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Chapter Text

Eastern Kentucky 1936

“It’s time we take the next step Katniss. Will you marry me?”

Why is Gale asking me to marry him now, when he’s leaving to work for Senator Undersee in the state capital in Frankfort, while I start work as a librarian here in Dandelion?

He pulls a tiny box from his jacket pocket and opens it. Inside is a gold band set with a dark stone.

“But your new…”

He doesn’t let me finish. Instead he puts a finger to my lips and answers my question before I can even express it. “We don’t have to get married right away. I just think it would be better if we were engaged before I left.”

I eye him curiously. “Why?”

We’ve been friends ever since we were children when his father worked for my father and we’d all go deer hunting together every fall, but there’s never been anything romantic between us.

“Well, it’ll make your mother happy to know that you’ve landed a young lawyer who’s going places. And, you know, my mother wants me to settle down, too.”

“I think your mother has bigger concerns than your marital status right now. She’s probably focused on getting the kids settled in the Capitol.” Last year his widowed mother re-married, and the family, minus Gale had re-located to Washington, D.C., for her new husband’s fancy job.

“But you’re right about my mother.”

In her eyes, I am the underachieving daughter – still unwed at age twenty-five and now lowering myself even further by accepting a job with the Works Progress Administration to deliver library books to the people who live in the hills and valleys that surround Dandelion.

“You’re taking work away from some poor woman who needs the money,” my mother says, all the while in complete denial about the financial crisis the Everdeens face.

Perhaps my mother refuses to see the truth because we were once wealthy. When my father died from heart problems fourteen years ago, he was part owner of one of the largest coal mines in Kentucky.

My mother, sister Primmie, and I lived comfortably on the proceeds from that mine, until the coal industry faltered in 1927, resulting in my mother selling my father’s share in the mine for pennies.

We would have had to sell our house too, but my grandparents conveniently died, resulting in my mother splitting a substantial inheritance with her younger brother Haymitch.

That influx of cash enabled us to continue to live well through the stock market crash a couple of years later, and into the subsequent years when everyone else around us had the foresight to make cutbacks.

My mother, however, continued spending without any thought to the future.

Perhaps I’m a hypocrite to complain since Primmie and I also benefited from her spendthrift ways -- I attended teacher’s college – a waste of time and money, and my sister graduated from nursing school – a shrewd move on her part since she met a doctor there and married him.

But the money is gone now. With my sister living in Lexington with her husband, it falls upon me to support Mama. At least we own the house outright, I remind myself.

Gale touches my arm, jolting me from my gloomy thoughts. “Anyway, Katniss you know what you are to me.”

Actually, I don’t know what I am to Gale because he’s never told me. But before I can ask, he leans in and presses his closed lips to mine. It’s our first kiss and it’s as romantic as dirt.

He pulls back. “I wasn’t going to leave Dandelion without giving you a ring. You’d be engaged to someone else before I even got to Frankfort.”

I smirk and slap his shoulder playfully. “That’s ridiculous and you know it.” There’s no one else. I’ve never had much interest in romance.

“Say yes, then,” he interrupts. “You haven’t given me an answer.”

“All right. Yes, I’ll marry you Gale Hawthorne. Now let me take a look at that ring.”

He slides it onto the fourth finger of my left hand; I stretch out my hand to admire it.

“It’s onyx stone.” He leans in and plants a second kiss on my lips. No improvement. But then this isn’t a love match by any means. But we’re friends – long-time friends -- and Gale, well, he is comfortable to be around.

It should work.

He rises from the sofa. “I’ve got to go. I’ll come to say good-bye before I leave town.”

“Oh, all right.”

I follow him outside, standing on the porch to watch him walk away. Snow falls and some larger flakes stick to his dark hair and dark coat.

I go inside and study the ring on my finger.

Mrs. Gale Hawthorne. Won’t Mama be happy?

When I show her the ring, she is pleased. Ecstatic even.

“Good. Now you can quit that job. Let some other woman ride a horse and traipse off into the countryside to pass out books.”

“We need the money Mama.”

“Gale Hawthorne is doing all right. That boy is going places. He’ll provide for you. And I’ll find a way to manage somehow.”

“We’re not getting married right away.”

“He hasn’t set a date?" She shakes her head disapprovingly. “You need to lock him down right now or some young lady in Frankfort will steal him from you. A handsome, educated, young man like Gale living alone in the state capital, attending a lot of parties…” her voice drifts off. “Mark my words, you’re going to lose him if you don’t set a date.”

A shiver goes down my back at her words. Could she be right? I’ve heard a lot of girls whisper about Gale over the years, mentioning his good looks and ambition. But I remind myself that Gale and I have known each other, well, forever. It’s like we’re family already – people even say that we resemble each other with our dark hair and grey eyes. No other woman could come between us.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Gale leaves for Frankfort a few days later. I don’t push him to set a wedding date, although my mother hints at it to him saying she needs to know for planning purposes. But Gale tells her he wants a simple ceremony in our front room with only close family. I give him a grateful smile. The Everdeens can’t afford another extravaganza like the one my mother held for my sister.

The first day of my new job is the day after Gale leaves. The position requires me to provide my own horse. Long ago, we had horses and I went riding regularly. But not anymore. Fortunately I’m able to rent one from our neighbor, Thom Davis.

It’s dawn when I arrive at his barn to pick up Mockingjay. I ride the gentle mare a few miles over the icy ground to the central library where I am supposed to meet the program director and collect the books to distribute.

Bristel Adkins, looks to be about thirty. He’s short, not much taller than me, and balding. He wasn’t at my interview, but he gives me a friendly handshake before showing me the books and magazines he’s selected for me to carry.

“Leave a book or two at each house, no more. Over time you’ll get to know everyone’s interests, so you can pick out things they’d like.”

I point to the small pile he’s made. “That doesn’t seem like much. Don’t I need more to bring more than that?”

“You forget that you’re also taking back returns that you can distribute at the next house. You don’t want to carry too much because of the weight.”

He hands me a map, with lines marked on it. “You’ll do today’s circuit twice each month. No deliveries on Fridays. Instead come here for our library meeting. It helps if all the librarians can get together and share information about things on their route. After our meeting, we’ll mend torn books. Some of the women even use the time to make their own books. ”

My ears perk up. Make their own books? What does he mean?

But he doesn’t say. “Better head out now.”

I stuff the items he’s given me into the saddlebag and take it outside. The weight of the loaded saddlebag is too heavy for me to throw over the horse, so I have to take everything out first, arrange the bag over Mockingjay’s back, and then re-pack the bag.

But soon I am astride Mockingjay, ready to start. I study the map for a few minutes, stuffing it into the pocket of my father’s old leather jacket, and blowing on my hands to warm them before I set off.

I may have forgotten my gloves, but I have dressed in comfortable, warm clothes -- trousers and a button-down shirt over long underwear, and an old pair of boots over a couple pairs of wool socks. My mother was horrified at my appearance, but it would be silly to dress up when I’ll spend most of my day on horseback.

The air is brisk and I am relaxed as I ride, hardly believing my luck to have gotten this job. I’ve worked very little since graduating teacher’s college, only teaching for a single year, which I hated. Mostly I’ve sat around bored at home, running errands for my mother and doing charity work for the church.

Mockingjay steadily climbs the icy hillside until we reach a cabin. The door is propped open a crack. I pull on the reins and stop. Once I’m off the mare I call out.

“Hello, there. I’m here with some books for you.”

A man about my own age steps outside the cabin. He has a shotgun in his hand, pointing it in my direction. I take a quick step back.

He looks me up and down. “Where’s Clove?”

“She’s having a baby, so she quit. I’m Katniss Everdeen, her replacement. I’ve got a book for you.”

He lowers his gun, and leans it up against the side of his cabin. “Let me get my wife.” He goes inside and a girl soon exits. She’s tall and lean. The sweater she holds tightly around her midsection only emphasizes that she’ll give birth soon.

“You the new book woman?” The girl can’t be older than eighteen.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She holds a magazine in her hands. True Romance.

“Do you got any more like this?”

I try to remember the titles of the books and magazines Mr. Adkins piled up for me. “Let me check.”

Walking forward, I take the magazine from her hands and open up the saddlebag hanging over Mockingjay’s side.

No, books or magazines that specialize in love stories. I pick out a copy of Good Housekeeping.

“You might like this one. I believe it has a story or two in it, although it’s mostly housekeeping tips.”

Well perhaps not the kind of tips that a teenage housewife living in a shanty without running water or electricity might need, but perhaps she’s into daydreaming if she likes to read fanciful love stories.

She frowns, but she takes the magazine from me.

“I’ll keep an eye out for another copy of True Romance. Maybe next time…”

“I like Love Story magazine too.” She gives me a small smile and I wave good-bye as I set off.

The morning continues in much the same fashion. I meet a number of people trading in their previously-read materials for something new.

The copy of True Romance is given away to a woman a few stops later; she returns a copy of Shakespeare’s play, Romeo and Juliet.

But interests vary widely, one housewife calls the romance magazine trashy when I offer one to her and asks for religious materials instead. Mr. Adkins has given me none. I promise to bring her something next time as she accepts my offer of Pilgrim’s Progress.

The living conditions of the people I visit differ as well. While everyone is obviously poor – certainly much worse off than the Everdeens who own a large house with indoor plumbing and electricity-- there are varying degrees of poverty.

While a few folks have given up completely and live in squalor, most show pride in their cabins, keeping them and their surrounding property well-tended. Some even have a chicken coop and one has an outbuilding in which a goat bleats loudly.

In the early afternoon, Mockingjay and I reach level ground. I tie her to a tree and brush away a thin dusting of snow to sit on a long rock, overlooking a stream below as I eat the sandwich I packed for myself. I make a mental note to keep paper and a pencil with me so I can keep track of the reading interests of the folks I’m visiting.

My next stop is a small schoolhouse. The teacher is young. She can’t be more than sixteen and likely has no training for the job. She hands me a copy of Robinson Crusoe and in return I give her a copy of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm that she can read to the class.

Her twelve students eye me curiously. Most are dressed poorly and I wonder how well the children can concentrate with only the warmth of wood stove in the corner.

My last stop is in a heavily wooded area. Bits of snow cling to the tree branches, but the ground up to the house is free of it, likely protected by those branches. A dog, tied to a tree, barks furiously as I ride closer to the cabin. A fair-haired woman sweeps the porch clear of snow and sings off key.

Weep no more, my lady,

Oh! Weep no more today!

We sing one song for the old Kentucky Home

For the old Kentucky home far away.

She is so concentrated on her task that she startles when I appear before her.

“Whatcha want?” she says, taking a step back. Two young children rush out the half-open door and cling to her skirt.

“I’m the book lady. I’ve replaced Clove.” Since everyone’s been calling me the book lady, and not my official title of traveling librarian, I decide to go with that name.

“Ooh, ooh, ooh.” Her face lights up. “Do you have The Rich Man’s Pearl by H.A. McDonald?”

The title is unfamiliar to me. “I’ll check.” I dismount, and look through my bag.

