Capitol representatives."

"Did they consult the others?" I ask him, hotly.

"Surely they didn't have to." George chuckles, mildly amused. "No need to sound so glum, Hawthorne. You haven't had a family reunion in a decade." The smugness is back in his voice, and it makes me wish I could strangle him. "Who knows," he jokes, "that sister of yours could finally have a father-figure for her kid…"

He can go no further. I smash the handset back into its mount on the wall. It makes a loud cracking sound that rattles the eardrums of every kid in the class. "Piece of scum," I spit out. I know I'm being loud enough that Ms. Rossi's class across the hall can hear, but I've got to let my anger out somehow.

The kids stare with their eyes bugged out. I put on a mask of indifference, as if that outburst never occurred, and soon, they forget what they just saw. The volume of their chitchat slowly trickles upward, and for once, that makes me feel relieved.

"You done, Josh?" I approach the boy, who stands huddled with the other members of his small group. "Alright, I'll have a look."

"Yes! We're going to District Twelve!" Marion crows with joy in the background. She and her little sisters just got the good news. Now they're hopping from room to room in the apartment, cheering boisterously and jumping on the sofa to release their energy. They don't care that their uniforms are wrinkled, or that their hair sticks out all over the place.

I do. Because they've got school today. We don't travel until this weekend.

My wife's staring at me, a frown on her lips. "You're sure you can do this?" she wants me to confirm. She's worried for me, not angry in the least. She still doesn't know the true cause of my fear.

And I don't plan on letting her know. I'll go in, do whatever it takes to placate George, and then leave. Nothing else needs to be done. So I reply to Rachel, calmly, with this. "If it means they'll let me keep my job and support you and the girls, yes."

Rachel smiles and shakes her head in disbelief. "I earn more than you do. Remember?"

The weekend arrives, and with it, the long and cumbersome journey by train to the district I once called home. Giulia fusses and twists in Rachel's arms the entire way. Demelza and Marion quarrel for an hour over their reserved seats on the train, and nothing I threaten them with gets them to stop, until the inspector walks past and suggests a fine for them both.

We reach Twelve's main station at noon, and my wife's so weary from letting the little one cling to her, that I relieve her for a while. I hold Giulia by the waist and try to ignore the feel of her boots digging into my ribs. While I search for the newly rebuilt Justice Building, Rachel tries her best to manage Demelza and Marion. Those two together have enough verbal and physical ammunition to subdue a squad of Peacekeepers.

The new Justice Building's fairly easy to spot. It's bigger and grander. The design's less frivolous, with few of the Capitol-made furnishings that adorned the old structure. A good thing, now that there's no resemblance to the building in which I accepted that medal on Father's behalf. I don't want to have to work through a million unpleasant memories before I attend this important meeting.

Important according to George, not me, of course.

The conference takes place inside a dark auditorium. The walls seem to cast hideous shadows over the crowd assembled within. I don't like the looks of the place. It's still one step above the area where I stood when that worthless medal was handed to me. But this new interior also seems to have been designed by a Capitol enthusiast. At any rate, when this conference wraps up, I'll be the first attendee to leave.

I choose the seat furthest away from the stage. I won't be on the panel. I just have to sit, listen, and nod along. If that wheedlesome Professor asks me to speak, I'll pretend I didn't hear him. I glance down at Giulia, who's still attached to me, and is now fast asleep. Not one person said a word when I brought her in, but there's no other adult here with a toddler or infant.

I tune out the Professor's words and sneak a look at the ladies sitting close by. Their eyes are fixed on the panel, their sleek gray suits pristine, their spectacles reflecting the light, like the lenses were just scrubbed. One of them wears a wedding ring. Has she got a baby of her own? Did she leave him with the workers at the community home? Is that dilapidated building even still there?

Giulia's head lolls on my shoulder, and drool from her open mouth darkens the front of my shirt. Not wanting a soiled jacket, I turn her so she's facing my back. Then she wakes and lets out a yawn, and later, she starts to burble. While the Professor's talking, she announces in her too-loud toddler voice that she wants to go home.

I'm more embarrassed than when Demelza fought me on the metro.

Fortunately, George acts like he didn't notice. "If anyone has other comments, feel free to add them now," he punctuates the end of his little speech. His beady eyes sweep across the wide room, landing on a petite woman in an orange dress. Then, horror of horrors, those eyes keep moving until they land on me. "Hawthorne? You seem very interested," he quips.

