Mockingjay

10

The scream begins in my lower back and works its way up through my body only to jam in my throat. I am Avox mute, choking on my grief. Even if I could release the muscles in my neck, let the sound tear into space, would anyone notice it? The room’s in an uproar. Questions and demands ring out as they try to decipher Peeta’s words. «And you… in Thirteen… dead by morning!» Yet no one is asking about the messenger whose blood has been replaced by static.

A voice calls the others to attention. «Shut up!» Every pair of eyes falls on Haymitch. «It’s not some big mystery! The boy’s telling us we’re about to be attacked. Here. In Thirteen.»

«How would he have that information?»

«Why should we trust him?»

«How do you know?»

Haymitch gives a growl of frustration. «They’re beating him bloody while we speak. What more do you need? Katniss, help me out here!»

I have to give myself a shake to free my words. «Haymitch’s right. I don’t know where Peeta got the information. Or if it’s true. But he believes it is. And they’re—» I can’t say aloud what Snow’s doing to him.

«You don’t know him,» Haymitch says to Coin. «We do. Get your people ready.»

The president doesn’t seem alarmed, only somewhat perplexed, by this turn in events. She mulls over the words, tapping one finger lightly on the rim of the control board in front of her. When she speaks, she addresses Haymitch in an even voice. «Of course, we have prepared for such a scenario. Although we have decades of support for the assumption that further direct attacks on Thirteen would be counterproductive to the Capitol’s cause. Nuclear missiles would release radiation into the atmosphere, with incalculable environmental results. Even routine bombing could badly damage our military compound, which we know they hope to regain. And, of course, they invite a counterstrike. It is conceivable that, given our current alliance with the rebels, those would be viewed as acceptable risks.»

«You think so?» says Haymitch. It’s a shade too sincere, but the subtleties of irony are often wasted in 13.

«I do. At any rate, we’re overdue for a Level Five security drill,» says Coin. «Let’s proceed with the lockdown.» She begins to type rapidly on her keyboard, authorizing her decision. The moment she raises her head, it begins.

There have been two low-level drills since I arrived in 13. I don’t remember much about the first. I was in intensive care in the hospital and I think the patients were exempted, as the complications of removing us for a practice drill outweighed the benefits. I was vaguely aware of a mechanical voice instructing people to congregate in yellow zones. During the second, a Level Two drill meant for minor crises—such as a temporary quarantine while citizens were tested for contagion during a flu outbreak—we were supposed to return to our living quarters. I stayed behind a pipe in the laundry room, ignored the pulsating beeps coming over the audio system, and watched a spider construct a web. Neither experience has prepared me for the wordless, eardrum-piercing, fear-inducing sirens that now permeate 13. There would be no disregarding this sound, which seems designed to throw the whole population into a frenzy. But this is 13 and that doesn’t happen.

Boggs guides Finnick and me out of Command, along the hall to a doorway, and onto a wide stairway. Streams of people are converging to form a river that flows only downward. No one shrieks or tries to push ahead. Even the children don’t resist. We descend, flight after flight, speechless, because no word could be heard above this sound. I look for my mother and Prim, but it’s impossible to see anyone but those immediately around me. They’re both working in the hospital tonight, though, so there’s no way they can miss the drill.

My ears pop and my eyes feel heavy. We are coal-mine deep. The only plus is that the farther we retreat into the earth, the less shrill the sirens become. It’s as if they were meant to physically drive us away from the surface, which I suppose they are. Groups of people begin to peel off into marked doorways and still Boggs directs me downward, until finally the stairs end at the edge of an enormous cavern. I start to walk straight in and Boggs stops me, shows me that I must wave my schedule in front of a scanner so that I’m accounted for. No doubt the information’s going to some computer somewhere to make sure no one’s gone astray.

The place seems unable to decide if it’s natural or man-made. Certain areas of the walls are stone, while steel beams and concrete heavily reinforce others. Sleeping bunks are hewn right into the rock walls. There’s a kitchen, bathrooms, a first-aid station. This place was designed for an extended stay.

White signs with letters or numbers are placed at intervals around the cavern. As Boggs tells Finnick and me to report to the area that matches our assigned quarters—in my case E for Compartment E—Plutarch strolls up. «Ah, here you are,» he says. Recent events have had little effect on Plutarch’s mood. He still has a happy glow from Beetee’s success on the Airtime Assault. Eyes on the forest, not on the trees. Not on Peeta’s punishment or 13’s imminent blasting. «Katniss, obviously this is a bad moment for you, what with Peeta’s setback, but you need to be aware that others will be watching you.»

«What?» I say. I can’t believe he actually just downgraded Peeta’s dire circumstances to a setback.

«The other people in the bunker, they’ll be taking their cue on how to react from you. If you’re calm and brave, others will try to be as well. If you panic, it could spread like wildfire,» explains Plutarch. I just stare at him. «Fire is catching, so to speak,» he continues, as if I’m being slow on the uptake.

«Why don’t I just pretend I’m on camera, Plutarch?» I say.

«Yes! Perfect. One is always much braver with an audience,» he says. «Look at the courage Peeta just displayed!»

It’s all I can do not to slap him.

«I’ve got to get back to Coin before lockdown. You keep up the good work!» he says, and then heads off.

I cross to the big letter E posted on the wall. Our space consists of a twelve-by-twelve-foot square of stone floor delineated by painted lines. Carved into the wall are two bunks—one of us will be sleeping on the floor—and a ground-level cube space for storage. A piece of white paper, coated in clear plastic, reads BUNKER PROTOCOL. I stare fixedly at the little black specks on the sheet. For a while, they’re obscured by the residual blood droplets that I can’t seem to wipe from my vision. Slowly, the words come into focus. The first section is entitled «On Arrival.»

1. Make sure all members of your Compartment are accounted for.

My mother and Prim haven’t arrived, but I was one of the first people to reach the bunker. Both of them are probably helping to relocate hospital patients.

2. Go to the Supply Station and secure one pack for each member of your Compartment. Ready your Living Area. Return pack(s).

I scan the cavern until I locate the Supply Station, a deep room set off by a counter. People wait behind it, but there’s not a lot of activity there yet. I walk over, give our compartment letter, and request three packs. A man checks a sheet, pulls the specified packs from shelving, and swings them up onto the counter. After sliding one on my back and getting a grip on the other two with my hands, I turn to find a group rapidly forming behind me. «Excuse me,» I say as I carry my supplies through the others. Is it a matter of timing? Or is Plutarch right? Are these people modeling their behavior on mine?

Back at our space, I open one of the packs to find a thin mattress, bedding, two sets of gray clothing, a toothbrush, a comb, and a flashlight. On examining the contents of the other packs, I find the only discernible difference is that they contain both gray and white outfits. The latter will be for my mother and Prim, in case they have medical duties. After I make up the beds, store the clothes, and return the backpacks, I’ve got nothing to do but observe the last rule.

3. Await further instructions.

I sit cross-legged on the floor to await. A steady flow of people begins to fill the room, claiming spaces, collecting supplies. It won’t take long until the place is full up. I wonder if my mother and Prim are going to stay the night at wherever the hospital patients have been taken. But, no, I don’t think so. They were on the list here. I’m starting to get anxious, when my mother appears. I look behind her into a sea of strangers. «Where’s Prim?» I ask.

«Isn’t she here?» she replies. «She was supposed to come straight down from the hospital. She left ten minutes before I did. Where is she? Where could she have gone?»

I squeeze my lids shut tight for a moment, to track her as I would prey on a hunt. See her react to the sirens, rush to help the patients, nod as they gesture for her to descend to the bunker, and then hesitate with her on the stairs. Torn for a moment. But why?

My eyes fly open. «The cat! She went back for him!»

«Oh, no,» my mother says. We both know I’m right. We’re pushing against the incoming tide, trying to get out of the bunker. Up ahead, I can see them preparing to shut the thick metal doors. Slowly rotating the metal wheels on either side inward. Somehow I know that once they have been sealed, nothing in the world will convince the soldiers to open them. Perhaps it will even be beyond their control. I’m indiscriminately shoving people aside as I shout for them to wait. The space between the doors shrinks to a yard, a foot; there are only a few inches left when I jam my hand through the crack.

«Open it! Let me out!» I cry.

Consternation shows on the soldiers’ faces as they reverse the wheels a bit. Not enough to let me pass, but enough to avoid crushing my fingers. I take the opportunity to wedge my shoulder into the opening.

«Prim!» I holler up the stairs. My mother pleads with the guards as I try to wriggle my way out. «Prim!»

Then I hear it. The faint sound of footsteps on the stairs. «We’re coming!» I hear my sister call.

«Hold the door!» That was Gale.

«They’re coming!» I tell the guards, and they slide the doors open about a foot. But I don’t dare move—afraid they’ll lock us all out—until Prim appears, her cheeks flushed with running, hauling Buttercup. I pull her inside and Gale follows, twisting an armload of baggage sideways to get it into the bunker. The doors are closed with a loud and final clank.

«What were you thinking?» I give Prim an angry shake and then hug her, squashing Buttercup between us.

Prim’s explanation is already on her lips. «I couldn’t leave him behind, Katniss. Not twice. You should have seen him pacing the room and howling. He’d come back to protect us.»

«Okay. Okay.» I take a few breaths to calm myself, step back, and lift Buttercup by the scruff of the neck. «I should’ve drowned you when I had the chance.» His ears flatten and he raises a paw. I hiss before he gets a chance, which seems to annoy him a little, since he considers hissing his own personal sound of contempt. In retaliation, he gives a helpless kitten mew that brings my sister immediately to his defense.

«Oh, Katniss, don’t tease him,» she says, folding him back in her arms. «He’s already so upset.»

The idea that I’ve wounded the brute’s tiny cat feelings just invites further taunting. But Prim’s genuinely distressed for him. So instead, I visualize Buttercup’s fur lining a pair of gloves, an image that has helped me deal with him over the years. «Okay, sorry. We’re under the big E on the wall. Better get him settled in before he loses it.» Prim hurries off, and I find myself face-to-face with Gale. He’s holding the box of medical supplies from our kitchen in 12. Site of our last conversation, kiss, fallout, whatever. My game bag’s slung across his shoulder.

«If Peeta’s right, these didn’t stand a chance,» he says.

Peeta. Blood like raindrops on the window. Like wet mud on boots.

«Thanks for… everything.» I take our stuff. «What were you doing up in our rooms?»

«Just double-checking,» he says. «We’re in Forty-Seven if you need me.»

Practically everyone withdrew to their spaces when the doors shut, so I get to cross to our new home with at least five hundred people watching me. I try to appear extra calm to make up for my frantic crashing through the crowd. Like that’s fooling anyone. So much for setting an example. Oh, who cares? They all think I’m nuts anyway. One man, who I think I knocked to the floor, catches my eye and rubs his elbow resentfully. I almost hiss at him, too.

Prim has Buttercup installed on the lower bunk, draped in a blanket so that only his face pokes out. This is how he likes to be when there’s thunder, the one thing that actually frightens him. My mother puts her box carefully in the cube. I crouch, my back supported by the wall, to check what Gale managed to rescue in my hunting bag. The plant book, the hunting jacket, my parents’ wedding photo, and the personal contents of my drawer. My mockingjay pin now lives with Cinna’s outfit, but there’s the gold locket and the silver parachute with the spile and Peeta’s pearl. I knot the pearl into the corner of the parachute, bury it deep in the recesses of the bag, as if it’s Peeta’s life and no one can take it away as long as I guard it.

The faint sound of the sirens cuts off sharply. Coin’s voice comes over the district audio system, thanking us all for an exemplary evacuation of the upper levels. She stresses that this is not a drill, as Peeta Mellark, the District 12 victor, has possibly made a televised reference to an attack on 13 tonight.

That’s when the first bomb hits. There’s an initial sense of impact followed by an explosion that resonates in my innermost parts, the lining of my intestines, the marrow of my bones, the roots of my teeth.We’re all going to die, I think. My eyes turn upward, expecting to see giant cracks race across the ceiling, massive chunks of stone raining down on us, but the bunker itself gives only a slight shudder. The lights go out and I experience the disorientation of total darkness. Speechless human sounds—spontaneous shrieks, ragged breaths, baby whimpers, one musical bit of insane laughter—dance around in the charged air. Then there’s a hum of a generator, and a dim wavering glow replaces the stark lighting that is the norm in 13. It’s closer to what we had in our homes in 12, when the candles and fire burned low on a winter’s night.

I reach for Prim in the twilight, clamp my hand on her leg, and pull myself over to her. Her voice remains steady as she croons to Buttercup. «It’s all right, baby, it’s all right. We’ll be okay down here.»

My mother wraps her arms around us. I allow myself to feel young for a moment and rest my head on her shoulder. «That was nothing like the bombs in Eight,» I say.

«Probably a bunker missile,» says Prim, keeping her voice soothing for the cat’s sake. «We learned about them during the orientation for new citizens. They’re designed to penetrate deep in the ground before they go off. Because there’s no point in bombing Thirteen on the surface anymore.»

«Nuclear?» I ask, feeling a chill run through me.

«Not necessarily,» says Prim. «Some just have a lot of explosives in them. But… it could be either kind, I guess.»

The gloom makes it hard to see the heavy metal doors at the end of the bunker. Would they be any protection against a nuclear attack? And even if they were one hundred percent effective at sealing out the radiation, which is really unlikely, would we ever be able to leave this place? The thought of spending whatever remains of my life in this stone vault horrifies me. I want to run madly for the door and demand to be released into whatever lies above. It’s pointless. They would never let me out, and I might start some kind of stampede.

«We’re so far down, I’m sure we’re safe,» says my mother wanly. Is she thinking of my father’s being blown to nothingness in the mines? «It was a close call, though. Thank goodness Peeta had the wherewithal to warn us.»

The wherewithal. A general term that somehow includes everything that was needed for him to sound the alarm. The knowledge, the opportunity, the courage. And something else I can’t define. Peeta seemed to have been waging a sort of battle in his mind, fighting to get the message out. Why? The ease with which he manipulates words is his greatest talent. Was his difficulty a result of his torture? Something more? Like madness?

Coin’s voice, perhaps a shade grimmer, fills the bunker, the volume level flickering with the lights. «Apparently, Peeta Mellark’s information was sound and we owe him a great debt of gratitude. Sensors indicate the first missile was not nuclear, but very powerful. We expect more will follow. For the duration of the attack, citizens are to stay in their assigned areas unless otherwise notified.»

A soldier alerts my mother that she’s needed in the first-aid station. She’s reluctant to leave us, even though she’ll only be thirty yards away.

«We’ll be fine, really,» I tell her. «Do you think anything could get past him?» I point to Buttercup, who gives me such a halfhearted hiss, we all have to laugh a little. Even I feel sorry for him. After my mother goes, I suggest, «Why don’t you climb in with him, Prim?»

«I know it’s silly… but I’m afraid the bunk might collapse on us during the attack,» she says.

If the bunks collapse, the whole bunker will have given way and buried us, but I decide this kind of logic won’t actually be helpful. Instead, I clean out the storage cube and make Buttercup a bed inside. Then I pull a mattress in front of it for my sister and me to share.

We’re given clearance in small groups to use the bathroom and brush our teeth, although showering has been canceled for the day. I curl up with Prim on the mattress, double layering the blankets because the cavern emits a dank chill. Buttercup, miserable even with Prim’s constant attention, huddles in the cube and exhales cat breath in my face.

Despite the disagreeable conditions, I’m glad to have time with my sister. My extreme preoccupation since I came here—no, since the first Games, really—has left little attention for her. I haven’t been watching over her the way I should, the way I used to. After all, it was Gale who checked our compartment, not me. Something to make up for.

I realize I’ve never even bothered to ask her about how she’s handling the shock of coming here. «So, how are you liking Thirteen, Prim?» I offer.

«Right now?» she asks. We both laugh. «I miss home badly sometimes. But then I remember there’s nothing left to miss anymore. I feel safer here. We don’t have to worry about you. Well, not the same way.» She pauses, and then a shy smile crosses her lips. «I think they’re going to train me to be a doctor.»

It’s the first I’ve heard of it. «Well, of course, they are. They’d be stupid not to.»

«They’ve been watching me when I help out in the hospital. I’m already taking the medic courses. It’s just beginner’s stuff. I know a lot of it from home. Still, there’s plenty to learn,» she tells me.

«That’s great,» I say. Prim a doctor. She couldn’t even dream of it in 12. Something small and quiet, like a match being struck, lights up the gloom inside me. This is the sort of future a rebellion could bring.

«What about you, Katniss? How are you managing?» Her fingertip moves in short, gentle strokes between Buttercup’s eyes. «And don’t say you’re fine.»

It’s true. Whatever the opposite of fine is, that’s what I am. So I go ahead and tell her about Peeta, his deterioration on-screen, and how I think they must be killing him at this very moment. Buttercup has to rely on himself for a while, because now Prim turns her attention to me. Pulling me closer, brushing the hair back behind my ears with her fingers. I’ve stopped talking because there’s really nothing left to say and there’s this piercing sort of pain where my heart is. Maybe I’m even having a heart attack, but it doesn’t seem worth mentioning.

«Katniss, I don’t think President Snow will kill Peeta,» she says. Of course, she says this; it’s what she thinks will calm me. But her next words come as a surprise. «If he does, he won’t have anyone left you want. He won’t have any way to hurt you.»

Suddenly, I am reminded of another girl, one who had seen all the evil the Capitol had to offer. Johanna Mason, the tribute from District 7, in the last arena. I was trying to prevent her from going into the jungle where the jabberjays mimicked the voices of loved ones being tortured, but she brushed me off, saying, «They can’t hurt me. I’m not like the rest of you. There’s no one left I love.»

Then I know Prim is right, that Snow cannot afford to waste Peeta’s life, especially now, while the Mockingjay causes so much havoc. He’s killed Cinna already. Destroyed my home. My family, Gale, and even Haymitch are out of his reach. Peeta’s all he has left.

«So, what do you think they’ll do to him?» I ask.

Prim sounds about a thousand years old when she speaks.

«Whatever it takes to break you.»

11

What will break me?

This is the question that consumes me over the next three days as we wait to be released from our prison of safety. What will break me into a million pieces so that I am beyond repair, beyond usefulness? I mention it to no one, but it devours my waking hours and weaves itself throughout my nightmares.

Four more bunker missiles fall over this period, all massive, all very damaging, but there’s no urgency to the attack. The bombs are spread out over the long hours so that just when you think the raid is over, another blast sends shock waves through your guts. It feels more designed to keep us in lockdown than to decimate 13. Cripple the district, yes. Give the people plenty to do to get the place running again. But destroy it? No. Coin was right on that point. You don’t destroy what you want to acquire in the future. I assume what they really want, in the short term, is to stop the Airtime Assaults and keep me off the televisions of Panem.

