Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Once, when Rachel was twelve years old, her best friend Janie came scurrying up to her after school, requesting her help finding the tape of an opera she'd gone to watch with her boyfriend, Simon. "Lucy Latimore," she said it was called. They spent nearly the entire evening scouring the "Cassettes" section of their local library and sifting through the family treasures in the trunk belonging to Janie's mother. Over five hours and one verbal reaming from Janie's mother later, Janie finally admitted that she'd been so lost in staring at Simon's dreamy hazel eyes, her brain had registered the wrong name for the opera Lucia di Lammermoor.

Rachel can understand why, as she wanders the streets of the old town of District 2, several minutes after the sun went down. She just can't recall the name of that gelato shop where she and her most beloved person once shared three scoops of Triple Chocolate Caramel Fudge. It had a gold awning, a shiny red handle on the door, and striped pink-and-white curtains. What else can she remember, other than the lovable grin on her person's face as they were eating?

After ten more minutes of fruitless wandering, Rachel finally admits defeat and starts on the path leading back home. Her beloved Demelza's not with her; she was far too sleepy after returning from her visit with her father, so she went to bed an hour earlier than normal.

Now Rachel's alone and aching for a friendly face to talk to. She decides to slip into a secluded little diner that's open twenty-four hours a day. The lamps on the wall illuminate her pale skin and accentuate the shine in her red hair.

"Hello there." The hostess is a tired-eyed woman whose gait suggests that she's got large weights tied to her ankles. The unexpected brightening of her face says she recognizes Rachel. "Looking for something strong?" she inquires.

Rachel nods, reassured. "Yes."

"Your usual, I suppose," the hostess suggests with a little smile.

"Right." Rachel smiles back. "Thank you." With that, the hostess ushers Rachel to a table close to the back, then walks away to dish up her customer's favorite concoction.

Five minutes later, the mug of hot chocolate's ready. Rachel can't help but grin after she serenely takes a sip. The warm drink always calms her nerves after a long and tiresome day. Dealing with three kids at once is never easy. Especially when you're a busy working mother.

Three or four sips in, the little bell on the front door chimes distantly. Two other women stride in. One's younger and weirdly dressed, with a rainbow of tattoos and cosmetic alterations on her face. Capitol fashion, no doubt. The other, possibly her mamma or aunt, wears no makeup at all and clearly hasn't had plastic surgery. Her hair's a mousy brown, streaked with gray, and almost completely hidden beneath her plain black cap.

Rachel watches without comment as the hostess seats the two ladies, then takes their order. The graying dame gets something like a milkshake, an item they call the "Choco Drizzle." Sounds like a treat they make in the Capitol, Rachel thinks. The demoiselle wants nothing but a cup of tea. No milk, no sugar. Just the leaves and hot water. Their tastes are the opposite of their looks. It's amusing.

Rachel averts her gaze, not wanting to be a busybody. Then she hears the younger woman address her. "Oh my. Are you… Rachel Hennessy?"

At the mention of her maiden name, Rachel startles.

"It's Rachel Hawthorne now," she stammers, "but yes."

She feels a sharp pang in her heart, telling them her current surname, the name she kept in spite of the divorce she almost got. In the end, she couldn't convince herself to file the papers and get them sent to her almost-ex-husband. Perhaps it was the fact that they've been together for more than a decade, or perhaps it was the three girls who'd benefit from having both parents in their lives.

"Oh that's right," the young lady sniffs. "You're married to… well, I can't remember his name." She shrugs and takes a slow sip of her mint tea. "Never mind that. I used to love your music. Why did you ever stop touring?"

"I, uh… wanted to stay in one place." Rachel's lips hesitatingly curl upward. "Motherhood demands a lot from me."

The other mother in the room nods in affirmation. "Well," she declares loudly, "your children had better be grateful to you. You gave up a gem of a musical career to raise them. Why, you could've been bigger than all the Capitol-born stars."

"Thank you, ma'am." Rachel hopes they'll drop the subject after this. She doesn't feel like telling them about the time she was arrested simply for being related to Capitol loyalists. No one would buy her recordings after that. They simply moved on to the next child prodigy with the remarkable ability to belt arias. A part of Rachel's glad they did so. Years of singing opera would put a strain on anyone's voice.

"Lady." The younger woman suddenly sits up, looking alert, her eyes staring Rachel down. "What's your married name, again?"

