Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Katniss

“Frightened?” Peeta offers yet another word, his attempt at trying to help me decide on the perfect, most precise word for tonight’s evening telling of feelings with my family. I can’t help but smile at the wonderful and amazing friend I have and wonder how I ever managed to make it through without him.

Choosing the correct word for each evening’s telling of feelings has always been a trying task, but tonight seems more so than usual. The upcoming Reaping, which takes place in less than two weeks not only haunts my waking, conscious hours, but my dreams as well.

Peeta cycles next to me on his own bicycle, patiently allowing me all the time I need to think about his word. I think about it long and hard, trying to recall another time in which I felt that gut-wrenching, sinking, dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach.

The day started off like any other day of the week. Peeta and I just completed our daily required hours of volunteering at the Nurturing Center and were headed home. We were riding our bikes without a care in the world, when all of a sudden, we noticed everyone—of all ages, standing in place, straddling their bicycles instead of riding them, their heads tilted back as they gaped in fascination at something in the sky. I, too, found myself in a state of shock, gasping at the sight of the unauthorized hovercraft soaring dangerously low to the ground. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the Speaker’s voice boomed throughout the district, declaring we all stop what we were doing and go home.

“Immediately,” the stern rumble of the Speaker’s voice commanded. “I repeat, this is not a test. Abandon your current task, leave your bicycles where they are, and immediately report to your dwelling where you will receive further instructions,” were the Speaker’s exact words. But I am who I am, which is apparently a girl much too curious for her own good. One look at Peeta told me he wasn’t going to let me go alone.

In the spur of the moment, I grabbed Peeta’s hand, and we inconspicuously took off toward the woods, slipped under the fence, and hid out in our secret place while the rest of our district was erupting in chaos.

We observed the hovercraft zipping this way and zooming that way until it finally slowed, bobbing in place near the edge of the district. It wasn’t stagnant in the air for long before a claw emerged from its belly and scooped a girl up.

I still remember the girl—and the way her hair changed. Our eyes locked for a fraction of a moment, and then, just like that, she was gone.

I’d barely had time to absorb what’d happened when, moments later, the Speaker made his follow-up announcement, stating that it was nothing more than a misunderstanding. "A pilot in training simply made a wrong turn and was lost. Needless to say, he will be released.”

There were two things that utterly terrified me that day. The first was that those in charge of our district had lied to us—without hesitation. The very people who make and enforce the rules, those who are responsible for disciplining the rule breakers were the very ones who had just deceived the entire district. What bothered me most was that had Peeta and I obeyed the rules and gone straight home, we would be just as oblivious as everyone else.

The second thing I found terrifying that day was the girl’s hair, and the way it just changed. And it happened so fast that I can’t even begin to try and figure out what happened. Or what about it changed.

Our district is by no means perfect, but it comes close. It was built on a system of rules, and the rules are not to be taken lightly. Rules are the heart of what allows us all to coexist peacefully, and one of the most important rules permits no form of lying. Even unintentional lies have consequences.

Even though weeks have passed, I still shudder at the memory, often turning my head to meet Peeta’s eyes and wondering if he’s thinking about the same thing.

“No, I think frightened is too much, but it’s definitely closer,” I tell my best friend, who nods and purses his lips—something I know he does when he’s thinking.

“What about anxious?” Peeta offers and then speeds ahead of me, steering his bicycle without the use of his hands.

“Show off,” I shout playfully, picking up my pace and swerving in front of him. I narrow my eyes sharply as I pass him, adding in a playful scowl for good measure. He should remember as well as I the last time I used the word ‘anxious’, and how my mother scolded me for a solid ten minutes.

“I am not in the mood to be on the other side of yet another one of Mother's condescending lectures regarding the importance of language precision and the dangers of its inaccuracies,” I tell Peeta, actually feeling a hint of anxiety when our neighborhood comes into view. I still haven’t found the right word. It really isn’t fair—how easily words come to Peeta. He always knows the right ones to use and which ones to put in front of the others. Unlike me, who at sixteen years old, still gets chastised for improper usage. It’s like…I know the right ones in my head, but it’s like there is this disconnect between my brain and my mouth, and my words end up coming out all wrong.

With language precision being one of the most important rules in our district (it is tied at the top with lying), and even accidental lying is still lying, it’s imperative (hey, I got one!) to use correct words. My last punishment for improper use of language was slightly over a month ago, and the smack on my hands left me unable to write for a week.

“So, how was the Hunting Center today?”

“Why are you asking me about that? You’re supposed to be helping me find a word!” I yell out, exasperated.

“I’m sorry, Katniss,” Peeta whispers, looking more than contrite. “I was just trying to distract you. Sometimes, for me at least, the correct word comes to me more easily when I’m distracted.”

Now I feel really bad. “I apologize for my outburst, and thank you, Peeta.”

“Katniss, you don’t have to do that. It’s just us,” Peeta says, regarding my verbal apology.

“The training center was great. Mr. C is a wonderful teacher. I wish…I wish talking to either of my parents was as easy as talking to him,” I admit to Peeta, feeling that warmth of heat rushing to my cheeks.

“Maybe your Assignment will be there,” Peeta suggests optimistically.

And then it comes. Just like that. “Apprehensive.” The word passes my lips in almost a whisper.

“See, you are good with words.” Peeta turns his head to look at me with the brightest, biggest smile, the kind that seems to make his eyes sparkle—and for a second, I think they change. It happens just like with the girl and the hovercraft. I distinctly, specifically just know something is different, but it’s gone by the time I blink, leaving me no way to figure out what it is.

And then, for some unknown reason that I don’t quite understand, I feel another surge of heat rushing to my cheeks, but it’s different than the kind I felt with Mr. C. The sudden warmth to my cheeks is accompanied by this strange, fluttering sensation in my belly. I look away for a second, waiting for the warmth to pass.

“I never would have found the right word if it wasn’t for you,” I tell Peeta, unwilling to accept a compliment.

Peeta shakes his head disapprovingly. “You’ll be fine, Katniss. I know it.”

“I’m glad you have so much faith in me.”

“Always,” Peeta says, his lips curving up into a crooked grin. “I would say good luck, but you don’t need it. See you in the morning,” he says when we reach his house. I wave goodbye to him, pedaling the short distance to my house—three houses away, to be exact. And that thing happens again, that strange, fluttering in my stomach at the thought of seeing Peeta in the morning, though I’m not sure why, since we have ridden to school together every morning since the Reaping that earned us our bikes.

“Gale, why don’t you go first tonight?” My father suggests after we’ve cleaned up from our nightly meal and set the trays on the front porch for collection.

Gale had his Reaping two years ago, where he was assigned the job of Security Guard. But it is in the rules that each citizen will continue living with their assigned family unit until they receive their spouse and acquire their own dwelling. Gale only recently submitted his application for a spouse, and the Elders informed him that it could take as little as six months and as much as two years before a match is found. Knowing my brother, who nothing ever seems to please, who complains about any and everything, and who could argue with a brick wall, I have a feeling it will be closer to the two-year mark before the Elders have procured a match.

I pay little attention to my family’s feelings tonight. I vaguely pick up on something about disobedient subordinates or something along those lines from Gale. It’s the same thing every night for him. I try to tune him out, hoping it will alleviate some of my anxiety about sharing tonight. I have an internal debate with myself about changing my word but then decide against it. I don’t have Peeta here to tell me if it’s the right one or not, so I decide to stick with the one we talked about.

Mother takes her turn next. Like Gale, she too complains about the same thing every night, so I pay little attention to her as well. Something about a citizen in our district who’d been brought in for a second infraction of the rules. Mother’s Assignment is Head of Law and Justice, so she is an enforcer of all rules, which is why she is so hard on all of us regarding language precision.

“Oh no,” Father responds empathetically to Mother’s concerns. “One more infraction and he will be released. I hope he will choose to abide by the rules,” Father says, stroking mother’s arm for comfort.

Hearing the word ‘Release’ has my full attention. It has to be the scariest word in the entire language, or at least it is to me. As children, even using the word jokingly with a fellow classmate is forbidden. I remember this one instance when Finnick, a friend of mine and Peeta’s, and we were playing a mind-numbing game of catch. Peeta dropped the ball, prompting Finnick to yell out, “That’s it, Peeta; you’re released!” The Speaker made a public announcement that afternoon—he didn’t single Finnick out because that would be rude, but he did it in such a way that we all knew it was directed at Finnick. Not only that, but Finnick got two smacks on each hand, followed by a two-hour after-school detention, which included a video on language precision.

“Speaking of release,” Father begins, but his hands snap up to cover his mouth when he realizes Mother had not finished her turn. “I apologize for proceeding prematurely and interrupting your turn,” Father recites the standard apology with sad eyes.

“I accept your apology, thank you. But I had nothing more to add,” Mother says.

Father’s Assignment is Nurturer of the New Children, which means he is responsible for tending to the physical and emotional needs of Newchildren from the time they are born until the Naming Ceremony at the Reaping.

“I am feeling worried for one of the Newchildren who isn’t doing as well as expected. He is a sweet little male with a lovely disposition. But he isn’t growing as fast as he should, and he isn’t sleeping soundly through the night. The committee’s beginning to consider Releasing him.”

“NO! Not Release!” I gasp, blurting out of turn, but I can’t help it. The thought sickens me to the point I’m afraid tonight’s meal may resurface. My eyes lock with my mother’s eyes, and I’m expecting some kind of chastisement, but instead, I’m met with something akin to sympathy. Release of Newchildren is always sad because they haven’t had the chance to live and they haven't done anything wrong. There are only two kinds of Release that aren’t a means of punishment: Release of the elderly, which is a time of celebration of a life well and fully lived. And Release of Newchildren, which always brings a sense of ‘what could we have done?’ From previous instances in which my father has had to release a Newchild, I know that it leaves him feeling as if he has failed.

“I had an idea, but I wanted to run it by you guys first before I brought it to the committee,” Father says excitedly, and we all give him our full attention. “You see…I’ve spent a lot of time with Rye—I mean, the little guy, and I think he just needs a little something extra.”

“Y-you know his name? But—how?” I ask. Newchildren don’t receive their names until the Naming ceremony and are referred to by their numbers until then. Every citizen has a number associated with their name, ranging from one to fifty. There are fifty children born each year, so long as none are released. Like me, I’m ‘Katniss Everdeen 12-15.’ I was the twelfth Newchild born in my year, and the ‘15’ refers to our age group. Last year, I was ‘Katniss, 12-14.’ The fact that my father knows the Newchild’s name prior to the Naming ceremony could only mean one thing. My father has broken the rules and snuck a peek at the list.

“Shhh, Kat,” Dad whispers, bringing his index finger to his lips. “I know it’s against the rules,” he begins, giving our mother an apologetic glance. “But like I said, I just felt like the little guy needed a little something extra.” I catch Gale’s mouth hanging open, probably in shock, as I am—not that our father would break the rules (and it’s such a tiny, probably insignificant rule), but the fact that our mother seems to be okay with this.

“Rye,” I whisper his name, trying it out on my tongue, and then I break out into a grin, thinking that it’s a nice name. Not boring like ‘Jim, John, Harry or Bob.’ Unique, like mine and Peeta’s.

“It would be temporary, of course. You know what the night crew Nurturers are like.” I nod, recalling the many times I have listened to my father rant about the night shift Nurturers. Everyone knows that those who are placed on the night shift tend to lack, somehow, the capacity to connect with others, and I don't think it's a surprise that most of them are spouseless.

“And I would care for his middle-of-the-night needs. However, if you and Katniss wanted to volunteer—” Dad grins, waggling his eyes at Gale.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Gale snorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

“S-so, when is he coming?” I try to keep my voice even, so as not to reveal my excitement.

“Great, we’ll be the only ones in 12 with a family of five." Gale huffs indignantly and rolls his eyes, not too keen on the idea. My eyes cut over to him, and I raise an inquisitive brow.

“Why do you have to be so obstinate all the time, Gale?” I question.

Mother turns her head to look at Gale crossly. “You know the rules, Gale. One male, one female to each family unit. This will be temporary.” Gale presses his lips closed and nods.

“Katniss, you’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” Father points out after an appropriate amount of comfortable silence, prompting my turn to begin.

Whoever came up with the evening sharing of feelings was a doofus, I think silently.

“Yes, um…I—I apologize for my silence—” I recite when my mind goes blank.

“We accept your apology.” To my irritation, Mother, Father, and Gale cut me off by reciting the standard greeting when someone apologizes, and I can’t help but think of Peeta.