I stare at him, torn between replying and throwing the wriggling creature in my arms across the room.

"Sir?" a woman's voice speaks up. "Sir, I've got something to say."

Bewildered, I turn to look at my rescuer. It's that same lady George had his eye on, the one in the pale orange dress. She's short and trim, with the physical features of someone from the Seam. Raven hair and olive-toned skin. Gray eyes like mine. Like Demelza's. Actually, it's beginning to dawn on me that her voice is strangely familiar.

But I don't have to work out who it is. George does that for me. "Mrs. Mellark!" he exclaims, overjoyed that she volunteered. "Lovely. Go ahead." He makes an inviting gesture with his hand. I know I ought to listen with interest, but I'm too taken aback by what that smarmy Professor said.

Mrs. Mellark, not Everdeen, was invited to this conference. Mrs. Mellark-not-Everdeen now teaches for a living, just like me. Katniss Mellark-not-Everdeen and I have both been thrown back into each other's lives, without either of us giving permission. It's like we two are the victims of a ridiculous cosmic joke.

These thoughts put me in a daze as I try to focus on Katniss' speech. "First of all… I appreciate your coming all the way here," Katniss says to George. "Means I didn't need to purchase a train ticket."

The audience titters at that little joke. George is in a jovial mood, too. "Many thanks," he says in reply. "An honor, coming from the, uh… former Mockingjay."

More laughter from the crowd. I'm so absorbed in looking at the woman I used to love, that I barely notice Giulia kicking at my sleeves.

Katniss still resembles the scrawny preteen I met in the woods years ago. But just barely. Time's been generous to her. It seems that, over the years, her sharp edges were rounded out, her bristling aggression tamed. She speaks using a balanced tone that the Mockingjay could never muster, unless under duress. Makes it even more hilarious knowing that we both decided to change. We tried taking different paths, only for that to force us back together.

Then again, I shouldn't be so surprised. We always were similar, Katniss and me. From that initial encounter in the woods, when we bonded over our shared pain and misery, both of us having been made fatherless, both of us the new heads of our households. Then during the war, when we fought at each other's side, each one watching the other's back. If I hadn't made that one tragic mistake, we might've been married, and stayed happily together all these years.

Shut up, you idiot, I tell myself, in my head. What use is it, ruminating over what could've been? I can never hope to have her back, now she's with Peeta Mellark, and in what appears to be a good marriage. Besides, I made the choice to spend the last decade with Rachel. It wasn't Katniss who turned around and said yes when I begged her to marry me. It wasn't Katniss whose sweat-soaked hand I held while she labored for hours with baby Marion. It definitely wasn't Katniss who taught me how to change our infant's soiled garments.

I wonder how long it took Peeta Mellark to teach Katniss how to cook a meal.

"So what would you like to add?" George inquires of Katniss, in his terrible nasal voice.

Katniss pauses for a beat. "Well, I have to say… I don't agree with the gentleman from District One." I don't know who she's talking about. I didn't catch a single word of the discussion. For a second I think she means George, but then the aforementioned gentleman twists in his seat to face her.

She goes on. "I respect that his district's more… directly involved with the fine arts. It doesn't mean that such vocations aren't valued in the outer districts."

"They aren't, actually…" The guy from District One attempts to interject, but Katniss stops him with a severe look.

"Or that they shouldn't be. Which I'm sure we agree on," she continues. "As I was going to say, I once knew a girl from District Eleven. She told me one time that her favorite thing in the world was music."

I remember. The little girl's name was Rue. Thinking of her always makes me feel a little sad, so I find myself hugging Giulia tighter. She loudly complains and yells for "Mama", and that snaps me back to my senses.

"I was a teenager then," Katniss continues. "I thought music ranked somewhere between hair ribbons and rainbows in terms of usefulness." She smiles wryly. "At least a rainbow gave me a tip about the weather."

Big laugh from the crowd. Katniss hurries to give an explanation. "I lived just to survive, you see. I'd spend most of my day trying to put food on the table. Trying to provide for the ones I loved. I was working, some of you might say. But all that hard work wasn't by choice."

I'm listening with real interest this time, but it's hard when Giulia's beginning to cry.

"What choice did we have," Katniss asks, "living in the poorest district in the country, where there'd be no one to help you in the case that you lose all your family members? In the case that all the children get sick at once?"