We receive next to no information about what is happening. Our screens never come on, and we get only brief audio updates from Coin about the nature of the bombs. Certainly, the war is still being waged, but as to its status, we’re in the dark.

Inside the bunker, cooperation is the order of the day. We adhere to a strict schedule for meals and bathing, exercise and sleep. Small periods of socialization are granted to alleviate the tedium. Our space becomes very popular because both children and adults have a fascination with Buttercup. He attains celebrity status with his evening game of Crazy Cat. I created this by accident a few years ago, during a winter blackout. You simply wiggle a flashlight beam around on the floor, and Buttercup tries to catch it. I’m petty enough to enjoy it because I think it makes him look stupid. Inexplicably, everyone here thinks he’s clever and delightful. I’m even issued a special set of batteries—an enormous waste—to be used for this purpose. The citizens of 13 are truly starved for entertainment.

It’s on the third night, during our game, that I answer the question eating away at me. Crazy Cat becomes a metaphor for my situation. I am Buttercup. Peeta, the thing I want so badly to secure, is the light. As long as Buttercup feels he has the chance of catching the elusive light under his paws, he’s bristling with aggression. (That’s how I’ve been since I left the arena, with Peeta alive.) When the light goes out completely, Buttercup’s temporarily distraught and confused, but he recovers and moves on to other things. (That’s what would happen if Peeta died.) But the one thing that sends Buttercup into a tailspin is when I leave the light on but put it hopelessly out of his reach, high on the wall, beyond even his jumping skills. He paces below the wall, wails, and can’t be comforted or distracted. He’s useless until I shut the light off. (That’s what Snow is trying to do to me now, only I don’t know what form his game takes.)

Maybe this realization on my part is all Snow needs. Thinking that Peeta was in his possession and being tortured for rebel information was bad. But thinking that he’s being tortured specifically to incapacitate me is unendurable. And it’s under the weight of this revelation that I truly begin to break.

After Crazy Cat, we’re directed to bed. The power’s been coming and going; sometimes the lamps burn at full brightness, other times we squint at one another in the brownouts. At bedtime they turn the lamps to near darkness and activate safety lights in each space. Prim, who’s decided the walls will hold up, snuggles with Buttercup on the lower bunk. My mother’s on the upper. I offer to take a bunk, but they make me keep to the floor mattress since I flail around so much when I’m sleeping.

I’m not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together. The pain over my heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Through my torso, down my arms and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt of a bunker missile and I could shatter into strange, razor-sharp shards.

When the restless, wiggling majority has settled into sleep, I carefully extricate myself from my blanket and tiptoe through the cavern until I find Finnick, feeling for some unspecified reason that he will understand. He sits under the safety light in his space, knotting his rope, not even pretending to rest. As I whisper my discovery of Snow’s plan to break me, it dawns on me. This strategy is very old news to Finnick. It’s what broke him.

«This is what they’re doing to you with Annie, isn’t it?» I ask.

«Well, they didn’t arrest her because they thought she’d be a wealth of rebel information,» he says.

«They know I’d never have risked telling her anything like that. For her own protection.»

«Oh, Finnick. I’m so sorry,» I say.

«No, I’m sorry. That I didn’t warn you somehow,» he tells me.

Suddenly, a memory surfaces. I’m strapped to my bed, mad with rage and grief after the rescue. Finnick is trying to console me about Peeta. «They’ll figure out he doesn’t know anything pretty fast. And they won’t kill him if they think they can use him against you.»

«You did warn me, though. On the hovercraft. Only when you said they’d use Peeta against me, I thought you meant like bait. To lure me into the Capitol somehow,» I say.

«I shouldn’t have said even that. It was too late for it to be of any help to you. Since I hadn’t warned you before the Quarter Quell, I should’ve shut up about how Snow operates.» Finnick yanks on the end of his rope, and an intricate knot becomes a straight line again. «It’s just that I didn’t understand when I met you. After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected you’d continue that strategy. But it wasn’t until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I—» Finnick hesitates.

I think back to the arena. How I sobbed when Finnick revived Peeta. The quizzical look on Finnick’s face. The way he excused my behavior, blaming it on my pretend pregnancy. «That you what?»

«That I knew I’d misjudged you. That you do love him. I’m not saying in what way. Maybe you don’t know yourself. But anyone paying attention could see how much you care about him,» he says gently.

Anyone? On Snow’s visit before the Victory Tour, he challenged me to erase any doubts of my love for Peeta. «Convince me,» Snow said. It seems, under that hot pink sky with Peeta’s life in limbo, I finally did. And in doing so, I gave him the weapon he needed to break me.

Finnick and I sit for a long time in silence, watching the knots bloom and vanish, before I can ask, «How do you bear it?»

Finnick looks at me in disbelief. «I don’t, Katniss! Obviously, I don’t. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there’s no relief in waking.» Something in my expression stops him. «Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.»

Well, he must know. I take a deep breath, forcing myself back into one piece.

«The more you can distract yourself, the better,» he says. «First thing tomorrow, we’ll get you your own rope. Until then, take mine.»

I spend the rest of the night on my mattress obsessively making knots, holding them up for Buttercup’s inspection. If one looks suspicious, he swipes it out of the air and bites it a few times to make sure it’s dead. By morning, my fingers are sore, but I’m still holding on.

With twenty-four hours of quiet behind us, Coin finally announces we can leave the bunker. Our old quarters have been destroyed by the bombings. Everyone must follow exact directions to their new compartments. We clean our spaces, as directed, and file obediently toward the door.

Before I’m halfway there, Boggs appears and pulls me from the line. He signals for Gale and Finnick to join us. People move aside to let us by. Some even smile at me since the Crazy Cat game seems to have made me more lovable. Out the door, up the stairs, down the hall to one of those multidirectional elevators, and finally we arrive at Special Defense. Nothing along our route has been damaged, but we are still very deep.

Boggs ushers us into a room virtually identical to Command. Coin, Plutarch, Haymitch, Cressida, and everybody else around the table looks exhausted. Someone has finally broken out the coffee—although I’m sure it’s viewed only as an emergency stimulant—and Plutarch has both hands wrapped tightly around his cup as if at any moment it might be taken away.

There’s no small talk. «We need all four of you suited up and aboveground,» says the president. «You have two hours to get footage showing the damage from the bombing, establish that Thirteen’s military unit remains not only functional but dominant, and, most important, that the Mockingjay is still alive. Any questions?»

«Can we have a coffee?» asks Finnick.

Steaming cups are handed out. I stare distastefully at the shiny black liquid, never having been much of a fan of the stuff, but thinking it might help me stay on my feet. Finnick sloshes some cream in my cup and reaches into the sugar bowl. «Want a sugar cube?» he asks in his old seductive voice. That’s how we met, with Finnick offering me sugar. Surrounded by horses and chariots, costumed and painted for the crowds, before we were allies. Before I had any idea what made him tick. The memory actually coaxes a smile out of me. «Here, it improves the taste,» he says in his real voice, plunking three cubes in my cup.

As I turn to go suit up as the Mockingjay, I catch Gale watching me and Finnick unhappily. What now? Does he actually think something’s going on between us? Maybe he saw me go to Finnick’s last night. I would’ve passed the Hawthornes’ space to get there. I guess that probably rubbed him the wrong way. Me seeking out Finnick’s company instead of his. Well, fine. I’ve got rope burn on my fingers, I can barely hold my eyes open, and a camera crew’s waiting for me to do something brilliant. And Snow’s got Peeta. Gale can think whatever he wants.

In my new Remake Room in Special Defense, my prep team slaps me into my Mockingjay suit, arranges my hair, and applies minimal makeup before my coffee’s even cooled. In ten minutes, the cast and crew of the next propos are making the circuitous trek to the outside. I slurp my coffee as we travel, finding that the cream and sugar greatly enhance its flavor. As I knock back the dregs that have settled to the bottom of the cup, I feel a slight buzz start to run through my veins.

After climbing a final ladder, Boggs hits a lever that opens a trapdoor. Fresh air rushes in. I take big gulps and for the first time allow myself to feel how much I hated the bunker. We emerge into the woods, and my hands run through the leaves overhead. Some are just starting to turn. «What day is it?» I ask no one in particular. Boggs tells me September begins next week.

September. That means Snow has had Peeta in his clutches for five, maybe six weeks. I examine a leaf on my palm and see I’m shaking. I can’t will myself to stop. I blame the coffee and try to focus on slowing my breathing, which is far too rapid for my pace.

Debris begins to litter the forest floor. We come to our first crater, thirty yards wide and I can’t tell how deep. Very. Boggs says anyone on the first ten levels would likely have been killed. We skirt the pit and continue on.

«Can you rebuild it?» Gale asks.

«Not anytime soon. That one didn’t get much. A few backup generators and a poultry farm,» says Boggs. «We’ll just seal it off.»

The trees disappear as we enter the area inside the fence. The craters are ringed with a mixture of old and new rubble. Before the bombing, very little of the current 13 was aboveground. A few guard stations. The training area. About a foot of the top floor of our building—where Buttercup’s window jutted out—with several feet of steel on top of it. Even that was never meant to withstand more than a superficial attack.

«How much of an edge did the boy’s warning give you?» asks Haymitch.

«About ten minutes before our own systems would’ve detected the missiles,» says Boggs.

«But it did help, right?» I ask. I can’t bear it if he says no.

«Absolutely,» Boggs replies. «Civilian evacuation was completed. Seconds count when you’re under attack. Ten minutes meant lives saved.»

Prim, I think. And Gale. They were in the bunker only a couple of minutes before the first missile hit. Peeta might have saved them. Add their names to the list of things I can never stop owing him for.

Cressida has the idea to film me in front of the ruins of the old Justice Building, which is something of a joke since the Capitol’s been using it as a backdrop for fake news broadcasts for years, to show that the district no longer existed. Now, with the recent attack, the Justice Building sits about ten yards away from the edge of a new crater.

As we approach what used to be the grand entrance, Gale points out something and the whole party slows down. I don’t know what the problem is at first and then I see the ground strewn with fresh pink and red roses. «Don’t touch them!» I yell. «They’re for me!»

The sickeningly sweet smell hits my nose, and my heart begins to hammer against my chest. So I didn’t imagine it. The rose on my dresser. Before me lies Snow’s second delivery. Long-stemmed pink and red beauties, the very flowers that decorated the set where Peeta and I performed our post-victory interview. Flowers not meant for one, but for a pair of lovers.

I explain to the others as best I can. Upon inspection, they appear to be harmless, if genetically enhanced, flowers. Two dozen roses. Slightly wilted. Most likely dropped after the last bombing. A crew in special suits collects them and carts them away. I feel certain they will find nothing extraordinary in them, though. Snow knows exactly what he’s doing to me. It’s like having Cinna beaten to a pulp while I watch from my tribute tube. Designed to unhinge me.

Like then, I try to rally and fight back. But as Cressida gets Castor and Pollux in place, I feel my anxiety building. I’m so tired, so wired, and so unable to keep my mind on anything but Peeta since I’ve seen the roses. The coffee was a huge mistake. What I didn’t need was a stimulant. My body visibly shakes and I can’t seem to catch my breath. After days in the bunker, I’m squinting no matter what direction I turn, and the light hurts. Even in the cool breeze, sweat trickles down my face.

«So, what exactly do you need from me again?» I ask.

«Just a few quick lines that show you’re alive and still fighting,» says Cressida.

«Okay.» I take my position and then I’m staring into the red light. Staring. Staring. «I’m sorry, I’ve got nothing.»

Cressida walks up to me. «You feeling okay?» I nod. She pulls a small cloth from her pocket and blots my face. «How about we do the old Q-and-A thing?»

«Yeah. That would help, I think.» I cross my arms to hide the shaking. Glance at Finnick, who gives me a thumbs-up. But he’s looking pretty shaky himself.

Cressida’s back in position now. «So, Katniss. You’ve survived the Capitol bombing of Thirteen. How did it compare with what you experienced on the ground in Eight?»

«We were so far underground this time, there was no real danger. Thirteen’s alive and well and so am—» My voice cuts off in a dry, squeaking sound.

«Try the line again,» says Cressida. «‘Thirteen’s alive and well and so am I.’»

I take a breath, trying to force air down into my diaphragm. «Thirteen’s alive and so—» No, that’s wrong.

I swear I can still smell those roses.

«Katniss, just this one line and you’re done today. I promise,» says Cressida. «‘Thirteen’s alive and well and so am I.’»

I swing my arms to loosen myself up. Place my fists on my hips. Then drop them to my sides. Saliva’s filling my mouth at a ridiculous rate and I feel vomit at the back of my throat. I swallow hard and open my lips so I can get the stupid line out and go hide in the woods and—that’s when I start crying.

It’s impossible to be the Mockingjay. Impossible to complete even this one sentence. Because now I know that everything I say will be directly taken out on Peeta. Result in his torture. But not his death, no, nothing so merciful as that. Snow will ensure that his life is much worse than death.

«Cut,» I hear Cressida say quietly.

«What’s wrong with her?» Plutarch says under his breath.

«She’s figured out how Snow’s using Peeta,» says Finnick.

There’s something like a collective sigh of regret from the semicircle of people spread out before me. Because I know this now. Because there will never be a way for me to not know this again. Because, beyond the military disadvantage losing a Mockingjay entails, I am broken.

Several sets of arms would embrace me. But in the end, the only person I truly want to comfort me is Haymitch, because he loves Peeta, too. I reach out for him and say something like his name and he’s there, holding me and patting my back. «It’s okay. It’ll be okay, sweetheart.» He sits me on a length of broken marble pillar and keeps an arm around me while I sob.

«I can’t do this anymore,» I say.

«I know,» he says.

«All I can think of is—what he’s going to do to Peeta—because I’m the Mockingjay!» I get out.

«I know.» Haymitch’s arm tightens around me.

«Did you see? How weird he acted? What are they—doing to him?» I’m gasping for air between sobs, but I manage one last phrase. «It’s my fault!» And then I cross some line into hysteria and there’s a needle in my arm and the world slips away.

It must be strong, whatever they shot into me, because it’s a full day before I come to. My sleep wasn’t peaceful, though. I have the sense of emerging from a world of dark, haunted places where I traveled alone. Haymitch sits in the chair by my bed, his skin waxen, his eyes bloodshot. I remember about Peeta and start to tremble again.

Haymitch reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. «It’s all right. We’re going to try to get Peeta out.»

«What?» That makes no sense.

«Plutarch’s sending in a rescue team. He has people on the inside. He thinks we can get Peeta back alive,» he says.

«Why didn’t we before?» I say.

«Because it’s costly. But everyone agrees this is the thing to do. It’s the same choice we made in the arena. To do whatever it takes to keep you going. We can’t lose the Mockingjay now. And you can’t perform unless you know Snow can’t take it out on Peeta.» Haymitch offers me a cup. «Here, drink something.»

I slowly sit up and take a sip of water. «What do you mean, costly?»

He shrugs. «Covers will be blown. People may die. But keep in mind that they’re dying every day. And it’s not just Peeta; we’re getting Annie out for Finnick, too.»

«Where is he?» I ask.

«Behind that screen, sleeping his sedative off. He lost it right after we knocked you out,» says Haymitch. I smile a little, feel a bit less weak. «Yeah, it was a really excellent shoot. You two cracked up and Boggs left to arrange the mission to get Peeta. We’re officially in reruns.»

«Well, if Boggs is leading it, that’s a plus,» I say.

«Oh, he’s on top of it. It was volunteer only, but he pretended not to notice me waving my hand in the air,» says Haymitch. «See? He’s already demonstrated good judgment.»

Something’s wrong. Haymitch’s trying a little too hard to cheer me up. It’s not really his style. «So who else volunteered?»

«I think there were seven altogether,» he says evasively.

I get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. «Who else, Haymitch?» I insist.

Haymitch finally drops the good-natured act. «You know who else, Katniss. You know who stepped up first.»

Of course I do.

Gale.

12

Today I might lose both of them.

I try to imagine a world where both Gale’s and Peeta’s voices have ceased. Hands stilled. Eyes unblinking. I’m standing over their bodies, having a last look, leaving the room where they lie. But when I open the door to step out into the world, there’s only a tremendous void. A pale gray nothingness that is all my future holds.

«Do you want me to have them sedate you until it’s over?» asks Haymitch. He’s not joking. This is a man who spent his adult life at the bottom of a bottle, trying to anesthetize himself against the Capitol’s crimes. The sixteen-year-old boy who won the second Quarter Quell must have had people he loved—family, friends, a sweetheart maybe—that he fought to get back to. Where are they now? How is it that until Peeta and I were thrust upon him, there was no one at all in his life? What did Snow do to them?

«No,» I say. «I want to go to the Capitol. I want to be part of the rescue mission.»

«They’re gone,» says Haymitch.

«How long ago did they leave? I could catch up. I could—» What? What could I do?

Haymitch shakes his head. «It’ll never happen. You’re too valuable and too vulnerable. There was talk of sending you to another district to divert the Capitol’s attention while the rescue takes place. But no one felt you could handle it.»

«Please, Haymitch!» I’m begging now. «I have to do something. I can’t just sit here waiting to hear if they died. There must be something I can do!»

«All right. Let me talk to Plutarch. You stay put.» But I can’t. Haymitch’s footsteps are still echoing in the outer hall when I fumble my way through the slit in the dividing curtain to find Finnick sprawled out on his stomach, his hands twisted in his pillowcase. Although it’s cowardly—cruel even—to rouse him from the shadowy, muted drug land to stark reality, I go ahead and do it because I can’t stand to face this by myself.

As I explain our situation, his initial agitation mysteriously ebbs. «Don’t you see, Katniss, this will decide things. One way or the other. By the end of the day, they’ll either be dead or with us. It’s… it’s more than we could hope for!»

Well, that’s a sunny view of our situation. And yet there’s something calming about the idea that this torment could come to an end.

The curtain yanks back and there’s Haymitch. He has a job for us, if we can pull it together. They still need post-bombing footage of 13. «If we can get it in the next few hours, Beetee can air it leading up to the rescue, and maybe keep the Capitol’s attention elsewhere.»

«Yes, a distraction,» says Finnick. «A decoy of sorts.»

«What we really need is something so riveting that even President Snow won’t be able to tear himself away. Got anything like that?» asks Haymitch.

Having a job that might help the mission snaps me into focus. While I knock down breakfast and get prepped, I try to think of what I might say. President Snow must be wondering how that blood-splattered floor and his roses are affecting me. If he wants me broken, then I will have to be whole. But I don’t think I will convince him of anything by shouting a couple of defiant lines at the camera. Besides, that won’t buy the rescue team any time. Outbursts are short. It’s stories that take time.

I don’t know if it will work, but when the television crew’s all assembled aboveground, I ask Cressida if she could start out by asking me about Peeta. I take a seat on the fallen marble pillar where I had my breakdown, wait for the red light and Cressida’s question.

«How did you meet Peeta?» she asks.

