Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Demelza

I just saw Mama yank my ten-year-old sister by the arm and pull her outside to "give her an earful." Wow, does that also come with a spanking? I'd sneer at my sister if I could, if I didn't know my other parent's watching me like a hawk.

I like it in the Mellarks' bakery. The turnovers, tarts, and slices of cake smell like heaven. I imagine if heaven has a taste, it'd be as sweet as the blueberry pie Peeta Mellark makes. He says the youngest kids get to eat it for free. Lucky me, I'm only eight years old. My bossy big sister can't get any free samples.

Well, Marion isn't even the bossiest person I know. That would be my glorified… what's the word my sister uses? Sperm whale donor… or whatever. The man who thinks he rules our house, and that I have to follow every one of his orders. Please. I listen to him once in a while, but only when Mama asks me to. Talking to him's like messing with the pinball on a hand grenade. Is that how you say it?

Whatever. My baby sister Giulia and I are sitting at a corner table in the Mellarks' bakery, and we're being forced to listen to one of my father's rants. He's pretty upset that we found out, from Mar, what he did during the Rebellion. Come on! That doesn't make sense. If he really did make all those "sacrifices for the nation," he should have some pride. He should shout about it from every rooftop, not keep it secret from his own kids!

Then again, my father's always been pretty pathetic. He's the type of man to shame you in front of the whole family, then act like you're being too harsh.

"Demi, you were wrong," he's currently ranting. "Your sister was, too."

The bread roll I'm eating sits half-finished on my plate. I'm feeling spiteful, so I show him my crumb-encrusted tongue. I couldn't care less what he'll say. "No," I snap back. "You were wrong. How could you not tell us?"

"You're eight," my father says, looking as cross as ever. "You're too young to get it."

I roll my eyes. "What's so hard to get? You and the Mockingjay used to hunt together. Mar said she taught you how to use a bow and arrow." Something you could've taught me, but you didn't, you lazy asshole. "Know what else she said? You were fighting in the war. You shot people with a gun."

Giul, who's on my left side, pauses to gawk. "Ooh," she says, reverently.

It's a sweet gesture, I think, but our asshole of a father doesn't even seem grateful. "Giulia, stop it," he lectures. "I haven't even seen a gun since I started teaching."

"Well, you should," I break in. "You never took me to the shooting range, damn it."

The look on my father's face would scare off a bear, I think. "Demelza Elinor Hawthorne, you watch your mouth," he growls.

I resist the urge to extend my tongue again. "Okay," I say, indifferently.

I do have to laugh when my baby sister taps my arm with her fork. "You're in trouble," she says in a taunting, sing-songy voice, and then we both let out loud guffaws. My father resembles a big old storm cloud next to two rays of sunlight, and I think Mama would find that funny.

He stops pestering me about what Mar said, so I'm free to enjoy my bread roll. Giul and I make creative drawings from the crumb trails on our plates. It gets quieter in the bakery, because the other families with little kids have left. Soon, Giul and I can hear whispers drifting from the table next to ours. A wife and her husband are pretending to sip tea and staring at us.

"…worked with the Mockingjay," I hear the wife say, as she gestures toward my father.

So even they know the secrets he's been hiding. I don't think I can keep my temper, which Mama called an "overactive volcano." I let my butter knife fall onto my plate with a metallic crash, then I lean in toward my father, giving him a look harder than flint. "Her daddy taught her how to hunt," I say, referring to the Mockingjay. "Why didn't you ever teach me?" You lazy fucking asshole.

My father doesn't apologize or even rage at me. He just says, "Because it's not for you," with the exact same indifference I gave him earlier. "Giulia, sit," he adds, sounding annoyed, and pushing my baby sister down so she won't keep bouncing in her seat.

I'm not going to let him dismiss me so easily. "It's because I'm not a boy, is it?" I dare him to say. I think of all the seven-year-old boys at school who already know how to use rifles and how to load shotguns. I really, really want to be like them. I'll bet that's the issue, that my father always wanted a son instead of a bunch of girls.

"Nothing to do with it," he tells me, his manner cool. "Even if you were a boy, I still wouldn't teach you."

"Why not?"

"A kid like you wants to learn how to kill?" He raises both eyebrows at me.