“I don’t,” I call out to her.

Her face drops. “Oh, too bad. It’s the best book I ever read. A rich man falls in love with a poor woman and they….”

It sounds like she, too, wants a romance. I search through the bag for something to suit her. It amazes me that so many woman request love stories. I don’t think I’ve ever read a book that only focused on love. I pull out the copy of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet that is still in my bag.

The woman leans her broom against the house and disappears from view– I assume she went to get the book she is going to trade out with me, but she doesn’t return.

Loud voices sound from inside. She argues with a man, but I cannot make out the words.

Finally, she returns minus the children. “Why don’t you come in? Peeta could use a visitor. Besides I could use your help.”

Tying Mockingjay to a tree, I step onto the raised porch and enter the house.

I haven’t been inside any of the other houses on the route this day; I am curious about the living conditions of the residents in the hills.

I enter a single room whose walls are completely covered with newspapers instead of painted plaster. Someone has taken paint, though, and drawn illustrations of animals on some of the lower sections of the newspaper about two feet from the floor. I am astounded at the detail of the artwork. It looks like something one would find in a children’s picture book.

A table sits in the center. On one side of the room is a curtained off area. On the other side is a small kitchen, with a wood stove and shelves to hold dishes and a few canned items.

A double bed is pushed up against the wall, close to the stove. A man sits up in it. He wears a t-shirt. A blanket covers his lower body. He is handsome, fair-haired like the woman.

The way his piercing blue eyes scrutinize me, though, are unsettling. He’s awfully brazen to stare at me so boldly in front of his wife and in the presence of his two young children who have climbed on the bed to join him.

“Peeta, this is the book lady.” The enthusiasm in the woman’s voice is apparent, but I suppose living in such isolation would make anybody eager to see a new face.

She turns to me. “What’s your name?”

“Katniss Everdeen.”

“I’m Delly Mellark. This is my brother-in-law Peeta.”

Relief washes over me to learn that the man isn’t her husband, but it is quickly followed by a nervous anxiety. My cheeks grow warm. It’s as if he’s has set me on fire with his eyes. I clutch Romeo and Juliet to my chest.

“Hello,” I mutter as I remind my self that I have a fiancé. But Gale has never looked at me like this man.

Maybe I should have worn my engagement ring today to show that I am taken.

“I was wondering if you could help me for a moment?” Delly walks close to the bed. She lifts up the edge of the blanket that covers Peeta’s lower body to reveal a pale, muscular calf. A bloodied rag is tied around it.

“I told you no Delly,” Peeta growls.

My stomach churns and I advert my eyes from the wound to look at Delly. “What happened?”

“Peeta got shot last night and I need your help. Could you hold his leg steady while I dig the bullet out?”

My jaw drops at her request. Is she insane? “I can’t do that.”

“I need the doctor Delly,” Peeta breaks in.

At the sound of his voice, I turn to look at him. “How did it happen?”

“I was shot by a revenuer.”

I’m surprised he trusts me enough to tell me. Making white whiskey is illegal despite Prohibition having ended. Not that I’d go squealing to the authorities. Moonshining is a tradition in this area that goes back before the Revolutionary War. And in these times people do what they need to do to survive.

“Well, at least you got away.” Delly’s face screws up like she might cry.

She turns to me. “They caught my husband Rye a few months ago. He’s still in jail.”

I seek to escape. I don’t need to be caught up into this family’s drama. My family has enough of its own.

“Did you have a book to trade me for this?” I hold up the play to Delly.

“Oh yes, right here.” She reaches under Peeta’s bed and hands me a collection of poems by Robert Browning.

We trade books and I look to Peeta. “If you want, I can stop by the doctor when I get back to town and send him to see you.”

“Please do. I’d be most grateful.” He gives me a big smile, almost making me forget that he’s a lawbreaker.

“All right.”

Delly follows me outside the cabin. “Don’t get the doc. It will cost too much, and he’ll charge extra traveling here because of the cold. I can dig the bullet out myself.”

“But what if the wound gets infected? He could lose his leg or die.”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “I’m not stupid because we don’t live in town. I know how to treat infections.”

I nod quickly and untie Mockingjay. The dog that was barking when I arrived fell asleep.

While riding home over the icy trail, I fret over whether to stop by the doctor’s office or not. People who reside in the hills rarely call the doctor to treat them; rather they rely on old folk remedies. Granted some work well, but I worry that Peeta might lose his leg if he depends on his sister-in-law. And he did ask me to send for the doctor…

My mind made up, I steer Mockingjay in the direction of Main Street to visit Dr. Coriolanus Snow, the only doctor in Dandelion.

He lives above his office and I pound on the door and tell him about Peeta’s injury leaving out the part about how it happened, and give him directions to the cabin.

He frowns. “I’ll ride out early tomorrow and see what I can do. Hopefully it isn’t infected already.”

The thought makes me ill, but I tell myself it’s not my concern. If Peeta broke the law, he deserves the consequences of his actions. I thank Dr. Snow and head for Thom’s barn.

Author’s Note: Frankfort is the capital of the state of Kentucky.

The Works Progress Administration was a United States government agency created in 1935 by President Franklin Roosevelt to provide jobs for millions of unemployed Americans during the Great Depression (1929-1939). WPA workers built public buildings and roads throughout the U.S. The agency also employed musicians, artists, writers, actors and directors in large arts, drama, media, and literacy projects. Eastern Kentucky’s Pack Horse Library Project was just one of many innovative ways people were put to work to earn a salary by serving the public. The WPA was dissolved in 1943 because it was no longer needed, as wartime work in the military and factories kept the population employed.

My Old Kentucky Home, Goodnight , was written by Stephen Collins Foster in 1852. It is an anti-slavery ballad that was named the state song for Kentucky by the state legislature in 1928.

Prohibition was a nationwide law (18^th amendment to the U.S. constitution) that made the production, transportation and sale of alcoholic beverages illegal. The law was in effect from 1920 to 1933. In December 1933, the ratification of the 21^st amendment to the U.S. constitution repealed the 18^th amendment. However U.S. federal law then, and even still prohibits the manufacture of distilled spirits (moonshine) without meeting special licensing requirements. The U.S. Department of the Treasury’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives was then/is still responsible for enforcing this law. These enforcers are referred to as “revenuers.”

Chapter Text

The week passes quickly. New books and magazines make their way into my saddlebag and then out again, as I travel a new circuit each day. Gulliver’s Travels, Popular Mechanics, Women’s Home Companion and a variety of children’s picture books. Not everyone can read so children’s books are popular because of the illustrations.

On Friday, I leave Mockingjay behind and walk a couple of miles to the central library, eager to meet the other librarians in the program.

There are four in my district, Johanna, Lavinia, Cecelia, and myself. I am the youngest and only unmarried woman in the group. Lavinia and Cecelia even have children. Both have unemployed husbands, though, who tend their children while they work.

Mr. Adkins opens the meeting by showing us a pile of books and magazines that were recently donated. Next we go around the table and talk about our week.

It’s interesting to listen to the other librarians’ experiences. Some have become such personal friends with the people they visit that they’re exchanging recipes, like they’re members of the family.

“How are things going?” Mr. Adkins asks me.

“I could use more books and magazines about romance. It seems to be quite popular on my routes.”

Johanna snorts loudly. “Clove used to say that as well. I told her it was because of the illustrations on the cover with those half-naked women.”

I bite my lip to stop from laughing aloud. I’d had the same thought myself. The covers of some magazines, Love Story for instance, were sensationally drawn to entice the reader to look inside. A few people had refused particular issues because of the picture on front, calling it indecent.

“There was a book Clove said that everyone kept requesting,” Johanna continues. “Something about a rich man.”

“The Rich Man’s Pearl,” I murmur.

I’d just passed along the well-worn paperback yesterday to an elderly woman. It surprised me that an old, wrinkled granny would be interested in such a sentimental tale.

The story synopsis on the back cover described it as romantic yarn about a man who gives up everything to win the heart of the woman he loves. I would have supposed that that elderly patron would prefer more practical reading matter. Surely she was long past caring about such frivolous concerns.

“Lucky you,” Johanna says. “I got the routes with all the religious folks. All they want are Sunday school papers and to pray for my soul.”

After listening to Johanna’s forthright remarks for the past hour, I’m not surprised that some folks might want to pray for her redemption.

We go through the new donations with Mr. Adkins after the meeting ends. We mend the bindings of books with masking tape. Torn pages are fixed with scotch tape.

A few magazines are so frayed that they cannot be repaired. Mr. Adkins rips the pages apart.

Johanna reaches across the table and snatches a photo of the British royal family that comes from an old issue of Life magazine out of the stack of pages. “I can use this picture for the book I’m making.”

I look to Mr. Adkins. “You mentioned that we make books, too, on my first day.”

“Scrapbooks,” he says, pointing to the stack of loose papers that Johanna has set on the table in front of her. Photographs, illustrations, and articles from magazines have been neatly trimmed and glued onto the pages. She’s also handwritten a couple of recipes down.

“We need more materials to distribute and this is a way to make our own,” Mr. Adkins says. “Everything we have comes from donations. The WPA only pays salaries, nothing more.”

The others have also brought their saddlebags along, something I hadn’t thought to do. They empty them and then re-stock them with different books and magazines. Mr. Adkins tells me to stop by Monday morning before heading out to do the same.

At the day’s end, I walk home invigorated by my conversation with the other librarians. Still, I’m glad that it’s Friday. This is my first week of employment in years, and I’m tired. I look forward to sitting in the front room and listening to the radio this evening.

But when I arrive home, Dr. Snow sits in an armchair in our front room drinking tea with my mother.

She scowls, as she sets down her cup. “I tell you we can’t do it. I will not have a man living here with my unmarried daughter. It isn’t proper.”

“Respectability should be the least of your concerns, Lily.” The doctor picks up his cup up from the side table to take a sip.

My eyebrows rise. I greet the doctor and ask what’s going on.

“I went to see the patient you told me about, Peeta Mellark.”

“How’s he doing?” I sit down next to my mother on the sofa, clench my hands, and brace myself for bad news.

“Much better.”

I let out a silent sigh of relief. Thoughts of his piercing, blue eyes have drifted through my mind several times over the past few days.

“You saved his leg,” Dr. Snow says. “Unfortunately he’ll never get better if he stays in that house. There’s no running water, no electricity and the bathroom is outdoors. Quite frankly the living conditions are unsanitary.”

The living conditions of Peeta’s home are similar to nearly everyone on my library route. No one has indoor plumbing or electricity.

“I need to see him regularly to make sure his leg heals properly and I can’t be traveling into the hills a couple times a week. I was just telling your mother that it would be best if he were to board here for the next month. Your sister’s bedroom is empty.”

Does Dr. Snow mean to help us to earn some extra money? I guess my acceptance of a WPA job has caught his notice that the Everdeens are in serious financial straits.

But as I consider the logistics of taking in a boarder -- more especially a man who makes me anxious just thinking about him -- doubts fill my mind. How could it work? I am gone from the house all day. Would my mother physically be able to tend to Peeta if he needs help walking? Her health has been up and down over recent years.