"Oh, gosh." Her older companion's forehead creases as she, too, gapes at Rachel. "I think I know your spouse. He's a film director, isn't he?"

Why do they bring up her husband? The very last topic she wants to talk about is him. "Former film director," she reminds the two women.

To her dismay, they don't change the subject. "Didn't he do a feature called I Was Only Nineteen?" inquires the middle-aged one.

"Yes." Rachel blows a heavy puff of air through her nose, trying her best to conceal her discomfort. "Good movie," she adds as an afterthought.

"One of the best." The older woman completely misses the irony in Rachel's voice. "I never thought I'd say this, but that simple motion picture caused me to change my mind on a few things. Much better than a plain old lecture."

Now Rachel's interest is piqued. She slowly lowers her mug of hot cocoa. "What do you mean?"

The mamma, or aunt, whoever she is, sighs. Her expression's pensive. "Well, it's one thing to be told that a lot of people suffered. It's another thing entirely to see that suffering on a screen. I guess I had some blinders on that I didn't know about, but growing up in this district as a child of quarry workers, I never imagined any of the Capitol-born would know what suffering was. Shallow of me, huh?"

Rachel forces a smile. "If you say so."

The woman goes on. Her younger companion's hanging on every word, as is Rachel. "Then I watched your husband's film all the way through, and I walked out speechless. Seeing that documentary footage was like pulling a veil away from my eyes. I mean, I'd never known there was poverty in the Capitol. Never noticed the sad-looking underwear shops in the slums, or the underage sex trafficking victims, or the innocent children of the Gamemakers." She releases a long breath, like she just unloaded a heavy weight from atop her chest. "It was a masterpiece of a movie. Can you believe one man did most of it?"

"Heavensbee was involved too, I heard," Rachel adds halfheartedly.

The younger woman scoffs. "Heavensbee? You're joking. That tracker jacker-oil salesman can piss off all the way back to the Capitol. Not once did he ever pay any of the people he interviewed. Your husband was the one to step in and offer them the thousands they were due."

Rachel freezes. Her small mouth opens and closes like a fish's for a few seconds, then she manages to speak again. "We've not heard about this before," she says haltingly. "Did he?"

"Oh, yes, he did." The lady beams as though she's proud of him. "Never encountered a kinder soul in my life, other than my own mamma and my kids. Rachel, dear…"

"What?"

"I know that war… doesn't exactly bring out the best in men."

"It doesn't, no."

As Rachel says this, she avoids the eyes of the two women. She finds herself stuck in a staring contest with her mug of cocoa.

"Your husband was an infantryman," the younger woman continues. "He fought in so many battles, from District Eight to District Two." Now she leans in toward Rachel. "If he has anything on his conscience…"

"Yes?" Rachel's voice is barely above a whisper.

"Any lives he might've taken, whether intentionally or not…" The mamma chimes in, unaware of the tension in Rachel.

"There were some," the smaller, red-haired woman admits. She does so quietly, as though the mere acknowledgment of his crimes might instantly smite him.

"Rachel, tell him…" The Capitol-styled woman leans in again, more enthusiastically this time. "Tell him we are praying for him. Whatever he did, we pray that God forgives him for it."

Rachel attempts to distract herself by aggressively stirring the cocoa in her mug. "Are there some things… that you can't forgive?" she ventures.

The two women exchange covert glances. A silent moment passes between them both, then the older, plainer lady pipes up again, total confidence in her voice. "It doesn't matter," she declares with a smile. "If there's something, anything at all, we pray God has mercy on him."

That's the end of their conversation. The two visitors to the diner finish their small meal, pay the bill, and leave. By the time they're ushering themselves out the door, Rachel's staring after them, wondering if they'd still have forgiveness in their hearts if they knew whose execution her husband ordered.

Gale

Over two months have passed since I was, deservedly, doused with boiling water. It should be a typical weekend afternoon. Instead, Marion, Demelza, Giulia, and I are at District Two Central Hospital, where the television's buzzing mindlessly in one of the corridors. Nurses and orderlies rush back and forth in quite a disorderly manner. Demelza's glued to me, while Marion's in the same room as Giulia, keeping vigil at her side.

Demelza and I watch the broadcast wordlessly, but fearfully.

"Following the water-treatment plant disaster in District Two, the cholera epidemic there is spiraling out of control…" The anchor drones on, but I stop paying attention. I have somewhere I need to be at the moment.