And then I do the thing that Haymitch has wanted since my first interview. I open up. «When I met Peeta, I was eleven years old, and I was almost dead.» I talk about that awful day when I tried to sell the baby clothes in the rain, how Peeta’s mother chased me from the bakery door, and how he took a beating to bring me the loaves of bread that saved our lives. «We had never even spoken. The first time I ever talked to Peeta was on the train to the Games.»

«But he was already in love with you,» says Cressida.

«I guess so.» I allow myself a small smile.

«How are you doing with the separation?» she asks.

«Not well. I know at any moment Snow could kill him. Especially since he warned Thirteen about the bombing. It’s a terrible thing to live with,» I say. «But because of what they’re putting him through, I don’t have any reservations anymore. About doing whatever it takes to destroy the Capitol. I’m finally free.» I turn my gaze skyward and watch the flight of a hawk across the sky. «President Snow once admitted to me that the Capitol was fragile. At the time, I didn’t know what he meant. It was hard to see clearly because I was so afraid. Now I’m not. The Capitol’s fragile because it depends on the districts for everything. Food, energy, even the Peacekeepers that police us. If we declare our freedom, the Capitol collapses. President Snow, thanks to you, I’m officially declaring mine today.»

I’ve been sufficient, if not dazzling. Everyone loves the bread story. But it’s my message to President Snow that gets the wheels spinning in Plutarch’s brain. He hastily calls Finnick and Haymitch over and they have a brief but intense conversation that I can see Haymitch isn’t happy with. Plutarch seems to win—Finnick’s pale but nodding his head by the end of it.

As Finnick moves to take my seat before the camera, Haymitch tells him, «You don’t have to do this.»

«Yes, I do. If it will help her.» Finnick balls up his rope in his hand. «I’m ready.»

I don’t know what to expect. A love story about Annie? An account of the abuses in District 4? But Finnick Odair takes a completely different tack.

«President Snow used to… sell me… my body, that is,» Finnick begins in a flat, removed tone. «I wasn’t the only one. If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money. If you refuse, he kills someone you love. So you do it.»

That explains it, then. Finnick’s parade of lovers in the Capitol. They were never real lovers. Just people like our old Head Peacekeeper, Cray, who bought desperate girls to devour and discard because he could. I want to interrupt the taping and beg Finnick’s forgiveness for every false thought I’ve ever had about him. But we have a job to do, and I sense Finnick’s role will be far more effective than mine.

«I wasn’t the only one, but I was the most popular,» he says. «And perhaps the most defenseless, because the people I loved were so defenseless. To make themselves feel better, my patrons would make presents of money or jewelry, but I found a much more valuable form of payment.»

Secrets, I think. That’s what Finnick told me his lovers paid him in, only I thought the whole arrangement was by his choice.

«Secrets,» he says, echoing my thoughts. «And this is where you’re going to want to stay tuned, President Snow, because so very many of them were about you. But let’s begin with some of the others.»

Finnick begins to weave a tapestry so rich in detail that you can’t doubt its authenticity. Tales of strange sexual appetites, betrayals of the heart, bottomless greed, and bloody power plays. Drunken secrets whispered over damp pillow-cases in the dead of night. Finnick was someone bought and sold. A district slave. A handsome one, certainly, but in reality, harmless. Who would he tell? And who would believe him if he did? But some secrets are too delicious not to share. I don’t know the people Finnick names—all seem to be prominent Capitol citizens—but I know, from listening to the chatter of my prep team, the attention the most mild slip in judgment can draw. If a bad haircut can lead to hours of gossip, what will charges of incest, back-stabbing, blackmail, and arson produce? Even as the waves of shock and recrimination roll over the Capitol, the people there will be waiting, as I am now, to hear about the president.

«And now, on to our good President Coriolanus Snow,» says Finnick. «Such a young man when he rose to power. Such a clever one to keep it. How, you must ask yourself, did he do it? One word. That’s all you really need to know. Poison.»

Finnick goes back to Snow’s political ascension, which I know nothing of, and works his way up to the present, pointing out case after case of the mysterious deaths of Snow’s adversaries or, even worse, his allies who had the potential to become threats. People dropping dead at a feast or slowly, inexplicably declining into shadows over a period of months. Blamed on bad shellfish, elusive viruses, or an overlooked weakness in the aorta. Snow drinking from the poisoned cup himself to deflect suspicion. But antidotes don’t always work. They say that’s why he wears the roses that reek of perfume. They say it’s to cover the scent of blood from the mouth sores that will never heal. They say, they say, they say… Snow has a list and no one knows who will be next.

Poison. The perfect weapon for a snake.

Since my opinion of the Capitol and its noble president are already so low, I can’t say Finnick’s allegations shock me. They seem to have far more effect on the displaced Capitol rebels like my crew and Fulvia—even Plutarch occasionally reacts in surprise, maybe wondering how a specific tidbit passed him by. When Finnick finishes, they just keep the cameras rolling until finally he has to be the one to say «Cut.»

The crew hurries inside to edit the material, and Plutarch leads Finnick off for a chat, probably to see if he has any more stories. I’m left with Haymitch in the rubble, wondering if Finnick’s fate would have one day been mine. Why not? Snow could have gotten a really good price for the girl on fire.

«Is that what happened to you?» I ask Haymitch.

«No. My mother and younger brother. My girl. They were all dead two weeks after I was crowned victor. Because of that stunt I pulled with the force field,» he answers. «Snow had no one to use against me.»

«I’m surprised he didn’t just kill you,» I say.

«Oh, no. I was the example. The person to hold up to the young Finnicks and Johannas and Cashmeres.

Of what could happen to a victor who caused problems,» says Haymitch. «But he knew he had no leverage against me.»

«Until Peeta and I came along,» I say softly. I don’t even get a shrug in return.

With our job done, there’s nothing left for Finnick and me to do but wait. We try to fill the dragging minutes in Special Defense. Tie knots. Push our lunch around our bowls. Blow things up on the shooting range. Because of the danger of detection, no communication comes from the rescue team. At 15:00, the designated hour, we stand tense and silent in the back of a room full of screens and computers and watch Beetee and his team try to dominate the airwaves. His usual fidgety distraction is replaced with a determination I have never seen. Most of my interview doesn’t make the cut, just enough to show I am alive and still defiant. It is Finnick’s salacious and gory account of the Capitol that takes the day. Is Beetee’s skill improving? Or are his counterparts in the Capitol a little too fascinated to want to tune Finnick out? For the next sixty minutes, the Capitol feed alternates between the standard afternoon newscast, Finnick, and attempts to black it all out. But the rebel techno team manages to override even the latter and, in a real coup, keeps control for almost the entire attack on Snow.

«Let it go!» says Beetee, throwing up his hands, relinquishing the broadcast back to the Capitol. He mops his face with a cloth. «If they’re not out of there by now, they’re all dead.» He spins in his chair to see Finnick and me reacting to his words. «It was a good plan, though. Did Plutarch show it to you?»

Of course not. Beetee takes us to another room and shows us how the team, with the help of rebel insiders, will attempt—has attempted—to free the victors from an underground prison. It seems to have involved knockout gas distributed by the ventilation system, a power failure, the detonation of a bomb in a government building several miles from the prison, and now the disruption of the broadcast. Beetee’s glad we find the plan hard to follow, because then our enemies will, too.

«Like your electricity trap in the arena?» I ask.

«Exactly. And see how well that worked out?» says Beetee.

Well… not really, I think.

Finnick and I try to station ourselves in Command, where surely first word of the rescue will come, but we are barred because serious war business is being carried out. We refuse to leave Special Defense and end up waiting in the hummingbird room for news.

Making knots. Making knots. No word. Making knots. Tick-tock. This is a clock. Do not think of Gale. Do not think of Peeta. Making knots. We do not want dinner. Fingers raw and bleeding. Finnick finally gives up and assumes the hunched position he took in the arena when the jabberjays attacked. I perfect my miniature noose. The words of «The Hanging Tree» replay in my head. Gale and Peeta. Peeta and Gale.

«Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?» I ask.

«No.» A long time passes before he adds, «She crept up on me.»

I search my heart, but at the moment the only person I can feel creeping up on me is Snow.

It must be midnight, it must be tomorrow when Haymitch pushes open the door. «They’re back. We’re wanted in the hospital.» My mouth opens with a flood of questions that he cuts off with «That’s all I know.»

I want to run, but Finnick’s acting so strange, as if he’s lost the ability to move, so I take his hand and lead him like a small child. Through Special Defense, into the elevator that goes this way and that, and on to the hospital wing. The place is in an uproar, with doctors shouting orders and the wounded being wheeled through the halls in their beds.

We’re sideswiped by a gurney bearing an unconscious, emaciated young woman with a shaved head. Her flesh shows bruises and oozing scabs. Johanna Mason. Who actually knew rebel secrets. At least the one about me. And this is how she has paid for it.

Through a doorway, I catch a glimpse of Gale, stripped to the waist, perspiration streaming down his face as a doctor removes something from under his shoulder blade with a long pair of tweezers. Wounded, but alive. I call his name, start toward him until a nurse pushes me back and shuts me out.

«Finnick!» Something between a shriek and a cry of joy. A lovely if somewhat bedraggled young woman—dark tangled hair, sea green eyes—runs toward us in nothing but a sheet. «Finnick!» And suddenly, it’s as if there’s no one in the world but these two, crashing through space to reach each other. They collide, enfold, lose their balance, and slam against a wall, where they stay. Clinging into one being. Indivisible.

A pang of jealousy hits me. Not for either Finnick or Annie but for their certainty. No one seeing them could doubt their love.

Boggs, looking a little worse for wear but uninjured, finds Haymitch and me. «We got them all out. Except Enobaria. But since she’s from Two, we doubt she’s being held anyway. Peeta’s at the end of the hall. The effects of the gas are just wearing off. You should be there when he wakes.»

Peeta.

Alive and well—maybe not well but alive and here. Away from Snow. Safe. Here. With me. In a minute I can touch him. See his smile. Hear his laugh.

Haymitch’s grinning at me. «Come on, then,» he says.

I’m light-headed with giddiness. What will I say? Oh, who cares what I say? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He’ll probably be kissing me anyway. I wonder if it will feel like those last kisses on the beach in the arena, the ones I haven’t dared let myself consider until this moment.

Peeta’s awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I’m disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense that I can’t quite place. Desire? Desperation? Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet, and moves toward me. I run to meet him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me, too, to caress my face, I think.

My lips are just forming his name when his fingers lock around my throat.

13

The cold collar chafes my neck and makes the shivering even harder to control. At least I am no longer in the claustrophobic tube, while the machines click and whir around me, listening to a disembodied voice telling me to hold still while I try to convince myself I can still breathe. Even now, when I’ve been assured there will be no permanent damage, I hunger for air.

The medical team’s main concerns—damage to my spinal cord, airway, veins, and arteries—have been allayed. Bruising, hoarseness, the sore larynx, this strange little cough—not to be worried about. It will all be fine. The Mockingjay will not lose her voice. Where, I want to ask, is the doctor who determines if I am losing my mind? Only I’m not supposed to talk right now. I can’t even thank Boggs when he comes to check on me. To look me over and tell me he’s seen a lot worse injuries among the soldiers when they teach choke holds in training.

It was Boggs who knocked out Peeta with one blow before any permanent damage could be done. I know Haymitch would have come to my defense if he hadn’t been utterly unprepared. To catch both Haymitch and myself off guard is a rare thing. But we have been so consumed with saving Peeta, so tortured by having him in the Capitol’s hands, that the elation at having him back blinded us. If I’d had a private reunion with Peeta, he would have killed me. Now that he’s deranged.

No, not deranged, I remind myself. Hijacked. That’s the word I heard pass between Plutarch and Haymitch as I was wheeled past them in the hallway. Hijacked. I don’t know what it means.

Prim, who appeared moments after the attack and has stayed as close to me as possible ever since, spreads another blanket over me. «I think they’ll take the collar off soon, Katniss. You won’t be so cold then.» My mother, who’s been assisting in a complicated surgery, has still not been informed of Peeta’s assault. Prim takes one of my hands, which is clutched in a fist, and massages it until it opens and blood begins to flow through my fingers again. She’s starting on the second fist when the doctors show up, remove the collar, and give me a shot of something for pain and swelling. I lie, as instructed, with my head still, not aggravating the injuries to my neck.

Plutarch, Haymitch, and Beetee have been waiting in the hall for the doctors to give them clearance to the doctors out and tries to order Prim to go as well, but she says, «No. If you force me to leave, I’ll go directly to surgery and tell my mother everything that’s happened. And I warn you, she doesn’t think much of a Gamemaker calling the shots on Katniss’s life. Especially when you’ve taken such poor care of her.»

Plutarch looks offended, but Haymitch chuckles. «I’d let it go, Plutarch,» he says. Prim stays.

«So, Katniss, Peeta’s condition has come as a shock to all of us,» says Plutarch. «We couldn’t help but notice his deterioration in the last two interviews. Obviously, he’d been abused, and we put his psychological state down to that. Now we believe something more was going on. That the Capitol has been subjecting him to a rather uncommon technique known as hijacking. Beetee?»

«I’m sorry,» Beetee says, «but I can’t tell you all the specifics of it, Katniss. The Capitol’s very secretive about this form of torture, and I believe the results are inconsistent. This we do know. It’s a type of fear conditioning. The term hijack comes from an old English word that means ‘to capture,’ or even better, ‘seize.’ We believe it was chosen because the technique involves the use of tracker jacker venom, and the jack suggested hijack. You were stung in your first Hunger Games, so unlike most of us, you have firsthand knowledge of the effects of the venom.»

Terror. Hallucinations. Nightmarish visions of losing those I love. Because the venom targets the part of the brain that houses fear.

«I’m sure you remember how frightening it was. Did you also suffer mental confusion in the aftermath?» asks Beetee. «A sense of being unable to judge what was true and what was false? Most people who have been stung and lived to tell about it report something of the kind.»

Yes. That encounter with Peeta. Even after I was clearheaded, I wasn’t sure if he had saved my life by taking on Cato or if I’d imagined it.

«Recall is made more difficult because memories can be changed.» Beetee taps his forehead. «Brought to the forefront of your mind, altered, and saved again in the revised form. Now imagine that I ask you to remember something—either with a verbal suggestion or by making you watch a tape of the event—and while that experience is refreshed, I give you a dose of tracker jacker venom. Not enough to induce a three-day blackout. Just enough to infuse the memory with fear and doubt. And that’s what your brain puts in long-term storage.»

I start to feel sick. Prim asks the question that’s in my mind. «Is that what they’ve done to Peeta? Taken his memories of Katniss and distorted them so they’re scary?»

Beetee nods. «So scary that he’d see her as life-threatening. That he might try to kill her. Yes, that’s our current theory.»

I cover my face with my arms because this isn’t happening. It isn’t possible. For someone to make Peeta forget he loves me… no one could do that.

«But you can reverse it, right?» asks Prim.

«Um… very little data on that,» says Plutarch. «None, really. If hijacking rehabilitation has been attempted before, we have no access to those records.»

«Well, you’re going to try, aren’t you?» Prim persists. «You’re not just going to lock him up in some padded room and leave him to suffer?»

«Of course, we’ll try, Prim,» says Beetee. «It’s just, we don’t know to what degree we’ll succeed. If any. My guess is that fearful events are the hardest to root out. They’re the ones we naturally remember the best, after all.»

«And apart from his memories of Katniss, we don’t yet know what else has been tampered with,» says Plutarch. «We’re putting together a team of mental health and military professionals to come up with a counterattack. I, personally, feel optimistic that he’ll make a full recovery.»

«Do you?» asks Prim caustically. «And what do you think, Haymitch?»

I shift my arms slightly so I can see his expression through the crack. He’s exhausted and discouraged as he admits, «I think Peeta might get somewhat better. But… I don’t think he’ll ever be the same.» I snap my arms back together, closing the crack, shutting them all out.

«At least he’s alive,» says Plutarch, as if he’s losing patience with the lot of us. «Snow executed Peeta’s stylist and his prep team on live television tonight. We’ve no idea what happened to Effie Trinket. Peeta’s damaged, but he’s here. With us. And that’s a definite improvement over his situation twelve hours ago. Let’s keep that in mind, all right?»

Plutarch’s attempt to cheer me up—laced with the news of another four, possibly five, murders—somehow backfires. Portia. Peeta’s prep team. Effie. The effort to fight back tears makes my throat throb until I’m gasping again. Eventually, they have no choice but to sedate me.

When I wake, I wonder if this will be the only way I sleep now, with drugs shot into my arm. I’m glad I’m not supposed to talk for the next few days, because there’s nothing I want to say. Or do. In fact, I’m a model patient, my lethargy taken for restraint, obedience to the doctors’ orders. I no longer feel like crying. In fact, I can only manage to hold on to one simple thought: an image of Snow’s face accompanied by the whisper in my head. I will kill you.

My mother and Prim take turns nursing me, coaxing me to swallow bites of soft food. People come in periodically to give me updates on Peeta’s condition. The high levels of tracker jacker venom are working their way out of his body. He’s being treated only by strangers, natives of 13—no one from home or the Capitol has been allowed to see him—to keep any dangerous memories from triggering. A team of specialists works long hours designing a strategy for his recovery.

Gale’s not supposed to visit me, as he’s confined to bed with some kind of shoulder wound. But on the third night, after I’ve been medicated and the lights turned down low for bedtime, he slips silently into my room. He doesn’t speak, just runs his fingers over the bruises on my neck with a touch as light as moth wings, plants a kiss between my eyes, and disappears.

The next morning, I’m discharged from the hospital with instructions to move quietly and speak only when necessary. I’m not imprinted with a schedule, so I wander around aimlessly until Prim’s excused from her hospital duties to take me to our family’s latest compartment. 2212. Identical to the last one, but with no window.

Buttercup has now been issued a daily food allowance and a pan of sand that’s kept under the bathroom sink. As Prim tucks me into bed, he hops up on my pillow, vying for her attention. She cradles him but stays focused on me. «Katniss, I know this whole thing with Peeta is terrible for you. But remember, Snow worked on him for weeks, and we’ve only had him for a few days. There’s a chance that the old Peeta, the one who loves you, is still inside. Trying to get back to you. Don’t give up on him.»

I look at my little sister and think how she has inherited the best qualities our family has to offer: my mother’s healing hands, my father’s level head, and my fight. There’s something else there as well, something entirely her own. An ability to look into the confusing mess of life and see things for what they are. Is it possible she could be right? That Peeta could return to me?

«I have to get back to the hospital,» Prim says, placing Buttercup on the bed beside me. «You two keep each other company, okay?»

Buttercup springs off the bed and follows her to the door, complaining loudly when he’s left behind. We’re about as much company for each other as dirt. After maybe thirty seconds, I know I can’t stand being confined in the subterranean cell, and leave Buttercup to his own devices. I get lost several times, but eventually I make my way down to Special Defense. Everyone I pass stares at the bruises, and I can’t help feeling self-conscious to the point that I tug my collar up to my ears.