Besides, how does Peeta have money to pay us? His sister-in-law didn’t even want to call the doctor because of the expense.

I shake my head. “I don’t think we could do it, Dr. Snow. Maybe there’s another family that could help.”

The doctor gives me an odd look. “If only it were that simple. The thing is, I’m not asking you to do this. I’m telling you to do it.”

A frightened look crosses my mother’s face and my stomach drops at the tone in his voice. Something is wrong.

“I don’t understand.”

“You haven’t told her, have you, Lily?”

My mother’s face is white.

“Told me what?”

“Your mother owes me money. A great deal.”

I turn to her. “For what?

When she doesn’t answer, the doctor chimes in. “I paid your sister’s tuition for nursing school with the proviso that she’d come to work for me afterwards at a partial salary until I was fully reimbursed.”

Shocked, I turn to my mother. “Was Primmie aware of this arrangement?”

“No, I didn’t tell her. But it was the only way I could send her for training.”

“I don’t understand why you would do this, Mama.”

“I meant it to be a good thing,” my mother explains. “Primmie would have had a guaranteed job after graduation. How was I to know she’d fall in love with a doctor and move away?”

She’s blaming my sister for her financial problems? My thoughts flit rapidly ahead to other expenses. “But how did you pay for her wedding then?”

My mother bites her lip. “I took out a loan against the house with the bank. I had to. What would people think of our family if Primmie had a small wedding?”

I shake with anger.

There is one last card I can think of to play to persuade Dr. Snow to change his mind about turning our house into his personal nursing home.

“Did Peeta tell you who shot him?”

The doctor nods. “I’m fully aware of Peeta Mellark’s situation. He’s not the first man in those hills I’ve had to treat.”

“Well, I don’t want the authorities showing up here and getting us into trouble too if he’s wanted for a crime.”

“What happened?” My mother asks.

I lower my voice. “He was shot by revenuers.”

My mother scowls. “Now Coriolanus...”

But Dr. Snow breaks in. “Peeta Mellark has not committed any crimes. He was shot by some idiot revenuer that mistook him for his brother, who is a moonshiner.

“Believe me, if Peeta had done something, other than being at the wrong place at the wrong time, they would already have him in custody.”

It seems, then, we have no choice, although I do wonder how Peeta pays Dr. Snow for his care. In moonshine?

But I guess it doesn’t concern us since no money will come our way in this transaction; rather by taking Peeta in, we will begin to pay down our debt to Dr. Snow.

Grimacing, I look to the doctor. “All right then, when can we expect him?”

“As soon as I can get him moved here.”

After he leaves, my mother lashes out. “I don’t want a strange man in this house. What will the neighbors say? What will Gale think?”

“Who cares about the neighbors, Mama. Tell them he’s a long-lost relative paying us a visit. As for Gale, I think he’d be glad that we’re paying off our debt to Dr. Snow.”

What will Gale think? He knew why I had to take the WPA job, but I think he’d be shocked to see how low the Everdeens had sunk. Would he reconsider our engagement if he knew of my mother’s secret debts.

It occurs to me that my mother might owe money to others in town as well, but I’m too aggravated and too hungry to ask about it now. I need to make some dinner for us.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Peeta Mellark moves into our house Sunday afternoon. I have no idea how Dr. Snow transports him down the hillside, but he is on crutches as he gets out of the doctor’s car. His face is pale as he maneuvers the steps up to our porch and inside the front door. The doctor follows him carrying a satchel.

He is every bit as good-looking as I remember, maybe even better because he has shaved and combed his hair.

My mother decides he will not sleep in Primmie’s bedroom because it is upstairs, too close to our rooms, and with his injury it would be difficult for him to go up and down the stairs.

Instead, we put him in the study downstairs. The room, which is almost as large as the cabin where I first met Peeta, contains a daybed, an upholstered armchair, a desk, and a wall of books that used to belong to my father.

It has a big window that overlooks the untended side yard of the house.

Peeta sits on the daybed and surveys the room. A smile appears on his face. “Yes, this will work fine.”

“Well, I hope so.” My mother’s tone is curt.

Dr. Snow asks about the bathroom and my mother frowns. Our house has only one bathroom and it is located across the hall from the study. She is angry that we must share it with this stranger for the next month.

“Well, I’ll let you get settled Peeta,” the doctor says and Mama and I follow him out, closing the door to give Peeta his privacy.

We go into the front room and Dr. Snow gives us brief instructions about Peeta’s care. Other than providing meals and checking on him a couple of times a day, we aren’t required to do anything. The doctor will stop by every few days to change the dressing on his calf.

Once Dr. Snow leaves, I go into the kitchen to fix our Sunday dinner. Mama and I usually eat a large lunch on Sunday after attending church. Dinner is light, generally soup and toast.

But I have no idea when or what Peeta has last eaten, so I make a sandwich for him, and ladle out a bowl of potato soup.

I put it all on a tray, carry it to his room, and knock lightly on the door.

“Come in,” he calls out.

I open it and find him on crutches standing in front of the bookcases. He turns to look at me.

“I brought you some food.”

A grateful smile crosses his face as I set it on the desktop that will act as his table.

“Thank you.” He comes over and awkwardly reaches past his crutches to pull out the desk chair, before sitting down.

I head for the door.

“Miss Everdeen, thank you and your mother for taking me in.”

We had no choice, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. Instead I say, “Call me Katniss.”

“Thank you Katniss for everything.”

“You're welcome.” I close the door behind me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

I don’t see Peeta until the next morning when I carry breakfast in to him. I knock lightly on the study door before dawn. I expect that he is still asleep but I will leave the food on the desktop for when he wakes up.

However, the floor lamp is lit. He sits in the armchair reading.

“You’re an early riser,” I say, setting the tray on the desk.

He puts the book down onto his lap. “This room is astounding. Do you keep all the library books you lend out here?”

It takes a moment for me to understand what he means. He thinks that our home library is the central library for Dandelion.

“No. These books belonged to my late father.”

“He certainly read widely.”

“He did.” My hand flies to my chin as memories of my father wash over me. He was a scholarly man who loved academics but instead chose to make his mark in the business world after his family suffered financial loss during the years following the Panic of 1893. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of him and miss him.

I wonder what he’d think of our current predicament.

Smiling slyly at me, Peeta picks up the book in his lap and reads aloud. “See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”

I startle at his words, and drop my hand from my face and to my side.

“Is that from Romeo and Juliet?”

“Yes. You left a copy with Delly. I saw it on the shelf and wanted to finish reading it.”

Other than my father, I can’t think of any man I know who would willingly read Romeo and Juliet. I doubt Gale ever has.

A twinge of guilt hits me as I compare my fiancé with Peeta.

“I’m going to work now. My mother will bring in your lunch this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Katniss.”

I leave the room wondering about Peeta. If Dr. Snow is correct and he isn’t a moonshiner, how does he earn a living?

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

My mother complains about Peeta’s presence in the house. She is suspicious of him because he is too quiet.

I say he likely spends the day reading or sleeping. “He is supposed to be recovering, Mama.”

Dr. Snow visits him while I am at work. According to my mother, they talk for a long time behind closed doors.

After a couple of days of eating alone in his room, Peeta invites himself to join us in the kitchen for dinner. My mother fumes in silent rage, speaking only when necessary. I am polite; but I, too, am annoyed. I’m tired at the end of the day and don’t want to socialize.

But Peeta melts my icy mood by mentioning things he’s read in my father’s books. His face becomes quite animated, intense even as he speaks, making me all the more curious about him. He seems much too refined for someone who was raised in the hills surrounding Dandelion. His table manners are quite impressive, too.

The next evening he asks me about my work as a traveling librarian. I’ve haven’t talked about my job to my mother because I knew she was against me taking it. But I find myself describing the day’s ride and the people I met. Of course, Peeta knows most everyone on my circuit. He leaves me in stitches telling me funny tales about them.

Without thinking, I find myself mentioning the scrapbook I’ve started.

“I can draw,” he says. “Maybe I can help you with it.”

My mother, who has listened to the entire conversation with pursed lips interrupts to ask me about Gale. “Have you written to your fiancé yet? I’m sure he’d be most interested in your work.

“Katniss’ fiancé works for Senator Undersee in Frankfort,” she boasts to Peeta.”

Peeta nods, and reaches for his crutches and stands up. “Thank you for the delicious meal,” he says as he abruptly leaves for the study.

As soon as the study door closes, I whisper loudly to my mother. “Why did you do that? It was plain rude.”

“I can see exactly what’s going on here Katniss and I won’t have it.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve never seen you like this. Flirting. Laughing at silly stories. You’re falling for him.”

My face grows red at her accusation. “I’m not. Can’t I have a simple conversation with a man if I’m engaged?”

My mother snorts. “Is that why you haven’t worn your ring once since he’s moved in?”

I haven’t worn the ring because I’m scared of the stone falling out of its setting or getting damaged while I’m working. It’s a beautiful ring, but not very practical for the life I’m currently leading.

Besides what does my mother know about Gale’s and my engagement? Only yesterday I received a letter from Gale in which he described a dinner he’d attended at the Senator’s home and the long conversation he’d had with the senator’s daughter.

Madge filled me in on the latest gossip in the state capital. There’s so much scandal here. It’s a big help to know what’s going on.

If Gale can converse so freely with the senator’s daughter, discussing who knows what kind of scandals, there’s no reason I can’t have a friendly conversation with Peeta about library books.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“How’s Peeta doing?” Delly asks when Mockingjay and I arrive at her cabin next.

“Good. I expect he’ll be fit to come back home to you in a few weeks.”

“Oh, but he doesn’t live here,” she says. “He was only visiting.”

My eyebrows rise. “Where does he live?”

“Chicago.”

“Up north?” A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. I’ll likely never see Peeta again once he leaves our house then.

You’re engaged, I remind myself, a phrase that springs to mind repeatedly every time my thoughts fly to Peeta.

Delly nods her head vigorously. “Oh yes, Peeta’s famous up there. He sells his drawings to all the magazines.”

My eyes narrow. This woman must be telling a tall tale. If Peeta is a famous artist, why have I never heard of him?

Still, he can draw quite well, as he so plainly showed me the previous evening when he drew a sketch of me on Mockingjay for the cover of my book.

And if he had a good job, it would explain how he could afford to pay for Dr. Snow’s care.

Delly excuses herself to got inside and retrieve Romeo and Juliet.

“What a horrible story,” she says as she hands me the book. “It’s too bad that Friar Lawrence was a fool. It seems to me that he could have fixed things differently so that Romeo and Juliet could have run off and had a good life away from their feuding families.

A smile comes to my lips at her re-imagined conclusion. “So you’d change Shakespeare’s ending then?”

“I like happy endings. I don’t need to read something sad where nothing works out in the end. I have enough troubles of my own.”

I do, too.

I give her a copy of Love Story magazine. I’d been saving it especially for her today.