“Thank you. Um, well, I’ve given this a lot of thought throughout the day, and tonight, I’m feeling—” I pause for a second, feeling apprehensive about using the word ‘apprehensive’ but then decide to go for it. “Apprehensive,” I finish.

“Ahh,” Father says as if he needs no more explanation.

“Gale, you are excused from dinner. Mother and I wish to speak to your sister alone.” Father dismisses Gale, who relieved, exits to his personal living space.

Peeta

I feel as if I am on autopilot as I secure my bicycle in its designated spot outside my family's dwelling. It happened again—the thing that happened with the apple, but it was Katniss this time. Not Katniss herself, but more like…her cheeks. For a moment—not even a moment, but for a fraction of a second-Katniss’s cheeks…well, they changed. And again, just like the apple, I blinked and it was back to the way it always was. Or, maybe it never changed at all and I’m losing my mind.

It was a little more than a month ago. Finnick and I were in our recreation hour with time to kill, so he tossed me an apple.

“Oh, thanks, I was hungry,” I said jokingly to Finnick. And for almost an hour, Finnick and I tossed the apple back and forth without incident.

It happened as the apple was in transit, suspended in mid-air. For the duration of about two seconds, the apple changed. I am at a loss as to how to describe or explain it, but something was just…different about the apple. I squeezed my eyes shut for less than a second to clear my vision, and when I reopened my eyes there was nothing extraordinary about it. It was just a normal, ordinary apple.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but I took the apple home with me that day. I wanted to see if the thing would happen again. It set on my desk for hours. I stared at it, tossed it in the air again, rolled it around on the table, and then I stared at it some more. No matter what position it was in, no matter what I did or didn’t do, it remained unchanged. Though I did not intentionally ‘steal’ the apple, that was not how it was perceived. Shortly after our end-of-the-day meal, the Speaker made a public announcement saying, “This is a reminder that snacks are to be eaten and not hoarded.” He didn’t specifically call me out, because that would be considered rude, but I knew the announcement was directed at me, as did my parents and sister—the evidence setting in plain sight on the desk in my personal living space.

Since that day it has happened four times, altogether. First, the incident with the apple, two times with Katniss, and once with Prim.

“Hey you!” My sister greets me at the door. Her name is Primrose, but I call her Prim. She is three years younger than me, which makes her a Thirteen. Not including Katniss, I secretly consider Prim to be my best friend, even though technically, that isn't allowed. In District 12, it is against the rules to favor one citizen over another.

Once I’m inside and I’ve closed the door behind me, Prim turns around, scanning the perimeter of the house. When she sees the coast is clear of our parents, she wiggles her pinkie out to me. I reciprocate the action, both of our pinkies wiggling and inching closer to the other’s until we’ve locked them together for a second. It’s our special way of telling the other that we missed them, we thought about them, and that we care, since hugging and other displays of affection are frowned upon.

The rule states that you are not permitted to touch members outside your family, but even within one’s family unit, it is frowned upon. So, Prim and I came up with a hug between our pinkies.

“Who wants to go first tonight?” Father asks, raising a brow at both Prim and I. Prim meets my eyes, and I give her a slight nod to go ahead. We usually fight over who gets to share first, but I am not feeling the least bit eager tonight.

“I had intense feelings of exasperation today,” Prim announces with her head held high.

Mother quirks an eyebrow up, clearly impressed by Prim’s choice of word. “And what brought on these intense feelings of exasperation today, Primrose?”

Prim huffs in a deep breath before she continues. “Well, another group of Thirteens was visiting from a neighboring district, and well…there was this one boy who—well, it was like he was intentionally doing any and everything he could do to get on my nerves. He would cut in line, yell out an answer before being called on. He was acting like…like a—”

“Wild baboon?” I finish for my sister, who was clearly struggling for her next word. Everyone’s laughter fills the room, mine included. The term ‘wild baboon’ is often used to describe someone who is uneducated, or oftentimes a person who regularly breaks the rules. Everyone knows there are only two types of animals left in existence, the deer and the squirrel, which can only be found in the closed-off quarters of the secured, gated section of the woods. The corners of my lips turn up at the thought, reminding me of Katniss and how much she enjoys spending her free time in the woods.

Mother quickly grounds herself and redirects the conversation. “Primrose, why do you think this boy’s behavior was so animal-like?”

Mother’s question sobers us all. “I—I’m not sure. Maybe…perhaps he was unsure of our rules, and so he acted out instead of asking for help?” Prim replies uncertainly. “I remember once when my group visited a neighboring district. Not knowing their rules and customs was kind of scary. But—all he needed to do was ask!” Prim responds defensively.

“That is very true, Primrose. However, not everyone’s brain is as logical and well-developed as your own. Boys, especially. Their brains mature slightly behind that of a female’s brain.”

“So, you mean I’m actually older than Peeta?” Prim sticks her tongue out at me, and we get distracted with silly faces.

“Okay, guys, cut it out. Do you have anything else to share, Primrose?”

“No, ma’am,” Prim replies. “That concludes my sharing for this evening,” my sister recites the standard response required of us each night, meeting each of our eyes. “I thank each of you for listening.”

I give Prim a soft smile and feel a deep, fluttering, almost dizzying feeling in my chest. I’ve always known that I have a deep affection for my sister, and it’s evenings such as these when I feel it even more. I’m not sure what it is about Prim that makes her so special, and I wish there was a word in our vocabulary that went above and beyond ‘a deep affection.’ But I am told that is the most we are capable of feeling towards another citizen in our community.

I end up unintentionally spacing out during Mom and Dad’s turns, unable to stop thinking about my fondness for my sister, and what about her is different from everyone else. Then my thoughts wander to Katniss, because I feel that thing for her too, sometimes. Then, somehow, I’m recalling the memory of Katniss’s cheeks from earlier this afternoon. And the apple. And Prim’s ears. But for the life of me, I can’t seem to put my finger on what it was about them that changed. But I do know, without any doubt, that something did, in fact, change. Then, I’m searching my mind, trying to figure out how I could get it to happen again. It didn’t happen long enough for me to get a good look, but for some reason, I know that if I could just see it again, it would be…be…I want to say ‘beautiful,’ but according to the rules, that is another one of those words that supposedly has lost all meaning, so I guess I’ll have to settle for ‘pleasant’ or ‘appealing to the eye.’

“Peeta—Peeta? Hello, Earth to Peeta?” Prim says, waving her hand in front of my face.

“Oh, I uh…I’m so—I apologize for my lack of attentiveness,” I murmur, realizing it’s my turn. I really haven’t thought about what word describes my feelings for this day, so I decide to borrow Katniss’s word. “A-apprehensive,” I finally say.

Mother and Father press their lips together and nod simultaneously. Prim’s eyes are fixed on me, her brows arched inquisitively. “And what exactly is the cause of your apprehension?” Father presses.

Quickly, I straighten my back before Mother has time to chastise me about slouching and remind me of the benefits of proper body mechanics. “Well, um…I guess…The Reaping,” I mumble, fidgeting with my fingers.

“You mean the Ceremony of 16? That’s right!” Prim squeals with delight. “This year you’ll be given your Assignment. You’ll be like…an actual adult!”

“Calm down, Primrose. This is a big deal, and your brother has a right to his feelings. Actually, Primrose, why don’t you go into your personal living space while Mother and I have a word with your brother?”

“No—” I blurt out. “I apologize, but I um…I don’t mind if she stays. She’ll be sixteen at some point too, right?”

Mother and Father share a concerned glance before finally conceding. “Okay, I suppose,” Father says.

“Each Ceremony has its own importance, from the Ones, when each eligible Newchild is placed with their family unit, all the way to the Sixteens, when you are given your Assignment,” Father begins, and I smile, remembering the day we got Prim.

The Nurturers lined all the Newchildren on the stage. There were always fifty, if none had been released that year. Then they would call the parents up, one at a time. By July, most of the Newchildren were walking, some of them gracefully, but most of them were wobbly on their feet. Not Prim though, she was still too tiny to walk, having been born only three months prior to the Naming Ceremony. I was only four years old at the time, but I still remember walking proudly to the stage with my parents. I felt as if the Ceremony was as much for me as it was for my parents. My memories of that day are still so vivid—I was over the moon with jubilation, excited to the point I thought I might explode if I didn’t meet my new little sister soon. And from the moment the Elders placed Primrose in Mother and Father’s arms, I absolutely adored her. I catch a glimpse of Prim as my parents talk and realize that after twelve years, not much has changed.

By the time my focus is back on my parents, my mother is speaking about the excitement of turning Nine. How excited she was to earn her first bicycle, so she didn’t need to continue sneak-riding her older brother’s.

“Has the age for bicycles always been 9?” I ask.

“Of course, silly!” Father says playfully. “But, as you remember, you taught Prim to ride your bike before she was even an Eight. It’s one of the most ignored rules.” Father gives Prim a little wink.

Of course. In District 12, rules are extremely difficult to change. If someone wishes to change the rules, they must first make a formal petition in writing to the Elders, who then take it to the Committee. If the Committee approves it, then its final stop is to The Receiver of Memory. He is like…the most important citizen in our district, but no one would dare bring him something as trivial as the rule that governs the age of riding a bike.

“You know, Peeta, I didn’t share your predicament when I became a Sixteen. I knew I would be Assigned ‘Healer,’" Mother states.

Prim and I both let out a gasp of shock. “H–how did you know? Aren’t the Assignments supposed to be confidential until The Reaping?” Prim asks.

“I don’t mean that I knew-knew, not like you’re thinking. I just…knew. From the time I was a little girl, I always had a deep fondness for the care of others. If a classmate fell down and scraped their knee, it was always me who tended to their wound. When I was old enough to begin my volunteer hours, I spent almost every spare minute between The Healing Facility, caring for the injured, and the Birthing Center with the Birthmothers.”

“But…I don’t think I’ve spent more time at any one single place. My volunteer hours have been spread out evenly,” I reply, feeling worried that by doing so, I have done a disservice to my future.

“Don’t worry, Peeta. The Elders have been watching you meticulously from the time you were a young boy. And even more so once you began your volunteer hours. And I’m sure you’ve noticed the watching has increased, drastically.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “That’s an understatement.”

“Don’t worry, Peeta; the Elders will choose the Assignment that is best suited for you. And they are never wrong.”

“You’re right,” I tell my mother, hoping that I sound more confident than I feel.

“I apologize for my inaccuracy; what I meant is there are rarely disappointments,” Mother corrects herself. “And if for some reason you disagree with their choice, you are permitted to submit an appeal. But Peeta," Mother smiles affectionately at me and places her hand gently on my arm. "You really don't need to worry about this."

I nod. 

“However, Peeta,” my father begins, and I don’t like the tone of his voice. “Once you receive your Assignment, your life will begin to change. You will still attend your daily academic classes, but they will take a backseat to the training geared toward your Assignment. You will not spend as much time with your academic classmates, but you will make new friends. Friends who share the same interests as you.”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying that Katniss and I will no longer be friends?”

“It is possible.” Mother nods.

I simply smile and return her nod. Katniss and I will always be friends. Always, I think silently to myself.

Prim yawns and stretches her arms out, prompting our mother to twist in her chair, turning to look at the clock. “Yes, I believe it’s time to call it a night.”

“Can I have him? Please?” Prim begs. Instantly, I know she’s asking for her comfort object, a stuffed cat that sits on the top of the bookshelf.

“Oh, Primrose!” Mother chastises. “You are getting much too old to still require the use of your comfort object!”

“I don’t need him; I want him. I like him.” Prior to the Naming Ceremony, each child is given a stuffed, imaginary creature as their comfort object, and most kids donate them back to the Nurturing Center by the time they are seven or eight years old. But not Prim. She is very attached to her stuffed creature called a cat that she named Buttercup.

Father pulls the stuffed cat from the bookshelf and hands it to Prim. “Here you go, my sweet girl.”

We all say our goodnights and head into our personal living space for sleep.

Chapter Text

Katniss

Today, my father is bringing home the Newchild, and I can't figure out whether I'm nervous or excited about his arrival. I wonder what it will be like having a baby in the house. Will it throw everything off schedule and completely disrupt our lives? Will it be interesting and enjoyable? What if he doesn't like me?

Just before dinner, my father steps into our dwelling holding a bassinet and wearing a grin that traverses from ear to ear. “Hello, family unit. Here he is, our little guest, Rye,” he announces in a sing-song voice. He sets down the bassinet as I watch from across the room. “Come on, everyone. Come meet him.”