I tell Demelza to keep herself parked firmly in the hallway. The nurses made it clear they'd only allow one visitor in my wife's room at a time, and besides, I'm not sure Demelza could handle seeing her mother in this condition. She nods, her usual defiance gone, and so I leave her there hugging her porcelain doll with one arm.

Minutes later, I step through the doorway leading into Rachel's room. The curtains are drawn, absorbing whatever light would've been there. A fitting symbol of our world now, considering the darkness that'll surely fall over our family if Rachel passes.

They'd better not let her pass at this time.

Worry drives me closer to her bed, so I can fully examine her face. It's no paler than it was when she first got sick, but now her eyes have deep shadows beneath them, her cheeks are far too thin, and there's a yellowish tint to her flesh. Like she's decomposing even before entering the grave.

I sit at her bedside and grip her sweaty hand in mine. I'm thinking not of recent times, but of all the instances when I held her hand like this for hours, as she prepared to give birth to our children.

If only we could go back to those happier times, when the bond keeping us together was stronger than steel.

"Gale?" she mumbles, her eyes barely open. There's not a hint of reproach in her voice. Hearing her speak like this, with her usual softness, gives me the resolve to go on.

"I'm right here, Rach." I don't allow any resentment or anger to seep through in my voice. I clutch her hand tighter. "You thought I would walk away? I made you a promise at that altar. If you want to exile me from your life after you recover, fine. But there's just no way I can leave you alone in this."

It's true. I've realized just how stupid I was to continually think of Katniss instead of directing one hundred percent of those thoughts to Rachel, because my wife's the only woman who ever gave me that same level of attention and care.

If she senses that I'm making it up to her now, I can't tell. "What… what about Giulia?" she asks weakly. Her eyelids twitch, like she's trying to open her eyes to look for our child. "Is there any danger?" she manages to say.

I'm quiet for a moment. Giulia started vomiting, losing bodily fluids, and showing signs of weakness and fatigue before Rachel did. The pathogen's deadlier the younger and smaller you are, too. The doctors say her prognosis isn't good.

I wait, then say, in a hushed voice, "We still don't know."

Rachel's face twitches. Her limbs start to flop uselessly about, like if she just flails hard enough, she'll regain the strength to get out of bed and find Giulia. "No…" It comes out as a low, pained moan.

I calm her down by placing a steady hand on her upper right arm. "Don't you start worrying about that," I assure my wife. "I'm keeping watch over her. When I'm not with you, I'm with her. You just have to get well, Rachel."

I half expect my wife to drop off to sleep after that. Yet she doesn't. The flush in her cheeks and the agitation in her expression slowly return. "Gale," she struggles to say, "could you…"

"Don't force yourself to talk," I say firmly. "Just let yourself rest."

Rachel won't be placated. "No," she croaks. Her eyes slide open all the way, so she's looking straight at me. "Gale… you need to stay with Giulia. Until she's better, forget about me."

What? I don't think I can accept that. "That's the disease talking," I tell her.

"No," she insists. She swats at me with one hand, using all of her waning strength. "Get away from me. Go be with our daughter," she rasps, "and do not leave her side."

I hesitate. How do I walk away in this moment, when every cell in my body tells me I ought to stay?

Rachel's request wins out in the end. "Alright," I say with tremendous effort, though it comes out quietly. I rise from the chair at my wife's bedside. I kiss her once on her shriveled cheek, then I head for the door leading back into the chaos of the hospital corridor.

Marion's been crying, I can tell. She sits on a stained mattress on the floor, clinging so tightly to Giulia's limp form, it takes a minute before I can get her to surrender the girl to me. Giulia's awake, yet she doesn't fuss or even whimper when she's moved, which gives me a cold feeling at the top of my spine. She just lets her head loll back with her ragged lips slightly parted, her limbs like those of a doll whose stuffing was removed.

I suppose I did Rachel a favor, not telling her the reason for Giulia's pitiful condition. Our youngest child's name wasn't on any of the slips that were drawn to decide which kids would receive emergency treatment.

Marion sniffles and sobs, her eyes never straying from Giulia's too-pale face. I lean on the wall for support, rocking my child back and forth numbly, fending off my own tears so I can stay strong for the girls. I wish a miracle would happen to restore Giulia to full health. At the same time, I know if any god of justice exists, he'd never want to bless a man like me.