Gale must have been released from the hospital this morning as well, because I find him in one of the research rooms with Beetee. They’re immersed, heads bent over a drawing, taking a measurement. Versions of the picture litter the table and floor. Tacked on the corkboard walls and occupying several computer screens are other designs of some sort. In the rough lines of one, I recognize Gale’s twitch-up snare. «What are these?» I ask hoarsely, pulling their attention from the sheet.

«Ah, Katniss, you’ve found us out,» says Beetee cheerfully.

«What? Is this a secret?» I know Gale’s been down here working with Beetee a lot, but I assumed they were messing around with bows and guns.

«Not really. But I’ve felt a little guilty about it. Stealing Gale away from you so much,» Beetee admits.

Since I’ve spent most of my time in 13 disoriented, worried, angry, being remade, or hospitalized, I can’t say Gale’s absences have inconvenienced me. Things haven’t been exactly harmonious between us, either. But I let Beetee think he owes me. «I hope you’ve been putting his time to good use.»

«Come and see,» he says, waving me over to a computer screen.

This is what they’ve been doing. Taking the fundamental ideas behind Gale’s traps and adapting them into weapons against humans. Bombs mostly. It’s less about the mechanics of the traps than the psychology behind them. Booby-trapping an area that provides something essential to survival. A water or food supply. Frightening prey so that a large number flee into a greater destruction. Endangering off-spring in order to draw in the actual desired target, the parent. Luring the victim into what appears to be a safe haven—where death awaits it. At some point, Gale and Beetee left the wilderness behind and focused on more human impulses. Like compassion. A bomb explodes. Time is allowed for people to rush to the aid of the wounded. Then a second, more powerful bomb kills them as well.

«That seems to be crossing some kind of line,» I say. «So anything goes?» They both stare at me—Beetee with doubt, Gale with hostility. «I guess there isn’t a rule book for what might be unacceptable to do to another human being.»

«Sure there is. Beetee and I have been following the same rule book President Snow used when he hijacked Peeta,» says Gale.

Cruel, but to the point. I leave without further comment. I feel if I don’t get outside immediately, I’ll just go ballistic, but I’m still in Special Defense when I’m waylaid by Haymitch. «Come on,» he says. «We need you back up at the hospital.»

«What for?» I ask.

«They’re going to try something on Peeta,» he answers. «Send in the most innocuous person from Twelve they can come up with. Find someone Peeta might share childhood memories with, but nothing too close to you. They’re screening people now.»

I know this will be a difficult task, since anyone Peeta shares childhood memories with would most likely be from town, and almost none of those people escaped the flames. But when we reach the hospital room that has been turned into a work space for Peeta’s recovery team, there she sits chatting with Plutarch. Delly Cartwright. As always, she gives me a smile that suggests I’m her best friend in the world. She gives this smile to everyone. «Katniss!» she calls out.

«Hey, Delly,» I say. I’d heard she and her younger brother had survived. Her parents, who ran the shoe shop in town, weren’t as lucky. She looks older, wearing the drab 13 clothes that flatter no one, with her long yellow hair in a practical braid instead of curls. Delly’s a bit thinner than I remember, but she was one of the few kids in District 12 with a couple of pounds to spare. The diet here, the stress, the grief of losing her parents have all, no doubt, contributed. «How are you doing?» I ask.

«Oh, it’s been a lot of changes all at once.» Her eyes fill with tears. «But everyone’s really nice here in Thirteen, don’t you think?»

Delly means it. She genuinely likes people. All people, not just a select few she’s spent years making up her mind about.

«They’ve made an effort to make us feel welcome,» I say. I think that’s a fair statement without going overboard. «Are you the one they’ve picked to see Peeta?»

«I guess so. Poor Peeta. Poor you. I’ll never understand the Capitol,» she says.

«Better not to, maybe,» I tell her.

«Delly’s known Peeta for a long time,» says Plutarch.

«Oh, yes!» Delly’s face brightens. «We played together from when we were little. I used to tell people he was my brother.»

«What do you think?» Haymitch asks me. «Anything that might trigger memories of you?»

«We were all in the same class. But we never overlapped much,» I say.

«Katniss was always so amazing, I never dreamed she would notice me,» says Delly. «The way she could hunt and go in the Hob and everything. Everyone admired her so.»

Haymitch and I both have to take a hard look at her face to double-check if she’s joking. To hear Delly describe it, I had next to no friends because I intimidated people by being so exceptional. Not true. I had next to no friends because I wasn’t friendly. Leave it to Delly to spin me into something wonderful.

«Delly always thinks the best of everyone,» I explain. «I don’t think Peeta could have bad memories associated with her.» Then I remember. «Wait. In the Capitol. When I lied about recognizing the Avox girl. Peeta covered for me and said she looked like Delly.»

«I remember,» says Haymitch. «But I don’t know. It wasn’t true. Delly wasn’t actually there. I don’t think it can compete with years of childhood memories.»

«Especially with such a pleasant companion as Delly,» says Plutarch. «Let’s give it a shot.»

Plutarch, Haymitch, and I go to the observation room next to where Peeta’s confined. It’s crowded with ten members of his recovery team armed with pens and clipboards. The one-way glass and audio setup allow us to watch Peeta secretly. He lies on the bed, his arms strapped down. He doesn’t fight the restraints, but his hands fidget continuously. His expression seems more lucid than when he tried to strangle me, but it’s still not one that belongs to him.

When the door quietly opens, his eyes widen in alarm, then become confused. Delly crosses the room tentatively, but as she nears him she naturally breaks into a smile. «Peeta? It’s Delly. From home.»

«Delly?» Some of the clouds seem to clear. «Delly. It’s you.»

«Yes!» she says with obvious relief. «How do you feel?»

«Awful. Where are we? What’s happened?» asks Peeta.

«Here we go,» says Haymitch.

«I told her to steer clear of any mention of Katniss or the Capitol,» says Plutarch. «Just see how much of home she could conjure up.»

«Well… we’re in District Thirteen. We live here now,» says Delly.

«That’s what those people have been saying. But it makes no sense. Why aren’t we home?» asks Peeta.

Delly bites her lip. «There was… an accident. I miss home badly, too. I was only just thinking about those chalk drawings we used to do on the paving stones. Yours were so wonderful. Remember when you made each one a different animal?»

«Yeah. Pigs and cats and things,» says Peeta. «You said… about an accident?»

I can see the sheen of sweat on Delly’s forehead as she tries to work around the question. «It was bad. No one… could stay,» she says haltingly.

«Hang in there, girl,» says Haymitch.

«But I know you’re going to like it here, Peeta. The people have been really nice to us. There’s always food and clean clothes, and school’s much more interesting,» says Delly.

«Why hasn’t my family come to see me?» Peeta asks.

«They can’t.» Delly’s tearing up again. «A lot of people didn’t get out of Twelve. So we’ll need to make a new life here. I’m sure they could use a good baker. Do you remember when your father used to let us make dough girls and boys?»

«There was a fire,» Peeta says suddenly.

«Yes,» she whispers.

«Twelve burned down, didn’t it? Because of her,» says Peeta angrily. «Because of Katniss!» He begins to pull on the restraints.

«Oh, no, Peeta. It wasn’t her fault,» says Delly.

«Did she tell you that?» he hisses at her.

«Get her out of there,» says Plutarch. The door opens immediately and Delly begins to back toward it slowly.

«She didn’t have to. I was—» Delly begins.

«Because she’s lying! She’s a liar! You can’t believe anything she says! She’s some kind of mutt the Capitol created to use against the rest of us!» Peeta shouts.

«No, Peeta. She’s not a—» Delly tries again.

«Don’t trust her, Delly,» says Peeta in a frantic voice. «I did, and she tried to kill me. She killed my friends. My family. Don’t even go near her! She’s a mutt!»

A hand reaches through the doorway, pulls Delly out, and the door swings shut. But Peeta keeps yelling. «A mutt! She’s a stinking mutt!»

Not only does he hate me and want to kill me, he no longer believes I’m human. It was less painful being strangled.

Around me the recovery team members scribble like crazy, taking down every word. Haymitch and Plutarch grab my arms and propel me out of the room. They lean me up against a wall in the silent hallway. But I know Peeta continues to scream behind the door and the glass.

Prim was wrong. Peeta is irretrievable. «I can’t stay here anymore,» I say numbly. «If you want me to be the Mockingjay, you’ll have to send me away.»

«Where do you want to go?» asks Haymitch.

«The Capitol.» It’s the only place I can think of where I have a job to do.

«Can’t do it,» Plutarch says. «Not until all the districts are secure. Good news is, the fighting’s almost over in all of them but Two. It’s a tough nut to crack, though.»

That’s right. First the districts. Next the Capitol. And then I hunt down Snow.

«Fine,» I say. «Send me to Two.»

14

District 2 is a large district, as one might expect, composed of a series of villages spread across the mountains. Each was originally associated with a mine or quarry, although now, many are devoted to the housing and training of Peacekeepers. None of this would present much of a challenge, since the rebels have 13’s airpower on their side, except for one thing: At the center of the district is a virtually impenetrable mountain that houses the heart of the Capitol’s military.

We’ve nicknamed the mountain the Nut since I relayed Plutarch’s «tough nut to crack» comment to the weary and discouraged rebel leaders here. The Nut was established directly after the Dark Days, when the Capitol had lost 13 and was desperate for a new underground stronghold. They had some of their military resources situated on the outskirts of the Capitol itself—nuclear missiles, aircraft, troops—but a significant chunk of their power was now under an enemy’s control. Of course, there was no way they could hope to replicate 13, which was the work of centuries. However, in the old mines of nearby District 2, they saw opportunity. From the air, the Nut appeared to be just another mountain with a few entrances on its faces. But inside were vast cavernous spaces where slabs of stones had been cut, hauled to the surface, and transported down slippery narrow roads to make distant buildings. There was even a train system to facilitate transporting the miners from the Nut to the very center of the main town in District 2. It ran right to the square that Peeta and I visited during the Victory Tour, standing on the wide marble steps of the Justice Building, trying not to look too closely at Cato’s and Clove’s grieving families assembled below us.

It was not the most ideal terrain, plagued as it was by mudslides, floods, and avalanches. But the advantages outweighed the concerns. As they’d cut deep into the mountain, the miners had left large pillars and walls of stone to support the infrastructure. The Capitol reinforced these and set about making the mountain their new military base. Filling it with computer banks and meeting rooms, barracks and arsenals. Widening entrances to allow the exit of hovercraft from the hangar, installing missile launchers. But on the whole, leaving the exterior of the mountain largely unchanged. A rough, rocky tangle of trees and wildlife. A natural fortress to protect them from their enemies.

By the other districts’ standards, the Capitol babied the inhabitants here. Just by looking at the District 2 rebels, you can tell they were decently fed and cared for in childhood. Some did end up as quarry and mine workers. Others were educated for jobs in the Nut or funneled into the ranks of Peacekeepers. Trained young and hard for combat. The Hunger Games were an opportunity for wealth and a kind of glory not seen elsewhere. Of course, the people of 2 swallowed the Capitol’s propaganda more easily than the rest of us. Embraced their ways. But for all that, at the end of the day, they were still slaves. And if that was lost on the citizens who became Peacekeepers or worked in the Nut, it was not lost on the stonecutters who formed the backbone of the resistance here.

Things stand as they did when I arrived two weeks ago. The outer villages are in rebel hands, the town divided, and the Nut is as untouchable as ever. Its few entrances heavily fortified, its heart safely enfolded in the mountain. While every other district has now wrested control from the Capitol, 2 remains in its pocket.

Each day, I do whatever I can to help. Visit the wounded. Tape short propos with my camera crew. I’m not allowed in actual combat, but they invite me to the meetings on the status of the war, which is a lot more than they did in 13. It’s much better here. Freer, no schedules on my arm, fewer demands on my time. I live aboveground in the rebel villages or surrounding caves. For safety’s sake, I’m relocated often. During the day, I’ve been given clearance to hunt as long as I take a guard along and don’t stray too far. In the thin, cold mountain air, I feel some physical strength returning, my mind clearing away the rest of the fogginess. But with this mental clarity comes an even sharper awareness of what has been done to Peeta.

Snow has stolen him from me, twisted him beyond recognition, and made me a present of him. Boggs, who came to 2 when I did, told me that even with all the plotting, it was a little too easy to rescue Peeta. He believes if 13 hadn’t made the effort, Peeta would’ve been delivered to me anyway. Dropped off in an actively warring district or perhaps 13 itself. Tied up with ribbons and tagged with my name. Programmed to murder me.

It’s only now that he’s been corrupted that I can fully appreciate the real Peeta. Even more than I would’ve if he’d died. The kindness, the steadiness, the warmth that had an unexpected heat behind it. Outside of Prim, my mother, and Gale, how many people in the world love me unconditionally? I think in my case, the answer may now be none. Sometimes when I’m alone, I take the pearl from where it lives in my pocket and try to remember the boy with the bread, the strong arms that warded off nightmares on the train, the kisses in the arena. To make myself put a name to the thing I’ve lost. But what’s the use? It’s gone. He’s gone. Whatever existed between us is gone. All that’s left is my promise to kill Snow. I tell myself this ten times a day.

Back in 13, Peeta’s rehabilitation continues. Even though I don’t ask, Plutarch gives me cheerful updates on the phone like «Good news, Katniss! I think we’ve almost got him convinced you’re not a mutt!» Or «Today he was allowed to feed himself pudding!»

When Haymitch gets on after, he admits Peeta’s no better. The only dubious ray of hope has come from my sister. «Prim came up with the idea of trying to hijack him back,» Haymitch tells me. «Bring up the distorted memories of you and then give him a big dose of a calming drug, like morphling. We’ve only tried it on one memory. The tape of the two of you in the cave, when you told him that story about getting Prim the goat.»

«Any improvement?» I ask.

«Well, if extreme confusion is an improvement over extreme terror, then yes,» says Haymitch. «But I’m not sure it is. He lost the ability to speak for several hours. Went into some sort of stupor. When he came out, the only thing he asked about was the goat.»

«Right,» I say.

«How’s it out there?» he asks.

«No forward motion,» I tell him.

«We’re sending out a team to help with the mountain. Beetee and some of the others,» he says. «You know, the brains.»

When the brains are selected, I’m not surprised to see Gale’s name on the list. I thought Beetee would bring him, not for his technological expertise, but in the hopes that he could somehow think of a way to ensnare a mountain. Originally, Gale offered to come with me to 2, but I could see I was tearing him away from his work with Beetee. I told him to sit tight and stay where he was most needed. I didn’t tell him his presence would make it even more difficult for me to mourn Peeta.

Gale finds me when they arrive late one afternoon. I’m sitting on a log at the edge of my current village, plucking a goose. A dozen or so of the birds are piled at my feet. Great flocks of them have been migrating through here since I’ve arrived, and the pickings are easy. Without a word, Gale settles beside me and begins to relieve a bird of its feathers. We’re through about half when he says, «Any chance we’ll get to eat these?»

«Yeah. Most go to the camp kitchen, but they expect me to give a couple to whoever I’m staying with tonight,» I say. «For keeping me.»

«Isn’t the honor of the thing enough?» he says.

«You’d think,» I reply. «But word’s gotten out that mockingjays are hazardous to your health.»

We pluck in silence for a while longer. Then he says, «I saw Peeta yesterday. Through the glass.»

«What’d you think?» I ask.

«Something selfish,» says Gale.

«That you don’t have to be jealous of him anymore?» My fingers give a yank, and a cloud of feathers floats down around us.

«No. Just the opposite.» Gale pulls a feather out of my hair. «I thought… I’ll never compete with that. No matter how much pain I’m in.» He spins the feather between his thumb and forefinger. «I don’t stand a chance if he doesn’t get better. You’ll never be able to let him go. You’ll always feel wrong about being with me.»

«The way I always felt wrong kissing him because of you,» I say.

Gale holds my gaze. «If I thought that was true, I could almost live with the rest of it.»

«It is true,» I admit. «But so is what you said about Peeta.»

Gale makes a sound of exasperation. Nonetheless, after we’ve dropped off the birds and volunteered to go back to the woods to gather kindling for the evening fire, I find myself wrapped in his arms. His lips brushing the faded bruises on my neck, working their way to my mouth. Despite what I feel for Peeta, this is when I accept deep down that he’ll never come back to me. Or I’ll never go back to him. I’ll stay in 2 until it falls, go to the Capitol and kill Snow, and then die for my trouble. And he’ll die insane and hating me. So in the fading light I shut my eyes and kiss Gale to make up for all the kisses I’ve withheld, and because it doesn’t matter anymore, and because I’m so desperately lonely I can’t stand it. Gale’s touch and taste and heat remind me that at least my body’s still alive, and for the moment it’s a welcome feeling. I empty my mind and let the sensations run through my flesh, happy to lose myself. When Gale pulls away slightly, I move forward to close the gap, but I feel his hand under my chin. «Katniss,» he says. The instant I open my eyes, the world seems disjointed. This is not our woods or our mountains or our way. My hand automatically goes to the scar on my left temple, which I associate with confusion. «Now kiss me.» Bewildered, unblinking, I stand there while he leans in and presses his lips to mine briefly. He examines my face closely. «What’s going on in your head?»

«I don’t know,» I whisper back.

«Then it’s like kissing someone who’s drunk. It doesn’t count,» he says with a weak attempt at a laugh. He scoops up a pile of kindling and drops it in my empty arms, returning me to myself.

«How do you know?» I say, mostly to cover my embarrassment. «Have you kissed someone who’s drunk?» I guess Gale could’ve been kissing girls right and left back in 12. He certainly had enough takers. I never thought about it much before.

He just shakes his head. «No. But it’s not hard to imagine.»

«So, you never kissed any other girls?» I ask.

«I didn’t say that. You know, you were only twelve when we met. And a real pain besides. I did have a life outside of hunting with you,» he says, loading up with firewood.

Suddenly, I’m genuinely curious. «Who did you kiss? And where?»

«Too many to remember. Behind the school, on the slag heap, you name it,» he says.

I roll my eyes. «So when did I become so special? When they carted me off to the Capitol?»

«No. About six months before that. Right after New Year’s. We were in the Hob, eating some slop of Greasy Sae’s. And Darius was teasing you about trading a rabbit for one of his kisses. And I realized… I minded,» he tells me.