“Goody.” She snatches it from my hands. “Maybe I can read a little before the kids wake up. But I’m still waiting for The Rich Man’s Pearl,” she reminds me.

As is nearly every woman on my circuits. I need to read that book.

I turn to go but she stops me. “Could you tell Peeta that I got a letter from Rye? They’re letting him out soon. My brother Sam is helping me in the meantime.”

“All right.” Had Peeta been at the cabin to watch over Delly and her children while his brother was in jail? It’s none of my business, still I find myself growing intrigued about the man living in our study.

As I ride home that evening I consider Delly’s revelations. Who is the real Peeta Mellark?

Author’s Note: Richard Drew, an employee of 3M, invented masking tape in 1925. In 1930, he invented scotch tape.

The Panic of 1893 was an economic depression in the United Sates that lasted until 1897 and affected every part of the economy. It was accompanied by violent strikes and massive unemployment.

Pulp magazines were popular, inexpensive fiction magazines that were published between 1896 to the 1950s. The term pulp comes from the cheap wood pulp paper the magazines were printed on. At their peak of popularity in the 1920s and 1930s, they often sold up to a million copies per issue. It’s estimated that in 1934 there were about 150 “pulp” magazines being published, one of which was Love Story . Pulp covers were printed on higher-quality (slick) paper. They were famous for their half-dressed damsels in distress. Covers were important enough to sales that sometimes they would be designed first and authors would be asked to write a story based on the cover.

Chapter Text

I pass along Delly’s message after my mother finishes dinner and goes to the front room to listen to the radio.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Peeta says. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Now would be an ideal time to ask Peeta about himself. Where do you live? How do you earn a living?

But I can’t figure out how to ask directly without sounding nosy. Besides if I question him about his life, wouldn’t that give him the right to do the same to me? And I’m not ready to discuss my engagement.

No, I can wait a little longer to find out about Peeta.

Instead I ask, “Do you want to work on the scrapbook again?”

“Sure.”

I gather the supplies that Mr. Adkins gave me at last Friday’s meeting, a dozen large sheets of paper and a stack of pages from old magazines, and set them on the kitchen table.

I have grand plans for the book I am putting together. To my eye, the books the other librarians have created have no logic. They are a compilation of random photos and articles pasted onto thick paper and bound together with string.

My idea is to make an organized book that will be divided into three sections: one for women, another for men, and a third for children.

I set to sorting out the magazine pages into the three categories, while Peeta draws titles for each section -- a housewife sweeping her cabin for the women’s section, a man chopping down a tree for the men’s section, and some kids playing with a dog for the children’s section.

We work for an hour in comfortable silence before my mother appears to announce that it’s time for bed.

A routine develops, working on the book every evening after dinner. It’s quiet, absorbing work that helps take my mind off the Everdeens’ financial problems.

Out of the corner of my eye I watch Peeta as he draws, making the borders of each page bloom with strokes of ink. His face takes on a special look when he concentrates. His usual, friendly expression is replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside of him.

How will I say good-bye to this man when he leaves our house and I likely never see him again?

Working together, we finish the book in a week.

I glue the last clipping into place. “I feel like we should celebrate.”

“It’s early still,” Peeta notes. “If you’d like, I could bake you some cookies to mark the occasion.”

“Do you know how to bake cookies?”

He gives me a lopsided grin. “I worked at a bakery for a couple of years. I can bake practically anything.”

“That would be great.”

I’m puzzled, though. A baker? Delly said he was an artist.

But already he asks me what kind of cookie I’d like.

“Maybe we should take a look in the pantry to see what supplies we have on hand, first?”

After a quick inventory, Peeta suggests snickerdoodles.

I bring all the ingredients to the table, along with a bowl, a measuring cup, a wooden mixing spoon, and a rolling pin so that Peeta can work while seated. I sit beside him and watch.

To my amazement he doesn’t even use the measuring cup; he just adds a heap of this and a dollop of that and presto the mixture is turned into dough.

He rolls out the dough on the tabletop and cuts the cookies out using the lip of a drinking glass turned upside town.

I clean up the kitchen and tell Peeta about my day while the cookies bake in the oven, releasing a comforting scent of cinnamon and sugar throughout the room.

Soon we are eating them and drinking milk, and taking another look through the book we’ve made.

“My patrons are going to love this. Your pictures are going to be a big hit. You’re such a good artist.”

“Thanks. It’s too bad not everyone thinks that way,” he says.

Before I get a chance to ask Peeta about the fool who would criticize his talent, my mother barges into the kitchen.

A look of surprise appears on her face. “You’ve made cookies, Katniss?”

“Would you like one?” I hold the plate out to her.

She shakes her head. “No, thank-you. And please don’t drink any more milk. It has to last the week.”

My face burns in embarrassment, but anger too. I’ve yet to receive my first paycheck from the WPA, but I fully intend to help out with expenses once I do. That’s why I took the job.

“Did you come in here for a reason Mama?”

“Just to remind you that it’s getting late.”

Peeta picks up his glass and gulps down the last of the milk in it. He reaches for his crutches that rest against the side of the table.

“Goodnight Katniss. Pleasant dreams.”

He smiles at me, gives my mother a nod, and leaves.

I stand, cover the plate with a clean dishcloth, and set the cookies into the refrigerator, before following my mother upstairs.

Not tired enough to fall asleep, I lie propped up against my pillow in bed with a book, when my mother knocks softly on the door. Before I can call out she opens it, and steps inside.

She wears her bathrobe and it hangs loose on her frame. How has my mother turned frail overnight?

I lay my book down onto my stomach. “Is something wrong Mama?”

“No, I just wanted to talk with you.” Her voice is low. She shuts the door and comes closer.

“I think it would be a good idea if you paid a visit to Gale.”

“Go to Frankfort right now? We can’t afford for me to travel and I doubt Mr. Adkins will let me have time off since I just started. And we’re exchanging letters, anyway.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not the same. Seeing Gale would bring back all the loving feelings you have for him and make you forget about…” Her voice trails off and she points a finger at the floor to the study that is beneath us.

“There’s nothing going on between us.”

She purses her lips. “I’m not going to argue with you Katniss. I only want you to be happy. Gale is going places. He’ll be a good provider.

She points to the floorboards again. “A man who grew up in the hills in a family of lawbreakers, well, he’s destined for a hardscrabble life.”

Outraged at her prejudice, I defend Peeta. “You don’t know anything about him.

“Just promise me you’ll think about visiting Gale.”

Reluctantly I agree to consider it, just to get her out of my bedroom.

It’s almost as if Peeta knows about our conversation, although I don’t think he could have heard us since the house has thick walls and our voices were low, but after that day he seems to take a step back in our friendship, or maybe its me who takes a step back as I remind myself that I am engaged.

Still, we complete another book for the library. This second book is meant for children. Each page has a border of alphabet letters cut from magazines. There are also magazine photos of animals and silly sketches Peeta draws about a group of children who argue over the most trivial things.

Peeta continues to recover, soon setting his crutches aside.

But one evening, nearly a month after he arrived, I come home from work to find that he is gone, without even telling me good-bye.

“Did he say where he was going next?”

“Home, I expect. Dr. Snow said his wound was healed, so he left.”

My mother pulls a crumpled dollar bill from her sweater pocket. “Peeta gave us this before he went, though. It was kind of him, considering Coriolanus didn’t reimburse us for any of his meals.”

That is the first and only nice thing my mother ever says about Peeta.

Dr. Snow stops by two days later to tell us he has another person for us to take in -- Mags Russell, an elderly widow that my mother and I know well.

Mags isn’t sick – just old and delicate. She needs someone to prepare her meals and make sure she eats regularly.

“Maybe you should write to Uncle Haymitch and ask him to help us out,” I say to my mother after the doctor leaves. “At this rate we’ll have boarders living with us forever.

My mother scowls. “Haymitch? He’s no family to me. He’d moved clear across the country to Oregon when you were a baby. He ignored me when my husband died and didn’t even have the decency to come to your grandparents’ funeral. Just had the lawyer send him his half of the inheritance.

“Besides he’s always been stingy. Even as a child. He takes after our great-grandpapa who came over from Scotland.”

Surprisingly my mother seems pleased that Mags has replaced Peeta in the study because the old widow is company for her. The two spend hours talking about the good old days in Dandelion when they were both healthy and wealthy.

While my job keeps me busy during the day, loneliness creeps up on me in the evenings. Perhaps my mother was right, and I allowed myself to develop a silly, little crush on Peeta, but all I know is that I miss him.

To make things worse, the letters Gale writes trouble me. He seems to spend a lot of time with Madge Undersee, the senator’s daughter.

I’m not naïve enough to think that Gale has lived the life of a monk. I’ve heard gossip over the years. But we were only friends then; now we’re engaged. I am his and he’s supposed to be mine.

If my mother was right about my fond feelings for Peeta, could she also be right about another woman thinking Gale is fair game since we haven’t set a wedding date?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“Would it be possible to take next Friday off,” I ask Mr. Adkins, in late February. “I have some personal business to attend to in the state capital.”

He gives me permission, and I write Gale a letter to tell him of my trip. It will likely use up most of my recent paycheck, but I want to be sure that things are fine between us.

It’s still dark when I get on the bus early Friday morning. Other passengers are picked up along the way, and by the time we roll into Frankfort, it’s almost noon. The weather is cool, but the sun shines in a cloudless sky.

Gale suggested an inexpensive hotel I can lodge at for the next two nights. He is at work, but we arranged to meet for lunch at 1:30 p.m. at a diner close to the statehouse.

I drop off my suitcase at my hotel, and then head out to find the diner.

Frankfort is a busy city, streets filled with cars and sidewalks full of pedestrians -- unlike sleepy Dandelion. Everyone appears purposeful as they stride down the sidewalk, while I am completely lost.

Frustrated in trying to locate the diner, I eventually go into a bakery to ask for directions. The smell of sugar and cinnamon that permeates the shop reminds me of baking cookies with Peeta.

You’re engaged, you’re engaged, you’re engaged, I repeat to myself as I hoof it to the diner.

By the time I get there, I am starving, and doubting the wisdom of my visit altogether. I wait inside the door for Gale and study the dark stone on my ring. I haven’t worn it since he left Dandelion, and it feels curious, like an encumbrance on my hand.

Gale is ten minutes late, but when he arrives I am relieved. He is the same, yet different too. But I can’t put my finger on it.

He kisses my cheek and loops his arm through mine as the waitress leads us to a booth.

I sit across from him and drink in his presence. He’s dressed in a dark, rumpled suit. His eyes are lined with circles.

“You must be working hard, you look tired.”

He grins at me. “I am. Senator Undersee keeps me on my toes.”

He describes a piece of legislation he is helping the Senator to write, but I hardly listen. I’m just soaking in the sight of my friend.

The waitress interrupts to take our order and Gale asks me about home. I tell him about Mags.

“It’s nice of your mother to help her out,” he says.

I had written to him briefly about Peeta staying with us, describing him in the most vague way, hoping that Gale would assume we are taking in boarders to help with expenses.