Midnight comes and goes, yet the lights in the hospital corridor retain their full brightness. The nurses and orderlies haven't stopped running madly about. The lucky kids who were prioritized for treatment haven't stopped vomiting and losing fluids. Next to me, Marion sleeps soundly on the rotted mattress.

One child's stopped moving, though. Giulia's eyes are shut, her skin almost totally devoid of color, her face still, her little fingers no longer twitching. Still cradling her body in the crook of my arm, I touch her forehead softly. Her skin's unusually clammy, as though her blood pressure just dropped considerably.

Fear stabs at the inside of my chest. I give the little girl a slight shake.

"Giulia? Baby girl?"

Her mouth parts and she releases a soft wheeze. "Papa…"

That faint moan's the last sound I hear from her before her eyes close again. "Giulia?" I repeat. I shake her again. Her mouth hangs open and her tongue sticks out slightly, but she doesn't stir.

I call her name a third time. Marion's quiet snores are the only response. I watch in resigned silence as a fly lands on Giulia's face.

"No…" The word comes out as a desperate gasp. I'm powerless to fight back as the two white-uniformed men pry the child from my arms. I try to protest, but my throat's so constricted, I'm unsure if they can hear me. "She's sleeping…"

What? Why am I saying this? Deep inside, I know that's not the truth.

But to state the truth now would utterly debilitate me, so I persist with the lies. "Don't wake her…" My voice fails when I feel the weight of Giulia's body disappear, see her being transferred to one of the other men, who simply loops a broad arm around her middle and hauls her carelessly away.

The other man in white presses a strong hand to my shoulder, keeping me from rising. Maybe he imagines I'm about to assault him. He must not know that even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have the strength to stand on my own.

Twelve hours pass. I don't cry once. I don't shed a single tear, release a single sob. Not because I don't feel sorrow. Certainly I do, but the current circumstances don't permit me the luxury of crying. A time to mourn? How can I be allowed that when my two remaining daughters need it more?

Marion's howling like a bereaved she-wolf. Her tear-streaked face collides with my jacket sleeve and stays there for about five minutes. "She wouldn't wake up!" the ten-year-old wails. I rub her back gingerly, unable to muster a response. She resembles a patient in need of a shot of morphine.

Yet no amount of morphine in the world would be enough to cure the pain afflicting my daughter.

Demelza's wailing too, so I let her take my other sleeve. The only relief is that Rachel, who lies unconscious in her hospital bed, still hasn't been told.

The voices are hushed, but every word can be heard from clear across the hall.

"By lottery? What a cold choice." The young, smooth-faced orderly's shaking his head in disbelief. His platinum blonde hair's evidence of his Capitol upbringing. He doesn't have any idea what it's like to attend reapings for the Hunger Games.

His friend, an equally youthful nurse, laughs mirthlessly. "Did we have another? We'd long since run out of beds in the children's ward." She lets these words sink in. "Rest assured, had I been one of the sick, I'd have sacrificed my own life in a heartbeat."

"I would've, too," the orderly heroically volunteers.

A wry chuckle from the nurse. "You be sure to say that to her poor parents."

Now the orderly sounds a bit nervous. His feet stutter on the floor as he paces from one end of the hall to the other. "The mother's still seriously ill. Are you going to tell her when she recovers?"

The nurse hesitates. "No, let's have you do it," she finally says. "You're six inches taller. I can hide behind you."

The sunshine wafts in through the window of Rachel's room, making her messy red hair glint with every small move she makes. She rests in her hospital bed, seeming healthier than before. Yet her green eyes lack their usual sparkle and instead stare dully into space. It wouldn't require a genius to guess why.

"Please know that the medical team viewed the lottery as an absolute last resort," that same young nurse from earlier tells her, somewhat awkwardly. "It wouldn't have been done without exhausting all other options."

Total silence. Rachel's gaze shifts only slightly, so she can look at the nurse, but the rest of her remains a statue.

The nurse shifts her weight from foot to foot. How she wishes her orderly friend hadn't bailed on her.

"I hope someday you find peace, Mrs. Hawthorne," she finishes. She trots out of the room as quickly as she came in, her expression betraying how glad she is to not have to stay there longer.

The corridors of the hospital hum with activity. The young nurse fills her flask with fresh water, sighing as she thinks of her own comfortable bed at home. Four more agonizing hours before her double shift ends, and one entire floor of patients to check up on. She sometimes regrets not taking her mother's advice and changing jobs.