I knew he'd try to use every other excuse in the book. I'm not going to fall for it. "Well, someone's got to," I argue. "It's not like we get our meat from an orchard." Next to me, Giul busts up laughing.

"Ha-ha-ha! 'Meat from an orchard.'" After she does this childish imitation of me, she laughs again, but I'm not paying attention.

Neither is my father. "Not the point," he snaps at me. "The person I hunted with had a good enough head on her shoulders that you could put a bomb in her hand and she wouldn't blow anything up. You are not like that." And then he raises his voice so suddenly, it's like a pistol shot in my ears. "So sit down and stop arguing!"

I jerk to one side, like I just got electrocuted. Giul drops back down into her seat. "Sorry, Papa," she squeaks.

My ears turn hot from embarrassment. I hope the wife and husband sitting nearby didn't see. Well, forget it. They definitely heard. This is what it's like to have a father who can't control his anger.

What did he even mean when he said there was a bomb in someone's hand? I can't figure it out. My head'll go fuzzy if I think about it too long. Everyone knows that if you place a bomb in a person's hand, it'll blast him to a jillion pieces. No, I think my father was just trying to let his anger out, and failed miserably.

Just look at him, I think. A vein's still pulsing on his forehead, yet he's attempting to act cool and keep his composition, like Mar says. He meets the gaze of the woman seated at the next table. "Excuse me, ma'am," he says apologetically. She just keeps staring with her jaw slacked, and it's all I can do to not laugh.

Gale

As if the humiliating experience of having Marion crash our party weren't enough, now I've got to sit here with that disrespectful Demelza, and bear it while Peeta Mellark and his daughter show off how close they are. The adorable Willow's face is pure white with flour, probably because she just upended an entire bag on her own head. Peeta won't show how mad he is at that, and opts instead to laugh with and cuddle his little one.

It's a wonder he's still alive, let alone walking upright and running a whole bakery with minimal staff. I try not to look his way, or my blood pressure will start to rise. Just what am I missing that he has? How did a man who lacked the strength and fortitude to resist getting hijacked, end up being an expert at wrangling toddlers?

Maybe it's his little girl's natural disposition. I wish that Willow were my daughter. No, I shouldn't think that. I owe my allegiance to Rach and our three children. But the thought's too sweet, sweeter than the thousand pounds of sugar that must coat everything in this place. What if Katniss and I had stayed together?

One thing's for sure, I'll never, ever let Rachel know I gave in to this daydream. Then I'll chase it away by embracing my wife extra tight tonight, and treating her to dinner and a night at the cinema next weekend.

"Hang on, Wills. I'll be right back." Peeta sweeps up the last remnants of flour on the bakery floor. Then he props the broom up against the counter and makes his way over to my table.

I wish I could hit him, though I know that's irrational.

"Your girls are lovely," he remarks, as he glances in turn at Demelza and baby Giulia. I don't answer. I watch silently as he picks up Demelza's crumb-covered plate and balances it on a stack of other plates. No way does he really believe what he's saying. Yet it sounds like a real compliment.

"Thanks," Demelza responds loudly, beating me to it.

Peeta smiles at her, and she gives him a grin back. The lower corners of her eyes crinkle and I can see all of her front teeth, which never occurs unless her smile's genuine.

I look away deliberately. Peeta, nevertheless, leans down close to me. "Were you hoping to see her?" he asks, and even an idiot would know who that her's supposed to be. "She'll be out until…"

"No," I suddenly interrupt. "No, but thank you." And I mean it. I hope my response didn't come out too aggressive.

Apparently it did. Demelza fixes me with a narrow-eyed gaze, and I know better than to correct her at this moment. I try to loosen the muscles in my face, but it's not something I'm good at doing on command. Peeta detects the tension. "Haven't had that conversation yet?" he asks.

At my own puzzled silence, he responds, "Look. I won't pretend to know what it's about, but I do know an opportunity like this shouldn't be wasted. Go and talk to her." So he's referring to the reason Katniss and I no longer speak. Has Katniss told him? Does he even have a clue?

I see in his innocuous face that he doesn't. Or he'd be glaring at me with hostility and resentment. And it'd be what I deserve, because of what I did to those children. And to Prim. Especially Prim.