While Gale is aware of my mother’s reckless spending, I’m ashamed to tell him that we are obligated to take in Dr. Snow’s patients to pay off debt my mother has accumulated.

After a sandwich, a slice of pie, and a cup of coffee, Gale tells me he must return to Senator Undersee’s office.

“The senator is holding a reception that includes refreshments, at the statehouse at 5 p.m. for one of President Roosevelt’s friends who is in town. I’d like you to attend and meet the senator.”

He gives me directions, and then kisses me on the cheek, squeezing my hand lightly before he goes.

I walk back to the hotel to officially check in and rest up before the evening. I hardly slept the previous night because I was excited about the trip.

The room is small with a double bed, dresser, and armchair. I kick off my shoes, remove my dress and place it over the chair. I lie down in my slip to nap.

I wake up startled, think I’ve overslept and have missed the reception. I look to the bedside clock. It’s already 4:45 p.m.

It would be nice to take a quick shower, but I don’t have time. Instead I wash my face, take the pins from my hair, rearrange my braid and re-pin it up. I open my suitcase and search for something suitable to wear. I didn’t know about it, though, so I didn’t bring anything special.

But it dawns on me that Gale is going to the reception straight from work. I doubt anyone will be dressed up in anything other than business attire. So I put the dress I traveled in back on, shaking out the wrinkles first, and set off for the capital building.

A guard stands just inside the statehouse door. When I ask for directions to the reception Senator Undersee hosts, he tells me it’s at the top of the stairs on the second floor.

“Second room to the right.”

After leaving my coat at the cloakroom near the entrance, I hurry up the ornate staircase.

Gale’s place of business with its marble floors, large chandeliers, and massive oil paintings of past legislators, is certainly far different than my work setting in the hills and valleys around Dandelion.

Clinking glasses and loud conversation greet me as I enter a large ballroom. Men drink, smoke, and jabber with each other. A handful of older women, likely secretaries, stand at the periphery conversing.

My eyes land on Gale immediately. He’s talking to the most attractive woman in the room. She has strawberry-blonde hair that is fashionably short and stylishly arranged to curl around her face, her skin is as smooth as porcelain, and her eyes are a pale shade of blue.

But it isn’t her beauty that catches my eye first. No, it’s her outfit. She wears an expensive party dress with a full skirt and a bodice made of sparkly fabric. In comparison, every other woman in the room looks like a frump.

Suddenly, I feel out of place in my out-of-style dress that is wrinkled from the long bus ride and my out-of-fashion long hair that is pinned up on my head.

Taking a deep breath, I walk over to my fiancé. I tug at his sleeve to catch his attention, so engrossed is he in conversation.

He tilts his head to look down at me. “You’re late Katniss. Our guest of honor has already come and gone.”

“I took a nap and overslept.”

“Well I’m glad you made it. I’d like to introduce you to Madge Undersee, the senator’s daughter.”

I give her an innocent smile, all the while studying her carefully.

She sizes me up as well, including the ring on my left hand.

“Madge, this is my fiancée Katniss.”

“How are you liking Frankfort?” Her voice sounds like a cat’s purr, soft and cunning.

“Fine, I’ve only been here a few hours.”

Gale reaches for my arm. “Excuse me Madge, I’m going to get Katniss something to eat.”

He leads me away to a long table at the back of the room where there is a feast waiting. Platters with different kinds of breads, sliced meats, cheeses, tiny cakes and cookies. It’s been a long while since I’d seen so much food in a single spot.

“You said there would be refreshments,” I exclaim, eager to forget about Madge. “This is dinner.”

We both pile our plates high. I follow Gale to the bar that is set up in the corner of the room where a man dressed in a suit mixes drinks.

I rarely imbibe. My mother doesn’t keep liquor in the house -- she’s still upset about the end of Prohibition -- but I accept a glass of wine.

Gale asks for a mixed drink, I’ve never heard of. He offers me a sip and my throat burns as it goes down.

There are a few tables set up at one end of the room. We find a spot and sit down. Our meal is interrupted numerous times as Gale introduces me to people passing by.

“You know a lot of people.”

“Senator Undersee has his fingers in a lot of pies.”

When we’re done eating, Gale walks me around to meet even more people, including his boss.

“You’ve been hiding her from us,” the senator says to Gale.

“So when’s the wedding?” Senator Undersee asks.

“We haven’t set a date yet,” I mutter.

Gale changes the conversation. “Katniss works for the WPA in the library pack horse program.”

The senator’s eyebrow’s rise and he questions me about my job. We talk for a long time, but when we stop I realize that Gale has left my side. He stands a few feet away, again engaged in conversation with the senator’s daughter.

The reception is over by seven o’clock. Gale and I walk down the steps of the statehouse.

“I didn’t have anything else planned for this evening. Want to see a movie?”

“All right.”

We stroll to the business section of town.

The marquee for the first theater we pass is for a Shirley Temple movie, Poor Little Rich Girl.

The child actress’ movies are entertaining, my mother certainly likes them as she says Shirley reminds her of Primmie as a child, still I’m willing to continue our walk and look for a different movie.

But Gale reaches for my arm and pulls me into line. “It’s starting in a few minutes.”

I don’t’ argue since he’s paying for my ticket, but I wonder at his selection.

The story is the usual Shirley Temple plot – a rich child wanders away from her governess and meets up with some show people who get her a job on the radio. Through a series of coincidences, she is reunited with her father.

I’m entertained and even smile at Shirley’s big tap dance number at the end.

“Didn’t know you were into Shirley Temple movies,” I tease as we leave the theater.

“I’ve been to a couple. Madge likes Shirley Temple.”

My head jerks back at his comment. “Do you go to the movies with the Senator’s daughter often?”

He never mentioned it in any of his letters to me.

“Twice,” he says. “She was going to go with her father, but he couldn’t make it. He asked me to take her instead.”

A wave of anger washes over me. Gale is my fiancé. Why is he going to the movies with Madge?

Before I can stop myself, the words spring out. “Do you think that’s appropriate behavior for an engaged man?”

My mother’s voice sounds in my ears, reminding me of my friendship with Peeta. But that was completely different I tell myself.

“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” Gale replies. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. But I didn’t have much choice. I don’t want the Senator to take a disliking to me.”

“Do you think Senator Undersee would fire you for not entertaining his daughter?”

That’s absurd. How could Gale even think that?

“He wouldn’t fire me. But I want to stay on his good side. Anyway it probably won’t happen again, now that he’s met you.”

Somehow that knowledge doesn’t comfort me.

A thought occurs to me. “Doesn’t Madge have a beau? She’s very pretty.”

Gale’s flushes. “She used to date the Senator’s old assistant, the one I replaced.”

A suspicious line of thinking comes to mind. Does Madge make it a habit to become involved with men that work for her father? Was that the reason Gale was so eager to become engaged to me before he left for Frankfort – because the senator preferred to hire an assistant who was unavailable to his daughter?

“Did Madge and the other assistant have a falling out?” I ask Gale, attempting to feel out the situation.

“I’m not sure. But I know she’s sad over the breakup.”

“And you’ve been trying to cheer her up?”

We arrive at my hotel. Gale reaches for my hand and pulls me around to face him. “It’s not like that Katniss. I’m engaged to marry you. Not Madge.”

I think now would be a good moment for him to declare his love for me. To tenderly claim my lips and confirm that I am his.

But instead he says, “Wouldn’t it be something if we had a daughter that looked just like Shirley Temple?”

The chances of the two of us with our straight, dark hair making a blonde, curly-haired daughter is against the odds. He’d have a better chance of producing a child like that if he married Madge Undersee.

Besides, with all the affection he’s shown to me, I wonder if our marriage will ever get so far as to result in a pregnancy.

Gale kisses my forehead. He tells me he has to work Saturday morning, but will stop by the hotel at noon to pick me up for lunch.

I lie awake a long time wondering why I am engaged to Gale. He is a friend. I am comfortable around him. But there is no passion between us.

It didn’t bother me before, but now it does, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why.

Unfortunately, I wake up early with a lot of time to kill. I decide to take a long walk to clear my head of the growing doubts about my engagement. A few miles later, I come to the conclusion that I must try harder to make things work.

I pick up a postcard at a shop, and go the post office to purchase a stamp and write a brief note to Primmie telling her about my short trip.

The post office reeks of paint fumes and I comment on it to the clerk who sells me the stamp.

“Look around the corner,” she says. “The government has funded a mural for our building. The painter is working on it now.”

I leave the counter to take a look. The long wall across from the postal boxes has been marked off and primed white.

A man stands on a ladder. He’s dressed in a white jumpsuit and wears a white cap. His back is to me as he sketches an outline in charcoal. The scene reminds me of the landscape around Dandelion, the hill country and the creeks that wind through the valleys below.

The painter climbs carefully down the ladder. He turns and my heart pounds when I catch sight of his profile as he moves the ladder a few feet along the wall.

Why is Peeta in Frankfort working for the WPA?

Author’s Note: President Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the 32^nd president of the United States. He served from 1933 until his death in 1945.

Shirley Temple was a child actress who made movies during The Great Depression. She was American’s number one box office star from 1935 to 1938. She was famous for her curly, blond hair, and her ability to sing and tap dance.

Most of the post office art were funded, not through the WPA, but through commissions under the Treasury Department’s Section of Painting and Sculpture, a successor agency to the Public Works of Art Project. For the purposes of this fictional story, Peeta is painting a post office mural in 1936. In truth, the painting of murals in post offices did not begin until 1937 and continued until 1941. More than 1,100 artists, including Stuart Davis, Jackson Pollock, and Arshile Gorky, worked for the WPA.

Chapter Text

“Peeta,” I call out, then put my hand over my mouth in embarrassment. To my ears, I sound too excited. But I am both surprised and happy as well. I thought he’d returned to Chicago.

At the sound of his name, Peeta turns. Confusion comes over him for a moment, but then his face erupts into a broad grin.

“What are you doing here, Katniss?”

“Visiting.” I don’t mention who I’m visiting, but I’ve no doubt he can figure it out since my mother made a point of telling him about my fiancé working in the state capital.

“I didn’t know you were here,” I babble. “Delly told me you lived up north in Chicago.”

I bite down on my lower lip. I’ve said too much. He’ll think I’ve been pumping Delly for information about him.

But he simply shakes his head. “Not anymore. Now I’m in Frankfort. I was hired to paint a history mural through a program the Treasury Department is operating.”

He chuckles. “The Mellarks and the Department of the Treasury have an interesting relationship. Either they’re arresting us or shooting us or giving us jobs to decorate public buildings.”

I’m surprised at the openness of his comments. But then we’re not in my mother’s house in Dandelion anymore.

Encouraged, I feel the need to be truthful as well. “I’m glad to see you because you left before I could say good-bye.”

“I’m sorry, but the doctor appeared and announced that I could go. You were at work so I left the letter.”

A letter. What is he talking about?

“You wrote me a letter?”

His features harden. “Didn’t your mother give it to you? I folded a dollar inside it to go toward my meals. Your mother made a lot of comments about how much I was eating and I wanted to help out.”

