Madge emerges into another planet. Her skin bites from the cold wind. Blinding pain courses through her eyes from the sudden wash of bright white before the realisation crashes.

I can see all the way to the mines.

No obstructions. No imposing Justice building. No school block with Ms Miller's hoarse voice telling them to keep quiet. No more Seam and the clanging tin cans of miners heading to work. It's just one flattened, empty swathe of levelled buildings stretching from her widened eyes to the hillside mineshafts.

Complete and utter ruin. Thousands of lives buried in the rubble. She hears a feeble whine. Thunder. Every little whistle and screech in the distance sounds like more Hovercrafts coming to finish them off. Between the flickering flames of Merchant houses and the sudden crash of a building collapsing, Madge comes to the sullen realisation there's nothing left in District 12. The Capitol destroyed it. For what? Because of Katniss? Panem suddenly didn't need coal? Her dad pissed President Snow off?

She grits her teeth and staggers away from the mewling cries gradually fading into silence. It haunts her. Bitter quiet where she could only hear her own heartbeat and the whistling breeze. Before she can stare any harder at the rubble and imagine ghosts rising into the dusty air. Madge looks away towards the only patch of green left for miles. The forest.

The fence already resembles a tangled heap when she reaches the Meadow's edge. Perhaps it got bombed, or someone tore through it while fleeing.

The faintest possibility of someone on the other side able to help or even just hold her for a few seconds propels Madge over the rusty, twisty scrap of metal. Shaking with fear. Burning with sorrow. And for the first time in her life, completely, utterly alone.


Three sunsets pass before Madge shakes herself out of her stupor. She counts three apple cores lying on the forest floor beneath her hiding spot in the trees. Nibbled down to the seeds and all. Her limbs quake with ferocious hunger she's never felt in her life. And her windshot eyes still refuse to turn back and witness the completeness of District 12's destruction. Once, twice she clings to the trunk in a shaking fit when the hovercrafts return to pummel the town into further needless submission. She hears voices below more than once. but no one ever comes. Merely hollow voices of people who've died around her.

Deep into the third night, Madge weeps silently when she hears Katniss's voice. Letting the faint drizzle of rain wash away her tears. Begging the cloudswept heavens to strike her down with lightning - just so that she can head to whatever afterlife hosts the girl with the Bow and Arrow.

Dawn breaks and Madge eases her stiff, frozen limbs down the tree. She washes her face in the lake and stares at her broken, dishevelled self in the reflection for a good hour. Wondering in sodden amazement what crime she committed to warrant ending up like this wreck staring back at her. Her throat closes when she sees Katniss over her shoulder decked in hunting gear. It's only her imagination. Telling her to get up and do something to quench her gnawing stomach.

Years of idle luxury cling to Madge like flies to rotten meat. No longer coddled by her shock. The morning's breeze bites through her thin dress, more gray than white. She crosses her arms and ponders drinking directly from the lake - and does so anyway. Running water: a fickle convenience she'd so easily taken for granted. Worse still is the indignity of relieving herself in a stream, constantly looking over her shoulder for wild animals or the faintest sound of voices.

She checks the hollow log Katniss showed her - empty. And so are the snares they've reset before leaving. The math grinds in Madge's brain through a fog of unrelenting hunger. Katniss survived two days in the Arena before eating anything substantial. Here she is on day four with nothing in sight. That aching in her belly throws her feet back to the fence. Legs wobbling like twigs by the time she hauls her shaking, sheet-white body back into District 12.

The faint roar of a hovercraft sends her scampering to a tree. Flattening herself against the bark as it screeches overhead and blasts what's left of the mineshafts into sparkly oblivion. No more coal. It takes all her wits to tear herself from the blanket of safety. Toward the only standing buildings she can see for miles. The Victor's Village.

The irony of its survival is lost on Madge. The houses look the same as any other building in the Square or in the Merchant District. Only with its pristine Masonry and iron-barred gates still intact. Perhaps as a message? Madge shakes the ominous danger from her skin and heads straight to the first unlocked door she finds. Recoiling from the god-awful stench of vomit and smoke before her mouth waters at a broken hunk of bread on the table. She kicks a clinking ruckus through strewn liquor bottles, before cramming the non-mouldy bits of bread into her mouth. Shaking with tears and relief at the little food keeping her stomach from imploding on itself.

Despite having no lights, the refrigerator's still somewhat cool. It sends her crumbling to her knees when she spots, nestled between beer bottles, a wedge of cheese and some ham. The insatiable black hole of her stomach longs to cram it down quickly, but she forces herself to think. No one's coming for you. Better make it last. She wraps both in a ragged teatowel and loots the rest of Haymitch's house for bread, knives and matches. Before heading across the street to Peeta's house.

Door's locked. She crawls in through an open window, only to find an empty, unlived house resembling a showflat. Right. She stares at the pristine hearth, never having borne the warmth of coalfire. Vacant pantry and refrigerator without a scrap of food. He lives downtown with family. Fine, she sighs. Hand trembling with apprehension when she hesitates on the lock. Katniss.