A bare foot slaps the tiles beneath her shoes. Her gaze shoots up and she sees her patient, Rachel Hawthorne, standing a few feet away. The woman's mouth neither smiles nor frowns, yet what's unmissable is the intense wrath in her eyes.

The young nurse's heart pounds against her rib cage. "Why are you not in bed?" is all she can stammer.

Rachel's only answer is to withdraw a black object from the pocket of her hospital gown. Next thing the young nurse knows, something inside her's exploded.

She's not quite sure what happened, but it seemed a massive force plowed through her nose and caved the front of her skull in. A coppery-scented fluid soaks the side of her face. She blinks hard, trying to clear the red fog from her eyes. What feels like the cold tiled floor rests against her wet cheek, but she doesn't know how the floor moved so quickly.

Gale

The crime was horrific, yet I wasn't the one who committed it this time. That's a selfish thought. Never mind, I'm too weary from the latest round of hard questions to push it back. I sit in the chilly interrogation room, the police keeping me penned in.

"And that's the best you could come up with to defend your wife?" Detective Enys fixes me with a skeptical look. One hour's elapsed since the first question, perhaps two.

I remind him once again. "You know what a 'crime of passion' is."

There's nothing else I can say. But of course Enys doesn't believe me. He's never had a toddler of his own. Never felt the extreme pain, as well as extreme anger, that comes with knowing someone took away the innocent child you loved.

Enys looks like he might engage me further, but just then his partner, Detective Penvenen, interrupts. "Let her go free," she suggests. "I've seen too many similar cases in my line of work. Unfaithful spouses and the like." Makes sense. Wives and husbands who've been cheated on are also familiar with violent rage.

Penvenen smiles sadly at me, then motions with her hand for me to get up. "Tell your wife it's her lucky day."

I'm more selfish than I realized.

My wife banished me from our apartment for an extended length of time, yet now that I'm back, I can't dredge up any gratitude. All I notice is the tangible void in the places our youngest used to occupy. I pace around our living room a few steps and find myself having to leave, because I keep imagining I can hear a four-year-old's laughter, see her chasing the ants scuttling over the floor. Or vigorously sucking her thumb after pricking it with a sewing needle. Or playing dress up with a flowing white sheet over her head.

No matter where I walk in the apartment, even to my own bedroom, the onslaught of imagery won't leave me alone. I finally have to admit to myself that I can't handle it on my own. I decide to go join Rachel and Demelza in the latter's room.

Pausing in the hallway, I see the eight-year-old getting tucked into bed by my wife. "Mama, I miss Giulia," I hear her murmur.

"I know," Rachel soothes. "I want her back, too." She touches her own cheek, perhaps to wipe a stray tear away. Then, as I watch in silence, she caresses our daughter's hair and gives her a kiss good night on the top of her head.

I drift back into the living room and lower myself onto the couch. I don't want to let it show, but I can't take much more of this sadness. The funeral was days ago. Why does our youngest daughter's ghost still haunt us?

Before I know it, my wife's exiting Demelza's room and setting herself down on the couch next to me. I'm not given time to brace myself for another round of harsh words. Not that I don't think I deserve them.

Contrary to my expectations, Rachel's voice is nothing but gentle when she speaks to me. "I should say 'thank you'. You kept me out of prison."

I give her a surprised, and slightly amused, look. "Common sense did. Who in their right mind would punish you?"

She still won't quite meet my gaze, but she doesn't turn hostile either. "No. I mean it," she says, and I hear some of her old warmth in her voice. "I know what anger is now." A pause, like she's about to reveal a heavy secret. "And that's why… I'm going to try to forgive you."

I stare blankly at her in response.

"It's not going to be easy," continues Rachel. "But I'll try hard." Echoes of what I previously told her, after she chided me for my crude treatment of Demelza.

I'm silent for several moments. This is much more than I dared hope for.

"I don't deserve it, Rach," is what I finally get out.

My wife lifts her eyebrows. "Oh? At this moment, when I'm saying I'll take you back, you suddenly don't think it's worth it?" A bittersweet smile forms on her face. "Don't take what I said earlier to heart. If I'd been in your shoes then, I would've made the same mistakes. The only real difference between us is circumstance."