I remember her reprimand about making the milk last, but did she make other comments to him as well? She was alone with Peeta in the house all day while I was at work.

She could have said anything to him.

“My mother showed me the dollar you gave her, but she never gave me a letter.”

She likely opened it, removed the cash, and threw the letter away. Still she showed me the dollar bill and even praised Peeta for it in a roundabout way.

“What did you say in the letter?”

Peeta’s hand goes up and rubs the back of his neck. A sheepish grin appears on his face. “Lots of things. Look it’s almost noon. I’m about ready to break for lunch. Why don’t you join me? I packed a sandwich, it’s only peanut butter, but we could share. I have an apple, too.”

My stomach drops because more than anything I want to share that peanut butter sandwich and apple with Peeta and find out what he wrote to me in his letter, but I’m supposed to meet Gale. What does it say about me that I’d rather stay with Peeta than eat lunch with my fiancé who I’ve hardly seen in a couple of months?

“I can’t Peeta. I have to meet someone at noon.”

I’m sure he can guess who my date is.

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed. “How long will you be in Frankfort?”

“I leave early tomorrow morning for home.”

Peeta’s face drops. He lifts his cap off his head and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s growing long and curls up at the ends. “Well it was good seeing you again at any rate.”

I refuse to say good-bye, though. “Will you be coming back to Dandelion when you finish this job?”

He puts his hat back on. “Maybe, I don’t know yet.”

“Well stop by if you’re in town. I’ll have lunch with you then.”

I give him a big smile and leave. Outside the post office I collapse against the side of the building.

What have I done? Flirted with Peeta? Asked him to have lunch with me? I’m engaged to Gale.

Already I hear a nearby clock striking the hour. I pull myself together and walk briskly toward my hotel.

I get to the hotel ten minutes past the hour, but Gale isn’t there. I sit in the small lobby and wait.

A couple comes to the front counter, hand-in-hand. I suspect they are newlywed because even when their hands fall apart so that the gentleman can pull his wallet from his coat pocket to pay the bill, they never lose contact -- the woman instinctively flattens a wrinkle from the man’s suit coat, running her hand along his back.

When the man puts his wallet back into his pocket, his arm immediately reaches round her waist to draw her close.

The pair seems so certain about their love for each other. Envy floods me because I know that I don’t have feelings like that for Gale.

I can’t ever imagine us touching like that in public. He doesn’t even act like that around me in private.

I get so caught up in watching this couple, and the others that check out after them, that it doesn’t dawn on me that Gale is tardy. The big clock on the wall behind the counter registers twelve thirty when he arrives.

“I’m sorry.” Gale cheeks are flushed. “The meeting was long. I ran all the way here.”

The image of Gale running down the steps of the statehouse and through the streets of Frankfort in his suit makes me smile.

“That’s all right. I was just people-watching.”

“See anything interesting?”

I think back to the couple I’ve named `the newlyweds.’ “Maybe.” Perhaps I should mention them to Gale.

“Let’s go, I’m starving. You can tell me about your people-watching as we walk.”

I hardly think telling Gale that I’m unhappy about our passionless relationship is conversation for a stroll to a restaurant. Instead I redirect the conversation to his meeting.

“Big news,” he says. “This could change everything.” His voice lowers, and he walks closer to my side.

“The senator is thinking of running for the U.S. Congress. If he wins, he’ll be moving to Washington, D.C.”

My mouth drops. “Would you go too?

“Of course, I’d go Katniss. I’m his right-hand man. It will be great since my family is living there already.”

“But what about us?”

“Well, you’ll come too,” he says. “We’d probably be married by then.”

I don’t want to move to Washington, D.C. with Gale. What will happen to my mother?

Besides what would I do all day while Gale is on the job? It’s obvious he works long hours.

My face must show my concerns because Gale tries to reassure me. “Don’t get ahead of things Katniss; it’s still in the talking stage. Besides the senator might not even win.”

That’s true I remind myself.

Gale takes me to the same diner we ate at yesterday. It is far less crowded, today.

“You must like this place to take me here twice in two days.”

“Why bother trying someplace new when the food here is good enough,” Gale says.

After we place our orders, Gale asks me about how I spent my morning.

“I took a long walk. I bought a postcard for Primmie and took it to the post office to mail. The government has contracted for someone to paint a history mural on one of the walls there.”

I don’t mention that it’s our former boarder Peeta and that he offered to share his lunch with me, and I shamelessly flirted with him and told him to buy me lunch the next time he was in Dandelion.

Now would be a good time to mention my concerns about our engagement. But I don’t get a chance.

“Yeah, the legislature has done a good job of attracting federal dollars to the state.”

I’m sick of conversation about the government. Is that all Gale cares about anymore? He used to have other interests.

“What do you do in your spare time?”

He chuckles. “Sleep mostly. I don’t have much spare time. But we’re going to have some fun this afternoon.”

My ears perk up.

“The senator is loaning me his car so I can take you on a drive.”

After we finish our meal, we walk to the senator’s home. It’s a large house on a residential street. Gale pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks a shiny black car parked next to the curb.

“You’ve driven this thing before?”

Gale nods.

We spend the afternoon driving around the countryside outside of Frankfort. It’s a sunny day. Signs of the coming spring abound all around with tiny green shoots poking through the dark earth. Some trees have buds on their branches indicating that they are waking up from their long slumber.

There are so many things we could discuss on our drive, like Gale’s close friendship with Madge Undersee, the Senator’s career plans and their possible affect on our lives, or my worries about my mother’s debts. But I don’t want to argue and I fear that every topic might lead me into an argument.

I desperately want to go back to the easy way we once were --- before we became engaged. So I keep to safe subjects, trivial matters, gossip about people we both know in Dandelion.

“Seems like a person could do some fine hunting around here,” I say as we drive through a long wooded stretch of highway.

“Yeah, if only I had the time,” Gale admits.

We stop at a roadside stand in the middle of nowhere and purchase sandwiches for dinner, eating them on picnic benches, before getting in the car and heading back to Frankfort.

“Are you sure you know how to get back?”

“I hope so,” he says.

Our conversation dies out as he drives back to Frankfort. It’s as if we’re both talked out.

It’s already dark when he pulls up to the hotel. “We should say good-bye now,” Gale says, as the engine idles. “I know your bus leaves early tomorrow.”

“You’re not seeing me off then?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t Katniss. The Senator called for an early morning meeting.”

On Sunday?

“All right then.”

After nary a touch or caress, throughout the entire day, Gale leans forward to kiss me, but when our lips meet I feel nothing. It’s as if I’m kissing a marble stone.

He pulls back. “Don’t fret about the senator’s run for Congress. He’s just thinking about it for now.”

My throat tightens.

“I’ll write,” he promises.

Opening the car door, I get out and wave at Gale as he drives away.

I twist my engagement ring round and round my finger during the bus ride home. At the end of it, I’ve come to a decision. I can’t marry Gale. I have no romantic feelings for him, and I find it difficult to believe that he has any for me either based on our visit.

My thoughts fly to Peeta. I may never see him again -- and that idea lies heavy on my heart – still without knowing it, he did me a big favor. He made me realize that if I do marry, I want to feel something; I need to feel something.

If I’m going to have the cake, I want the frosting too.

My mother and Mags greet me enthusiastically. “How was your visit?” my mother asks.

With a twinkle in her eye Mags jokes, “You didn’t secretly get married in Frankfort, did you?”

In the midst of my unease, the look of horror on my mother’s face brings a smile to mine. I almost want to lie and tell her that I did elope, in retaliation for her withholding Peeta’s letter from me.

I’m angry at her about it, but I know it will do no good to argue. She will insist that she did the right thing. And not knowing what Peeta wrote me in that letter, perhaps she had cause for alarm. At least I hope so as I remember the self-conscious look on his face as he avoided telling me exactly what he wrote.

“I had a unexpectedly insightful visit,” I tell both women.

“Have you set a date then?”

I shake my head and my mother scowls.

I manage to avoid further conversation by skipping dinner that evening and feigning tiredness. Then, it’s back to work the next day.

Yawning, I rub my hand along Mockingjay’s neck thankful for the woman who offers me a cup of strong tea after I hand her a copy of Good Housekeeping.

After a couple of months at this job I’ve gotten to know the folks I visit fairly well. I know who can read and who can’t. I know who favors practical reading materials and who favors works of fantasy.

A fair number of the women on my routes are readers of romantic stories. It always struck me as frivolous waste of time. Now I think I was completely wrong.

Poverty abounds in the hills and valleys around Dandelion. There are no banquet tables piled high with food, no fancy party dresses to wear, no shiny cars to be driven through the countryside to while away an afternoon.

Lives are hard, especially for women who act as the heart of the family. A little sunshine and hope – even if it’s in the form of a romantic tale – can ease the burden and make their lives more bearable.

I spend a second evening awake, tossing and turning over the unfinished business of my engagement. It’s after midnight when I get up and pen a letter to Gale listing all the reasons I can’t marry him.

I don’t want to lose Gale as my friend, just as my fiancé. Will he accept that our engagement is a mistake?

Relieved after writing it, I’m finally able to fall asleep. I mail it the following morning.

But I don’t tell my mother yet out of fear of her reaction.

“Your fiancé wrote,” my mother says as she hands me a letter when I return from work on Thursday.

“I’m guessing he misses you and wants to know when you can meet up again. A June wedding would be ideal.”

Taking the letter from my mother, I escape to the privacy of my bedroom to read it. A nervous sensation goes through me as I open the envelope, expecting the latest news about some upcoming piece of legislation and Madge Undersee’s opinion of it. Has Gale received my letter yet?

Instead, my mouth falls open as I read Gale’s words.

I don’t know how to tell you Katniss, but I think we should break off our engagement. Seeing you in Frankfort this weekend made it clear to me that our relationship has always been more of a friendship than one of lovers.

I’m so sorry about everything.

I expect this will make things difficult for you – I know your mother will be upset. If there’s anything I can do – if you want me to write to her -- tell me and I’ll do it.

Keep the ring.

I hope in spite of all this, we can still be friends. I value our friendship.

Taking a temperature of my emotions, I’m surprisingly relieved. Gale won’t be hurt by my rejection because he, too, could see that we weren’t meant to be together.

As for the ring, I will hold on to it and return it when I see him next. I’m not looking to profit off our mistake.

Eventually I go downstairs and tell my mother in front of Mags, hoping that her presence will temper my mother’s reaction. It doesn’t.

“He broke the engagement?” my mother cries out. “We’ll sue him for breach of promise.”

“It was a mutual decision Mama.”

“Mark my words, there’s someone else,” she declares. “Or he wouldn’t have done this.”

I have a good idea who Gale’s someone else is. Much as I dislike her though, who am I to criticize when someone else made my decision far easier too?

My mother retires early to bed, while Mags tries to cheer me up over a cup of tea.

“A very similar thing happened to me,” she says. She relates an event that occurred more than fifty years prior when her beau dropped her unexpectedly. “But then I met Mr. Russell.” A dreamy look comes over her, and then a blush appears on her wrinkled cheeks. “He was so handsome,” she says of her husband who is long dead.