Last night during reflection hour, I made the decision to keep my distance from the Newchild. The main reason for my decision was that there’s no point in interacting closely with him because he’s not staying. He’ll eventually leave to be placed with his assigned family unit.

My father looks over at me‒my mother has already joined him. “Don’t you want to see him?” He raises a brow.

“I can see him from here,” I tell my father, not budging from my position, though remaining attuned. My father merely shrugs and returns his attention to the Newchild. He starts talking sweetly and making baby noises.

“Rye-Rye, what do you think of your new, temporary dwelling?” my father coos, and I smile faintly. ‘Rye-Rye’ sounds funny, but sort of cute, in a way.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and without realizing it, I'm inching my way closer to Father and the Newchild.

My father looks up. “Catkin,” he uses his special nickname for me, “don't be shy, come over here. Little fella wants to meet you.” He beckons me over with a hand.

Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to get a closer look at him.

Slowly, cautiously, I approach them. With arms folded, I stare into the bassinet; I look down upon the Newchild with his plump cheeks (so in contrast to the thin rest of him) and stubby nose. He’s squirming and gurgling, and as I’m observing him, he reaches out with small fingers which curl and grasp at the air, and then he looks directly at me.

That’s when I notice something‒Rye’s eyes are…different. They’re like…Peeta’s.

I lean down a little to see him better, and I allow him to grasp my finger with his entire hand. He stares at me, and I stare right back at him, and as I’m looking into his eyes, something happens.

Just for a moment, Rye’s eyes, they…change.

I can’t explain what the change is, but this has happened to me before. It’s happened three times, in fact. With Peeta.

“Looks like he likes you, Katniss,” my father says with a smile. My lips curl up a bit, though I keep my eyes on the Newchild, focused as I am on discerning what it is about Rye’s (and Peeta’s) eyes that sets them apart from the rest of us‒and what it was that happened just now, and those times before.

“Do you want to hold him?” Father asks. I glance over at him and reluctantly nod.

I extract my finger from Rye’s grasp, and my father carefully swaddles him in the blanket he brought home from the Nurturing Center. As Father hands the Newchild to me, he instructs me on how to hold him properly by gently cradling his head, for his neck muscles are very weak. I do as I’m told. He also warns me to be cautious of the ‘soft spot’ on Rye’s head because if pressed too hard, it can cause irreparable damage. This makes me tense up, and for a couple of seconds, I’m afraid to move.

While I remain frozen, Rye stares up at me with wide, Peeta-like eyes, and it’s as if he’s reassuring me with those eyes that everything is going to be alright, as Peeta has on several occasions. Only, his eyes don’t do that thing Peeta’s often do when he’s looking at me‒scrunch up and get little lines around the edges as if they’re laughing at me. At first, it made me feel self-conscious, but I’ve gotten used to it by now, and I’ve even come to appreciate Peeta’s expressive (I think that’s the word) eyes, even when they’re amused by me. I know it’s not that he’s making fun of me, but I don’t quite understand his expressions completely, or what thoughts might be behind them.

My attention is drawn back to the Newchild in my arms. I really shouldn’t have gone off in my head like that while holding a baby. I look down at Rye, and he seems fine, although he’s doing something strange. He’s opening and closing his mouth‒best I can describe it is to say he looks like the salmon at the hatchery at feeding time. But I know that’s not quite right. He reaches out for me again, and he makes some kind of sound.

“What’s he doing?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“It’s a sucking reflex,” my father explains.

“What’s that?”

“It’s an instinct, I believe.” Father gives a little shrug as if he’s not completely sure, either. “He’s simply searching for food.”

Ohh, so it is like the salmon at the Hatchery.

“Well, I don’t have any food for him,” I retort, glancing over at the bag which undoubtedly contains the special thick liquid Newchildren drink for nourishment.

“He must think you’re his Birthmother, Katniss.” My father chuckles, and my eyes widen.

Gale’s deep, throaty laugh carries from across the room.

I turn to where my brother has one shoulder pressed against the wall, leaning against it. “What’s so funny?” I snarl.

“Oh, nothing,” says Gale. “Just thinking about you, Katniss, as a Birthmother. The assignment would be all wrong for you, and I’d seriously question the Committee of Elders’ judgment if you were assigned that.”

Our mother shoots Gale a cautionary look, and I scowl savagely at him. Although, he’s right. I’d certainly make a formal appeal were I to be assigned Birthmother‒or Nurturer, for that matter. The necessary qualities required for caring for Newchildren are certainly not ones I possess.

And frankly, I’m glad for that.

Despite this knowledge, I find myself getting some kind of warm, pleasant feeling from holding Rye, and from simply being around him. Not only that, but almost instantly, from the moment I picked him up, I felt a sense of…responsibility for him. Oh, I know he’s not my responsibility, and I have no hand in his fate, but a part of me has an intense desire to…protect him.

Protect him from what, I’m not sure. But I have the desire to keep him safe at all costs.

Naturally, this kind of thinking is ridiculous because he couldn’t be safer than where he is, in our district, and especially, in this particular dwelling. He couldn’t be in better hands than my father’s. The only real concern regarding Rye is his potential Release, but that’s not scary or dangerous. Not for him. It always brings everyone, namely the Nurturers, great sadness when a child is Released; it brings about a sense of ‘what else could we have done?’ But it happens. And it’s nothing Rye need worry about, if he were old enough to experience that feeling. He’ll simply be made comfortable before being taken to Elsewhere.

“So, his name is Rye?” Gale speaks up again, stirring me from my musings on the Newchild and Elsewhere. Gale, who has been even more adamant about keeping his distance from Rye than me, is finally making his way over. “Strange name,” he remarks. “Kind of like Peeta’s.”

Gale’s lip twitches a little, and I know he added the last part for my benefit.

Or rather, to annoy me.

My brother knows how close Peeta and I are, that we’re best friends. Although it’s frowned upon (and just short of breaking the rules) to favor one district member over another, Gale knows that this is how I feel about Peeta. One time I made the mistake of confiding in my brother that I admired Peeta. I immediately corrected myself for precision of language, saying instead that I admired some of his qualities, not him, such as his ability to speak well and his personable, friendly demeanor. I further explained that I wasn’t envious of him‒it wouldn’t do to be envious of anyone, for there’s no real reason for it‒but it was more that I appreciated the way he was.

Secretly, though, I do sometimes wish I could be more like him.

“Gale,” I hiss in chastisement (even though he’s my older brother), and being careful not to jostle Rye too much, I snap my neck toward him to glare.

Gale rolls his eyes. “Well, I’d apologize to Peeta for my rudeness, if he were here,” he snarks. I roll my eyes back at him. So, he thinks he can get off on a technicality?

“And I would advise him against accepting your apology,” I smart off to Gale, although I know failure to accept an apology is considered very rude in and of itself, and against the rules. Not to mention, Peeta is one of the politest members of the district and would never refuse to accept another’s apology. Peeta has, however, admitted to me in private that my older brother annoys the daylights out of him. I snicker to myself over this knowledge.

“Geez, Catnip.” I resume scowling venomously at Gale, for his rudeness toward Peeta and Rye, and also, for that nickname of his. It started when we were kids, how, I don’t even know‒what in the district even is ‘catnip.’ It’s just some nonsensical word Gale came up with that sounded a little like my name, and I hate it. Mostly because it’s become a running joke, ammo for Gale to use against me. “Always so protective of your precious Peeta.”

I scowl hard at him. Not only is he suggesting I unequally favor Peeta, but he’s making fun of me. And this isn’t the first time Gale’s made fun of my ‘protectiveness’ of Peeta.

There is some truth to what my brother is saying, however. I do feel close to Peeta, and yes, protective, even though he’s a much larger male. I’ve felt this way since we were Fives. Others have noticed it as well. I remember back when we were Eights, some of our groupmates used to tease us when we’d play games because Peeta was always on my team. When we played War, for instance, we were both always fighting to protect the other. That’s what we did, protected each other. One time I even threw my body in front of his and took the ‘hit.’ I wasn’t hurt, for there was no actual impact; however, Peeta was angry with me for doing it for him‒even though he did the very same thing another time. Shocked and upset, I called him out for doing as I had, having already dropped to my knees to examine his imaginary wound. Another time, he scraped his knee playing ball. I went to his side then, too, attempting to look it over. Naturally, I was no use to him and only got squeamish over the blood, for I certainly do not possess the healing abilities his mother has.

Right now, though I’ve been lost in remembrance, Gale and I must be staring each other down with intense expressions because Mother shoots us both a warning glance. Our bickering is a normal occurrence, which Mother and Father are well acquainted with, and thus, they rarely say anything about it; however, this time, Mother steps in. “Now, now, act your ages,” she gently chides. “You two are acting like children, and you’re not off to a great start teaching Rye by example.”

We both hang our heads a little in shame and embarrassment. I’ll be a child for less than a week, and Gale no longer is one. Gale is particularly unhappy about the comment, and he decides to tell our mother so.

Our father interjects, saying, “Until you’re assigned a spouse and as long as you’re residing in this dwelling with us, we will refer to you as a child.”

I try not to take satisfaction from this; I’ve been trying to be more like Peeta and empathize (I think that’s the right word) with others more, so I consider how I would feel being Gale’s age and residing with my original family unit while waiting for a spouse. Although, I’m not sure how I even feel about being assigned one. A part of me wonders if, and kind of hopes, I’ll end up spouseless and living with the Childless Adults, but then again, I do enjoy being in the company of a family unit. And with Peeta. If that happened, I might never see Peeta again. And that thought fills me with dread. However, I’m also unlikely to see him when he’s undoubtedly assigned his spouse. It would be so simple to assign Peeta a spouse. He’s so friendly and kind and funny. Who wouldn’t want to receive him as their spouse? A strange, unpleasant feeling bubbles up inside of me at the thought of Peeta being assigned his spouse. For some reason, I don’t like it, even though it’s a good, natural thing for most members of the district.

After getting out a few grumbles, Gale acts contrite, and he even turns to me to issue the standard apology. I recite it back, and we accept each other’s apology, though I’m still not quite appeased on Peeta’s behalf.

It’s then that an idea strikes me.

“Since Peeta’s not here, you could apologize to Rye.” I’m partially teasing, partially seeking retribution after experiencing negative feelings towards my brother. Right on cue, Rye turns his head and drools into the crook of my arm-I’m surprised to find that I’m not repulsed by it.

“I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” Father says. “He is a member of this district as well.”

Gale scowls at me, then smirks. “Alright, fine. Rye,” he looks at the Newchild, “I apologize for my rudeness in pointing out the strangeness of your name.”

Shaking my head slightly, I look over at my parents, who are both grinning.

My father comes over and places a hand tenderly on Rye’s head. “Rye-Rye, did you hear that? How about it? Do you accept Gale’s apology?”

I smile as my father imitates what he imagines Rye’s baby voice would sound like, saying, “I accept your apology, Gale.” Sometimes my father can be so foolish. I’d never say so, of course, and he does make me smile at times.

“So, Catkin. Do you want to feed the little guy?” Father asks.

“Yeah, Catnip, you are his Birthmother, after all.”

I roll my eyes at my brother then politely decline my father’s offer. I don’t think I’m ready for that just yet.

I do, however, find the whole baby feeding task a bit intriguing, and I ask Gale to hold Rye so that I can watch and learn as Father prepares his food. Surprisingly, Gale agrees to hold him. Before my brother accepts the delicate bundle in my arms, though, I give him strict instructions on how to properly hold him, just as our father did. I know Gale probably heard Father say it, but one cannot be too careful with a Newchild.

Once Gale has Rye, I feel a strange sense of something being missing from my arms, but it’s only for the briefest of time. Mostly, I’m relieved, because the Newchild was getting heavy. So different from holding a bow, I think. I shake out my arms a little then watch carefully, shadowing my father as he prepares Rye’s…formula, he calls it. It doesn’t look too challenging, so perhaps I’ll try it next time.

After Father has mixed the solution into the liquid, shaking it well, he warms it up in the bottle and tests the temperature against the inside of his wrist. As Gale has absolutely no interest in feeding the Newchild, he hands him over to our mother, who gladly accepts him. Father then hands her the bottle, and she takes a seat in her usual chair. We all watch as she touches the nipple of the bottle to Rye’s lips; he opens his mouth and instantly latches on, and he begins sucking away.

Rye must have been very hungry, for he’s ingesting a large amount of the solution in the bottle. I notice he also reaches up with his tiny hands to touch the bottle himself, even though he’s far too small to hold it on his own.