The brooding expression on my face doesn't waver. I glance down at my shoes, suddenly unwilling to meet her eyes. "You shot just one person. I killed more than a thousand." A lump forms in my throat. "I owe them a debt, Rachel, and this debt's too much to pay."

It sounds callous, adding up mere figures in my head in order to calculate the cost of a thousand lives. But I don't think anyone would agree that it's enough to simply issue an apology, after snuffing out that many lives all at once. True, I put in work. Documented for future generations the suffering those people endured, after getting permission from the survivors. Gave the families enough funds to keep them sustained for the rest of their lives. But I think it'd be self-righteous of a man to declare that he's done this and that, and therefore he can demand to be absolved.

Perhaps Rachel disagrees. Or maybe she's just too good of a person to understand what it's like, having the burden of several grave sins on your conscience. "Maybe you've already paid," she suggests gently, as she wraps an arm around me and rests her head on my shoulder. Typical Rachel. The mercy she's extending to me now isn't what I deserve. But she'd be hurt if I didn't accept it, so I make a mental note to just pretend to be grateful.

The metro station's overstuffed with people, as usual. Commuters heading off to work, students in their newly ironed uniforms, the homeless hanging around the platforms and asking for change. Marion and I are just two of the busy passengers. I'll say bye to her when she gets off at the stop near her school, then I'll be going to work.

We've just stepped onto the train when an idea occurs to me. "Marion," I say in a neutral voice.

She perks up and whips her head around to face me, her dark ponytail swinging wildly. "Hm?" Bet she's expecting good news. I decide to just give it to her.

"I want you to write that apology letter to Harriet," I say, referring to an incident that's by now months old. That still has yet to be resolved.

The words apology letter seize her attention, more so than the sudden jolt of the train as it starts moving. Her mouth becomes a wide O as she gapes at me. "You want me to what?" she squawks.

"I know you heard me." I keep my tone firm. "Get that letter written and put it on the girl's desk."

Marion's surprise gives way to a Demelza-like defiance. "No," she snaps.

I was expecting that response. "Alright, then," I say coolly. "I'll call Mrs. Fitzhugh and tell her what you wrote in your notebook."

Once again, she assumes the look of a fawn in headlights. "You can't!" my daughter wails.

"I can and I will," I assure her.

In her wide green eyes, I see the wheels in her brain turning, see her sense that the battle's already lost. She stomps her foot in frustration. "Papa, I thought you were on my side!"

"I am, Miss Mar. I want you to do better." Other commuters are beginning to stare, but I ignore them, keeping my focus on Marion.

"Did your wife put you up to this?" she sneers, resorting to derision now that I have the upper hand.

"She's your mother," I correct her. "And don't you dare talk about her that way." A trace of my usual hot anger slides into my voice at the thought of that insult to Rachel.

"But you always said she was wrong!" protests Marion.

"I was wrong," I tell her firmly. "She was right. The discussion's over. Just get that letter written."

The finality in my tone lets Marion know there's no weaseling her way out of this. Furious at her unexpected defeat, she screws up her little face and vents her emotions by balling up both her fists, then releasing, through gritted teeth, an almost animal-like growl. "Arrrrrggggghhhh…"

She keeps that expression on her face when we exit the train to transfer to a different line. We've just made our way through the underground tunnel and arrived on the platform when Marion glares contemptuously at me. "I hate you," she seethes. "I wish you'd get your head squished by a train."

Yeowch. That stings. Especially coming from the daughter who loves me best, my most passionate defender when Rachel accuses me of bad behavior. If this were the old me talking, he'd respond with a similar acidity. Tell her to take her opinion and shove it where it belongs.

Now I know better. I know that there's a world of difference between leading by example and pushing someone in the right direction by force. So I respond to Marion's threat with, "I do, too."

The anger dissolves from her expression, giving way to shock. What's that supposed to mean?

"Then you'd see," I tell Marion, "what happens when your words become actions." A pause, as I let my daughter absorb the meaning. I drift so close to the platform edge that if the train were to arrive now, it'd take off my ear and suck me underneath the churning wheels. "You want that, huh?"

Fear blossoms on Marion's face, like blood staining someone's shirt after a shot to the chest. She scuttles forward, her fingernails scraping my arm as she tries to tug me back. She already looks guilty. "No…" It comes out as a helpless whimper. A faint whistling and rumbling permeate the air, nearing the mouth of the tunnel with each passing second.