My mother is in mourning the next few days, as if she was the one who suffered the loss. I am almost happy when Dr. Snow appears Sunday afternoon while Mags is napping. “I have another patient for you. I’ll bring him by tomorrow.”

“We have no more room,” my mother says, emerging from her grief.

“You have a empty bedroom upstairs,” the doctor points out. “And this man can climb stairs.”

“We can’t keep a man upstairs. That’s where Katniss and I sleep.”

“What’s wrong with him?” I break in. I’m tired of my mother’s refusal. Has she not realized we have no choice in the matter? The sooner we can pay back the doctor, the better.

“Nothing that a week of rest and home-cooked meals won’t improve on,” says Dr. Snow.

My mother scowls. “How are we supposed to feed him? I can’t afford to be feeding all these extra people.”

The doctor frowns. “I’ll bring some groceries along with him.”

Before Dr. Snow leaves he gives us one more instruction about Darius Whitlock, our newest boarder. “Don’t offer him any alcohol.”

The smell of fried bacon and potatoes fills the house when I arrive home from work Monday. Darius helps my mother in the kitchen. He is a slight man, not much taller than me, with a ready grin and bright red hair.

My mother seems taken with him. “Darius is related to the Langley family that owns the Langley’s Department Stores.”

Langley’s has stores across three states: Kentucky, Tennessee, and Missouri.

“I oversee sales in the Kentucky stores. The job requires a lot of travel,” he volunteers, as if that explains how he landed in Dandelion, a town far too small to be a home for a Langley’s Department Store.

Mags soon joins us and we sit down to a lively meal as Darius entertains us with stories about his travels around Kentucky. He drops the names of a lot of wealthy people that my mother has long lost touch with.

While he talks I study him, wondering why he is here. He appears to be in good health, although his skin is a bit sallow. Is Dr. Snow now using our home as a hotel for vacationers too?

After the meal, though, my mother complains of a sick headache.

“I know just the cure for that,” Darius says. He turns to me. “Do you have any wine?”

“A little glass will cure that ill in a jiffy, Lil.”

“We have none in the house; besides my mother doesn’t drink.”

I remember the doctor’s words about not offering Darius any alcohol and an idea about his malady begins to take shape in my thoughts.

Over the next week, I listen carefully to Darius’ stories. There is an underlying sadness to this man who seems to crave the attention my mother and Mags offer him.

Still he steps in like a member of the family and cooks many of our meals during his stay, as my mother’s headache lingers.

She has suffered off and on with headaches in the past, but they generally go away after resting in a dark room. This pain continues, though, making her unable to stand at the stove for long.

“You should have been friendlier to him,” my mother says when Darius leaves. “He comes from a well-off family. Any girl would be lucky to have him.”

She’s right about his family having money, but I sense other problems with Darius, things that would try the patience of any woman.

On his last evening with us he goes out for a walk and comes home late, after my mother and I have turned in. He slams the front door and stumbles up the stairs. I open my bedroom door a crack to see if he is all right and the smell of alcohol is strong.

Dr. Snow appears the next day to take him away.

Before Gale, my mother didn’t seem to care whether I wed or stayed a spinster. But I worry that my broken engagement gives her a new cause to concern herself with, finding me a husband.

But that concern ends when Mama collapses.

Author’s Note: As mentioned in the Author’s Note following chapter three, post office art was funded through a program operated by the Department of the Treasury, not the WPA. The Treasury Department’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives was/is responsible for enforcing laws regarding moonshine.

A United States congressional representative serves a two-year term. A person must be at least 25 years old and an American citizen for the past seven years to serve.

Langley’s Department Stores are fictional. Chain department stores existed in the 1930s, but for liable reasons, I chose not to use the name of a real store in this fictional story.

Chapter Text

A couple of days after Darius leaves, Mama falls while walking down the last few steps of the stairs.

At the sound of her body crashing to the floor, I rush from the kitchen where I’ve started breakfast to find her lying in a heap. I check to be sure she still breathes, and then bang on the study door to wake Mags and ask her to keep watch, before setting off to Thom’s house for help.

The sun is just coming up. Pink rays color the clouds hanging low on the horizon. Pink is my mother’s favorite color; surely the picturesque sky is a sign from heaven that things will be fine.

Thom and his teenaged son James help me carry my mother upstairs and into bed. Then James leaves to fetch Dr. Snow.

My mother is dazed. One side of her face droops and her words are slurred.

After the doctor inspects her, he motions me to leave the room so we can speak.

“Has she broken any bones?” I blurt out.

“Broken bones would be a blessing. They would mend. But this doesn’t look well. Your mother has had a stroke.”

“Is there anything you can do?

Dr. Snow is grim. “No.”

“Will she recover?”

He doesn’t answer me directly. “You might want to let your sister know what’s happened so she can see her.”

That day is a whirlwind. Thom lets me use his phone to call Primmie in Lexington and to let Mr. Adkins know that I will miss work. Mags and I take turns sitting with her. Our minister pays a visit and prays with us.

My sister arrives by bus the next morning. We keep a vigil with our mother all day. But Mama has already slipped into a deep sleep and never awakens to even acknowledge my sister’s presence.

In the early evening hours, she breathes her last. The muscles in her face relax and she appears at peace.

Primmie, a trained nurse, goes into hysterics, while I have the opposite reaction. A numbing anger washes through me as I consider the financial mess my mother has left behind.

My sister is unaware of the extent of our mother’s debts. I didn’t want to discuss it while she lay dying in front of us. But now I must tell Primmie everything because I have no idea how we are to pay for the funeral.

The next few days are a blur. Primmie and I ransack our mother’s room looking for paperwork, for a will, for something to indicate the state of her finances, but we can find nothing.

All of her jewelry, other than her wedding band which she never removed even after our father died, is gone and since she hadn’t worn any jewelry since my sister’s wedding, we speculate that she must have pawned everything to pay for living expenses.

Thankfully Primmie’s husband drives their car down from Lexington and takes charge. He pays for the funeral, although Primmie privately tells me that they are not so well-off as I thought since many of her husband’s patients pay their medical bills in trade rather than cash.

We bury my mother next to our father. Through the kindness of the neighbors who bring us an abundance of food, my sister and I are able host a reception at the house following the burial.

Dr. Snow lingers until every one is gone. Primmie, my brother-in-law, and I sit with him in the front room.

“I’ll give you girls a week to clear your family’s personal items from the house,” he says.

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “The house is ours.”

The doctor shakes his head. He pulls a folded paper from the breast pocket of his suit coat and hands it to me.

My head spins as I read the legal document.

Only a few weeks earlier, my mother signed ownership of our house and its furnishings over to Dr. Snow. In exchange he agreed to allow her to remain in the house and work for him.

I lift my head and stare into his eyes that are as black as coal. “This doesn’t make any sense. Why would she do this?

“Mama could have sold the house, paid off her bills, and had some money left over. Why would she just give it to you?”

“Let me see that.” Primmie snatched the paper from my hands and began to read. Her husband leans in close and looks over her shoulder.

If she was that desperate why didn’t Mama contact her brother Haymitch? Maybe if she wasn’t so proud and had begged him for help, he would have given her the money.

Dr. Snow reaches into his pocket for a second paper. He hands it to me. “The thing is your mother couldn’t have paid off all her bills. She owed about as much as she owned.”

The second sheet lists my mother’s debts and her many creditors, far more than I would have ever guessed. If the list is accurate, the doctor is right. My mother was completely broke.

“This proposition benefited both of us,” Dr. Snow says. “Your mother could remain in her home and keep up appearances in Dandelion.”

My mind races. Years of reckless spending and a ridiculous sense of concern about other people’s opinion, caused Mama to sign up for a lifetime indenture to Dr. Snow – agreeing to stay in her home and work for him. It was that or end up on the streets.

Primmie hands the first paper to her husband and turns to the doctor. “What about Katniss? She didn’t sign anything. Where’s she supposed to live now?”

I’d only recently told my sister of my broken engagement. Now I understand though why my mother reacted so badly to it. She likely saw marriage as a life preserver for me, a safe haven in a sea of financial troubles.

Perhaps Mama planned to join Gale’s and my household, or even Primmie’s and my brother-in-law’s, when she grew older and tired of working for Dr. Snow. I guess I’ll never know now, but there’s no doubt in my mind that the tension of everything contributed to her early death.

Dr. Snow smiles at me. “Maybe we can work something out.” He stands. “I’ll see myself out. I’m sorry about your mother.”

As soon as he goes, my sister speaks. “You need to come with us to Lexington, Katniss.”

Out of the corner of my eye I notice my brother-in-law frowning. I imagine he’s not so happy to realize that my sister has no inheritance and that he won’t be reimbursed for my mother’s funeral expenses either. I hardly think he’d want me to move in with them.

“No Primmie, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I have a job here. You can’t guarantee me work in Lexington.”

Maybe I could find work as a schoolteacher in the fall, but it’s late March and school will break in a couple of months for the summer.

Primmie’s lips turn up into a pout. She knows I’m right. “But what will you do Katniss?”

“I’ll find a room to rent. Maybe someone would be willing to take me in as a boarder.”

I help my sister and brother-in-law pack up Mama’s keepsakes, some treasured photos, the family Bible, and some seashells she saved from a trip to Florida with my father before we were even born. My brother-in-law takes a few of my father’s books. Then Primmie and her husband drive home.

The next day Dr. Snow moves an older, married couple into my mother’s bedroom.

“This is Sae and Ephraim Edwards. They’ll be running the place for me.”

Two new boarders appear the day after – Bonnie and Twill. Bonnie, looks to be about sixteen. Her foot was injured in an auto accident, and she hobbles around on crutches. Her Aunt Twill suffers headaches as a result of a head injury from the same accident.

Ephraim places two cots in the study for them, causing Mags to complain to me about sharing her room with Bonnie and Twill. “They talk too much.”

“You should bring the matter up with Dr. Snow,” I tell her. “I have no say about anything going on in the house anymore.”

He tells me I can continue to stay in my bedroom for now but only if I’ll help out Sae and Ephraim in the evenings and on the weekends, too.

Even though I’d already been helping my mother anyway, I am furious. Still, I accept his conditions because I don’t have anyplace to go and I don’t have the energy to find a place either. I need to return to my job. I already missed a week and a half of work dealing with the details of my mother’s illness and death.

Somehow word has spread about my loss. My library customers make every effort to cheer me up. One woman insists I join her and her family for a lunch of dandelion salad. That hearty plant is dotting the hills and valleys heralding spring. I used to like dandelions, but now the yellow flower mocks me in my grief.

Another patron gives me a card with a handwritten prayer on it and a pasted on illustration of an angel.

Still a third slips me a bottle of a special “tonic” to lift my spirits. I take a sip while I eat my lunch to discover that it’s powerful moonshine. It burns my throat as it goes down.