I sort of want to continue watching Rye eat (or rather drink), but I’m also eager to don a fresh tunic, one that isn’t covered in baby fluids‒except, if I change into a clean one just for tonight, I will have to wear a dirty one at least once before laundry day rolls around. District citizens are only allotted one tunic and pair of pants per day; clothing is collected once every other week on a particular day for each citizen to be cleaned. It’s still three days away from washing day for me, so I rethink putting on a new one. I could change into my nightclothes early, except my father has just informed us that we’ll be having company within the hour.

We’re all a bit surprised by this, for it’s approaching the end of Visiting Hours‒we are not allowed to have visitors past 8 PM on weekdays, and it’s against the rules to be out alone after dark without the entire family unit, or without having a specific previously agreed upon and approved destination‒however, my father is eager to show the Newchild off. And he tells us he’s invited the Mellarks over to see him.

It’s no secret that the Newchild, Rye, will be staying with us, although we’re the only ones who currently know his name. After my father petitioned the Committee of Elders, the Newchild was given an extension of 1 year (as long as he meets all his milestones, he’ll receive his official name and family unit at next year’s Ceremony), so as to avoid Release. In the meantime, he has been labeled Uncertain. Bringing Rye home has been approved by the Nurturing Center Director, but it’s not exactly something we’re supposed to go around talking about. Not that I would.

I excuse myself to go and clean up prior to our guests’ arrival.

I’ve finished wiping down my tunic with a damp cloth and patting it dry, and I’ve just combed out and rebraided my hair, in order to look acceptable for company, when the Mellarks arrive. It’s strange seeing them in our dwelling at this time of night, or at all. It’s not common for a family unit to supply entertainment to another family unit within their dwelling, and the Mellarks are rarely all in one place together. Even Prim is here. I’m surprised she’s allowed out so late, but I suppose she is with her family unit.

Peeta and I lock eyes as he enters our dwelling, and he smiles at me. It’s the same smile he always gives me, but for some reason, I get very warm. It suddenly feels stuffy in my own skin, and I’m also thinking I should have put on a fresh tunic. I am, however, very glad to have remained in daytime attire. As much as I’d wanted to peel off my Rye-flavored-saliva-slathered tunic, I’m overcome with immense relief that I didn’t change into my nightclothes. Unexpectedly, my stomach swoops, and my cheeks flood with heat at the thought of Peeta seeing me in my district-issued nightgown, which exposes my legs from the mid-calves down. I don’t know why. I suppose my reaction is from embarrassment, or rather, the potential for embarrassment because it’s not proper. And because Peeta is my friend, such an indiscretion might make it awkward the next time I was around him.

I push this line of thinking aside, as it’s not relevant to the current situation.

My father welcomes the Mellarks into the living room. Peeta and Prim’s father is a Food Deliverer. Mr. Mellark has wavy hair and is broad-shouldered and strong, like Peeta but in an adult way; he has kind eyes and a similar disposition to Peeta. Mrs. Mellark is small in stature and wears her hair in a bun. She’s much less affable, always wearing a somber expression, though she’s very efficient at her job. And then there’s Prim, who is sweet, pretty, and fresh of face.

Father takes them over to introduce them to the Newchild.

“Ohh, he’s so, so cute!” squeals Prim upon first sight of Rye. They’re all gathered around the bassinet. The others nod or voice their agreement.

Everyone is quite interested in Rye, it seems. Being a Healer, Mrs. Mellark, of course, has questions about his health, which my father answers knowledgeably. And Mr. Mellark smiles down at Rye and even gently strokes the fuzz on his head. As I expected, Primrose wishes to hold him first. I’m preparing to instruct her on the proper technique‒I’ve only just learned myself, but I’ve been watching Father closely, and I think I have a good understanding of how to properly deal with him‒but my father beats me to it. He’s kind and patient about telling her what to do, much less bossy than I probably would have been.

“Hey, he kind of reminds me of you, Peeta,” says Prim, looking down at Rye.

“Oh?” Peeta smiles at his sister. “How so?”

“Well,” Prim thinks on it a moment as if she just blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “He has your eyes, I think.”

Oh. Has Prim made the same observation as I have?

I’ve known for quite some time, as I’m sure Peeta does, that he’s not quite like everyone else in appearance. I don’t want to say different; it isn't polite to draw attention to other people's differences. Unique. His eyes are unique. Most members of the district have dark eyes, but his and Rye’s are paler with a hint of a…sparkle to them. And when I look into Peeta's eyes, it’s as if I’m looking into the clear stream in our district, way down to the bottom. At first, I thought Peeta was the only one with this quality, but then I noticed a female Five had eyes like his. And now there’s Rye.

“Really? You think so?” Peeta grins. “Well, then he should give them back and make a formal apology,” he teases in his usual, jovial way. Prim giggles and I barely fight back my own grin.

I’ve always thought Peeta had a great sense of humor‒I think that’s what it’s called. He was always the boy who knew just the right thing to say, who could make people smile and laugh without ever being rude, never at anyone else’s expense.

“No, I mean, his eyes are-are…different. Like yours, Peeta.”

Mrs. Mellark gives a disgruntled clear of her throat, and we all know why. It is considered rude to directly point out something unsettling or different about a person.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” says Prim. She grows quiet, though not for long. “But…do you think that maybe they had the same Birthmother?”

“That’s not possible, Prim,” I say, “given the difference in their ages.”

“Oh yeah.” Prim nods. “I guess you’re right, Katniss.”

Prim has, however, made me think. Perhaps Peeta’s Birthmother had those kind of eyes, too. I have wondered about my own Birthmother before, as well as the donor. I probably would never have considered it, but everyone says I’m observant‒I can’t help but notice things sometimes. I suppose it all started when I felt a strange…something like a connection to Mr. C in the Hunting Center. I was able to talk with him easily, something I can’t do well with most people, and I also noticed that we had some similarities in appearance and mannerisms.

I switch from thinking about Mr. C back to thinking about Peeta and Rye. And I can’t help but wonder if the reason I feel a connection with and protective of Rye is because he reminds me of Peeta.

“Ohh, he’s really so adorable!” coos Prim as she cradles Rye in her arms, not at all in a hurry to hand him over to someone else. “You’re so lucky!” She’s addressing my entire family unit, and Father and Mother smile politely. “Makes me kinda hope I get assigned Birthmother at my Reaping," mutters Prim. 

I hear myself make a gasping noise, and when I glance over at him, I see that Peeta’s stifling a laugh. Obviously, he thinks my reaction to Prim’s declaration is excessive, but I don’t think so. I’m suddenly recalling what Gale said about the ridiculousness of me being a Birthmother, and although Prim might be much better suited to it, I don’t want that life for her. Peeta’s younger sister deserves something more respectable.

“You should not hope for such things, Primrose!” I exclaim, my voice slightly raised in my frustration. Peeta looks curiously at me while moving subtly closer in proximity to me. He’s probably thinking his presence alone will calm me. And generally, it does. I do enjoy his nearness on most occasions.

“Why not?” Prim asks, wide-eyed. “It sounds great. I’ve heard the exercises are light, and mostly, you get to lie around all day, eating treats, and then you get to do it all over again after birthing a cute little baby.”

“That may be, but there’s little honor in being a Birthmother,” I continue. “They get three births, and that’s it; then it’s hard labor until the House of the Old. And they’re usually not even assigned spouses.”

Not a problem for me, but Primrose is lovely in looks and demeanor, so it would only do for her to be assigned a spouse.

“O-oh. Yes, I see…” Prim trails off, her eyes shifting to the floor.

“And actually, Prim,” I go on, “the Birthmothers don’t even get to see the babies after they’re born. If you like the Newchildren so much, perhaps you’d be suited to Nurturer. Maybe you should do some volunteer hours at the Nurturing Center.”

Peeta looks at me, then at Prim. “I agree, Primmie,” he says, giving her a soft smile. “I think you’d be a wonderful Nurturer.” Peeta, ever putting a positive spin on things. He wiggles his pinkie at her (a private thing between the two of them), and automatically, she’s smiling again. Peeta always knows just how to make Prim smile.

And me. Me too.

Right on cue, Peeta looks over at me, the corner of his lips twitching, and I feel my own curling up. I feel a warm sense of calm run through my body, settling in my chest and radiating throughout my limbs at Peeta’s smile. He’s not angry with me for raising my voice to his little sister and chastising her, which isn’t my place, but instead, he wants to make sure both Prim and I are feeling better about the subject.

Once Prim reluctantly relinquishes her possession of little Rye, the other Mellarks all take turns holding him while my Father looks on and I supervise from a short distance away.

While waiting for his turn, Peeta chats amiably with the others. My parents. Prim. He even tries to strike up a conversation with Gale about his application for a spouse. Normally, this might be considered a bit forward, but since he’s a visitor in our dwelling, no one is going to say anything to him about it. Gale grunts out a couple of responses about how he’s waiting to hear back, and Peeta gives him some encouraging words. Then Peeta asks a few questions about the process. And I can’t help but wonder if he’s simply making conversation with Gale or if he’s legitimately curious. That begs the question for me, why does Peeta want to learn about the application for a spouse? Is he really so eager to be assigned one? I get that strange, unpleasant feeling thinking about this.

When it's Peeta’s turn to hold Rye, I notice how good he is at it. Peeta’s a natural at this. He doesn’t seem to need much instruction and instantly positions Rye just right in his arms. Maybe Peeta should be a Nurturer, too. But no. I think there are other Assignments more suited to him. Speaker. But that would be so boring for him. Perhaps Storyteller. Or, Instructor of the young ones of various ages. I think he would be good at many different ones, actually. I wonder what the Elders will choose for him. I’m sure the decision will be simultaneously easy and difficult.

Peeta holds Rye for a little while, walking around with him, rocking him to and fro, and at one point, I notice he stops and they stare at one another as if something is happening between them in that moment. Then Peeta returns to his normal self and begins chattering away to Rye about things he couldn’t possibly understand yet and making faces at him.

My best friend can be so strange.

And yet, I’m smiling wide.

When his turn is done, Peeta makes his way over to me, and I smile to myself. He’s standing beside me, perhaps closer than he should but not close enough as to result in any kind of chastisement and required apology. I like him being this close. And I’m feeling better about my feelings elicited by him asking about the spouse application.

We have a nice visit with the Mellarks, and time flies by. It’s about ten minutes to 8 when Mr. Mellark states that it’s time for them to return home, and he thanks my parents for having them over. As much as I hate to see Peeta leave, it’s good timing because Rye has started getting fussy, making little displeased squeals and short, sharp cries. He must be getting sleepy.

Father thanks the Mellarks for their visit, and my mother bids them goodbye as does Gale from across the room with a simple, static wave. I tell Prim goodbye, then turn to Peeta. We linger behind the others, and he smiles at me. I smile back.

“Well, that was fun,” Peeta says. I nod. “And it was really nice seeing you this evening, Katniss.”

I grin foolishly, though I don’t know why.

I nod to Peeta and tell him likewise, and then he’s following his parents out–but not before tossing a look back at me and smiling over his shoulder. He waves, and I do, too. And I watch his back as he strides behind his parents (Prim slowing down to walk beside him) until my father closes the door.

“Well, that was a pleasant visit,” my mother says. Father agrees with her.

Then Father is telling us that it’s well past little Rye’s bedtime. And even though Rye has been struggling to sleep through the night, he wants to keep him on a fixed schedule. Father proceeds to take Rye from Mother, then turns to Gale and me. “You two should get ready for bed. If you hurry, you can say goodnight to little fella before you go in.”

I rush. Gale does not.

Now clothed for bed, Gale and I return to the living room. There’s some debate over where the Newchild should sleep for the night. Gale huffs indignantly and crosses his arms over his chest, insisting that he needs his sleep and that his personal living space is off-limits. I’m unsure about whether I want Rye in my room or not. On one hand, if he cries, it’ll disturb my sleep. But on the other, he’d be nearby for me to keep watch over him. The decision is made for me, and Rye’s crib is placed in Mother and Father’s room.

We’re all surrounding the crib (even Gale), saying goodnight to Rye, when my father goes over to the bag of Newchild supplies. He returns with a stuffed creature. It’s a round-faced thing with two large, floppy things on the sides of its head, which could be unusual ears, I suppose; it has four short legs and a long appendage coming off its face that might be a fifth, for all I know.

“This is Rye’s comfort object,” my father explains. “It’s called ‘Hippo.’”

Father places Hippo in Rye’s crib, and Rye reaches for it instantly, grasping it between his chubby fingers. Hugging it tightly to his chest, he closes his eyes.