I keep my eyes on her, silently agreeing. Giulia continues to cry for "Mama", so I hold her close to my chest, her face turned away from the stage, until she quiets.

"My family had no one to help after my father died," Katniss explains. "So we struggled along, desperately searching for the smallest crumbs. Why would we choose that, if it wasn't forced on us?"

George tries his hardest to look sympathetic. "We are very sorry for the loss of your father, Mrs. Mellark…"

"No!" she suddenly snaps. Regaining her composure, she continues. "I didn't lose him. It wasn't like I was walking along, holding his hand, and then out of the blue he wasn't with me anymore, and I couldn't find him. No. He was taken from me. His life was stolen by the same Capitol that had ordered us to produce our coal quotas. That's how you say it."

Amazed stares from the entire audience. Even Giulia's gone silent.

"And that's why it matters how we say what we say," Katniss goes on. "That's the difference between saying someone was simply killed, versus saying a Peacekeeper killed them. That's something you might only know if you were taught to read beyond the bare necessities. Beyond the letters of the alphabet, your sounding-out words, and the period at the end of a sentence. To be able to sing, we were told, was worthless. But for those of us who know the story of the Hanging Tree, we know that singing's more than just holding a note. It means we're able to hold the words of the song in our hearts. It means we can remember the words in a special way. They would've never gotten lost, ever. Or else how would the whole country have heard the same story we did?"

This reminder of the Rebellion draws cheers from the audience. I'm smiling, too. I really can't help it.

"That, ladies and gentlemen, is why I love what I do. And why it's not true that others in my district don't love it, too." Katniss finishes with triumph, and that Professor actually looks impressed.

"Beautifully articulated, Mrs. Mellark." He then glances at me. "That wake you up at last?" he snarks.

I don't take the bait. "Yes, sir," I say.

Katniss and I meet eyes, as we did often when we were hunting partners, and then I add this. "I just want to say, I agree with every single word that came out of her mouth."

George gives a condescending smile. "Oh, that's not surprising," he comments. "When you two were on television during the war, she did all the talking. You were just her, what, again?" He pauses. "Her…"

Katniss and I have practically the same mind, so we shout this simultaneously. "We're not cousins!"

The lush banquet spread before us looks nothing like what we'd eat at home. It resembles the dinner of a typical Capitol higher-up. Something I'd turn my face away from in disgust, if I were still the poor coal miner's son from District 12. But since my wife's at my side, I decide to let all my reservations go. We pick our seats on one side of the long table. All three of our kids are gone, placed in the hands of the workers at the local care home.

Hope they don't get driven insane by Demelza and Marion.

I watch as a bottle of peach-colored wine's emptied into my glass. I'm halfheartedly listening to the passionate speech of one of George's associates.

"Thank you again for coming, all of you," the lady trills. "I have a feeling our new program's going to be a huge success." I don't know what program she means. I didn't listen to a word George or his colleagues said.

The lady, who's wearing too much makeup for my taste, lifts her wineglass in a toast. "A very special thank you to the charismatic Mrs. Mellark," she says, and before the name can catch me off guard again, the others raise their glasses also. I follow suit.

"To the Mockingjay," a few people say in unison, and then the drinking and feasting begins. I'm the only one without something in my mouth. So is the black-haired, gray-eyed woman sitting across from me, the woman with her blond, kindly-faced husband at her side.

Peeta keeps chatting with my wife and smiling at her while he eats. If I didn't know his true character, I'd accuse him of flirting with Rach. But she's more open to inane small-talk than I am, so she easily reciprocates. It's a priceless image, Peeta and Rachel conversing like normal, social people, while both of their respective spouses sit stony-faced next to them.

"Oh, you're an interior designer." Here it comes again, the smile that's so unlike mine.

Rachel returns it. "Almost a decade of experience," she tells Peeta.

"So we basically run in the same circles," Peeta jokes. "What you do with furniture, I do with frosting." And as if they were cued, the two of them laugh simultaneously.

"Ha, ha, yeah! That's very amusing." Rachel's expression is a perfect reflection of Peeta's.

"What are the chances?" he goes on yapping. "Two artisans, married to two teachers…"

Rachel joins in his game. "Who're also two former soldiers…"

"Who fought in the same squad during the war," finishes Peeta. He retrieves his spoon and waves it across the table, making a gesture that covers both Katniss and me.