So I lie, and let Peeta believe that the topic of Katniss' and my "conversation" was our romantic life. "No," I say simply. I think of Katniss and the way she sat nestled up to her spouse at dinner. "If any other man loves her, he'd know to keep her near you."

I leave the bakery quickly, guiding both my girls outside, where my wife's almost done lecturing our eldest. There's nothing more I want to say to Peeta Mellark. He's got no idea about what I did during the Rebellion, and that was all I needed to know.

EXTRA FEE FOR PARTIES OF 5 OR MORE, the sign outside the station reads.

Rachel and I stand just outside the entrance, clinging to our girls' hands, the awning shielding our heads from a light sprinkle of rain. My wife's shaking her head at that sign. "Unbelievable," she says. She glances at our eldest, then at me. "You and Mar on the next train out, hm?" Splitting our journey home. Figures. Demelza and Giulia will go with their mother.

I nod, then I do a cursory check of the timetable. Rachel and the younger girls are taking the seven-thirty service. Marion and I will be delayed by at least fifty minutes. "Last one for the night, alright."

The tickets are purchased and handed out to the kids. That brat Demelza exposes her tongue to me again before she leaves for the platform with Rach. Sweet Giulia, on the other hand, waves her hand back and forth and says bye, Daddy, we'll see you back at the apart-a-ment.

Marion and I watch the seven-thirty train arrive. Rachel and the younger girls step inside the front coach. And then, just like that, the ticket gates shut, the whistle blows, and the train's departing for District One Central. My wife and kids will get off at Stonebridge Junction.

I'm left alone with my eldest daughter in a crowd of frazzled commuters. Some of them I recognize from today's panel discussion. None will even look at me, which I'm okay with. Resentment aimed at Marion, for what she revealed to our entire family, builds inside me. I try to tell myself she didn't really mean any harm, she was just another inquisitive child. But I can't let what she did go.

I'm still in a paralyzing state of shock. How much did she tell her sisters? They know I was friends with the Mockingjay in the past. They know I fought in the Star Squad. They know I was a hunter, a trapper, an infantryman, and a sharpshooter. All that, Rachel knows. But did Marion reveal what I did to those refugee children in the Capitol? Does Rachel know about that?

She must not. She would've already left me otherwise. Relief pours through me when I realize Katniss was kind enough to remain vague on the subject. Still, Marion's mouth is dangerously big. Lucky she's with me tonight, or she'd continue spreading gossip to her sisters. At the moment she's tugging on my shirtsleeve and asking to go purchase some coffee from the shop near Platform 9.

I say she can buy whatever she wants. She just has to meet me at the base of the stairs leading to the footbridge, which'll take us to Platform 5. Remembering what Agatha said about the best time to call my mother, I start looking around for a nearby payphone.

There is one, but this obviously upper-class lady's blabbing on it for an extraordinary amount of time. Is her purse bottomless, with the amount of silver coins she's got in it? She gossips with a woman I figure might be her sister for over half an hour. When she's finally hung up, Marion's standing next to me, loudly slurping the espresso drink from her sippy cup.

I shoot her an annoyed look, then I take my place next to the telephone, slide my first coin into the slot, and dial my old household's number. The ringing lasts for about ten seconds before Mother accepts the call.

I'm so elated at hearing her voice again, I almost forget Marion's still there. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her drift toward a bench and sit down, her espresso cup balanced on the armrest.

"And Rory? He pick a name for his boy yet?" I ask, almost breathlessly, after more than ten minutes of aimless chatting. I've got fewer than five silver coins left.

I hear a smile in Mother's voice. "Nathaniel," she tells me about Rory's son. "Oh, how I wish you'd been here when he was born. He put his mama and papa through the wringer in the first few days, the rascal." A few chuckles from her, then a long pause. "Can't you come home this time? Not just your girls, you, too."

I grimace. "Mother. Posy wouldn't want me to show my face there again." It's half the truth.

"Oh, sweet Posy. She's not so unreasonable now, I'll tell you that. She's sixteen, she's grown up. I think…" I hear Mother draw in a breath. "I think she might be ready to forgive you. Oh!" Her sudden shift in tone startles me. "Here she comes now. She wants to talk to you."