Peeta

Today is Katniss’s turn to pick where we put in our last few remaining volunteer hours, and she’s chosen the House of the Old. Katniss likes the House of the Old; I think she enjoys hearing their stories. I admit I do, too.

When we get there, Seeder, the nice woman in charge, sends us to the bathing room where Mags is waiting patiently in her chair. Mags is a chipper old lady with long, stringy hair, kind eyes, and the withered face common in the Old. She can hardly see, but somehow she knows it’s us, probably from our voices, and she perks up. I’d never say this out loud because it would be considered rude, and might hurt the other Elderly’s feelings, but Mags is my favorite. And I know Katniss is also quite fond of her.

As she’s a female, Katniss is tasked with helping Mags undress and get into her robe while I run the water. In our district, it’s against the rules to view another’s nakedness; however, this does not apply to Newchildren or the Old. After a couple of minutes, the water stops automatically, and Katniss removes Mags’s robe for her and helps her step into the tub. We both help lower her down into the water, and with a sigh, she leans back comfortably and closes her eyes.

I leave Katniss to wash Mags while I go about my task. I’m in the next stall with Roberto, and I guide him into the tub, which is filling with perfectly warm water (I don’t have to worry about the water overflowing, as it has a sensor that tells it when to shut off). Unlike Mags, Roberto isn’t much for talking. From past experience, I know that talking will only irritate him, so I sit on the stool in comfortable silence, my attention wandering over to Katniss and Mags.

While washing Roberto, I can’t help casting sidelong glances at Katniss as she bathes Mags. What strikes me the most is the look on Mags’s face. It’s one of complete relaxation and…trust. Mags trusts Katniss completely‒and why shouldn’t she?

Mags looks so…free this way, too.

This moment of serenity has me contemplating the notion of being at peace and free while naked. It’s difficult for me to fully grasp, having always been taught to cover myself up when changing for games‒and then there’s the whole awkward situation of making an apology if one accidentally views another’s nakedness‒but at the same time, it isn’t. I like this look on Mags’s face; I like the idea of feeling free and not having to worry about covering myself. Personally, I wouldn’t care if someone else saw my nakedness, and to me, it’s far more awkward to have to make an apology than to catch an accidental glimpse of someone.

All of a sudden, I’m reminded of something I didn’t know still remained in my consciousness‒a dream I had when I was around twelve years old.

It involved bathing, but there were no tubs. I was in the woods outside the district, rather than in the House of the Old. And I wasn’t alone…

***
I’m in an area surrounded by trees. Tall ones, very tall, nearly blocking out the sky, aside from a small hole in the center. I’m unsure why I’m here, but I walk around for some time before coming to a river. It’s a river like the one at the edge of our district, the one the small boy was lost in so many years ago, but it’s different. For one, there aren’t large trees surrounding our district’s river.

It’s then that I see Katniss.

Why is she here? I don’t know.

I do know one thing, however-Katniss is naked.

She has her back to me with her bare legs tucked up under her, her hair hanging loosely, cascading across her shoulders, rather than in its usual braid, and the ends of it are glistening. She’s highlighted by a soft glow of brightness, so much brighter than everything else around me. I notice her skin, how smooth it looks, and I wonder what it would feel like to touch. I’ve brushed against the bare skin of her forearm before, but never purposefully. I want to purposefully run my hand along that smooth skin... I can also see every curve of her body, beginning a bit wider at her shoulders then narrowing down her back and rounding off at the bottom.

Although I feel I should announce my presence and apologize for stumbling across her this way, I can’t help but stare. I’m mesmerized. I can’t even seem to move, and I can scarcely breathe. My feet must take on a mind of their own, however, because without completely realizing it, I’m approaching her slowly, cautiously.

I'm not light on my feet, though, and inevitably, I crack a twig underfoot, and she hears me. Startled, she whips her head around, but when she sees that it’s me, she seems to ease. It’s then that I catch sight of the front of her, a smooth, slender body with two small but plump curvatures of flesh with hardened buds on the tips. I don’t know the terminology for these parts protruding off of her. Yes, we are taught the general parts of the body, and that there are differences between males and females, but unless one is going to become a doctor, there’s no need to know more specific details than that.

Katniss is staring at me, and so I hastily recite the standard apology for startling her and especially, for viewing her nakedness. What happens next takes me by surprise‒Katniss smiles at me. She doesn’t seem embarrassed or upset, but almost…pleased? that I’m here viewing her nakedness. And I feel a fluttering feeling in my stomach and a tightness down below.

I want to go to her, to touch her. Every fiber of my being is aching with the desire to lead her into the stream and bathe her. I don’t understand why. Why should Katniss, who is neither child nor elderly, need assistance bathing? A part of me knows that it’s foolish and that she’d never allow it, but I want to do it so badly... 

***
When I woke up from the dream, it was still so vivid in my mind, which was odd for me, since my dreams are almost always vague, too fuzzy, and strangely, shiny to call back. The next morning, at the Telling of Dreams, I let Prim go first as I was confused and a bit embarrassed. Mainly, I wondered if something was wrong with me. I did share, however. And after, Mother and Father exchanged a knowing glance, and Father asked Prim to leave the table so that they could talk to me in private. Prim wasn’t too happy about it, being more than a little curious to know what was going on with me, but she complied.

Once Prim had gone, my father turned to me and succinctly said, “Thank you for your dream, Peeta.”

“What was the strongest emotion you felt in the dream, Peeta?” my mother added.

I thought about it a moment. “The wanting,” I answered easily. "I wanted so badly to keep looking at her, and not only that, but I wanted to touch her. I wanted her to allow me to bathe her in the stream.” It wasn’t really an emotion, but it was the best way I could think to describe it, how much I wanted, almost needed to touch Katniss while she was naked. And then I felt foolish all over again. Wanting something so badly sounded very childish, and I was no child; I was twelve years old!

My mother and father smiled a little at each other, which confused me even more. I just wanted them to come out with it and tell me what was wrong with me, and what there was to be done about it.

After what seemed an interminable time, my father said, “You’ve just experienced your first Stirrings, Peeta.”

My first…what?

And here I thought I was confused before.

“Your mother and I have been expecting it to happen to you for some time now.”

“I’ll write an apology to your instructor, so you won’t have to say one aloud,” Mother said.

And then they told me they would talk about it with me once they’d sent Prim on her way to school.

Suddenly, I recalled hearing about the Stirrings before. Finnick had already experienced them, and I’d heard the announcements about them, so it wasn’t exactly a new word. I just didn’t know what it meant.

Fortunately, my parents explained that it was something that happened to everyone upon reaching a certain age. I asked for clarification because Finnick was my age and he’d already had them about a year or so ago. My mother explained that it wasn’t the same age for every individual but generally within a certain age range.

I nodded, then remembering something, said, “I’ve heard the announcements, how Stirrings are to be reported immediately so that treatment can begin. Will I have to go somewhere to receive treatment?” I asked anxiously.

Mother chuckled and shook her head. “You did report it. You just reported it to me. And the treatment is nothing more than a daily injection.”

“That’s it?”

With a soft smile, my father confirmed, “That’s it.”

“For how long?” I asked. 

“Every morning until you enter the House of the Old,” my mother told me. “It will become commonplace, though. Routine.”

I nodded. It didn’t sound very difficult.

I told my parents then about Finnick having started taking his injections, and they weren’t surprised. I also wondered if Katniss had‒not that I’d ever ask her such a thing, but I was curious about what her dream was (or would be like)... 

***
I smile to myself, thinking how Katniss has surely had them by now and that if we were allowed to lie, she’d be tempted to lie about it and say she’s never experienced the Stirrings. Knowing her, she’ll probably continue saying so until the House of the Old.

That gets me thinking about Katniss and being in the House of the Old together‒wow, my mind is all over the place today. But we are here. Anyway, I don’t mind the idea of growing old alongside her; I kind of like it, and I imagine we’ll be the best of friends even in the House of the Old.

Returning to my present cognizance, I finish bathing Roberto and get him into his robe. I chance a glance at Katniss then, and she meets my eyes and smiles a little. A rush of warmth travels throughout my body, settling in certain areas, such as my cheeks, my low abdomen, and below. This often happens when I look at Katniss‒my body feels warm or even hot.

I think of my dream again. I can't help it. I believe my body felt kind of hot when viewing Katniss’s nakedness, but it’s hard to remember. I don’t have those kinds of dreams anymore, haven’t in a while, not since beginning the medication. It’s still there, though. Obviously. Somewhere. Buried, not so deep, I realize now. Although it’s very shiny, the associated feelings extremely weak, it’s still there.

And I’m glad for that.

After beginning the injections, I remember missing the dream. I know I should feel wrong or ashamed about it, but I longed to have the feelings back, the feelings I only briefly described for my parents‒the anxiousness, the excitement, the thrill of wanting something (or in this case, someone) so terribly, but also the peacefulness of it all. It felt right. It felt…good.

Even now, I miss it. But there’s no use in that. Because it was wrong, unnatural the way I was feeling. It was a defect, a sickness, or so I was told, and I’m better now.

Although, I can’t help but wonder...if it was a defect, then why do we all share it?

Once more, I’m stirred back to the present reality. Katniss is finishing up bathing Mags and is commenting on how similar bathing Mags is to bathing Rye, the Newchild her family unit took in a couple of days ago, in order to watch over him during the nights as he’s not growing well or sleeping soundly in the Nurturing Center.

I smile over at her and comment, “A bath’s a bath.”

Although, I’m not sure I necessarily agree with my own statement. The notion of bathing Katniss in the stream feels very different than bathing a Newchild or the Old... 

Katniss smiles back at me, a lingering smile, and I get that warm feeling again.

“Hey, guys!” a familiar voice pipes in. It’s Finnick. He’s late, as usual.

Finnick hastily makes the standard apology, and I smirk over at him. He proceeds to take over for Katniss, helping a now-robed Mags over to her wheeled chair. Mags doesn’t seem to mind one bit about Finnick’s tardiness but rather, is smiling up at him affectionately. Mags is particularly fond of Finnick; almost all the Old are, particularly the females. And that’s why I’m only mildly surprised when she beckons him to lean down and plants her lips on his cheek. She chuckles, not a bit embarrassed, as she pats the area she just touched with her lips.

I think what Mags did is called a ‘kiss.’ It’s a very antiquated gesture, and of course, it’s not allowed. Touch, any kind of touch, of non-family unit members (and even with family it's severely regulated) is against the rules; however, the rules governing the Old are a bit different. As with Newchildren, they are much more lenient with the Old.

After I've gotten Roberto back to his room and comfortable, I join my friends in Mags’s room. I watch Finnick adjusting Mags’s blanket on her lap, and I notice that familiar twinkle in Mags’s eye suggesting it’s storytime.

Oh good.

Mags loves telling stories, and we love hearing them.

“This morning we celebrated the Release of Maude-Ivory,” Mags says.

“Oh?” I say.

“Yes.”

“What was it like?” asks Katniss.

“Well, there was the Ceremony with the viewing and telling of her life.” Mags pauses, then goes on to inform us how sometimes the tellings of the lives of the Old are boring and that oftentimes, some of the Old fall asleep during them. Finnick laughs; I grin, and Katniss smiles faintly.

“Like when Barb-Azure was released,” Mags goes on. “She was a Birthmother. They tried so hard to make her life sound interesting, but…”

I quirk a brow. “It wasn’t interesting?” I follow up with a gentle smile, showing her I’m paying attention and interested.

“Ohh, no, not at all,” Mags says forthrightly. “Poor thing.” The corners of my lips twitch at Mags’s not-so-polite yet honest reply.

“Oh, but Maude’s life was so interesting! She was a Speaker, which isn’t all that fascinating of an assignment, but she did have a full life. Two successful children, one a doctor, the other an engineer, who even helped design the big bridge over the river in town.”

“How did the rest of the Ceremony go?” I ask with genuine curiosity. Children aren’t allowed to go to them, and I’ve always wondered what takes place during a Release, particularly at the end.

“Well, let’s see,” says Mags, pawing at Finnick’s arm beside her. “There was the Telling of her life, the toast (we all raised our glasses and cheered), comments from the group on her life, the chanting of the anthem, and finally, she gave the customary speech. Oh, Maude was an excellent speaker! Well, of course, she was, considering it was her Assignment in the district.”

“What happens when they make the actual release?” I blurt out. “Where did Maude go?” I really want to know this.

Mags scrunches her face in confusion, then shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “But you should have seen her face. Pure happiness.” Mags clasps her hands together enthusiastically. “Then she bowed, walked through the special door to the Releasing Room while we chanted her name, and that was that.”