I remember that day. Bitter cold and dark by four in the afternoon. We’d been hunting, but a heavy snow had driven us back into town. The Hob was crowded with people looking for refuge from the weather. Greasy Sae’s soup, made with stock from the bones of a wild dog we’d shot a week earlier, was below her usual standards. Still, it was hot, and I was starving as I scooped it up, sitting cross-legged on her counter. Darius was leaning on the post of the stall, tickling my cheek with the end of my braid, while I smacked his hand away. He was explaining why one of his kisses merited a rabbit, or possibly two, since everyone knows redheaded men are the most virile. And Greasy Sae and I were laughing because he was so ridiculous and persistent and kept pointing out women around the Hob who he said had paid far more than a rabbit to enjoy his lips. «See? The one in the green muffler? Go ahead and ask her. If you need a reference.»

A million miles from here, a billion days ago, this happened. «Darius was just joking around,» I say.

«Probably. Although you’d be the last to figure out if he wasn’t,» Gale tells me. «Take Peeta. Take me. Or even Finnick. I was starting to worry he had his eye on you, but he seems back on track now.»

«You don’t know Finnick if you think he’d love me,» I say.

Gale shrugs. «I know he was desperate. That makes people do all kinds of crazy things.»

I can’t help thinking that’s directed at me.

Bright and early the next morning, the brains assemble to take on the problem of the Nut. I’m asked to the meeting, although I don’t have much to contribute. I avoid the conference table and perch in the wide windowsill that has a view of the mountain in question. The commander from 2, a middle-aged woman named Lyme, takes us on a virtual tour of the Nut, its interior and fortifications, and recounts the failed attempts to seize it. I’ve crossed paths with her briefly a couple of times since my arrival, and was dogged by the feeling I’d met her before. She’s memorable enough, standing over six feet tall and heavily muscled. But it’s only when I see a clip of her in the field, leading a raid on the main entrance of the Nut, that something clicks and I realize I’m in the presence of another victor. Lyme, the tribute from District 2, who won her Hunger Games over a generation ago. Effie sent us her tape, among others, to prepare for the Quarter Quell. I’ve probably caught glimpses of her during the Games over the years, but she’s kept a low profile. With my newfound knowledge of Haymitch’s and Finnick’s treatment, all I can think is: What did the Capitol do to her after she won?

When Lyme finishes the presentation, the questions from the brains begin. Hours pass, and lunch comes and goes, as they try to come up with a realistic plan for taking the Nut. But while Beetee thinks he might be able to override certain computer systems, and there’s some discussion of putting the handful of internal spies to use, no one has any really innovative thoughts. As the afternoon wears on, talk keeps returning to a strategy that has been tried repeatedly—the storming of the entrances. I can see Lyme’s frustration building because so many variations of this plan have already failed, so many of her soldiers have been lost. Finally, she bursts out, «The next person who suggests we take the entrances better have a brilliant way to do it, because you’re going to be the one leading that mission!»

Gale, who is too restless to sit at the table for more than a few hours, has been alternating between pacing and sharing my windowsill. Early on, he seemed to accept Lyme’s assertion that the entrances couldn’t be taken, and dropped out of the conversation entirely. For the last hour or so, he’s sat quietly, his brow knitted in concentration, staring at the Nut through the window glass. In the silence that follows Lyme’s ultimatum, he speaks up. «Is it really so necessary that we take the Nut? Or would it be enough to disable it?»

«That would be a step in the right direction,» says Beetee. «What do you have in mind?»

«Think of it as a wild dog den,» Gale continues. «You’re not going to fight your way in. So you have two choices. Trap the dogs inside or flush them out.»

«We’ve tried bombing the entrances,» says Lyme. «They’re set too far inside the stone for any real damage to be done.»

«I wasn’t thinking of that,» says Gale. «I was thinking of using the mountain.» Beetee rises and joins Gale at the window, peering through his ill-fitting glasses. «See? Running down the sides?»

«Avalanche paths,» says Beetee under his breath. «It’d be tricky. We’d have to design the detonation sequence with great care, and once it’s in motion, we couldn’t hope to control it.»

«We don’t need to control it if we give up the idea that we have to possess the Nut,» says Gale. «Only shut it down.»

«So you’re suggesting we start avalanches and block the entrances?» asks Lyme.

«That’s it,» says Gale. «Trap the enemy inside, cut off from supplies. Make it impossible for them to send out their hovercraft.»

While everyone considers the plan, Boggs flips through a stack of blueprints of the Nut and frowns. «You risk killing everyone inside. Look at the ventilation system. It’s rudimentary at best. Nothing like what we have in Thirteen. It depends entirely on pumping in air from the mountainsides. Block those vents and you’ll suffocate whoever is trapped.»

«They could still escape through the train tunnel to the square,» says Beetee.

«Not if we blow it up,» says Gale brusquely. His intent, his full intent, becomes clear. Gale has no interest in preserving the lives of those in the Nut. No interest in caging the prey for later use.

This is one of his death traps.

15

The implications of what Gale is suggesting settle quietly around the room. You can see the reaction playing out on people’s faces. The expressions range from pleasure to distress, from sorrow to satisfaction.

«The majority of the workers are citizens from Two,» says Beetee neutrally.

«So what?» says Gale. «We’ll never be able to trust them again.»

«They should at least have a chance to surrender,» says Lyme.

«Well, that’s a luxury we weren’t given when they fire-bombed Twelve, but you’re all so much cozier with the Capitol here,» says Gale. By the look on Lyme’s face, I think she might shoot him, or at least take a swing. She’d probably have the upper hand, too, with all her training. But her anger only seems to infuriate him and he yells, «We watched children burn to death and there was nothing we could do!»

I have to close my eyes a minute, as the image rips through me. It has the desired effect. I want everyone in that mountain dead. Am about to say so. But then… I’m also a girl from District 12. Not President Snow. I can’t help it. I can’t condemn someone to the death he’s suggesting. «Gale,» I say, taking his arm and trying to speak in a reasonable tone. «The Nut’s an old mine. It’d be like causing a massive coal mining accident.» Surely the words are enough to make anyone from 12 think twice about the plan.

«But not so quick as the one that killed our fathers,» he retorts. «Is that everyone’s problem? That our enemies might have a few hours to reflect on the fact that they’re dying, instead of just being blown to bits?»

Back in the old days, when we were nothing more than a couple of kids hunting outside of 12, Gale said things like this and worse. But then they were just words. Here, put into practice, they become deeds that can never be reversed.

«You don’t know how those District Two people ended up in the Nut,» I say. «They may have been coerced. They may be held against their will. Some are our own spies. Will you kill them, too?»

«I would sacrifice a few, yes, to take out the rest of them,» he replies. «And if I were a spy in there, I’d say, ‘Bring on the avalanches!’»

I know he’s telling the truth. That Gale would sacrifice his life in this way for the cause—no one doubts it. Perhaps we’d all do the same if we were the spies and given the choice. I guess I would. But it’s a coldhearted decision to make for other people and those who love them.

«You said we had two choices,» Boggs tells him. «To trap them or to flush them out. I say we try to avalanche the mountain but leave the train tunnel alone. People can escape into the square, where we’ll be waiting for them.»

«Heavily armed, I hope,» says Gale. «You can be sure they’ll be.»

«Heavily armed. We’ll take them prisoner,» agrees Boggs.

«Let’s bring Thirteen into the loop now,» Beetee suggests. «Let President Coin weigh in.»

«She’ll want to block the tunnel,» says Gale with conviction.

«Yes, most likely. But you know, Peeta did have a point in his propos. About the dangers of killing ourselves off. I’ve been playing with some numbers. Factoring in the casualties and the wounded and… I think it’s at least worth a conversation,» says Beetee.

Only a handful of people are invited to be part of that conversation. Gale and I are released with the rest. I take him hunting so he can blow off some steam, but he’s not talking about it. Probably too angry with me for countering him.

The call does happen, a decision is made, and by evening I’m suited up in my Mockingjay outfit, with my bow slung over my shoulder and an earpiece that connects me to Haymitch in 13—just in case a good opportunity for a propo arises. We wait on the roof of the Justice Building with a clear view of our target.

Our hoverplanes are initially ignored by the commanders in the Nut, because in the past they’ve been little more trouble than flies buzzing around a honeypot. But after two rounds of bombings in the higher elevations of the mountain, the planes have their attention. By the time the Capitol’s antiaircraft weapons begin to fire, it’s already too late.

Gale’s plan exceeds anyone’s expectations. Beetee was right about being unable to control the avalanches once they’d been set in motion. The mountainsides are naturally unstable, but weakened by the explosions, they seem almost fluid. Whole sections of the Nut collapse before our eyes, obliterating any sign that human beings have ever set foot on the place. We stand speechless, tiny and insignificant, as waves of stone thunder down the mountain. Burying the entrances under tons of rock. Raising a cloud of dirt and debris that blackens the sky. Turning the Nut into a tomb.

I imagine the hell inside the mountain. Sirens wailing. Lights flickering into darkness. Stone dust choking the air. The shrieks of panicked, trapped beings stumbling madly for a way out, only to find the entrances, the launchpad, the ventilation shafts themselves clogged with earth and rock trying to force its way in. Live wires flung free, fires breaking out, rubble making a familiar path a maze. People slamming, shoving, scrambling like ants as the hill presses in, threatening to crush their fragile shells.

«Katniss?» Haymitch’s voice is in my earpiece. I try to answer back and find both of my hands are clamped tightly over my mouth. «Katniss!»

On the day my father died, the sirens went off during my school lunch. No one waited for dismissal, or was expected to. The response to a mine accident was something outside the control of even the Capitol. I ran to Prim’s class. I still remember her, tiny at seven, very pale, but sitting straight up with her hands folded on her desk. Waiting for me to collect her as I’d promised I would if the sirens ever sounded. She sprang out of her seat, grabbed my coat sleeve, and we wove through the streams of people pouring out onto the streets to pool at the main entrance of the mine. We found our mother clenching the rope that had been hastily strung to keep the crowd back. In retrospect, I guess I should have known there was a problem right then. Because why were we looking for her, when the reverse should have been true?

The elevators were screeching, burning up and down their cables as they vomited smoke-blackened miners into the light of day. With each group came cries of relief, relatives diving under the rope to lead off their husbands, wives, children, parents, siblings. We stood in the freezing air as the afternoon turned overcast, a light snow dusted the earth. The elevators moved more slowly now and disgorged fewer beings. I knelt on the ground and pressed my hands into the cinders, wanting so badly to pull my father free. If there’s a more helpless feeling than trying to reach someone you love who’s trapped underground, I don’t know it. The wounded. The bodies. The waiting through the night. Blankets put around your shoulders by strangers. A mug of something hot that you don’t drink. And then finally, at dawn, the grieved expression on the face of the mine captain that could only mean one thing.

What did we just do?

«Katniss! Are you there?» Haymitch is probably making plans to have me fitted for a head shackle at this very moment.

I drop my hands. «Yes.»

«Get inside. Just in case the Capitol tries to retaliate with what’s left of its air force,» he instructs.

«Yes,» I repeat. Everyone on the roof, except for the soldiers manning the machine guns, begin to make their way inside. As I descend the stairs, I can’t help brushing my fingers along the unblemished white marble walls. So cold and beautiful. Even in the Capitol, there’s nothing to match the magnificence of this old building. But there is no give to the surface—only my flesh yields, my warmth taken. Stone conquers people every time.

I sit at the base of one of the gigantic pillars in the great entrance hall. Through the doors I can see the white expanse of marble that leads to the steps on the square. I remember how sick I was the day Peeta and I accepted congratulations there for winning the Games. Worn down by the Victory Tour, failing in my attempt to calm the districts, facing the memories of Clove and Cato, particularly Cato’s gruesome, slow death by mutts.

Boggs crouches down beside me, his skin pale in the shadows. «We didn’t bomb the train tunnel, you know. Some of them will probably get out.»

«And then we’ll shoot them when they show their faces?» I ask.

«Only if we have to,» he answers.

«We could send in trains ourselves. Help evacuate the wounded,» I say.

«No. It was decided to leave the tunnel in their hands. That way they can use all the tracks to bring people out,» says Boggs. «Besides, it will give us time to get the rest of our soldiers to the square.»

A few hours ago, the square was a no-man’s-land, the front line of the fight between the rebels and the Peacekeepers. When Coin gave approval for Gale’s plan, the rebels launched a heated attack and drove the Capitol forces back several blocks so that we would control the train station in the event that the Nut fell. Well, it’s fallen. The reality has sunk in. Any survivors will escape to the square. I can hear the gunfire starting again, as the Peacekeepers are no doubt trying to fight their way in to rescue their comrades. Our own soldiers are being brought in to counter this.

«You’re cold,» says Boggs. «I’ll see if I can find a blanket.» He goes before I can protest. I don’t want a blanket, even if the marble continues to leech my body heat.

«Katniss,» says Haymitch in my ear.

«Still here,» I answer.

«Interesting turn of events with Peeta this afternoon. Thought you’d want to know,» he says. Interesting isn’t good. It isn’t better. But I don’t really have any choice but to listen. «We showed him that clip of you singing ‘The Hanging Tree.’ It was never aired, so the Capitol couldn’t use it when he was being hijacked. He says he recognized the song.»

For a moment, my heart skips a beat. Then I realize it’s just more tracker jacker serum confusion. «He couldn’t, Haymitch. He never heard me sing that song.»

«Not you. Your father. He heard him singing it one day when he came to trade at the bakery. Peeta was small, probably six or seven, but he remembered it because he was specially listening to see if the birds stopped singing,» says Haymitch. «Guess they did.»

Six or seven. That would have been before my mother banned the song. Maybe even right around the time I was learning it. «Was I there, too?»

«Don’t think so. No mention of you anyway. But it’s the first connection to you that hasn’t triggered some mental meltdown,» says Haymitch. «It’s something, at least, Katniss.»

My father. He seems to be everywhere today. Dying in the mine. Singing his way into Peeta’s muddled consciousness. Flickering in the look Boggs gives me as he protectively wraps the blanket around my shoulders. I miss him so badly it hurts.

The gunfire’s really picking up outside. Gale hurries by with a group of rebels, eagerly headed for the battle. I don’t petition to join the fighters, not that they would let me. I have no stomach for it anyway, no heat in my blood. I wish Peeta was here—the old Peeta—because he would be able to articulate why it is so wrong to be exchanging fire when people, any people, are trying to claw their way out of the mountain. Or is my own history making me too sensitive? Aren’t we at war? Isn’t this just another way to kill our enemies?

Night falls quickly. Huge, bright spotlights are turned on, illuminating the square. Every bulb must be burning at full wattage inside the train station as well. Even from my position across the square, I can see clearly through the plate-glass front of the long, narrow building. It would be impossible to miss the arrival of a train, or even a single person. But hours pass and no one comes. With each minute, it becomes harder to imagine that anyone survived the assault on the Nut.

It’s well after midnight when Cressida comes to attach a special microphone to my costume. «What’s this for?» I ask.

Haymitch’s voice comes on to explain. «I know you’re not going to like this, but we need you to make a speech.»

«A speech?» I say, immediately feeling queasy.

«I’ll feed it to you, line by line,» he assures me. «You’ll just have to repeat what I say. Look, there’s no sign of life from that mountain. We’ve won, but the fighting’s continuing. So we thought if you went out on the steps of the Justice Building and laid it out—told everybody that the Nut’s defeated, that the Capitol’s presence in District Two is finished—you might be able to get the rest of their forces to surrender.»

I peer at the darkness beyond the square. «I can’t even see their forces.»

«That’s what the mike’s for,» he says. «You’ll be broadcast, both your voice through their emergency audio system, and your image wherever people have access to a screen.»

I know there are a couple of huge screens here on the square. I saw them on the Victory Tour. It might work, if I were good at this sort of thing. Which I’m not. They tried to feed me lines in those early experiments with the propos, too, and it was a flop.

«You could save a lot of lives, Katniss,» Haymitch says finally.

«All right. I’ll give it a try,» I tell him.

It’s strange standing outside at the top of the stairs, fully costumed, brightly lit, but with no visible audience to deliver my speech to. Like I’m doing a show for the moon.

«Let’s make this quick,» says Haymitch. «You’re too exposed.»

My television crew, positioned out in the square with special cameras, indicates that they’re ready. I tell Haymitch to go ahead, then click on my mike and listen carefully to him dictate the first line of the speech. A huge image of me lights up one of the screens over the square as I begin. «People of District Two, this is Katniss Everdeen speaking to you from the steps of your Justice Building, where—»

The pair of trains comes screeching into the train station side by side. As the doors slide open, people tumble out in a cloud of smoke they’ve brought from the Nut. They must have had at least an inkling of what would await them at the square, because you can see them trying to act evasively. Most of them flatten on the floor, and a spray of bullets inside the station takes out the lights. They’ve come armed, as Gale predicted, but they’ve come wounded as well. The moans can be heard in the otherwise silent night air.

Someone kills the lights on the stairs, leaving me in the protection of shadow. A flame blooms inside the station—one of the trains must actually be on fire—and a thick, black smoke billows against the windows. Left with no choice, the people begin to push out into the square, choking but defiantly waving their guns. My eyes dart around the rooftops that ring the square. Every one of them has been fortified with rebel-manned machine gun nests. Moonlight glints off oiled barrels.

A young man staggers out from the station, one hand pressed against a bloody cloth at his cheek, the other dragging a gun. When he trips and falls to his face, I see the scorch marks down the back of his shirt, the red flesh beneath. And suddenly, he’s just another burn victim from a mine accident.

My feet fly down the steps and I take off running for him. «Stop!» I yell at the rebels. «Hold your fire!» The words echo around the square and beyond as the mike amplifies my voice. «Stop!» I’m nearing the young man, reaching down to help him, when he drags himself up to his knees and trains his gun on my head.

I instinctively back up a few steps, raise my bow over my head to show my intention was harmless. Now that he has both hands on his gun, I notice the ragged hole in his cheek where something—falling stone maybe—punctured the flesh. He smells of burning things, hair and meat and fuel. His eyes are crazed with pain and fear.

«Freeze,» Haymitch’s voice whispers in my ear. I follow his order, realizing that this is what all of District 2, all of Panem maybe, must be seeing at the moment. The Mockingjay at the mercy of a man with nothing to lose.

His garbled speech is barely comprehensible. «Give me one reason I shouldn’t shoot you.»

The rest of the world recedes. There’s only me looking into the wretched eyes of the man from the Nut who asks for one reason. Surely I should be able to come up with thousands. But the words that make it to my lips are «I can’t.»

Logically, the next thing that should happen is the man pulling the trigger. But he’s perplexed, trying to make sense of my words. I experience my own confusion as I realize what I’ve said is entirely true, and the noble impulse that carried me across the square is replaced by despair. «I can’t. That’s the problem, isn’t it?» I lower my bow. «We blew up your mine. You burned my district to the ground. We’ve got every reason to kill each other. So do it. Make the Capitol happy. I’m done killing their slaves for them.» I drop my bow on the ground and give it a nudge with my boot. It slides across the stone and comes to rest at his knees.

«I’m not their slave,» the man mutters.