Rachel regards me warmly. "Of course, my husband speaks very little about it. Even though he selflessly volunteered for just about every mission organized by President Coin." She reaches up and touches my shoulder, almost like she's showing me off. "You'll hardly find a humbler man anywhere."

"Yes, you're very lucky," I hear Peeta agree.

Peeta may as well be halfway across the globe. My gaze isn't on him, but on his wife next to him. Katniss is eyeing me, not with hatred or rage or even distrust, but with an expression that suggests she's about to ask an important question. I know her too well not to guess the specific question she intends to aim at me.

I'm sorry. I really am, I tell her with a glance. She doesn't release me from her stare.

To tell or not to tell? Rachel still has no clue, even after a decade together. The truth's been trying to tear itself from my throat for eleven years, yet I don't think I'll ever have the guts to let it out.

I'm forced out of my stupor when I hear a familiar young voice. "Papa, why is this taking so long?" whispers, of all people, Marion. With one painted fingernail, she taps me on my left shoulder.

I twist in my seat, so I'm facing her. "What are you doing here? Get out," I whisper harshly. I'm too surprised to even ask how she got away from the care workers.

I look at George's associate, the forty-something-year-old lady with the makeup-caked face. "How charming," she simpers, staring at my daughter over her glasses. I can hear the sarcasm in her voice, though it's subtle. Then she glares at me and lowers her voice to a mutter. "I didn't say you could bring your ragamuffins."

I don't try to explain. "Everyone, this is Marion," I say, using a bored tone and gesturing to my eldest.

She doesn't even sense how much trouble she's in. "Hello," she greets the adults around her, that familiar smugness showing itself again in her voice and on her face.

Katniss doesn't know her well enough. "How old are you, sweetheart?" she asks my daughter, cordially.

"Ten," Marion replies.

"You have brothers or sisters?"

"I've got two sisters." Marion smiles, then adds, smugly, "I'm the oldest."

Katniss smiles back. "That's great to hear," she says. "I am, too." She pauses. "Well, was." The two words send an unexpected jolt through me, and before I'm fully aware of what I'm doing, the legs of my chair are scraping on the floor, and I'm standing.

"May I be excused?" I sputter out, meeting eyes with the middle-aged, makeup-wearing lady. She nods curtly. I glance at my wife and daughter. They both look floored.

"I'm sorry. I'll meet you at Mother's old house," I get out, then I'm gone.

Marion

What just happened?

Seriously, none of the adults will tell me anything. It's starting to make me mad. I feel like I'm four again and Mama's saying to me, "Oh, you can ask again when you're older." I am older now! I'm in my sixth year at school. I know way more than Demi or Giul.

I know that when a grown man like Papa acts nervous, especially around other adults, it's because he's got a big secret. Usually, it's because he's "having an affair". Whatever that means. I learned it from Harriet, who learned it from her sister, who's fifteen. That's almost an adult, but not quite. To me, it's close enough.

I know that when a married man has an affair, he's breaking his wife's heart. I know that they usually get divorced after that. I know someone in my class whose parents got divorced. She used to live in one house, now she has to switch between two apartments. That really stinks for her. I feel bad, but it was pretty funny how she was so ashamed, she lied and told the class that her dad became a "traveling salesman". Ha. Did she really think I'd fall for that?

Of course, I was the one who told everyone it was a lie. Mrs. Fitzhugh must've been proud of me, because she said I'd "make a great investigative journalist", once I "take a few long courses in ethics". Whatever that means.

Now I'm the editor in chief of the student newspaper. So I must be really good at journalism. So I'm not just going to write stories about people in school. I'm going to try and find out what's going on with Papa and Mama, and why Papa keeps acting so nervous, and why Mama won't tell me anything. I'll also get an exclusive story about the Mockingjay, and hopefully, hundreds of people will read it.

There's just one teensy-weensy problem. I got kicked out of the room with all the grown-ups. That stupid-looking woman with the stupid-looking glasses told me to "shoo". Now how can I get my exclusive interview?

This really stinks, I'm thinking, as Mama holds on tight to my arm and marches me down the hall in the District 12 building. She has that you're-in-trouble look on her face, and I don't like it. I know that when she gets that look, she's thinking of what punishment to give me.

You don't have proof I was doing something bad, I decide to say to her. All I did was ask Papa why he was taking so long. She doesn't know I was trying to get an interview.