“I wish I could have been there to see it,” I say. I glimpse Katniss, and there’s a hint of a quirk to her lips. She probably thinks I’m crazy for wanting to attend such a ceremony.

“Oh my, yes. I don’t know why they don’t allow children to come. They should. Maybe I’ll suggest it to the Committee,” Mags says, and I chuckle.

“I would appreciate that,” I tell her. She gives me a sweet smile, then clamps down on Finnick’s arm and smiles up at him. He smiles back at her.

“Oh, but the three of you are almost adults now!” exclaims Mags, clapping her hands together.

“Almost,” I say with a smile.

“Do you feel prepared for the Reaping, the Ceremony of 16?” she asks.

“Absolutely.”/”I think so.” Finnick and Katniss speak simultaneously.

“And what about you, Peeta?” Mags asks me. I’ve been off in my head, most likely staring out wistfully.

“Yes,” I nod, “I believe so. Although, I’m still not sure what’s going to happen.”

“Well, don’t you worry. All will be as it should be.”

Somehow, I’m comforted by this.

“I don’t doubt the Elders will choose the best possible Assignment for me, but I really don’t know what it will be. I’ve divided my volunteer hours up fairly evenly, and no one Assignment has really stuck out as being more suited for me.” I haven’t admitted this in front of Katniss or Finnick before.

Mags reiterates what my parents said, about the Elders knowing me and having watched me since childhood, and how they’ll choose the assignment best suited to me. I agree with Mags.

“There’s another thing, though..." I bring it up because I feel comfortable sharing with Mags; plus, the Old are supposed to be wise. “I’m concerned that I won’t be able to spend much time with my friends once I receive my assignment.”

“I’m worried about that, too,” I hear Katniss say, and I look over at her. Then Finnick.

“So am I,” says Finnick.

We all collectively look to Old Mags, hoping for encouragement, and she smiles.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry. I have the feeling you three will remain together for always.”

I’m sure Mags is only placating us, but it puts me at ease, nonetheless. I exchange smiles with Katniss and Finnick. Then Finnick makes a joke about being sick of us, and we all laugh.

Apparently, Mags isn’t through with her storytelling, because once the laughter's died down, she’s telling us another. This one doesn’t make any sense, however...

Mags is talking about her spouse. No, not the one assigned to her in the district, but one from long ago…

“I didn’t know a spouse could be applied for more than once,” Katniss says.

“Oh, no. I didn’t apply for this one," Mags says. "I chose him. This was when I lived…somewhere else.”

She...chose him?

“So, you came from a different district?” I ask, truly bewildered. She’s not exactly being coherent, and I’m becoming concerned about her. But I decide to hear her out.

“In a manner of speaking, my boy. You see, one time, I lived beyond the edge.”

Beyond the edge?

Could she be telling the truth? Surely, she wouldn’t be lying…but perhaps she’s grown tired or is in need of medication...

Regardless, I am fascinated to know more. Even if it isn’t real. We all are. However, looking at Katniss, I can tell she’s far more skeptical than curious.

I encourage Mags to go on.

“He was a fisherman,” she says.

“So, he worked in the Hatchery in your other District?” says Finnick. It does make sense that other districts would have hatcheries as well. We have the Hatchery and also a processing center for deer meat.

“No, my…my,” she searches for the word, “husband,” she finally says‒whatever that means. “He worked on the sea.”

I almost burst out laughing it sounds so utterly ridiculous, but I hold it in because that would be rude. Keeping my composure, I listen.

“He worked on a large boat…” She goes on to talk about how he would be gone for months on end and return with a large beard (she strokes her chin and makes a pulling motion at the air as she says it) and smelling of fish.

Facial hair. Males don’t have facial hair here.

I can’t imagine any of this, but what’s even more unimaginable for me is when she begins speaking of how the fishermen would occupy themselves while at sea. “They would tell stories and sing songs. Sea shanties, they called them.”

“Songs?” Katniss poses the question this time. She’s perked up, more interested now than before.

“Yes, ohh, like…” And then, Mags starts making a strange, guttural sound. She’s not speaking, and her mouth is closed. What is this noise she’s making that sounds like it’s coming from the back of her throat rather than her lips? I’m truly beginning to wonder if something could be terribly wrong with her...

And then…then she opens her mouth and…words pour forth from it in a sequence. I can’t explain it; it’s not speech, however, the words seem to go together in some kind of logical pattern.

Even so, I don’t get it.

I look over at Katniss, and I notice that her eyes are closed. At first, I wonder if she’s fallen asleep, though that would be very un-Katniss-like. Then I see that she’s moving her lips, just barely. No sound comes out of her as with Mags, but Katniss seems to be mouthing along with the nonsensical string of words as if she understands them. I’m befuddled.

Suddenly, Katniss jolts, and she goes very quiet and still.

“Katniss, are you alright?” Concerned, I rush to her side.

Katniss’s lips part and her eyelashes flutter as she blinks rapidly. She stares up at me, and my gaze falls ever so briefly to her lips. I think of the word ‘kiss’ for some reason. And I almost-almost reach out and touch her shoulder‒until I remember I’m not supposed to.

“Y-yes,” she says, a bit shakily, “I’m fine, Peeta.”

That thing happens again, the change in Katniss’s cheeks. Fleeting. And then it’s gone.

Later, we get Mags off to bed, and we leave the House of the Old. Finnick parts with us, and as usual, Katniss and I bike home together.

It takes me over half the way to her dwelling to ask her what happened back there.

Katniss hesitates, then says she doesn’t know. All she knows is that when Mags started making that strange noise, she felt something bubbling up inside of her, and she felt as though she knew those words somehow. Her body wanted to sway, too, she explains, as she mouthed along with the words.

What does all this mean? I have no idea.

I’m seeing things, and Katniss is what…hearing things?

We don’t speak of it again.

A few nights later, two nights before the Reaping, I dream of Katniss naked again. Only, this time the dream continues from where it left off…

I ask Katniss if I can bathe her in the stream, and she shakes her head slowly, though she’s smiling a little. And it’s like her eyes are laughing at me.

Then she does laugh at me. And I’m standing there feeling like a fool.

But then she mouths my name and beckons me with a finger... 

My stomach swoops as if I’m doing somersaults in the gymnasium during recreation hour like I used to as a child. There’s a strange, fluttering feeling inside, but it’s not from hunger or sickness…

As I approach her, I feel exhilarated like never before; there’s almost a wildness about me. I’m not in control of myself, not any part of me…

I’m just stepping into the river, reaching out for her when she splashes me and runs off. She’s not running very fast, though, and she keeps looking back. I can tell she wants me to chase her. So, I do.

It feels like we’re children at play, but then again, not.

I’m smiling and laughing, and Katniss is giggling, which is very strange because Katniss doesn’t giggle. She sometimes emits a small, soft laugh, a chuckle‒and I can usually get her to smile‒but she hasn’t giggled in years. And it’s not quite the same this time.

I keep chasing her. I’m hoping that maybe if I catch her she’ll change her mind and let me bathe her. Maybe that will be my reward.

I’m about to catch her…almost, so close... And then, I wake up.

Disappointment. Emptiness. Frustration. Anger, even.

I’m soaked in sweat and reeling over the loss of the dream, which is becoming shiny and beginning to dissipate. I work hard to bring it back, and for a brief, delicious moment, it’s there, and I’m basking in it.

With complete clarity, I experience my feelings…

The want. The need. The raw hunger–an entirely different kind than I’ve ever experienced.

I know it was the Stirrings again, but I’m confused; I thought they were supposed to be gone. Perhaps I need to up my dosage.

But I don’t want to. Instead, I want to hold on to the dream for as long as I can. Unfortunately, it’s already fading again, disappearing into the void…

I willingly pass on the Telling of Dreams this morning, for I selfishly want to keep the remnants of the dream to myself‒I don’t want my parents to change my dosage and take it away from me. It’s not really a lie (not completely) because the dream is so hazy I would barely have anything to tell. Or, at least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

But it doesn’t matter, anyway. By the time breakfast is over, my dream is practically nonexistent. And once I’ve taken my morning injection, it’s completely gone.

For a moment, I think I can call it back, and my mind desperately grasps for those pleasant, exciting feelings. But it’s no use. Seconds later, the Stirrings are gone again, and I’m left craving–yearning for those feelings again. I would say that it’s as if they never existed, but that’s not entirely true. I know something was there that no longer is‒I can no longer pretend that I don't.  

And I desperately want it back.

Chapter Text

Katniss

To lie is to make an untrue statement. To lie is to be a liar. Lying means you are dishonest. Lying is against the rules. I am a liar. I am dishonest. I broke the rules.

I told a lie this morning. It wasn’t by any means my first lie, but it was my first intentional lie. But what was I supposed to say? I can’t very well share a dream that I, myself, don’t even have the words for. It happened at breakfast during this morning’s telling of dreams. I was so nervous I spent the morning practicing what I would say and how I would say it. The only mirrors in 12 are located at the Justice Building and Hall of Records, so I got creative and removed one of the certificates from a frame hanging on the wall (in my personal living space), so I could use the glass to observe my reflection.

We were huddled at the table for breakfast (Mother, Father, Gale, and I) when my dad said, “What about you, Katniss, any dreams?”

My father’s timing couldn’t have been more perfect, for I had just stuffed a forkful of eggs into my mouth and it would have been considered impolite and in poor manners to speak, thus giving me the one second’s hesitation I needed. I covered my mouth politely and shook my head. “Not that I recall,” I replied after taking a sip of my juice.

So rarely do I have a dream to share that no one thought anything of it. No one questioned my denial. Still, my heart raced, pounding harder and faster than it ever has before in fear that alarms would start blaring in our house, or throughout the district, or peacekeepers would parachute out of their hovercrafts and surround our house. One minute passed, then two, yet nothing happened. I couldn’t believe it. I was stupefied beyond belief when everything remained as it always was. I waited a few more minutes before I allowed myself to relax, though. I couldn’t believe it. I had just flat-out lied to my family’s face and they were none the wiser. This caused the wheels in my head to start turning. If lying is this easy, (well, it wasn’t actually all that easy; I guess I should say simple), then how does one know when another person is lying? How do we know that everyone isn’t lying?

As simple as it may have been, I did not enjoy lying, or rather, the way in which my body reacted to my dishonesty. But even if I wanted to share, where would I possibly begin? How could I describe the images that flooded my mind, the sights, sounds, and even smells that I experienced while unconscious?

In my dream, I was with Peeta, but that’s not unusual. Peeta quite often occupies my subconscious, which makes sense because we spend so much of our time together. We were sharing space on this giant…transportation unit-looking thing. And for some reason, it was completely deserted, save for us. And the giant transportation-like thing seemed to be traveling on this large body of water. It was much like the river in 12, but whereas I can see where the river in 12 begins and ends, the one in my dream seemed to stretch for miles and miles.

As strange as all that was, what baffled me most was that Peeta and I were holding hands. We stood so close that our bodies were touching. And we both appeared to enjoy this closeness. Both of us seemed to be looking–staring off at something in the distance. I realized after a moment that it was the sky…and it was—and the ground wasn’t the ground, or not like the ground I was used to. It was…moving. It’s so frustrating not having the words to describe it. It was almost…something like majestic. There were so many…I don’t know. There were these things suspended in the air…floating, or no, gliding, or maybe hovering off the ground. They reminded me of the squirrels in the forest of the Hunting Center, only they were…different.

Then I heard something in the distance. I don’t know how to put it into words other than to say it reminded me of the thing Mags did the other day. It was like a…noise, a sound…a very pleasant, rhythmic sound that made my body want to sway.

Somehow, I know that not being able to describe the things in my dream has nothing to do with how I’m usually not good with words. The words I need to describe it just aren’t in my vocabulary. Actually, I don’t think they’re in any vocabulary, or dictionary, in all the districts. So, if I can’t make sense of it myself, how was I supposed to share it with my family?

I don’t think that even Peeta would have the words to describe my dream, had he been the one to dream it. The only words that come to mind are “vivid,” and “bold.” But I do remember, with great clarity, the intense, almost magnetic fluttering sensation deep in my belly that resulted from standing so close to Peeta. I was…happy. Not “content" like just satisfied, but more like, I was…like…like exhilarated, combined with a dizzying feeling of intoxication. Excited and awake, no, alert with a million fizzy bubbles floating and bobbing, searching for an escape route inside my body.