Those words are ten times as forceful as a lightning strike. Talk to me? Now? When she's refused to acknowledge me since she was five? Sixteen years old, with a child of her own, a little girl she wouldn't let me meet, wouldn't even let me see, and after all these years, I've never dared hope for a positive change. I was just going to accept that my younger sister and I would never speak again. It'd be even more painful than getting bit by Demelza, but I'd try to grin and bear it. Now I'm told Posy wants to take the first step, and I'm ashamed that I, as her older brother, wasn't the one to initiate it.

Doesn't matter, I tell myself. I'll have a relationship with my sister again. That's all I should be thinking about right now.

"Be kind to her," I hear Mother say. "Please." Then the phone gets passed on. A voice I no longer know speaks. "Hello?"

I was going to utter a greeting. A second ago, I was able to form words. Now I can't.

"Gale?" The voice that shouldn't sound so mature, yet does anyway, speaks again. Coaxing me, no, commanding me to respond. I want to chide myself for being such a spineless coward. My voice is tangled in so many unwelcome emotions, yet I still manage to blurt out her name. "Posy."

Silence for two seconds. What follows is laughter that falls apart into sobs. The knowledge that Posy's crying makes me feel free to weep as well. "This… this is the first time we've spoken in a decade," she gets out.

"I know," I attempt to say clearly, but it comes out as a heaving sob.

"Papa?" is what I hear next. Not Posy's voice, Marion's. She's come to ridicule me for failing to control my emotions in public, I know. I ignore her.

"It's mostly my fault," Posy admits. "I was just so mad at you after you left without saying goodbye. Now I know I wasn't being fair to you." She struggles to clear her throat. "Everything wasn't fine just because we won the war. You lost more than… well, more than most people on the losing side."

"That's true." If only we'd had this conversation sooner.

"Papa?" I hear again, more insistently this time. I brush her away when I feel her pulling on my arm.

"So… if you could accept my apology," continues Posy, "and maybe come home next time…"

"I can't." I spit those words out without hesitating.

"What?" Posy doesn't sound angry, or even accusatory, and that's worse. "Why can't you?" Her steady tone gives way to more weeping. "I really am sorry…"

I rush to placate her. "It's not that. It has nothing to do with you."

Posy just cries. The sound makes me imagine a rusty nail being hammered into my heart. I'm the one holding the hammer, yet I can't stop it from coming down.

"Papa, the train…" Marion's right. I hear the whistle that tells us a train's going to depart. Must be ours. I know in my mind that I should hang up the phone and run to the platform, but something inside me keeps me from budging. Maybe I'll keep talking to Posy. Maybe I'll let the train go.

Posy sniffles audibly. "I thought you'd help me with my baby girl," I hear her say.

"I can't even control Demelza," I tell her. I wipe the tears from my cheeks with my free hand.

"Papa!" Marion's shouting now. That's how I know for sure our train's leaving. Still I don't move from where I stand, the phone held against my ear.

"Gale, please," Posy begs, and for an instant, she sounds like a child again.

"I wish I could," is all I have time to say, before the allotted minutes are up and our connection's severed.

I return the phone to its rightful place, not even attempting to dig out my last few coins. I wouldn't know what else to say to Posy, anyway. I am a shameful coward. This was my chance to make it up to my sister, to show her I never wanted to abandon her, yet what did I do? I fled like an underweight teenager evading the draft. I'm not sure I even deserve to be called "brave" for what I did to help the cause during the Rebellion.

Marion stares at me peevishly as I make my way over to the bench. There she sits, looking like she might stick her tongue out at me, the way her rebellious little sister did. I deserve it. I look at the empty tracks and the dwindling number of staff on the platform.

"Sorry, Mar," I mutter. My thoughtlessness means Rachel and our other kids will have to wait. It's almost eight-fifteen. Next service calling at Stonebridge Junction is the five o'clock to District Seven Forest Gate Street.

I decide it won't be worth it, renting out a property in Twelve for the night. The less time I spend within this cursed district, the better. Instead I sit down on the bench next to my daughter and try not to feel hurt when she starts scooting away.

"Here," I say, passing her my jacket and letting it settle on her shoulders. "So you'll keep warm."

It's going to be a long night.