«I am,» I say. «That’s why I killed Cato… and he killed Thresh… and he killed Clove… and she tried to kill me. It just goes around and around, and who wins? Not us. Not the districts. Always the Capitol. But I’m tired of being a piece in their Games.»

Peeta. On the rooftop the night before our first Hunger Games. He understood it all before we’d even set foot in the arena. I hope he’s watching now, that he remembers that night as it happened, and maybe forgives me when I die.

«Keep talking. Tell them about watching the mountain go down,» Haymitch insists.

«When I saw that mountain fall tonight, I thought… they’ve done it again. Got me to kill you—the people in the districts. But why did I do it? District Twelve and District Two have no fight except the one the Capitol gave us.» The young man blinks at me uncomprehendingly. I sink on my knees before him, my voice low and urgent. «And why are you fighting with the rebels on the rooftops? With Lyme, who was your victor? With people who were your neighbors, maybe even your family?»

«I don’t know,» says the man. But he doesn’t take his gun off me.

I rise and turn slowly in a circle, addressing the machine guns. «And you up there? I come from a mining town. Since when do miners condemn other miners to that kind of death, and then stand by to kill whoever manages to crawl from the rubble?»

«Who is the enemy?» whispers Haymitch.

«These people»—I indicate the wounded bodies on the square—» are not your enemy!» I whip back around to the train station. «The rebels are not your enemy! We all have one enemy, and it’s the Capitol! This is our chance to put an end to their power, but we need every district person to do it!»

The cameras are tight on me as I reach out my hands to the man, to the wounded, to the reluctant rebels across Panem. «Please! Join us!»

My words hang in the air. I look to the screen, hoping to see them recording some wave of reconciliation going through the crowd.

Instead I watch myself get shot on television.

16

«Always.»

In the twilight of morphling, Peeta whispers the word and I go searching for him. It’s a gauzy, violet-tinted world, with no hard edges, and many places to hide. I push through cloud banks, follow faint tracks, catch the scent of cinnamon, of dill. Once I feel his hand on my cheek and try to trap it, but it dissolves like mist through my fingers.

When I finally begin to surface into the sterile hospital room in 13, I remember. I was under the influence of sleep syrup. My heel had been injured after I’d climbed out on a branch over the electric fence and dropped back into 12. Peeta had put me to bed and I had asked him to stay with me as I was drifting off. He had whispered something I couldn’t quite catch. But some part of my brain had trapped his single word of reply and let it swim up through my dreams to taunt me now. «Always.»

Morphling dulls the extremes of all emotions, so instead of a stab of sorrow, I merely feel emptiness. A hollow of dead brush where flowers used to bloom. Unfortunately, there’s not enough of the drug left in my veins for me to ignore the pain in the left side of my body. That’s where the bullet hit. My hands fumble over the thick bandages encasing my ribs and I wonder what I’m still doing here.

It wasn’t him, the man kneeling before me on the square, the burned one from the Nut. He didn’t pull the trigger. It was someone farther back in the crowd. There was less a sense of penetration than the feeling that I’d been struck with a sledgehammer. Everything after the moment of impact is confusion riddled with gunfire. I try to sit up, but the only thing I manage is a moan.

The white curtain that divides my bed from the next patient’s whips back, and Johanna Mason stares down at me. At first I feel threatened, because she attacked me in the arena. I have to remind myself that she did it to save my life. It was part of the rebel plot. But still, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t despise me. Maybe her treatment of me was all an act for the Capitol?

«I’m alive,» I say rustily.

«No kidding, brainless.» Johanna walks over and plunks down on my bed, sending spikes of pain shooting across my chest. When she grins at my discomfort, I know we’re not in for some warm reunion scene. «Still a little sore?» With an expert hand, she quickly detaches the morphling drip from my arm and plugs it into a socket taped into the crook of her own. «They started cutting back my supply a few days ago. Afraid I’m going to turn into one of those freaks from Six. I’ve had to borrow from you when the coast was clear. Didn’t think you’d mind.»

Mind? How can I mind when she was almost tortured to death by Snow after the Quarter Quell? I have no right to mind, and she knows it.

Johanna sighs as the morphling enters her bloodstream. «Maybe they were onto something in Six. Drug yourself out and paint flowers on your body. Not such a bad life. Seemed happier than the rest of us, anyway.»

In the weeks since I left 13, she’s gained some weight back. A soft down of hair has sprouted on her shaved head, helping to hide some of the scars. But if she’s siphoning off my morphling, she’s struggling.

«They’ve got this head doctor who comes around every day. Supposed to be helping me recover. Like some guy who’s spent his life in this rabbit warren’s going to fix me up. Complete idiot. At least twenty times a session he reminds me that I’m totally safe.» I manage a smile. It’s a truly stupid thing to say, especially to a victor. As if such a state of being ever existed, anywhere, for anyone. «How about you, Mockingjay? You feel totally safe?»

«Oh, yeah. Right up until I got shot,» I say.

«Please. That bullet never even touched you. Cinna saw to that,» she says.

I think of the layers of protective armor in my Mockingjay outfit. But the pain came from somewhere. «Broken ribs?»

«Not even. Bruised pretty good. The impact ruptured your spleen. They couldn’t repair it.» She gives a dismissive wave of her hand. «Don’t worry, you don’t need one. And if you did, they’d find you one, wouldn’t they? It’s everybody’s job to keep you alive.»

«Is that why you hate me?» I ask.

«Partly,» she admits. «Jealousy is certainly involved. I also think you’re a little hard to swallow. With your tacky romantic drama and your defender-of-the-helpless act. Only it isn’t an act, which makes you more unbearable. Please feel free to take this personally.»

«You should have been the Mockingjay. No one would’ve had to feed you lines,» I say.

«True. But no one likes me,» she tells me.

«They trusted you, though. To get me out,» I remind her. «And they’re afraid of you.»

«Here, maybe. In the Capitol, you’re the one they’re scared of now.» Gale appears in the doorway, and Johanna neatly unhooks herself and reattaches me to the morphling drip. «Your cousin’s not afraid of me,» she says confidentially. She scoots off my bed and crosses to the door, nudging Gale’s leg with her hip as she passes him. «Are you, gorgeous?» We can hear her laughter as she disappears down the hall.

I raise my eyebrows at him as he takes my hand. «Terrified,» he mouths. I laugh, but it turns into a wince.

«Easy.» He strokes my face as the pain ebbs. «You’ve got to stop running straight into trouble.»

«I know. But someone blew up a mountain,» I answer.

Instead of pulling back, he leans in closer, searching my face. «You think I’m heartless.»

«I know you’re not. But I won’t tell you it’s okay,» I say.

Now he draws back, almost impatiently. «Katniss, what difference is there, really, between crushing our enemy in a mine or blowing them out of the sky with one of Beetee’s arrows? The result is the same.»

«I don’t know. We were under attack in Eight, for one thing. The hospital was under attack,» I say.

«Yes, and those hoverplanes came from District Two,» he says. «So, by taking them out, we prevented further attacks.»

«But that kind of thinking… you could turn it into an argument for killing anyone at any time. You could justify sending kids into the Hunger Games to prevent the districts from getting out of line,» I say.

«I don’t buy that,» he tells me.

«I do,» I reply. «It must be those trips to the arena.»

«Fine. We know how to disagree,» he says. «We always have. Maybe it’s good. Between you and me, we’ve got District Two now.»

«Really?» For a moment a feeling of triumph flares up inside me. Then I think about the people on the square. «Was there fighting after I was shot?»

«Not much. The workers from the Nut turned on the Capitol soldiers. The rebels just sat by and watched,» he says. «Actually, the whole country just sat by and watched.»

«Well, that’s what they do best,» I say.

You’d think that losing a major organ would entitle you to lie around a few weeks, but for some reason, my doctors want me up and moving almost immediately. Even with the morphling, the internal pain’s severe the first few days, but then it slacks off considerably. The soreness from the bruised ribs, however, promises to hang on for a while. I begin to resent Johanna dipping into my morphling supply, but I still let her take whatever she likes.

Rumors of my death have been running rampant, so they send in the team to film me in my hospital bed. I show off my stitches and impressive bruising and congratulate the districts on their successful battle for unity. Then I warn the Capitol to expect us soon.

As part of my rehabilitation, I take short walks aboveground each day. One afternoon, Plutarch joins me and gives me an update on our current situation. Now that District 2 has allied with us, the rebels are taking a breather from the war to regroup. Fortifying supply lines, seeing to the wounded, reorganizing their troops. The Capitol, like 13 during the Dark Days, finds itself completely cut off from outside help as it holds the threat of nuclear attack over its enemies. Unlike 13, the Capitol is not in a position to reinvent itself and become self-sufficient.

«Oh, the city might be able to scrape along for a while,» says Plutarch. «Certainly, there are emergency supplies stockpiled. But the significant difference between Thirteen and the Capitol are the expectations of the populace. Thirteen was used to hardship, whereas in the Capitol, all they’ve known is Panem et Circenses.»

«What’s that?» I recognize Panem , of course, but the rest is nonsense.

«It’s a saying from thousands of years ago, written in a language called Latin about a place called Rome,» he explains. «Panem et Circenses translates into ‘Bread and Circuses.’ The writer was saying that in return for full bellies and entertainment, his people had given up their political responsibilities and therefore their power.»

I think about the Capitol. The excess of food. And the ultimate entertainment. The Hunger Games. «So that’s what the districts are for. To provide the bread and circuses.»

«Yes. And as long as that kept rolling in, the Capitol could control its little empire. Right now, it can provide neither, at least at the standard the people are accustomed to,» says Plutarch. «We have the food and I’m about to orchestrate an entertainment propo that’s sure to be popular. After all, everybody loves a wedding.»

I freeze in my tracks, sick at the idea of what he’s suggesting. Somehow staging some perverse wedding between Peeta and me. I haven’t been able to face that one-way glass since I’ve been back and, at my own request, only get updates about Peeta’s condition from Haymitch. He speaks very little about it. Different techniques are being tried. There will never truly be a way to cure him. And now they want me to marry Peeta for a propo?

Plutarch rushes to reassure me. «Oh, no, Katniss. Not your wedding. Finnick and Annie’s. All you need to do is show up and pretend to be happy for them.»

«That’s one of the few things I won’t have to pretend, Plutarch,» I tell him.

The next few days bring a flurry of activity as the event is planned. The differences between the Capitol and 13 are thrown into sharp relief by the event. When Coin says «wedding,» she means two people signing a piece of paper and being assigned a new compartment. Plutarch means hundreds of people dressed in finery at a three-day celebration. It’s amusing to watch them haggle over the details. Plutarch has to fight for every guest, every musical note. After Coin vetoes a dinner, entertainment, and alcohol, Plutarch yells, «What’s the point of the propo if no one’s having any fun!»

It’s hard to put a Gamemaker on a budget. But even a quiet celebration causes a stir in 13, where they seem to have no holidays at all. When it’s announced that children are wanted to sing District 4’s wedding song, practically every kid shows up. There’s no shortage of volunteers to help make decorations. In the dining hall, people chat excitedly about the event.

Maybe it’s more than the festivities. Maybe it’s that we are all so starved for something good to happen that we want to be part of it. It would explain why—when Plutarch has a fit over what the bride will wear—I volunteer to take Annie back to my house in 12, where Cinna left a variety of evening clothes in a big storage closet downstairs. All of the wedding gowns he designed for me went back to the Capitol, but there are some dresses I wore on the Victory Tour. I’m a little leery about being with Annie since all I really know about her is that Finnick loves her and everybody thinks she’s mad. On the hovercraft ride, I decide she’s less mad than unstable. She laughs at odd places in the conversation or drops out of it distractedly. Those green eyes fixate on a point with such intensity that you find yourself trying to make out what she sees in the empty air. Sometimes, for no reason, she presses both her hands over her ears as if to block out a painful sound. All right, she’s strange, but if Finnick loves her, that’s good enough for me.

I got permission for my prep team to come along, so I’m relieved of having to make any fashion decisions. When I open the closet, we all fall silent because Cinna’s presence is so strong in the flow of the fabrics. Then Octavia drops to her knees, rubs the hem of a skirt against her cheek, and bursts into tears. «It’s been so long,» she gasps, «since I’ve seen anything pretty.»

Despite reservations on Coin’s side that it’s too extravagant, and on Plutarch’s side that it’s too drab, the wedding is a smash hit. The three hundred lucky guests culled from 13 and the many refugees wear their everyday clothes, the decorations are made from autumn foliage, the music is provided by a choir of children accompanied by the lone fiddler who made it out of 12 with his instrument. So it’s simple, frugal by the Capitol’s standards. It doesn’t matter because nothing can compete with the beauty of the couple. It isn’t about their borrowed finery—Annie wears a green silk dress I wore in 5, Finnick one of Peeta’s suits that they altered—although the clothes are striking. Who can look past the radiant faces of two people for whom this day was once a virtual impossibility? Dalton, the cattle guy from 10, conducts the ceremony, since it’s similar to the one used in his district. But there are unique touches of District 4. A net woven from long grass that covers the couple during their vows, the touching of each other’s lips with salt water, and the ancient wedding song, which likens marriage to a sea voyage.

No, I don’t have to pretend to be happy for them.

After the kiss that seals the union, the cheers, and a toast with apple cider, the fiddler strikes up a tune that turns every head from 12. We may have been the smallest, poorest district in Panem, but we know how to dance. Nothing has been officially scheduled at this point, but Plutarch, who’s calling the propo from the control room, must have his fingers crossed. Sure enough, Greasy Sae grabs Gale by the hand and pulls him into the center of the floor and faces off with him. People pour in to join them, forming two long lines. And the dancing begins.

I’m standing off to the side, clapping to the rhythm, when a bony hand pinches me above the elbow. Johanna scowls at me. «Are you going to miss the chance to let Snow see you dancing?» She’s right. What could spell victory louder than a happy Mockingjay twirling around to music? I find Prim in the crowd. Since winter evenings gave us a lot of time to practice, we’re actually pretty good partners. I brush off her concerns about my ribs, and we take our places in the line. It hurts, but the satisfaction of having Snow watch me dance with my little sister reduces other feelings to dust.

Dancing transforms us. We teach the steps to the District 13 guests. Insist on a special number for the bride and groom. Join hands and make a giant, spinning circle where people show off their footwork. Nothing silly, joyful, or fun has happened in so long. This could go on all night if not for the last event planned in Plutarch’s propo. One I hadn’t heard about, but then it was meant to be a surprise.

Four people wheel out a huge wedding cake from a side room. Most of the guests back up, making way for this rarity, this dazzling creation with blue-green, white-tipped icing waves swimming with fish and sailboats, seals and sea flowers. But I push my way through the crowd to confirm what I knew at first sight. As surely as the embroidery stitches in Annie’s gown were done by Cinna’s hand, the frosted flowers on the cake were done by Peeta’s.

This may seem like a small thing, but it speaks volumes. Haymitch has been keeping a great deal from me. The boy I last saw, screaming his head off, trying to tear free of his restraints, could never have made this. Never have had the focus, kept his hands steady, designed something so perfect for Finnick and Annie. As if anticipating my reaction, Haymitch is at my side.

«Let’s you and me have a talk,» he says.

Out in the hall, away from the cameras, I ask, «What’s happening to him?»

Haymitch shakes his head. «I don’t know. None of us knows. Sometimes he’s almost rational, and then, for no reason, he goes off again. Doing the cake was a kind of therapy. He’s been working on it for days. Watching him… he seemed almost like before.»

«So, he’s got the run of the place?» I ask. The idea makes me nervous on about five different levels.

«Oh, no. He frosted under heavy guard. He’s still under lock and key. But I’ve talked to him,» Haymitch says.

«Face-to-face?» I ask. «And he didn’t go nuts?»

«No. Pretty angry with me, but for all the right reasons. Not telling him about the rebel plot and whatnot.» Haymitch pauses a moment, as if deciding something. «He says he’d like to see you.»

I’m on a frosting sailboat, tossed around by blue-green waves, the deck shifting beneath my feet. My palms press into the wall to steady myself. This wasn’t part of the plan. I wrote Peeta off in 2. Then I was to go to the Capitol, kill Snow, and get taken out myself. The gunshot was only a temporary setback. Never was I supposed to hear the words He says he’d like to see you. But now that I have, there’s no way to refuse.

At midnight, I’m standing outside the door to his cell. Hospital room. We had to wait for Plutarch to finish getting his wedding footage, which, despite the lack of what he calls razzle-dazzle, he’s pleased with. «The best thing about the Capitol basically ignoring Twelve all these years is that you people still have a little spontaneity. The audience eats that up. Like when Peeta announced he was in love with you or you did the trick with the berries. Makes for good television.»

I wish I could meet with Peeta privately. But the audience of doctors has assembled behind the one-way glass, clipboards ready, pens poised. When Haymitch gives me the okay in my earpiece, I slowly open the door.

Those blue eyes lock on me instantly. He’s got three restraints on each arm, and a tube that can dispense a knockout drug just in case he loses control. He doesn’t fight to free himself, though, only observes me with the wary look of someone who still hasn’t ruled out that he’s in the presence of a mutt. I walk over until I’m standing about a yard from the bed. There’s nothing to do with my hands, so I cross my arms protectively over my ribs before I speak. «Hey.»

«Hey,» he responds. It’s like his voice, almost his voice, except there’s something new in it. An edge of suspicion and reproach.

«Haymitch said you wanted to talk to me,» I say.

«Look at you, for starters.» It’s like he’s waiting for me to transform into a hybrid drooling wolf right before his eyes. He stares so long I find myself casting furtive glances at the one-way glass, hoping for some direction from Haymitch, but my earpiece stays silent. «You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?»

I know he’s been through hell and back, and yet somehow the observation rubs me the wrong way. «Well, you’ve looked better.»

Haymitch’s advice to back off gets muffled by Peeta’s laughter. «And not even remotely nice. To say that to me after all I’ve been through.»

«Yeah. We’ve all been through a lot. And you’re the one who was known for being nice. Not me.» I’m doing everything wrong. I don’t know why I feel so defensive. He’s been tortured! He’s been hijacked! What’s wrong with me? Suddenly, I think I might start screaming at him—I’m not even sure about what—so I decide to get out of there. «Look, I don’t feel so well. Maybe I’ll drop by tomorrow.»

I’ve just reached the door when his voice stops me. «Katniss. I remember about the bread.»

The bread. Our one moment of real connection before the Hunger Games.

«They showed you the tape of me talking about it,» I say.

«No. Is there a tape of you talking about it? Why didn’t the Capitol use it against me?» he asks.

«I made it the day you were rescued,» I answer. The pain in my chest wraps around my ribs like a vise. The dancing was a mistake. «So what do you remember?»

«You. In the rain,» he says softly. «Digging in our trash bins. Burning the bread. My mother hitting me. Taking the bread out for the pig but then giving it to you instead.»

«That’s it. That’s what happened,» I say. «The next day, after school, I wanted to thank you. But I didn’t know how.»