Even if I couldn’t describe my dream to my family unit, I probably should have shared the feelings the dream left behind. But I didn’t want to, because then Mother would insist the dosage of my daily injection needed modifying, and the last time the dosage was increased, I was numb for almost a month. And…whatever I had just experienced in my dream, whatever the feelings it incited inside me, I don’t…I’m not ready to have them taken away. At least not yet.

Peeta 

“Promise when we’re grown-ups, we won’t let our responsibilities to our Assignments or our obligations to our spouses and children keep us apart. Promise me you’ll stay my brother and that we’ll be in each other’s lives, always, and maybe our kids could even be friends. Just…promise we won’t be like our parents. You have to promise me, Peeta, because I don’t think I could handle it if I lost my brother. I just…I think it would cause me great sadness to have you so close, yet so far away. I know that’s an oxymoron, but I don’t know how else to say it.”

“I understand completely, Primmy, and yes, I promise,” I tell my sister, sealing the deal with a wiggle of our pinkies.

Prim smiles, linking her smallest finger with mine.

A smile creeps onto my lips as I recall my private conversation with my sister on the eve of Reaping Day. Last night, she waited until our parents were asleep before sneaking into my room. That night’s sharing of feelings resulted in Father telling us a childhood story about his sister. A sister whom we’ve never even met.

“Peeta? Hello, Earth to Peeta?” I am jolted back to reality, first by Finnick’s voice, then by his giant hand waving in front of my face. “Dude, I just told Annie the funniest story. Pay attention, Peeta.” Finnick grins, snapping his fingers in rapid succession.

“Oh, um,” I falter, shaking my head. “I–I apologize for not giving you the attention you deserve. W-What time is it?” I ask anxiously, noticing the still-empty seat next to me.

“Thank you, and accepted.” The words tumble out of Finnick’s mouth automatically just before he turns my head in the direction of the clock.

“Oh…right,” I reply, feeling a bit foolish.

“So, where’s Katniss? She isn’t usually late.” I look over Finnick’s shoulder and smile when I see Annie cautiously observing the entrance to the auditorium. It’s hard not to, with everyone walking single file in a synchronized fashion until they are directed toward their designated seats.

Our entire district gathers in the Auditorium for the ceremony. The adults take three days' holiday to attend. No one works. Well, except for the Elders conducting the ceremony. All of us children, along with our instructors, are seated within our age groups on one side of the auditorium, while the parents are happily chatting amongst each other on the opposite side. The Twos take up the first two rows closest to the stage, followed by the Threes, Fours, and so on, and so on, with my group of Fifteens in the balcony at the very back. Once the Ceremony of Twos concludes, them graduating into Threes, everyone still seated moves up and thus, closer to the stage. It’s supposed to be less chaotic that way, so when your number is called there isn’t far to walk.

We aren’t allowed to sit next to whomever we want, so I’m thankful Annie and Finnick are so close. Within each age group, there has always been a specific order in which we have been required to sit. And it is the same order our instructors have put us in since we began our schooling when we became Twos. I am 13-15, meaning I was the thirteenth Newchild born in my year. Katniss, or 12-15, has always sat to my left. To her left is Finnick, who is 11-15. And Annie, 14-15, sits on the other side of me.

Since before I can remember, our numbers have been a part of us. Part of our identity. Sometimes, when we were younger and had broken a minor rule, or just annoyed our parents, they would refer to us by our numbers, out of irritation.

“Oh, um…I–I don’t know, but I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” I tell Finnick and Annie while scanning the room for my friend.

“Katniss what—” Katniss’s voice calls out as she sneaks up from behind Finnick and playfully pats the back of his head before taking her seat.

“Hey!” I greet her with a bright smile. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it,” I say jokingly.

“My family unit and I had to appear at the Justice Building prior to coming here,” Katniss explains. I want to ask her why, but that would be considered rude…and since Finnick and Annie are within earshot, I decide to abide by the rules. If it were just the two of us I would ask her, and I know she wouldn’t take offense. It’s just always been that way with me and Katniss.

“The Committee would only approve…Rye’s,” Katniss leans in slightly and whispers the Newchild’s name to me, and I can’t help but smile at the mention of him. Holding him in my arms last night gave me a sense of calm…of hope.

“Overnight visits,” she continues. “We each signed a pledge stating that we’re aware his living situation is temporary.” I raise my brows in surprise as Katniss continues. “It said that under no circumstances are we permitted to grow emotionally attached to “Uncertain #27.” I nod, following along with Katniss. “It also said he will continue at the Nurturing Center during the daytime hours, and during the nighttime hours, our family will care for his social, emotional, and physical needs in hopes of eradicating his Uncertain status.” Katniss coughs, clearing her throat before she continues. “One way or the other, Newchild #27 will separate from your family unit, whether at next year's Ceremony, or Release to Elsewhere.” Katniss tries to keep a straight face while speaking in a deep, gruff voice, mimicking the Justice Building Representative. And then, we both burst out in a fit of laughter.

“Hey,” Annie says, perking up and pointing toward the stage where the group of Elders sits in a row of chairs. You can tell they’re elders by their matching dress robes. “Have you guys ever seen that old man?” she asks, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. “I don’t think I recognize him.”

I look at the man Annie is talking about and can immediately tell him apart from the rest of the Elders. There is just something…different about him. He sits in the same row of seats with the other Elders and wears the same long, dark dress robes as the other Elders. But still, there is something different about him. I don’t realize I’m staring until his eyes catch mine, and I quickly look away.

“Welcome, welcome, citizens of District 12.” Effie Trinket, our district’s Speaker, and sometimes Escort, begins in her high-pitched, annoyingly cheerful voice. Then she claps four times in slow succession to gain everyone’s attention, signaling the ceremony is beginning, and that all talking between classmates should cease.

Katniss

“Welcome, welcome!” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Peeta smirking at Effie Trinket’s introduction. As 12’s official Speaker and unofficial Escort, she is responsible for directing us “Tributes” to the location of our training on our first day. As if her high-pitched, nasally voice ringing through my ears on a daily basis isn’t bad enough, we are also forced to endure it for the entire duration of the ceremony.

Effie begins, like every year with the Naming Ceremony, and for the first time ever, I find myself intrigued and pay close attention. It must be because of Rye. I smile and wave when I see my father sitting with the other Nurturers. On his lap, he bounces a bright-eyed, chubby-cheeked baby while holding the Newchild’s hand up and waving to me. But it’s not Rye. No, Rye is at the Nurturer Center with the other babies who are too small for this year's ceremony. He’s gotten a special reprieve, an extension until next year.

“I remember the day we got Prim. Do you remember when she was that small?” Peeta keeps his voice barely above a whisper, so as not to call attention to our instructors, but it still startles me and I jump back slightly.

With a smile, I nod. “I can’t believe she was ever that small. Or quiet,” I say jokingly, and Peeta pushes my shoulder playfully. I scowl at him, then focus my attention back on Effie as she calls out the names of the Newchildren, and I slowly slip back in time.

Jealous was the word I felt that day. Not jealous that Peeta would be an older brother, something I would never experience, but jealous, almost envious at the insurmountable joy on my best friend's face. He was so excited for weeks and weeks leading up to the ceremony, for his parents had informed him of the approval of their application for an additional sibling. Sure, we were only Fours that year, but I think it was still the happiest I had ever seen Peeta.

As the years went on, Peeta was always my best friend, and I, his, but there was always a special bond between him and Prim. And it was a bond I did not share with my own brother. I always felt I was a nuisance to Gale, and he could care less about anything that had to do with me. Maybe that’s what I was jealous of.

Although the word “jealousy” is not technically forbidden in District 12, it practically is. It’s not something you voice or bring to another's attention, because that would cause discomfort. I know if I’d brought up my feelings at the evening telling of feelings, my parents would have said that while yes, it was true I would never know the experience of being an older sibling like Peeta, he would, in turn, never understand the joys of being a younger sibling like me.

Smiling at the memory, I look over to the crowd of grown-ups and wonder which pair of adults will be the lucky ones to receive Rye next year. Then suddenly, I feel a pang of sadness at the thought, though I don’t know why.

The Ceremony of Ones usually takes the longest (other than the Sixteens) because the little ones who can walk, can’t walk well, and those who aren’t walking at all must be carried by one of the Nurturers.

I’m sort of staring off into space when I hear Effie call the name “Rue”, and I remember the first little “Rue" and the Ceremony of Loss that followed. Poor little Rue was a Four when she fell into the river and was lost to the community. Something of this magnitude is such a rare occurrence because children are so carefully watched, but accidents happen. There was an immediate Ceremony of Loss, where the entire district uttered her name throughout the entire day. Loud at first, and then, as the day went on, its chants became softer, quieter, until nonexistent.

I see now that the Ceremony of Replacement is just the opposite. The bright-eyed parents walk to the stage, and a tiny baby is placed in their arms. Immediately, everyone begins chanting the Newchild’s name for a few minutes. At first, it’s soft, quiet. Then slowly, it becomes louder, faster, increasing in volume until it just stops. And then, just like that, it’s as if the first “Rue” has returned.

A few more Newchildren receive their names and are placed with smiling parents. When I hear the name “Maude-Ivory,” I smile, remembering when Finnick, Peeta, and I tended to Mags and she told us about Maude’s Ceremony of Release. There is no Murmur of Replacement Ceremony for Maude. Loss is different from Release.

Once the Ones are over, Effie invites the Twos to the stage. I get lost in a world of daydreams as the day moves on. I try to recall my dream, try to put names to the…things I don’t have a name for, but it’s pointless. Then, I somehow find myself recalling that thing Mags did the other day. I keep hearing that…sound in my head…the sound her body seemed to emit without even opening her mouth. Then, I’m wishing, yearning to go to that place in my dream. I want to feel those feelings I felt standing next to Peeta.

“I am so glad we don’t have to wear those anymore,” Peeta leans in and whispers in my ear, which startles me back to the present. For a moment, though I don’t know why, I feel self-conscious.

Peeta discreetly motions to the stage where the Sevens are proudly receiving their front-buttoning jackets.

“Oh Gosh!” I quietly groan. “Ugh, I hated those!” I agree with Peeta. When you become a Four, your jackets and tunics button in the back; supposedly, it’s meant to teach community and working together, prompting you to ask for help. Front-buttoning jackets are the first sign of independence.

The day concludes with the Eights.

***

Day Two is much like the first, beginning with the Nines receiving their bicycles. We begin much closer than we began yesterday, and as each group exits the stage, we are herded closer and closer to the front. As the distance between myself and the stage grows shorter and shorter, the level of my anxiety increases, still having no clue whatsoever what Assignment the Elders have chosen for me. Or Peeta, for that matter.

Stop worrying, Katniss. Whatever Assignment is chosen for you will be the right one. The Elders will see to it, I try to reassure myself.

Up until this point, I’ve been fairly calm. While I have had a moderately normal level of anxiety over not knowing what my Assignment will be, up until this point, it hasn’t been too overwhelming. Mother and Father say to trust the Elders, that they are never wrong. So, that is what I’m doing. That is, until Finnick opens his big mouth.

“My dad told me a story about this boy he heard about when he was a Fifteen. He was certain he would be given the Assignment of Swim Instructor, but instead, was given the task of 'Laundry Collector.' He was so scared his application for Release would be denied that he swam across the river to the next district.”

“Finnick, that story’s made up. MY parents heard that story when they were kids, too,” Peeta tells Finnick.

“Well, I’m just glad I’m a strong swimmer,” Finnick says, winking at Annie. Then he says, “Besides, if you don’t fit in you can apply for Elsewhere and be Released. It says so in the rules. Here today, gone tomorrow.” Finnick snaps his fingers. “Can you imagine?”

I’ve never really put a lot of thought into it, but now that I think about it in greater detail, I find the thought unsettling. I mean…How can someone not fit in? Every choice in the district is so meticulously made. Like choosing a spouse. It sometimes takes the Elders years of observation. And the Elders have been observing us all throughout childhood. Nothing happens by chance‒which is why I keep trying to eradicate the doubts I have. Because whatever the Elders have chosen for me is undoubtedly the right choice…Right?

Finally, the Reaping, or the official name, 'The Ceremony of 16' has begun. Simultaneously, Peeta and I turn our heads and grin wildly at the other. My heart races. I’m so excited. I have to sit on my hands to keep from jumping out of my seat.

“You have spent your entire lives learning to fit in. Today is where your differences are rewarded.” Effie begins the speech; it’s the same one each year. She thanks the committee and all the instructors for getting us this far. She thanks us for our accomplishments and goes on about the importance of each and every Assignment. “Each Assignment, no matter how great or small, has great significance in our community!” she says, just before she finally calls the first person to the stage.