Dawn breaks bright and early with the announcement that the five o'clock service is canceled. I don't even have the time to rub the fatigue from my eyes before a familiar anger courses through me. Biting back the urge to insult the station staff, I tell myself to keep calm. First priority is looking after Marion and bringing her back home to Two.

I get her a first-class ticket for the six-thirty to District One Central. The old tickets are discarded. Marion buys another steaming espresso drink from the Platform 9 shop, while I use up two more coins phoning Rachel from the station concourse. She'll be with Giulia all day today, so I know she's available. Still, when she talks to me, there's an uncharacteristic stiffness in her voice, and none of her usual warmth.

Demelza must've driven her crazy on the way home.

We exchange the usual pleasantries, though Rachel seems to just be going through the motions. She tells me with a little too much impatience that she'll be waiting for me in the apartment when I return.

I hang up the phone, thinking nothing more of it. If I have to lecture Demelza again, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Marion finishes her drink, and soon we're standing on Platform 2 and listening to the announcement telling us that this is the six-thirty Interdistrict Railway service to District One Central, calling at this and that station, a station that serves the middle of nowhere, Stonebridge Junction, a few more… yeah, that's all we need to know. I step away from the speaker nestled close to the overhead awning. I don't care to know that this train is formed of nine coaches.

There's the unmistakable rumble on the tracks. I scoot closer to the platform edge, taking my daughter's hand and pulling her along. We step inside the front coach. All I can see of my former home now are the treetops shrouding the view of the houses, shops, and municipal buildings. I wouldn't want it any other way.

The train sets off for the west of Panem, speeding up until it's impossible to discern the distinct features of each town or village, effectively covering up the evidence of all the havoc wreaked on them during the Rebellion.

"We're home," is Marion's weary announcement when she stumbles over the threshold leading into the apartment. I'm following close behind, my keys clutched tight in my fist. Such a long and ridiculously taxing journey. I can't wait to lie down and just watch the television.

I wait to hear Giulia say good morning, Daddy and Mar-Mar, I missed you, but in our main living space, there's only silence.

Odd.

I listen hard for any of the usual signs of life, Demelza muttering to herself as she picks out her clothes for an afternoon with her friends, Giulia impersonating her dolls while she plays house. Nothing.

Either my wife got tired of watching them and they're with a child-minder, or there's something very wrong.

Worry prickles at the hairs on my skin. It's a feeling no different from the one I got just before the bombs were dropped in Twelve. That's bad, really bad. Suddenly concerned for my family's safety, I whip my head around to search the kitchen and living room for my wife and girls.

There she is, I think. Rachel's standing motionless in the kitchen, a pot of water bubbling on the stove, the quiet churning barely audible. All I need is for my wife to face me, so I can see she's okay.

I take a slow step forward, and Rachel turns.

All the relief I was feeling freezes into a cold dread.

It's that expression on her face. That's just what's wrong. It's like my wife's been possessed by some demonic creature, all evidence of her kind nature wiped away. That's how I can best describe the look of icy resentment she's aiming at me. It's a look that seems to say, You'll never receive forgiveness from me.

Which begs the question, what is it that she knows?

What'd she hear from Demelza on the way home, if not the fact that I ordered bombs dropped on Capitol children?

I believe I know the answer. Yet the thought of saying it to her face fills me with a fear greater than any I've ever felt in my thirty years of life, greater than any I've felt while growing up in that hellish District Twelve, while fervently hoping for my entire family's survival during the Rebellion.

"Mama?" I distantly hear Marion say. She's perplexed, and she should be. She can't understand why her mother would look at her father that way. But it's not for her to understand. It's on me to right this wrong for my family's sake.

As if she can sense what's going to happen, Marion turns away and hurries into another room. I'm alone with my wife in our main living space. She hasn't moved an inch from her position near the stove, her fingers squeezing the countertop. The water she poured into the pot boils, but she doesn't look at it, only at me.

I wait for her cold expression to thaw. It doesn't.

"Rach." I tentatively approach her. "I…"

That's the only word I manage to get out before my wife moves her fingers, wraps them around the handle of the pot, and hurls its steaming hot contents in the direction of my face.

AN: Had to end on that cliffhanger. Sorry, hehe.