«We were outside at the end of the day. I tried to catch your eye. You looked away. And then… for some reason, I think you picked a dandelion.» I nod. He does remember. I have never spoken about that moment aloud. «I must have loved you a lot.»

«You did.» My voice catches and I pretend to cough.

«And did you love me?» he asks.

I keep my eyes on the tiled floor. «Everyone says I did. Everyone says that’s why Snow had you tortured. To break me.»

«That’s not an answer,» he tells me. «I don’t know what to think when they show me some of the tapes. In that first arena, it looked like you tried to kill me with those tracker jackers.»

«I was trying to kill all of you,» I say. «You had me treed.»

«Later, there’s a lot of kissing. Didn’t seem very genuine on your part. Did you like kissing me?» he asks.

«Sometimes,» I admit. «You know people are watching us now?»

«I know. What about Gale?» he continues.

My anger’s returning. I don’t care about his recovery—this isn’t the business of the people behind the glass. «He’s not a bad kisser either,» I say shortly.

«And it was okay with both of us? You kissing the other?» he asks.

«No. It wasn’t okay with either of you. But I wasn’t asking your permission,» I tell him.

Peeta laughs again, coldly, dismissively. «Well, you’re a piece of work, aren’t you?»

Haymitch doesn’t protest when I walk out. Down the hall. Through the beehive of compartments. Find a warm pipe to hide behind in a laundry room. It takes a long time before I get to the bottom of why I’m so upset. When I do, it’s almost too mortifying to admit. All those months of taking it for granted that Peeta thought I was wonderful are over. Finally, he can see me for who I really am. Violent. Distrustful. Manipulative. Deadly.

And I hate him for it.

17

Blindsided. That’s how I feel when Haymitch tells me in the hospital. I fly down the steps to Command, mind racing a mile a minute, and burst right into a war meeting.

«What do you mean, I’m not going to the Capitol? I have to go! I’m the Mockingjay!» I say.

Coin barely looks up from her screen. «And as the Mockingjay, your primary goal of unifying the districts against the Capitol has been achieved. Don’t worry—if it goes well, we’ll fly you in for the surrender.»

The surrender?

«That’ll be too late! I’ll miss all the fighting. You need me—I’m the best shot you’ve got!» I shout. I don’t usually brag about this, but it’s got to be at least close to true. «Gale’s going.»

«Gale has shown up for training every day unless occupied with other approved duties. We feel confident he can manage himself in the field,» says Coin. «How many training sessions do you estimate you’ve attended?»

None. That’s how many. «Well, sometimes I was hunting. And… I trained with Beetee down in Special Weaponry.»

«It’s not the same, Katniss,» says Boggs. «We all know you’re smart and brave and a good shot. But we need soldiers in the field. You don’t know the first thing about executing orders, and you’re not exactly at your physical peak.»

«That didn’t bother you when I was in Eight. Or Two, for that matter,» I counter.

«You weren’t originally authorized for combat in either case,» says Plutarch, shooting me a look that signals I’m about to reveal too much.

No, the bomber battle in 8 and my intervention in 2 were spontaneous, rash, and definitely unauthorized.

«And both resulted in your injury,» Boggs reminds me. Suddenly, I see myself through his eyes. A smallish seventeen-year-old girl who can’t quite catch her breath since her ribs haven’t fully healed.

Disheveled. Undisciplined. Recuperating. Not a soldier, but someone who needs to be looked after.

«But I have to go,» I say.

«Why?» asks Coin.

I can’t very well say it’s so I can carry out my own personal vendetta against Snow. Or that the idea of remaining here in 13 with the latest version of Peeta while Gale goes off to fight is unbearable. But I have no shortage of reasons to want to fight in the Capitol. «Because of Twelve. Because they destroyed my district.»

The president thinks about this a moment. Considers me. «Well, you have three weeks. It’s not long, but you can begin training. If the Assignment Board deems you fit, possibly your case will be reviewed.»

That’s it. That’s the most I can hope for. I guess it’s my own fault. I did blow off my schedule every single day unless something suited me. It didn’t seem like much of a priority, jogging around a field with a gun with so many other things going on. And now I’m paying for my negligence.

Back in the hospital, I find Johanna in the same circumstance and spitting mad. I tell her about what Coin said. «Maybe you can train, too.»

«Fine. I’ll train. But I’m going to the stinking Capitol if I have to kill a crew and fly there myself,» says Johanna.

«Probably best not to bring that up in training,» I say. «But it’s nice to know I’ll have a ride.»

Johanna grins, and I feel a slight but significant shift in our relationship. I don’t know that we’re actually friends, but possibly the word allies would be accurate. That’s good. I’m going to need an ally.

The next morning, when we report for training at 7:30, reality slaps me in the face. We’ve been funneled into a class of relative beginners, fourteen- or fifteen-year-olds, which seems a little insulting until it’s obvious that they’re in far better condition than we are. Gale and the other people already chosen to go to the Capitol are in a different, accelerated phase of training. After we stretch—which hurts—there’s a couple of hours of strengthening exercises—which hurt—and a five-mile run—which kills. Even with Johanna’s motivational insults driving me on, I have to drop out after a mile.

«It’s my ribs,» I explain to the trainer, a no-nonsense middle-aged woman we’re supposed to address as Soldier York. «They’re still bruised.»

«Well, I’ll tell you, Soldier Everdeen, those are going to take at least another month to heal up on their own,» she says.

I shake my head. «I don’t have a month.»

She looks me up and down. «The doctors haven’t offered you any treatment?»

«Is there a treatment?» I ask. «They said they had to mend naturally.»

«That’s what they say. But they could speed up the process if I recommend it. I warn you, though, it isn’t any fun,» she tells me.

«Please. I’ve got to get to the Capitol,» I say.

Soldier York doesn’t question this. She scribbles something on a pad and sends me directly back to the hospital. I hesitate. I don’t want to miss any more training. «I’ll be back for the afternoon session,» I promise. She just purses her lips.

Twenty-four needle jabs to my rib cage later, I’m flattened out on my hospital bed, gritting my teeth to keep from begging them to bring back my morphling drip. It’s been by my bed so I can take a hit as needed. I haven’t used it lately, but I kept it for Johanna’s sake. Today they tested my blood to make sure it was clean of the painkiller, as the mixture of the two drugs—the morphling and whatever’s set my ribs on fire—has dangerous side effects. They made it clear I would have a difficult couple of days. But I told them to go ahead.

It’s a bad night in our room. Sleep’s out of the question. I think I can actually smell the ring of flesh around my chest burning, and Johanna’s fighting off withdrawal symptoms. Early on, when I apologize about cutting off her morphling supply, she waves it off, saying it had to happen anyway. But by three in the morning, I’m the target of every colorful bit of profanity District 7 has to offer. At dawn, she drags me out of bed, determined to get to training.

«I don’t think I can do it,» I confess.

«You can do it. We both can. We’re victors, remember? We’re the ones who can survive anything they throw at us,» she snarls at me. She’s a sick greenish color, shaking like a leaf. I get dressed.

We must be victors to make it through the morning. I think I’m going to lose Johanna when we realize it’s pouring outside. Her face turns ashen and she seems to have ceased breathing.

«It’s just water. It won’t kill us,» I say. She clenches her jaw and stomps out into the mud. Rain drenches us as we work our bodies and then slog around the running course. I bail after a mile again, and I have to resist the temptation to take off my shirt so the cold water can sizzle off my ribs. I force down my field lunch of soggy fish and beet stew. Johanna gets halfway through her bowl before it comes back up. In the afternoon, we learn to assemble our guns. I manage it, but Johanna can’t hold her hands steady enough to fit the parts together. When York’s back is turned, I help her out. Even though the rain continues, the afternoon’s an improvement because we’re on the shooting range. At last, something I’m good at. It takes some adjusting from a bow to a gun, but by the end of the day, I’ve got the best score in my class.

We’re just inside the hospital doors when Johanna declares, «This has to stop. Us living in the hospital. Everyone views us as patients.»

It’s not a problem for me. I can move into our family compartment, but Johanna’s never been assigned one. When she tries to get discharged from the hospital, they won’t agree to let her live alone, even if she comes in for daily talks with the head doctor. I think they may have put two and two together about the morphling and this only adds to their view that she’s unstable. «She won’t be alone. I’m going to room with her,» I announce. There’s some dissent, but Haymitch takes our part, and by bedtime, we have a compartment across from Prim and my mother, who agrees to keep an eye on us.

After I take a shower, and Johanna sort of wipes herself down with a damp cloth, she makes a cursory inspection of the place. When she opens the drawer that holds my few possessions, she shuts it quickly. «Sorry.»

I think how there’s nothing in Johanna’s drawer but her government-issued clothes. That she doesn’t have one thing in the world to call her own. «It’s okay. You can look at my stuff if you want.»

Johanna unlatches my locket, studying the pictures of Gale, Prim, and my mother. She opens the silver parachute and pulls out the spile and slips it onto her pinkie. «Makes me thirsty just looking at it.» Then she finds the pearl Peeta gave me. «Is this—?»

«Yeah,» I say. «Made it through somehow.» I don’t want to talk about Peeta. One of the best things about training is, it keeps me from thinking of him.

«Haymitch says he’s getting better,» she says.

«Maybe. But he’s changed,» I say.

«So have you. So have I. And Finnick and Haymitch and Beetee. Don’t get me started on Annie Cresta. The arena messed us all up pretty good, don’t you think? Or do you still feel like the girl who volunteered for your sister?» she asks me.

«No,» I answer.

«That’s the one thing I think my head doctor might be right about. There’s no going back. So we might as well get on with things.» She neatly returns my keepsakes to the drawer and climbs into the bed across from me just as the lights go out. «You’re not afraid I’ll kill you tonight?»

«Like I couldn’t take you,» I answer. Then we laugh, since both our bodies are so wrecked, it will be a miracle if we can get up the next day. But we do. Each morning, we do. And by the end of the week, my ribs feel almost like new, and Johanna can assemble her rifle without help.

Soldier York gives the pair of us an approving nod as we knock off for the day. «Fine job, Soldiers.»

When we move out of hearing, Johanna mutters, «I think winning the Games was easier.» But the look on her face says she’s pleased.

In fact, we’re almost in good spirits when we go to the dining hall, where Gale’s waiting to eat with me. Receiving a giant serving of beef stew doesn’t hurt my mood either. «First shipments of food arrived this morning,» Greasy Sae tells me. «That’s real beef, from District Ten. Not any of your wild dog.»

«Don’t remember you turning it down,» Gale tosses back.

We join a group that includes Delly, Annie, and Finnick. It’s something to see Finnick’s transformation since his marriage. His earlier incarnations—the decadent Capitol heartthrob I met before the Quell, the enigmatic ally in the arena, the broken young man who tried to help me hold it together—these have been replaced by someone who radiates life. Finnick’s real charms of self-effacing humor and an easygoing nature are on display for the first time. He never lets go of Annie’s hand. Not when they walk, not when they eat. I doubt he ever plans to. She’s lost in some daze of happiness. There are still moments when you can tell something slips in her brain and another world blinds her to us. But a few words from Finnick call her back.

Delly, who I’ve known since I was little but never gave much thought to, has grown in my estimation. She was told what Peeta said to me that night after the wedding, but she’s not a gossip. Haymitch says she’s the best defender I have when Peeta goes off on some kind of tear about me. Always taking my side, blaming his negative perceptions on the Capitol’s torture. She has more influence on him than any of the others do, because he really does know her. Anyway, even if she’s sugarcoating my good points, I appreciate it. Frankly, I could use a little sugarcoating.

I’m starving and the stew is so delicious—beef, potatoes, turnips, and onions in a thick gravy—that I have to force myself to slow down. All around the dining hall, you can feel the rejuvenating effect that a good meal can bring on. The way it can make people kinder, funnier, more optimistic, and remind them it’s not a mistake to go on living. It’s better than any medicine. So I try to make it last and join in the conversation. Sop up the gravy on my bread and nibble on it as I listen to Finnick telling some ridiculous story about a sea turtle swimming off with his hat. Laugh before I realize he’s standing there. Directly across the table, behind the empty seat next to Johanna. Watching me. I choke momentarily as the gravy bread sticks in my throat.

«Peeta!» says Delly. «It’s so nice to see you out… and about.»

Two large guards stand behind him. He holds his tray awkwardly, balanced on his fingertips since his wrists are shackled with a short chain between them.

«What’s with the fancy bracelets?» asks Johanna.

«I’m not quite trustworthy yet,» says Peeta. «I can’t even sit here without your permission.» He indicates the guards with his head.

«Sure he can sit here. We’re old friends,» says Johanna, patting the space beside her. The guards nod and Peeta takes a seat. «Peeta and I had adjoining cells in the Capitol. We’re very familiar with each other’s screams.»

Annie, who’s on Johanna’s other side, does that thing where she covers her ears and exits reality. Finnick shoots Johanna an angry look as his arm encircles Annie.

«What? My head doctor says I’m not supposed to censor my thoughts. It’s part of my therapy,» replies Johanna.

The life has gone out of our little party. Finnick murmurs things to Annie until she slowly removes her hands. Then there’s a long silence while people pretend to eat.

«Annie,» says Delly brightly, «did you know it was Peeta who decorated your wedding cake? Back home, his family ran the bakery and he did all the icing.»

Annie cautiously looks across Johanna. «Thank you, Peeta. It was beautiful.»

«My pleasure, Annie,» says Peeta, and I hear that old note of gentleness in his voice that I thought was gone forever. Not that it’s directed at me. But still.

«If we’re going to fit in that walk, we better go,» Finnick tells her. He arranges both of their trays so he can carry them in one hand while holding tightly to her with the other. «Good seeing you, Peeta.»

«You be nice to her, Finnick. Or I might try and take her away from you.» It could be a joke, if the tone wasn’t so cold. Everything it conveys is wrong. The open distrust of Finnick, the implication that Peeta has his eye on Annie, that Annie could desert Finnick, that I do not even exist.

«Oh, Peeta,» says Finnick lightly. «Don’t make me sorry I restarted your heart.» He leads Annie away after giving me a concerned glance.

When they’re gone, Delly says in a reproachful voice, «He did save your life, Peeta. More than once.»

«For her.» He gives me a brief nod. «For the rebellion. Not for me. I don’t owe him anything.»

I shouldn’t rise to the bait, but I do. «Maybe not. But Mags is dead and you’re still here. That should count for something.»

«Yeah, a lot of things should count for something that don’t seem to, Katniss. I’ve got some memories I can’t make sense of, and I don’t think the Capitol touched them. A lot of nights on the train, for instance,» he says.

Again the implications. That more happened on the train than did. That what did happen—those nights I only kept my sanity because his arms were around me—no longer matters. Everything a lie, everything a way of misusing him.

Peeta makes a little gesture with his spoon, connecting Gale and me. «So, are you two officially a couple now, or are they still dragging out the star-crossed lover thing?»

«Still dragging,» says Johanna.

Spasms cause Peeta’s hands to tighten into fists, then splay out in a bizarre fashion. Is it all he can do to keep them from my neck? I can feel the tension in Gale’s muscles next to me, fear an altercation. But Gale simply says, «I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.»

«What’s that?» asks Peeta.

«You,» Gale answers.

«You’ll have to be a little more specific,» says Peeta. «What about me?»

«That they’ve replaced you with the evil-mutt version of yourself,» says Johanna.

Gale finishes his milk. «You done?» he asks me. I rise and we cross to drop off our trays. At the door, an old man stops me because I’m still clutching the rest of my gravy bread in my hand. Something in my expression, or maybe the fact that I’ve made no attempt to conceal it, makes him go easy on me. He lets me stuff the bread in my mouth and move on. Gale and I are almost to my compartment when he speaks again. «I didn’t expect that.»

«I told you he hated me,» I say.

«It’s the way he hates you. It’s so… familiar. I used to feel like that,» he admits. «When I’d watch you kissing him on the screen. Only I knew I wasn’t being entirely fair. He can’t see that.»

We reach my door. «Maybe he just sees me as I really am. I have to get some sleep.»

Gale catches my arm before I can disappear. «So that’s what you’re thinking now?» I shrug. «Katniss, as your oldest friend, believe me when I say he’s not seeing you as you really are.» He kisses my cheek and goes.

I sit on my bed, trying to stuff information from my Military Tactics books into my head while memories of my nights with Peeta on the train distract me. After about twenty minutes, Johanna comes in and throws herself across the foot of my bed. «You missed the best part. Delly lost her temper at Peeta over how he treated you. She got very squeaky. It was like someone stabbing a mouse with a fork repeatedly. The whole dining hall was riveted.»

«What’d Peeta do?» I ask.

«He started arguing with himself like he was two people. The guards had to take him away. On the good side, no one seemed to notice I finished his stew.» Johanna rubs her hand over her protruding belly. I look at the layer of grime under her fingernails. Wonder if the people in 7 ever bathe.

We spend a couple of hours quizzing each other on military terms. I visit my mother and Prim for a while. When I’m back in my compartment, showered, staring into the darkness, I finally ask, «Johanna, could you really hear him screaming?»

«That was part of it,» she says. «Like the jabberjays in the arena. Only it was real. And it didn’t stop after an hour. Tick, tock.»

«Tick, tock,» I whisper back.

Roses. Wolf mutts. Tributes. Frosted dolphins. Friends. Mockingjays. Stylists. Me.

Everything screams in my dreams tonight.

18

I throw myself into training with a vengeance. Eat, live, and breathe the workouts, drills, weapons practice, lectures on tactics. A handful of us are moved into an additional class that gives me hope I may be a contender for the actual war. The soldiers simply call it the Block, but the tattoo on my arm lists it as S.S.C., short for Simulated Street Combat. Deep in 13, they’ve built an artificial Capitol city block. The instructor breaks us into squads of eight and we attempt to carry out missions—gaining a position, destroying a target, searching a home—as if we were really fighting our way through the Capitol. The thing’s rigged so that everything that can go wrong for you does. A false step triggers a land mine, a sniper appears on a rooftop, your gun jams, a crying child leads you into an ambush, your squadron leader—who’s just a voice on the program—gets hit by a mortar and you have to figure out what to do without orders. Part of you knows it’s fake and that they’re not going to kill you. If you set off a land mine, you hear the explosion and have to pretend to fall over dead. But in other ways, it feels pretty real in there—the enemy soldiers dressed in Peacekeepers’ uniforms, the confusion of a smoke bomb. They even gas us. Johanna and I are the only ones who get our masks on in time. The rest of our squad gets knocked out for ten minutes. And the supposedly harmless gas I took a few lungfuls of gives me a wicked headache for the rest of the day.

Cressida and her crew tape Johanna and me on the firing range. I know Gale and Finnick are being filmed as well. It’s part of a new propos series to show the rebels preparing for the Capitol invasion. On the whole, things are going pretty well.