Stop, Madge's mind screams, stop. Her shoes make thud thud noises through the hollow house's floors until she reaches the bedroom. Heaving chest slowing at the sight of dusty bedsheets. Unslept in. What are you here for? What are you trying to confirm?

She turns from the sight, forcing herself to focus on surviving. The next house she visits proves a sodden obstacle in her path. Katniss's door won't budge. Her windows are locked tight. She hesitates before muttering an apology to her friend, and hurls a rock through the glass.

A cat leaps out the gap and she flinches backwards as it scampers all the way across the village as though it's fleeing ghosts. But there's nothing now stopping her from climbing into the only house accurately resembling the warm home she grew up in.

Plush linens and neatly arranged photoframes and Prim's half-completed knitting drapes their couch. Plates and cups line the shelves like toy soldiers. Mrs. Everdeen's jars of herbs and ointments. Warmth. It's not even a week but the sheer homeliness breaks Madge heart into little pieces. She drops her satchel of Haymitch's looted supplies and walks straight upstairs into Katniss's bedroom. Nails dig into her fraying cotton dress as she stares at Katniss's unmade bed.

It's too much for her.

Madge starts towards it. Stop, you're filthy. She compromises by dropping to her knees. Burying her face in the pillows and sucking in the deepest breath of that blessed girl's scent she can contain in her lungs. The fragrance of love wracks her with sobs as she ponders, for the first time, everything she's lost.

"Katniss," Madge's voice leaves her throat in a sputtery whisper, "Please, please don't go - please don't leave me here-"

No one answers her pleas. But she begs anyway. Until the sheets go damp with tears and daylight leaves their windows and ghosts return to haunt her ears.

It's not even a week, but Madge's already gotten used to the whisper of ghosts by now.

She falls asleep amidst the scent of Katniss's hair, dreaming of the only ghost that matters.


Madge mistakes the thumping in her ears as her own heartbeat. The darkness outside Katniss's windows confirms this. She writes off the voices echoing through the house as more ghosts. Until she hears a crash of glass and hushed whispers.

"Watch it!"

Flashlight beams criss-cross the staircase landing. Shadowy fingers grow through the bannisters and strangle her. Her heart crushes to a pinhead. A scream leaps free of her mouth and she clamps it down. Shoving it back down her throat. Hovercraft engines roar overhead and she seizes the distraction long enough to heave a few breaths before all goes silent and she bites back every little sound she makes.

"Why don't we just burn this place? Fuckin' Victor scum-"

"Quiet, don't touch anything. If there're any squatters here they can hear us-"

Squatters.

You.

Sparse moonlight filters through the curtains and she jerks back at her own reflection in the dressing table mirror. Wide-eyed points of gray rife with fear stare back. Unrecognizable. Shaking hand clamped over her mouth. Footsteps clomp up the stairs. Icy blood pumps through her veins. Madge flings herself away from the doorway in time for the flashlights to land where she was just kneeling.

She spots the boots from beneath Katniss's bed. Peacekeepers. Her eyes narrow at the lights mounted on their service rifles. Two. Three. How many men would it take to discover her? How many men would it take to drag her screaming from beneath the bed? Why is she even hiding from the same men who protected her Father? Her heart pounds so hard against the wood she imagines hearing thud thud thud noises echo through the house. It's impossible shifting to deaden the heartbeat. Sweat leaks down her chin and adds to the litany of filth on her body.

"Pity she's dead," a voice whispers, "fine house-"

"She's not dead, just gone - like a ghost-"

The gasp leaves Madge's throat in a harsh, scathing sound. She might as well have screamed it.

"What's that?" three voices growl in unison, "There's someone here."

Her eyes ram shut. She tries to shrink further beneath the bed but only succeeds in closing the walls on her head. Her heartbeat's visible now in pulsing flashes of light behind her eyelids and rank fear seeps through her nostrils.

Oh god. Not like this.

The footsteps clomp closer.

I don't want to die like this.

Drawers and cabinets squeak open. Rattling on hinges as they rummage through clothes and stationery. A boot lands, inches from her face. Every muscle in her body seizes with fright. A hair's breadth closer and he would've slipped on the puddle of sweat she's leaked. Blood drains from her face when they check under the table. In Katniss's closet. Behind the chairs. Under the-

Crash.

"What's that?" a voice growls. His flashlight flicks to the stairs. Boots stomp through the carpets and patter down the wooden steps. Her body tenses tight. It lets out bit by bit when they finally find what they're looking for.

"It's their fucking cat-"

"Christ, I thought this house was haunted for a second."

"Maybe it is."

"Right, let's get outta here before the ghosts come-"

The door slams. Madge listens for the slightest sound of a breath that isn't her own. Only silence answers. After what feels like an eternity, another faint whisper reaches her ears.

A mewl.

Followed by a fuzz of orange. Darting up the steps and heading straight to Madge's hiding spot. It takes all her strength to hold her guts in and not faint with relief when the cat curls itself up against her shivering body. Meow. She looks within its green eyes. Shaking hands go steady when she brushes them through his soft fur. As the sense of dread departs Madge, she feels her hands closing upon the same Katniss-shaped prints left on his body. The thought tugs her lips into a smile.

"You saved me, didn't you?"