But she never actually tells me I'm grounded. She stops at the end of the hall, lets go of my arm, and tells me to wait there, while she goes to search for Papa. She says if she doesn't return by the time the dinner's over, I should walk back to the care home and collect Demi and Giul. I tell her okay, just to shut her up quickly.

The literal second I can't see her anymore, I race back to the room I got kicked out of, waiting for the door to open and the Mockingjay to emerge.

A really, really long time passes. I start to feel bored.

A security man stops and asks where my parents went. Now's a good opportunity for me to show off my theatre skills. I smile innocently at the guy and tell him my Papa's with me, but right now, he's using the bathroom. The guy looks at the nice dress and cute shoes I'm wearing and moves on.

So far, so good.

Then the door next to me opens, and I see the Mockingjay walk out.

Wait for me! I think, as I'm elbowed and pushed by a group of departing grown-ups. Stupid Glasses Lady gives me a warning look as she passes, but she doesn't say anything. I'm glad. I run to catch up with Everdeen.

I have to get my exclusive story.

She's a slower walker than me, probably because her husband is. So a few seconds later, I'm at her side. I tap her carefully on the shoulder. "Ms. Mockingjay?" I say her name loudly.

Oops. I can't stop the blush from growing on my cheeks.

Even then, Everdeen turns to look at me, and she doesn't seem angry.

"I mean… Mrs. Mellark?" I correct my own mistake, but inside, I'm still cringing. Hope nothing like that happens again! I give Everdeen, I mean, Mellark my best smile. "I'm the editor of my school's student newspaper. If you don't mind, could I have an interview?"

Gale

I never intended to flee like a coward. The soldiers from 13 I served with, if they could see me, would be shocked. Alright, maybe not Boggs, whose face I stomped on when Katniss and I ignored his orders. But Mitchell? Homes? The Leeg sisters? Even Jackson respected my skills in the field. She'd be fuming at me now.

Still couldn't help it. Try as I might, I can't face my past with Katniss Mellark-not-Everdeen.

I linger next to my old family home in the Seam. Well, the one that was rebuilt after the refugees returned. Mother never answered the knock on the door, so I went to the next house, where an old woman named Agatha was hanging her laundry out front. Now she's telling me I can't see my mother.

"Apologies, sir. Can't reach Hazelle at this time," she says, looking somewhat frazzled. "She's keeping house for the mayor. I could tell you when to call, if you'd like."

I look at the bursting blisters on Agatha's hands. Better to just give up and try again later, I think. I accept the old woman's offer, throwing in an, "Appreciate it," before I go.

It'll be a long walk back to the Justice Building.

Marion

I can't wait to tell Demi and Giul about this.

Seriously! All the details that Mellark revealed to me, I never once heard my parents discuss before. Who knew Papa used to be a hunter in District 12, shooting down wild animals and setting traps for them? Not just that, he used to go hunting with the Mockingjay. Katniss Everdeen and my Papa were hunting partners. How'd I never get told this before?

Not just that, Papa was a soldier in the most famous squad in the war, the Star Squad. He fought right next to the Mockingjay. Protected her in battle, even! At one point Mellark said they had to pretend to be cousins, to "keep their relationship secret". Why? What was wrong with them being friends? Grown-ups are weird.

I asked Mellark why she and Papa don't really talk anymore. She got this… what's the word? Wishful look on her face, then she said something about how Papa was so sad after the war, after all the psychotical trauma he went through, that he just couldn't take it anymore. So that's why he left District 12 and moved to District 2. Just like Mama told us.

Never thought my Mama would actually tell us kids the truth. But now I know she did. I have the words of the Mockingjay herself stored on my voice recorder. And when I get home, I'll start writing that exclusive article for the paper.

Now where can I find Demi and Giul?

My shoes make rhythmic click-clack sounds on the floor as I walk the halls of the care home. The worker whose foot I stepped on tries to corner me. I manage to slip by her, because I'm pretty fast, and as I'm running off, I give her my most innocent smile.

There's Demi up ahead. She's got a grumpy look on her face. She always looks like this, even when she's been out with her favorite person, our Mama.

I pull her aside and take her by the arm. "Psst. Guess who I ran into?" I whisper.

She looks at me and lifts her eyebrows. I lean close to her ear and tell her.

The look of complete awe on her face lets me know she's jealous, and honestly, I like it. "Want to hear what she told me?" I ask my little sister. Demi nods.

Well, this is stupendable. I won't even have to wait for the school paper to come out before I get my first reaction to my exclusive.