Then Peeta starts showing up for our morning workouts. The manacles are off, but he’s still constantly accompanied by a pair of guards. After lunch, I see him across the field, drilling with a group of beginners. I don’t know what they’re thinking. If a spat with Delly can reduce him to arguing with himself, he’s got no business learning how to assemble a gun.

When I confront Plutarch, he assures me that it’s all for the camera. They’ve got footage of Annie getting married and Johanna hitting targets, but all of Panem is wondering about Peeta. They need to see he’s fighting for the rebels, not for Snow. And maybe if they could just get a couple of shots of the two of us, not kissing necessarily, just looking happy to be back together—

I walk away from the conversation right then. That is not going to happen.

In my rare moments of downtime, I anxiously watch the preparations for the invasions. See equipment and provisions readied, divisions assembled. You can tell when someone’s received orders because they’re given a very short haircut, the mark of a person going into battle. There is much talk of the opening offensive, which will be to secure the train tunnels that feed up into the Capitol.

Just a few days before the first troops are to move out, York unexpectedly tells Johanna and me she’s recommended us for the exam, and we’re to report immediately. There are four parts: an obstacle course that assesses your physical condition, a written tactics exam, a test of weapons proficiency, and a simulated combat situation in the Block. I don’t even have time to get nervous for the first three and do well, but there’s a backlog at the Block. Some kind of technical bug they’re working out. A group of us exchanges information. This much seems true. You go through alone. There’s no predicting what situation you’ll be thrown into. One boy says, under his breath, that he’s heard it’s designed to target each individual’s weaknesses.

My weaknesses? That’s a door I don’t even want to open. But I find a quiet spot and try to assess what they might be. The length of the list depresses me. Lack of physical brute force. A bare minimum of training. And somehow my stand-out status as the Mockingjay doesn’t seem to be an advantage in a situation where they’re trying to get us to blend into a pack. They could nail me to the wall on any number of things.

Johanna’s called three ahead of me, and I give her a nod of encouragement. I wish I had been at the top of the list because now I’m really overthinking the whole thing. By the time my name’s called, I don’t know what my strategy should be. Fortunately, once I’m in the Block, a certain amount of training does kick in. It’s an ambush situation. Peacekeepers appear almost instantly and I have to make my way to a rendezvous point to meet up with my scattered squad. I slowly navigate the street, taking out Peacekeepers as I go. Two on the rooftop to my left, another in the doorway up ahead. It’s challenging, but not as hard as I was expecting. There’s a nagging feeling that if it’s too simple, I must be missing the point. I’m within a couple of buildings from my goal when things begin to heat up. A half dozen Peacekeepers come charging around the corner. They will outgun me, but I notice something. A drum of gasoline lying carelessly in the gutter. This is it. My test. To perceive that blowing up the drum will be the only way to achieve my mission. Just as I step out to do it, my squadron leader, who’s been fairly useless up to this point, quietly orders me to hit the ground. Every instinct I have screams for me to ignore the voice, to pull the trigger, to blow the Peacekeepers sky-high. And suddenly, I realize what the military will think my biggest weakness is. From my first moment in the Games, when I ran for that orange backpack, to the firefight in 8, to my impulsive race across the square in 2. I cannot take orders.

I smack into the ground so hard and fast, I’ll be picking gravel out of my chin for a week. Someone else blows the gas tank. The Peacekeepers die. I make my rendezvous point. When I exit the Block on the far side, a soldier congratulates me, stamps my hand with squad number 451, and tells me to report to Command. Almost giddy with success, I run through the halls, skidding around corners, bounding down the steps because the elevator’s too slow. I bang into the room before the oddity of the situation dawns on me. I shouldn’t be in Command; I should be getting my hair buzzed. The people around the table aren’t freshly minted soldiers but the ones calling the shots.

Boggs smiles and shakes his head when he sees me. «Let’s see it.» Unsure now, I hold out my stamped hand. «You’re with me. It’s a special unit of sharpshooters. Join your squad.» He nods over at a group lining the wall. Gale. Finnick. Five others I don’t know. My squad. I’m not only in, I get to work under Boggs. With my friends. I force myself to take calm, soldierly steps to join them, instead of jumping up and down.

We must be important, too, because we’re in Command, and it has nothing to do with a certain Mockingjay. Plutarch stands over a wide, flat panel in the center of the table. He’s explaining something about the nature of what we will encounter in the Capitol. I’m thinking this is a terrible presentation—because even on tiptoe I can’t see what’s on the panel—until he hits a button. A holographic image of a block of the Capitol projects into the air.

«This, for example, is the area surrounding one of the Peacekeepers’ barracks. Not unimportant, but not the most crucial of targets, and yet look.» Plutarch enters some sort of code on a keyboard, and lights begin to flash. They’re in an assortment of colors and blink at different speeds. «Each light is called a pod. It represents a different obstacle, the nature of which could be anything from a bomb to a band of mutts. Make no mistake, whatever it contains is designed to either trap or kill you. Some have been in place since the Dark Days, others developed over the years. To be honest, I created a fair number myself. This program, which one of our people absconded with when we left the Capitol, is our most recent information. They don’t know we have it. But even so, it’s likely that new pods have been activated in the last few months. This is what you will face.»

I’m unaware that my feet are moving to the table until I’m inches from the holograph. My hand reaches in and cups a rapidly blinking green light.

Someone joins me, his body tense. Finnick, of course. Because only a victor would see what I see so immediately. The arena. Laced with pods controlled by Gamemakers. Finnick’s fingers caress a steady red glow over a doorway. «Ladies and gentlemen…»

His voice is quiet, but mine rings through the room. «Let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!»

I laugh. Quickly. Before anyone has time to register what lies beneath the words I have just uttered. Before eyebrows are raised, objections are uttered, two and two are put together, and the solution is that I should be kept as far away from the Capitol as possible. Because an angry, independently thinking victor with a layer of psychological scar tissue too thick to penetrate is maybe the last person you want on your squad.

«I don’t even know why you bothered to put Finnick and me through training, Plutarch,» I say.

«Yeah, we’re already the two best-equipped soldiers you have,» Finnick adds cockily.

«Do not think that fact escapes me,» he says with an impatient wave. «Now back in line, Soldiers Odair and Everdeen. I have a presentation to finish.»

We retreat to our places, ignoring the questioning looks thrown our way. I adopt an attitude of extreme concentration as Plutarch continues, nodding my head here and there, shifting my position to get a better view, all the while telling myself to hang on until I can get to the woods and scream. Or curse. Or cry. Or maybe all three at once.

If this was a test, Finnick and I both pass it. When Plutarch finishes and the meeting’s adjourned, I have a bad moment when I learn there’s a special order for me. But it’s merely that I skip the military haircut because they would like the Mockingjay to look as much like the girl in the arena as possible at the anticipated surrender. For the cameras, you know. I shrug to communicate that my hair length’s a matter of complete indifference to me. They dismiss me without further comment.

Finnick and I gravitate toward each other in the hallway. «What will I tell Annie?» he says under his breath.

«Nothing,» I answer. «That’s what my mother and sister will be hearing from me.» Bad enough that we know we’re heading back into a fully equipped arena. No use dropping it on our loved ones.

«If she sees that holograph—» he begins.

«She won’t. It’s classified information. It must be,» I say. «Anyway, it’s not like an actual Games. Any number of people will survive. We’re just overreacting because—well, you know why. You still want to go, don’t you?»

«Of course. I want to destroy Snow as much as you do,» he says.

«It won’t be like the others,» I say firmly, trying to convince myself as well. Then the real beauty of the situation dawns on me. «This time Snow will be a player, too.»

Before we can continue, Haymitch appears. He wasn’t at the meeting, isn’t thinking of arenas but something else. «Johanna’s back in the hospital.»

I assumed Johanna was fine, had passed her exam, but simply wasn’t assigned to a sharpshooters’ unit. She’s wicked throwing an ax but about average with a gun. «Is she hurt? What happened?»

«It was while she was on the Block. They try to ferret out a soldier’s potential weaknesses. So they flooded the street,» says Haymitch.

This doesn’t help. Johanna can swim. At least, I seem to remember her swimming around some in the Quarter Quell. Not like Finnick, of course, but none of us are like Finnick. «So?»

«That’s how they tortured her in the Capitol. Soaked her and then used electric shocks,» says Haymitch. «In the Block she had some kind of flashback. Panicked, didn’t know where she was. She’s back under sedation.» Finnick and I just stand there, as if we’ve lost the ability to respond. I think of the way Johanna never showers. How she forced herself into the rain like it was acid that day. I had attributed her misery to the morphling withdrawal.

«You two should go see her. You’re as close to friends as she’s got,» says Haymitch.

That makes the whole thing worse. I don’t really know what’s between Johanna and Finnick. But I hardly know her. No family. No friends. Not so much as a token from 7 to set beside her regulation clothes in her anonymous drawer. Nothing.

«I better go tell Plutarch. He won’t be happy,» Haymitch continues. «He wants as many victors as possible for the cameras to follow in the Capitol. Thinks it makes for better television.»

«Are you and Beetee going?» I ask.

«As many young and attractive victors as possible,» Haymitch corrects himself. «So, no. We’ll be here.»

Finnick goes directly down to see Johanna, but I linger outside a few minutes until Boggs comes out. He’s my commander now, so I guess he’s the one to ask for any special favors. When I tell him what I want to do, he writes me a pass so that I can go to the woods during Reflection, provided I stay within sight of the guards. I run to my compartment, thinking to use the parachute, but it’s so full of ugly memories. Instead, I go across the hall and take one of the white cotton bandages I brought from 12. Square. Sturdy. Just the thing.

In the woods, I find a pine tree and strip handfuls of fragrant needles from the boughs. After making a neat pile in the middle of the bandage, I gather up the sides, give them a twist, and tie them tightly with a length of vine, making an apple-sized bundle.

At the hospital room door, I watch Johanna for a moment, realize that most of her ferocity is in her abrasive attitude. Stripped of that, as she is now, there’s only a slight young woman, her wide-set eyes fighting to stay awake against the power of the drugs. Terrified of what sleep will bring. I cross to her and hold out the bundle.

«What’s that?» she says hoarsely. Damp edges of her hair form little spikes over her forehead.

«I made it for you. Something to put in your drawer.» I place it in her hands. «Smell it.»

She lifts the bundle to her nose and takes a tentative sniff. «Smells like home.» Tears flood her eyes.

«That’s what I was hoping. You being from Seven and all,» I say. «Remember when we met? You were a tree. Well, briefly.»

Suddenly, she has my wrist in an iron grip. «You have to kill him, Katniss.»

«Don’t worry.» I resist the temptation to wrench my arm free.

«Swear it. On something you care about,» she hisses.

«I swear it. On my life.» But she doesn’t let go of my arm.

«On your family’s life,» she insists.

«On my family’s life,» I repeat. I guess my concern for my own survival isn’t compelling enough. She lets go and I rub my wrist. «Why do you think I’m going, anyway, brainless?»

That makes her smile a little. «I just needed to hear it.» She presses the bundle of pine needles to her nose and closes her eyes.

The remaining days go by in a whirl. After a brief workout each morning, my squad’s on the shooting range full-time in training. I practice mostly with a gun, but they reserve an hour a day for specialty weapons, which means I get to use my Mockingjay bow, Gale his heavy militarized one. The trident Beetee designed for Finnick has a lot of special features, but the most remarkable is that he can throw it, press a button on a metal cuff on his wrist, and return it to his hand without chasing it down.

Sometimes we shoot at Peacekeeper dummies to become familiar with the weaknesses in their protective gear. The chinks in the armor, so to speak. If you hit flesh, you’re rewarded with a burst of fake blood. Our dummies are soaked in red.

It’s reassuring to see just how high the overall level of accuracy is in our group. Along with Finnick and Gale, the squad includes five soldiers from 13. Jackson, a middle-aged woman who’s Boggs’s second in command, looks kind of sluggish but can hit things the rest of us can’t even see without a scope. Farsighted, she says. There’s a pair of sisters in their twenties named Leeg—we call them Leeg 1 and Leeg 2 for clarity—who are so similar in uniform, I can’t tell them apart until I notice Leeg 1 has weird yellow flecks in her eyes. Two older guys, Mitchell and Homes, never say much but can shoot the dust off your boots at fifty yards. I see other squads that are also quite good, but I don’t fully understand our status until the morning Plutarch joins us.

«Squad Four-Five-One, you have been selected for a special mission,» he begins. I bite the inside of my lip, hoping against hope that it’s to assassinate Snow. «We have numerous sharpshooters, but rather a dearth of camera crews. Therefore, we’ve handpicked the eight of you to be what we call our ‘Star Squad.’ You will be the on-screen faces of the invasion.»

Disappointment, shock, then anger run through the group. «What you’re saying is, we won’t be in actual combat,» snaps Gale.

«You will be in combat, but perhaps not always on the front line. If one can even isolate a front line in this type of war,» says Plutarch.

«None of us wants that.» Finnick’s remark is followed by a general rumble of assent, but I stay silent. «We’re going to fight.»

«You’re going to be as useful to the war effort as possible,» Plutarch says. «And it’s been decided that you are of most value on television. Just look at the effect Katniss had running around in that Mockingjay suit. Turned the whole rebellion around. Do you notice how she’s the only one not complaining? It’s because she understands the power of that screen.»

Actually, Katniss isn’t complaining because she has no intention of staying with the «Star Squad,» but she recognizes the necessity of getting to the Capitol before carrying out any plan. Still, to be too compliant may arouse suspicion as well.

«But it’s not all pretend, is it?» I ask. «That’d be a waste of talent.»

«Don’t worry,» Plutarch tells me. «You’ll have plenty of real targets to hit. But don’t get blown up. I’ve got enough on my plate without having to replace you. Now get to the Capitol and put on a good show.»

The morning we ship out, I say good-bye to my family. I haven’t told them how much the Capitol’s defenses mirror the weapons in the arena, but my going off to war is awful enough on its own. My mother holds me tightly for a long time. I feel tears on her cheek, something she suppressed when I was slated for the Games. «Don’t worry. I’ll be perfectly safe. I’m not even a real soldier. Just one of Plutarch’s televised puppets,» I reassure her.

Prim walks me as far as the hospital doors. «How do you feel?»

«Better, knowing you’re somewhere Snow can’t reach you,» I say.

«Next time we see each other, we’ll be free of him,» says Prim firmly. Then she throws her arms around my neck. «Be careful.»

I consider saying a final good-bye to Peeta, decide it would only be bad for both of us. But I do slip the pearl into the pocket of my uniform. A token of the boy with the bread.

A hovercraft takes us to, of all places, 12, where a makeshift transportation area has been set up outside the fire zone. No luxury trains this time, but a cargo car packed to the limit with soldiers in their dark gray uniforms, sleeping with their heads on their packs. After a couple of days’ travel, we disembark inside one of the mountain tunnels leading to the Capitol, and make the rest of the six-hour trek on foot, taking care to step only on a glowing green paint line that marks safe passage to the air above.

We come out in the rebel encampment, a ten-block stretch outside the train station where Peeta and I made our previous arrivals. It’s already crawling with soldiers. Squad 451 is assigned a spot to pitch its tents. This area has been secured for over a week. Rebels pushed out the Peacekeepers, losing hundreds of lives in the process. The Capitol forces fell back and have regrouped farther into the city. Between us lie the booby-trapped streets, empty and inviting. Each one will need to be swept of pods before we can advance.

Mitchell asks about hoverplane bombings—we do feel very naked pitched out in the open—but Boggs says it’s not an issue. Most of the Capitol’s air fleet was destroyed in 2 or during the invasion. If it has any craft left, it’s holding on to them. Probably so Snow and his inner circle can make a last-minute escape to some presidential bunker somewhere if needed. Our own hoverplanes were grounded after the Capitol’s antiaircraft missiles decimated the first few waves. This war will be battled out on the streets with, hopefully, only superficial damage to the infrastructure and a minimum of human casualties. The rebels want the Capitol, just as the Capitol wanted 13.

After three days, much of Squad 451 risks deserting out of boredom. Cressida and her team take shots of us firing. They tell us we’re part of the disinformation team. If the rebels only shoot Plutarch’s pods, it will take the Capitol about two minutes to realize we have the holograph. So there’s a lot of time spent shattering things that don’t matter, to throw them off the scent. Mostly we just add to the piles of rainbow glass that’s been blown off the exteriors of the candy-colored buildings. I suspect they are intercutting this footage with the destruction of significant Capitol targets. Once in a while it seems a real sharpshooter’s services are needed. Eight hands go up, but Gale, Finnick, and I are never chosen.

«It’s your own fault for being so camera-ready,» I tell Gale. If looks could kill.

I don’t think they quite know what to do with the three of us, particularly me. I have my Mockingjay outfit with me, but I’ve only been taped in my uniform. Sometimes I use a gun, sometimes they ask me to shoot with my bow and arrows. It’s as if they don’t want to entirely lose the Mockingjay, but they want to downgrade my role to foot soldier. Since I don’t care, it’s amusing rather than upsetting to imagine the arguments going on back in 13.

While I outwardly express discontent about our lack of any real participation, I’m busy with my own agenda. Each of us has a paper map of the Capitol. The city forms an almost perfect square. Lines divide the map into smaller squares, with letters along the top and numbers down the side to form a grid. I consume this, noting every intersection and side street, but it’s remedial stuff. The commanders here are working off Plutarch’s holograph. Each has a handheld contraption called a Holo that produces images like I saw in Command. They can zoom into any area of the grid and see what pods await them. The Holo’s an independent unit, a glorified map really, since it can neither send nor receive signals. But it’s far superior to my paper version.

A Holo is activated by a specific commander’s voice giving his or her name. Once it’s working, it responds to the other voices in the squadron so if, say, Boggs were killed or severely disabled, someone could take over. If anyone in the squad repeats «nightlock» three times in a row, the Holo will explode, blowing everything in a five-yard radius sky-high. This is for security reasons in the event of capture. It’s understood that we would all do this without hesitation.

So what I need to do is steal Boggs’s activated Holo and clear out before he notices. I think it would be easier to steal his teeth.

On the fourth morning, Soldier Leeg 2 hits a mislabeled pod. It doesn’t unleash a swarm of muttation gnats, which the rebels are prepared for, but shoots out a sunburst of metal darts. One finds her brain. She’s gone before the medics can reach her. Plutarch promises a speedy replacement.

The following evening, the newest member of our squad arrives. With no manacles. No guards. Strolling out of the train station with his gun swinging from the strap over his shoulder. There’s shock, confusion, resistance, but 451 is stamped on the back of Peeta’s hand in fresh ink. Boggs relieves him of his weapon and goes to make a call.

«It won’t matter,» Peeta tells the rest of us. «The president assigned me herself. She decided the propos needed some heating up.»

Maybe they do. But if Coin sent Peeta here, she’s decided something else as well. That I’m of more use to her dead than alive.