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.