Finally, as the train comes rushing into the station, Marion's face crumples and tears squeeze through her eyes. "I'm sorry!" she gasps.

She attempts a single last-ditch yank on my arm, but by then I've already steered clear of the platform edge. The train roars harmlessly by before slowing and coming to a shuddery halt. Marion and I embark together, the ten-year-old's arm tight around my middle.

When she's certain we're safe, she staggers forward, her feet propelled by a sudden burst of emotion. Her face smacks into the front of my jacket, but instead of pulling back, she buries her nose and mouth in deeper. Then, as the train gets moving, she starts to cry loudly, her sobs muffled by the thick fabric and the rumbling on the rails.

I won't rebuke her for her very public humiliation. As the train rushes on through the tunnel, I reach up with one hand and stroke Marion's hair softly while she cries. I'll have to wait until she calms down on her own time.

One minute later, she does. Her mucus-stained face emerges from the safety of my jacket, her eyes sheepishly meeting mine. "I'm sorry," she repeats, the wobble in her voice gone. "I'll watch my words next time."

I feel like smiling at her. I'm proud, I really am. But my voice is hard when I respond. "Not good enough," I tell her. "You keep your anger at bay, too."

She looks down, shame reddening her cheeks, as though I just slapped her. "Do you hate me now?" she ventures to ask. I hear a creeping resentment in her voice, but it's not from malice, I know. It's her embarrassment at having shed tears in front of me, and she's doggedly trying to hide it.

She shouldn't have to. Yet the fault's mine, not hers. I always said that as the parent, it's my job to pick her up when she's down. So I slowly loop one arm around her waist and hug her tight, giving her a solid reassurance.

"Never hated you, Mar," I murmur. "Never will."

Rachel's dozing on the couch next to me, her chin tucked into the crook of her arm. The babbling voices on the television might put me to sleep, too, but I've got to get this mountain of work done. All my students have submitted their final projects, and now it's time for me to write a review for each and every one of them.

The school year's drawing to a close. Soon it'll be Hunger Games season, no, I mean, summer. Some trains of thought you grow up with never really go away. A shame, but it's what it is.

I type the reviews while Rachel sleeps. Jennifer did an exemplary job, and so did Josh. Lenny's the most improved, a far cry from the lazy kid I met on the first day of school. As I keep typing, the white noise of the television anchors me to reality. Still, I startle when I feel a light tap on my arm.

My head turns, eyes settling on a familiar figure with tousled dark hair and pink cheeks. It's Demelza.

She just stands there in her messy nightgown, not uttering a word. Groggily, I start to ask her what she's doing here. I hope she knows I'm not scolding her, I've long since stopped thinking of every interaction with her as a fight.

Then she surprises me. She jerks out a hand toward me, but not to slap or punch me. I peer at the hand, and resting in the palm is a smoothly textured, yet strangely shaped object. With just a look, Demelza urges me to take the gift.

So I do. It's a rudimentary clay sculpture, molded by a young child's fingers. A project Demelza completed in her art class. She got the maximum number of points for it, too. That's what it says on the sticker attached to the bottom. I'm about to smile and offer congratulations, then I notice what's inscribed on the nameplate at the base of the statue.

BEST DIRECTER, the giant bronze letters read. The smaller font below says, IM SORRY DAD DY.

Blinking hard, I study the shape of the sculpture once more. It's an imitation of a Castor Award statuette, except the material's far cheaper, and it's painted a muddy yellow instead of gold.

All of a sudden, tears billow behind my eyes.

I glance at Demelza to gauge her reaction. She squirms in place, shuffling her feet and keeping her eyes down, like she's scared I won't like her present.

But I do. I do love it, oh, so very much.

Without thinking, I sweep my eight-year-old into my arms and wrap her in the tightest embrace. The blue skirt of her gown flutters in the air like a flower floating on the wind. When I hear her hesitant laugh and see the smile blossoming on her face, I don't hold back. I kiss her again, and again, and again, just so I can see that smile and hear that laugh some more.

I once heard a man say, "It takes ten times as long to put something back together as it does for it to fall apart." Or something like that. Well, I have to say I agree, and that's why that ugly statue's worth more to me than all the genuine Castor Awards that have ever been made.

For there is more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance. Luke 15.7.

AN: Special thanks to Nicholas Wilde, Blue Eagle16, and JellyfishStarfish for beta-ing.