They shot some sort of spear through the boy. It was attached 

to a cable and they hauled him up as well. But I’m certain he 

was dead. We heard the girl scream once. The boy’s name, I 

think. Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished into thin air. 

And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had happened.”

“Did they see you?” Peeta asked.

“I don’t know. We were under a shelf of rock,” I reply.

But I do know. There was a moment, after the birdcall, but

before the hovercraft, where the girl had seen us. She’d locked

eyes with me and called out for help. But neither Gale or I had

responded.

“You’re shivering,” says Peeta.

The wind and the story have blown all the warmth from my

body. The girl’s scream. Had it been her last?

Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders.

I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for

a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. A friend

would do that, right?

“They were from here?” he asks, and he secures a button at

my neck.

I nod. They’d had that Capitol look about them. The boy and

the girl.

“Where do you suppose they were going?” he asks.

“I don’t know that,” I say. District 12 is pretty much the end

of the line. Beyond us, there’s only wilderness. If you don’t

count the ruins of District 13 that still smolder from the toxic

bombs. They show it on television occasionally, just to remind

us. “Or why they would leave here.” Haymitch had called the

Avoxes traitors. Against what? It could only be the Capitol. But

they had everything here. No cause to rebel.

“I’d leave here,” Peeta blurts out. Then he looks around

nervously. It was loud enough to hear above the chimes. He

laughs. “I’d go home now if they let me. But you have to admit,

the food’s prime.”

He’s covered again. If that’s all you’d heard it would just

sound like the words of a scared tribute, not someone contemplating

the unquestionable goodness of the Capitol.

“It’s getting chilly. We better go in,” he says. Inside the

dome, it’s warm and bright. His tone is conversational. “Your

friend Gale. He’s the one who took your sister away at the reaping?”

“Yes. Do you know him?” I ask.

“Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he

was your cousin or something. You favor each other,” he says.

“No, we’re not related,” I say.

Peeta nods, unreadable. “Did he come to say good-bye to you?”

“Yes,” I say, observing him carefully. “So did your father. He

brought me cookies.”

Peeta raises his eyebrows as if this is news. But after watching 

him lie so smoothly, I don’t give this much weight.

“Really? Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes

he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys.”

The idea that I might ever have been discussed, around the

dinner table, at the bakery fire, just in passing in Peeta’s house

gives me a start. It must have been when the mother was out

of the room.

“He knew your mother when they were kids,” says Peeta.

Another surprise. But probably true. “Oh, yes. She grew up

in town,” I say. It seems impolite to say she never mentioned

the baker except to compliment his bread.

We’re at my door. I give back his jacket. “See you in the

morning then.”

“See you,” he says, and walks off down the hall.

When I open my door, the redheaded girl is collecting my

unitard and boots from where I left them on the floor before

my shower. I want to apologize for possibly getting her in

trouble earlier. But I remember I’m not supposed to speak to

her unless I’m giving her an order.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I was supposed to get those back to Cinna.

I’m sorry. Can you take them to him?”

She avoids my eyes, gives a small nod, and heads out the door.

I’d set out to tell her I was sorry about dinner. But I know

that my apology runs much deeper. That I’m ashamed I never

tried to help her in the woods. That I let the Capitol kill the

boy and mutilate her without lifting a finger.

Just like I was watching the Games.

I kick off my shoes and climb under the covers in my

clothes. The shivering hasn’t stopped. Perhaps the girl doesn’t

even remember me. But I know she does. You don’t forget the

face of the person who was your last hope. I pull the covers up

over my head as if this will protect me from the redheaded girl

who can’t speak. But I can feel her eyes staring at me, piercing

through walls and doors and bedding.

I wonder if she’ll enjoy watching me die.