“Number One.” Delly stands up graciously from her seat and walks proudly to the stage. Effie takes a moment to single Delly out, to acknowledge her differences. She ends by complimenting Delly’s bubbly personality. How she was an excited, eager, bright-eyed child, always curious. Then she hands her a folder and says, “Instructor of 3s.” Delly grins from ear-to-ear and accepts the folder.

“Delly, thank you for your childhood; I have the utmost faith you will be an excellent instructor,” Effie says just before Delly exits the stage.

If I were in charge of determining Assignments, it would have never crossed my mind to put Delly in charge of the Threes, but once I hear her new title, I can’t help but think how perfectly it fits her. I listen to Effie call the next person to the stage, paying attention as she announces their Assignment. And then she goes on to the next.

So far, none of them have stuck out to me.

But then I realize something important. Even though Effie stated this exact thing prior to the Reaping, for some reason, I truly comprehend it now. Each job is important, no matter how big or small. Each job has significance to the community. Even Birthmothers, for without them, our district would die out.

Effie continues, calling person after person to the stage. She spends 2-3 minutes recalling their childhood, acknowledging positive attributes of their personality, pointing out traits that set them apart. For the first time in our lives, we are made into individuals. And each time, she concludes by saying, “Thank you for your childhood.” Somehow, each time she makes it sound meaningful.

“Number Eleven,” Effie calls out, and like a reflex, Peeta’s hand latches on to mine with excitement as we watch our friend strut his way to the stage. I’m startled, shocked, at first, by Peeta’s touch, but then I return his grasp.

Effie embellishes Finnick's playful personality, and his optimism. She acknowledges how, ever since he was a young child, he has always been curious about how things work. Finnick receives the Assignment of Pilot.

As Finnick exits the stage, I squeeze Peeta’s hand for reassurance and prepare myself to stand up.

“Number Fourteen, Annie,” Effie calls out. Annie turns her head and meets my eyes with furrowed brows. A confused expression glazes her features, but then she’s turning her back to me and making her way to the stage.

Peeta squeezes my hand tighter, and my eyes meet his with confusion.

Neither of us say a word, but I know we must be thinking the same thing. Effie skipped us. She skipped us. Both of us.

How is this possible? What went wrong? Why did she skip us? Did we do something wrong? Did we fail to meet the graduation requirements? My head is spinning, and I think I’m going to be sick. Peeta squeezes my hand tighter, and I welcome his touch. He grounds me. We stay like this for the remainder of the ceremony with our heads lowered in shame. I’m afraid to look anywhere but straight ahead, not wanting to see the disappointed looks on everyone's faces, namely my parents. Then I think of what Gale must be thinking. Oh GOSH, GALE! He must be laughing to himself, teasing me, silently mocking me! Then I wonder–has this ever happened before?

I’m not surprised when Effie announces that Annie will be the new Instructor of Aquatics and Aerobic Exercise. Annie has always had a fondness for swimming and has spent nearly all her required volunteer hours perfecting her backstroke. Suddenly, I’m feeling guilty for not being happy for my friend. Annie just received her Assignment. And not just any Assignment, but the very one she’d been hoping for. I should be elated. I should want to jump for joy for my friend.

But I can’t focus on anything other than the fact that Effie skipped us. But…why would she skip both of us?

The audience applauds when Effie reaches the end, but I can tell it’s not genuine. I see the confused faces filling the crowd. The raised eyebrows, the narrowed eyes. Wrinkled foreheads and questioning glares.

The crowd applauds, only because it is what is expected of them, and it would be considered of the utmost rudeness not to do so. But there are murmurs of confusion. And for some reason, they comfort me. This must be a horrible accident, a mistake. I muster up all my courage and decide to speak up. Freeing my hand from Peeta’s, I bolt up from my seat. 

“I apologize for my outburst, Madame Speaker." I’m glad to know my voice still works. "But I believe that…perhaps a mistake was made. You, um…skipped numbers 12 and 13.”

I hear a chuckle coming from the old man, the one Annie pointed out earlier.

“I like her, she’s got spunk!” he grumbles rather loudly, which makes me think he meant for us to hear him. Coin twists her head around to give the old man what I’m sure could be considered a death glare.

Effie prances on her high heels, click-clacking to the other side of the stage, and promptly takes her seat, joining the other Elders in the row of chairs. The Chief Elder, an icy woman by the name of 'Coin,' takes her place. Her smile is frigid and lacks any emotion as she steps up to the microphone to address the crowd. “Your apology is accepted, Katniss.” A shiver runs up my spine at the way she says my name.

“Katniss, Peeta, if you would please join me on the stage.” Although the Chief Elder’s words come out almost as a question, I know it was far from a request. I’m glad I let go of Peeta’s hand before I stood up, because we couldn’t be seen entering the stage with our hands locked tightly around the other’s, as if we were each other’s comfort object. I feel a heightened sense of pride for my best friend, and even for myself for keeping it together as we join the Chief Elder on the stage. Because, no matter how we’re feeling on the inside, we must hold our heads up high and not allow anyone to see how affected we truly are.

Peeta

“I know that you are all concerned, that you feel I have made a mistake.” The crowd seems to relax at her words, breathing more easily. “I apologize for causing you anxiety.” It takes everything in me not to reach out and grab on to Katniss’s hand while the Chief Elder addresses the entire audience.

“We accept your apology,” the district chants in unison. Except, I don’t say it, and I notice Katniss’s mouth doesn’t move either.

I don’t want an apology, I want an explanation.

“But mostly,” she turns, directing her attention to me and Katniss with what passes as an apologetic glance, “I apologize to you, Katniss. Peeta. For I have caused you anguish.” Katniss and I nod in unison, and then the Chief Elder turns back to face the crowd.

“Katniss and Peeta have not been Assigned; they have been Selected.” Katniss and I once again lock eyes, and I wonder if she’s as confused as I am. I stiffen my arm, so I don’t reach for her hand again. Like a lifeline. She’s my lifeline. What does this mean? What does it mean to be 'Selected?' And Selected for what?

As if reading my mind, the Chief Elder says, “They have been Selected to be our next Receivers of Memory.”

An almost synchronized gasp fills the crowd, followed by a sporadic and sudden intake of breath that seems to come from every which way. Mouths hang open in shock, eyes widen with awe.

“Such a Selection is very, very rare. Our community has but one Receiver, and it is he who trains his successor. He has been our current Receiver for a very long time.”

Someone from behind us coughs, and I can tell it’s clearly fake.

“We failed in our last Selection, ten years ago when Katniss and Peeta were just toddlers. I will not dwell on it because it causes us much discomfort.” I turn my head, meeting Katniss’s eyes, raising my brows in question. Her shoulders give a slight shrug, as if to tell me she’s as lost as I am. Well, at least we’re lost together…I suppose.

“Rest assured, we have not been hasty this time, for we cannot afford another failure. You see, sometimes, we are not entirely certain about Assignments, even after the most painstaking of observations. There is cause to worry that the one assigned might not develop, even through training, every attribute necessary. Sixteens are still children, after all. What we observe as playfulness and patience–the requirements to become a Nurturer–for instance, could, with maturity, be revealed as simply foolishness and indolence. So, we continue to observe during training, and to modify behavior when necessary.” Coin pauses for a moment, and reaching for the table next to her, grabs a glass of water. She takes a sip before continuing.

“But the Receiver-in-training cannot be observed, nor the training modified. That is stated quite clearly in the rules. The rules also state that he or she, who is the Receiver, is to be alone, apart from the rest of the district, knowing that his title is the most honored in our community. We have come to realize, with the Receiver’s wisdom, that this is asking too much of one person, which is why both Peeta and Katniss have been chosen.”

My arm has been twitching, aching for Katniss’s, and I don’t have the strength to hold back anymore, so I reach for her hand, which she accepts with only a slight moment's hesitation. I can’t imagine living alone, apart from our entire district for the rest of my life. But with Katniss…with Katniss…yes, with Katniss, I think I can do it.

“Therefore, the selection must be sound,” Coin continues. “The decision must be unanimous within the Committee. There can be no doubts, however fleeting. If, during the process, an Elder reports a dream of uncertainty, that dream has the power to set a candidate aside instantly.”

“Both Peeta and Katniss were identified as possible Receivers many years ago. We have observed them meticulously. There were no dreams of uncertainty.” I look out to the crowd and search for my family. I can’t seem to find my parents, but I see Prim. Her eyes are glistening as she looks straight ahead at the Chief Elder, her hands clenched tightly together as she chews on her nails. She looks frightened. Whether it’s for me or herself, I have no clue.

“They have shown all the qualities that a Receiver must have.” Coin steps closer to me and Katniss and places a hand on my shoulder.

“Intelligence,” she begins. “We are all aware that Peeta and Katniss have been top students throughout their school days.” Coin pauses for a second. “Well, language precision is a lifelong process.” She winks at Katniss, and for some reason, a chill runs up my spine.

“Integrity,” she continues, addressing the crowd. “Katniss and Peeta, like all of us, have committed minor transgressions. We accept that and hoped they would present themselves for chastisement, and they have always done so…unprompted.”

“Courage,” she goes on. “Only one of us here today has ever undergone the rigorous training required of a Receiver. He, of course, is the most important member of the Committee: the current Receiver. It was he who reminded us, again and again, of the courage required.”

“Peeta, Katniss.” The Chief Elder turns to us again, with something akin to an expression full of pity. “The training required of you involves pain, physical pain. Neither of you has ever experienced that. Yes, Katniss, you fell out of a tree when you were a Nine and twisted your ankle. And you, Peeta, as an Eleven, burned your forearm on the ovens. But you will be faced now with a pain of a magnitude that none of us here can comprehend because it is beyond our experience. The Receiver himself was unable to describe it, only to remind us that you would be faced with it, that you would need immense courage. We cannot prepare you for that. But we feel certain you are brave!”

Brave is the last thing I feel right now. Part of me wants to run away as fast as I can, in search of the nearest hole to crawl in and bury myself deep and hide forever.

“The fourth essential attribute is wisdom. Neither Katniss nor Peeta has acquired that yet. The acquisition of wisdom will come through their training. We are convinced that Peeta and Katniss have the ability to acquire wisdom. That is what we looked for.”

“Finally, the Receiver must have one more quality, and it is one which I can only name, but not describe. I do not understand it, as you will also fail to understand it,” Coin addresses the audience again.

“Perhaps Peeta or Katniss will, because the current Receiver has told us that these two already possess this quality. He calls it the Capacity to See Beyond.”

For a moment, I’m frozen, until I feel Katniss squeezing my hand, grounding me. In this moment, I am truly and utterly terrified. And yes, I am certain that is the correct word. What does she mean, seeing beyond? Seeing beyond what? I don’t have that; I don’t know what it is. She must be wrong. She has to be. Maybe if I get on my knees and grovel, she will give me a regular Assignment. I’ll take anything. Anything but this.

But then, it happens again. My eyes flit across the crowd, and for just a moment as they’re making their way to the Chief Elder, the thing happens again. The very same thing that happened with the apple…and Katniss’s face. For just a moment, they…change.

And, like all the other times, everything is back to normal after I blink. But now, I am suddenly filled with a confidence I was never aware of, and I straighten my shoulders to look at Coin. Katniss squeezes my hand for reassurance.

“I think…maybe it’s true,” I say. “I don’t understand it yet. I don’t know what it is. Or if it even IS something. But yes, sometimes I see something, and maybe it’s beyond.”

Coin’s mouth twitches into a reassuring smile, and for the first time today, I feel like it’s genuine.

“Katniss,” she says, handing Katniss a folder. “Peeta.” She turns to me, also handing me an identical folder. “We thank you for your childhood.”

The Chief Elder exits, leaving Katniss and me stranded on the stage. I know the hundreds, maybe thousands of people sitting below us should make me nervous, but they don’t. With Katniss’s hand firmly in mine, we step up to the center of the stage. And for the first time, I don’t hide our conjoined hands. We have been 'Selected,' whatever that means, as a team. And in my heart I know that with Katniss by my side, I won’t be afraid to face whatever trials are ahead of us.

As we prepare to exit the stage and return to our seats, the crowd begins chanting our names. Katniss. Peeta. Katniss. Peeta. Softly. Slowly, louder and louder.

This is our district’s way of giving us their acceptance. My heart swells with gratitude and pride, yet at the same time, it’s filling with fear and trepidation. I still don’t understand what all this means, and that, in and of itself, is terrifying.

Then I feel Katniss tugging my arm, and together, we exit the stage.