I stay up later than usual every night, sometimes weeping over my situation, but writing letters, too. I write to Gale. I write to my Uncle Haymitch. I write to my sister and tell her that the doctor has turned our house into a nursing home. I write letters to Peeta in my head because I don’t have his address. I’ve given up hope of ever seeing him again. When I visit Delly, she tells me they didn’t even know he was working in Frankfort.

Three weeks after my mother’s death I receive a letter from Gale. I save it to read that evening as I lie in bed. But I am stunned at his words.

I, too, have experienced a sudden life change. I’ve taken on a wife. Senator Undersee’s daughter Madge, married me in a ceremony at the Undersee residence a few days ago.

While I know with certainty that Gale and I were never meant to be lovers – even though I wrote him a letter to end our engagement -- the fact that he immediately turned around and married that golden-haired flirt only a month later infuriates me.

“I won’t be returning the ring to you,” I gripe, as I crumple his letter in my hand. “Why should I? So she can wear it?”

My low mood sinks even lower after receiving Gale’s letter. Over and over I ponder the facts of my life.

I’m Katniss Everdeen. I’m twenty-five years old and alone. My mother is dead. My sister is married and lives to Lexington. I have a job, but no home.

My life sounds pathetic to my ears. I have no hope for the future.

Even my work, that I once enjoyed, has become burdensome to me. I find myself jealous of my customers that I used to pity.

They have homes and families. I have neither. They seem happy. I am not.

My birthday comes and I turn 26. There’s no one to remember it, not that I feel like celebrating anyway. Primmie’s card arrives a day late.

I trudge home in a foul mood one June afternoon after passing along a copy of The Rich Man’s Pearl to a happy housewife to find Peeta sitting on the porch in front of the house. He wears a light-colored button-down shirt and cotton pants. He drinks a cup of water and speaks with Sae.

The late afternoon sunlight causes his hair to glow as if it were on fire. I inhale sharply. It’s as if an angel has appeared in the flesh to rescue me from all my troubles. A tiny ember in my darkened heart begins to glow.

My cheeks grow warm and I throw him an embarrassed smile. “Hello Peeta.”

He grins back at me and my insides turn to mush. How does he do this?

He stands up as I come closer. “I came by to see if you’re available for dinner.”

Dinner? I would have been overjoyed if he brought along a peanut butter sandwich to share with me.

I look to Sae. Usually I help her serve dinner to our boarders. Will she allow me to leave now?

She nods. “Go on girl, enjoy an evening out.”

“I’m free, Peeta. If you’ll wait a minute; I’ll change my clothes.”

Going inside, I climb the stairs and strip out of my sweaty garb, pants, a button-down shirt, and boots.

I’ve lately been keeping a pitcher of water on my dresser top for washing, as we have only one bathroom and a houseful of people. I dip a cloth into it and wipe the sweat off my face and then rub the cloth over the rest of my body.

Next to the pitcher is a letter from my Uncle Haymitch. It must have arrived in today’s mail and Sae set it here for me. I make a mental note to read it later.

I put on a summery dress, white stockings, and low heels. I look into the mirror to take in my appearance.

My face is aglow with color. It would take too long to redo my hair completely as it’s braided and pinned up. But I take a moment and tuck the loose strands around my ears so I look less windswept.

Taking a deep breath, I go downstairs to join Peeta on the porch. He stands again when he sees me. He links his arm through mine and leads me out of the yard and straight to Main Street.

It’s Thursday and only one eating establishment is open – the long counter at the drug store that serves hamburgers and sodas.

Peeta points toward the barstool and I take a seat. A young, teenaged couple sits at the end of the counter. It’s obvious to me that it’s a date, as they share an ice-cream soda, two straws in a single glass. The girl bats her eyes at her beau flirtatiously.

They make me feel old.

“Order whatever you like,” Peeta says as I scan the paper menu in front of me.

Does he really mean that? I can’t help but think he’s only being polite. I scan the menu for the least expensive meal.

Mr. Cray, the owner of the drug store, stands behind the counter staring at us. He wears a white apron.

Peeta asks for a hamburger and a coke; I order the same.

Mr. Cray brings us our sodas, and then sets to work frying the burgers at the grill at the far end of the counter.

“I’m glad you agreed to join me for dinner,” Peeta says. “I saw a notice about your fiancé’s recent marriage in the The State Journal so I figured you’d have no excuse to turn me down.”

It was in the newspaper? That’s not unusual, especially in light of Senator Undersee’s position, but still it irritates me.

My face grows warm. “We ended things right after my visit to Frankfort. He, um, we’ve been friends since we were children, but there wasn’t anything romantic between us.”

“Your mother seemed especially fond of him, though.”

My face darkens as I realize that Peeta likely doesn’t know of her death. “She was upset, naturally. But, then, well, she died a couple of months ago.”

His face grows serious. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “I had no idea Katniss. I knew something was different when that lady met me at the door, but she didn’t say anything about your mother so I figured maybe she was away visiting or something. I wouldn’t have…”

Immediately I realize how this must appear to Peeta – my mother recently dead, and I’m not in mourning, but instead wearing a flowery dress, smiling, laughing, going out for a spur of the moment date with him.

“It’s all right,” I interrupt, feeling the loss of his touch when he lets go of my hand.

“It’s hard losing a parent,” Peeta says. My mother passed when I was a boy and my father died while I was at school in Chicago.”

“You were in school? I thought you were a baker?”

“I’ve done a little bit of everything. You have to in order to survive these days. It’s not easy.” Peeta lifts up his glass to drink.

Before I can ask more questions, Mr. Cray slams two plates, each with a hamburger and some fried potatoes, onto the counter in front of us.

When he walks off, Peeta reaches for a nearby bottle of catsup. “Want some?”

I nod and he hands me the bottle. I open it and pour some on my plate to dip my potatoes in. Peeta puts his hand out and I hand the bottle to him. He lifts his hamburger bun and adds a dollop to the meat.

We begin eating and the conversation stops for a few moments, as both of us are ravenous. But after eating three-quarters of his burger, Peeta sets it down onto his plate.

“I wanted to take you out to dinner to say goodbye.”

I set my burger down. My stomach churns and I worry that I might be sick.

“I’m leaving Kentucky. I got a job with the WPA to paint murals in a new lodge that’s being built at the base of Mount Hood.”

“Where’s Mount Hood?”

“In Oregon.”

I think of Uncle Haymitch’s unopened letter that sits on my dresser. The postmark on it reads Sandy, Oregon.

“How long will you be there?”

“I’m not sure. If I like the area, I might stay. Travel down to California after the job ends and try to get work with a movie studio. I hear they’re looking for artists to paint backdrops for movie scenes. There’s only my brother here in Kentucky. And he doesn’t need me.”

You can’t go. I need you. But I can’t say that out loud. Instead I say, “I’ll miss you.”

I turn my head and blink a few times to wash away the tears that have come to my eyes. I pick up my glass to take a sip of my coke, not wanting Peeta to see how foolishly hurt I am.

“I’ll miss you too Katniss. I owe you a lot. If it weren’t for your help in getting the doctor out to me, I would have lost my leg. There’s no way I would have let Delly operate on me. I’ve seen the way she cleans a kill. She’s not very neat.”

He looks so serious, that I can’t help but smile in the midst of my pain.

I choke down the rest of my burger, but offer my potatoes to Peeta.

When we are done eating, we take a long, roundabout way back to my house. For that brief time I forget he is leaving, and I relax in our easy conversation.

Gale and I could talk freely, too, but it is different with Peeta. I never wanted to touch Gale’s face, to run my fingers down the slope of his nose, or trace them around the line of his jaw, or run them through his hair.

Peeta tells me about the mural he painted on the wall of the Frankfort post office.

“The governor’s wife saw it and told her husband. He made some calls and, well, that’s how I got this chance in Oregon. The supervisor said they’ll hold it for me if I can get out there within a month.”

Eventually we stand before the fence surrounding my house. Ephraim sits on the porch smoking a cigar. Sae sits alongside him. Both stare at us.

The sky is aglow with orange light as the sun says good-bye til the morrow.

“I like you Katniss. I know you’re settled here with a job and a home. But if things were different….” His voice trails off, and he looks remorseful. “Maybe I could write to you?”

I nod at him and swallow hard, wondering if he really will write, or is he just saying that? A thought occurs. “You never told me what you wrote in that other letter, the one my mother didn’t give me.”

Peeta licks his lips and sly smile forms. “She probably didn’t like the part about what I wanted to do to you.”

He leans forward and brushes his lips against mine. It’s as if an electric current has touched me. Peeta must feel it too because he groans and pushes his lips harder against mine, causing me to open my mouth slightly. He takes it no further than my lips though, gently running his tongue over my lower lip and then sucking lightly on it in a way that makes me tremor.

This is my first real kiss – the first one in which I feel anything -- and I find myself swaying forward. Peeta reaches his hands up to rest on my shoulders to hold me in place.

I don’t want to stop, but eventually Peeta steps back.

He looks me square in the face. “That’s what I wrote about, Katniss. I wanted to kiss you.” He reaches for my hand, gives it a squeeze, and leaves.

I open the gate and walk up the path to the porch.

“He’s a handsome fellow,” Sae says. “I suppose we’ll be seeing him around now.”

“He’s leaving to go west.” I let the door slam shut behind me as I run up the stairs to my room. I’m twenty-six years old but I feel as lost as I did at age eleven when my father died. Abandoned yet again.

Much later, sometime in the middle of the night as I lie awake reliving that kiss, wondering if anyone will ever kiss me like that again, I remember my uncle’s letter.

I turn on my bedside light and retrieve it. Sitting on my bed, I unfold it. Three twenty-dollar bills fall out.

Dear Katniss,

I’m sorry to learn that my sister is gone. Lily was far too young. I’m not surprised she left you penniless, though. She never had a head for finance. But at least you have a job and your sister has a husband. You’ll survive.

I’m enclosing some cash to help with immediate expenses. Use it wisely.

Your Uncle Haymitch

P.S. If you’re willing to leave Kentucky, you could come work for me in Sandy. I could use a good secretary right now. My old one left, and the place is in a shambles.

I hold the cash in my hand. It’s kind of my uncle to send me money. Maybe he isn’t as stingy as my mother always said.

I put the bills inside my purse and the letter back onto my dresser.

As I’m dozing off, the thought occurs to me that my uncle’s offered me the opportunity to start over again. Maybe, like Peeta, I could go out west too.

I have nothing better to do.

I wonder how far Sandy, Oregon, is from Mount Hood?

Author’s Note: Hippocrates, the father of medicine, recognized strokes more than 2,400 years ago. He called it “apoplexy” which meant “struck down by violence” in Greek. In the mid-1600s it was discovered that patients who died of apoplexy had bleeding in the brain. It wasn’t until 1928 that the name “stroke” came into use.

In 1935 President Roosevelt signed the Social Security Act into law. It provided monthly monetary payments to a limited group of retirees and the unemployed, and a lump sum benefit upon their death. During The Great Depression more than fifty percent of seniors citizens were considered poor. The stock market crash had destroyed savings and bank failures did further damage.

The State Journal is a newspaper that serves Frankfort, Kentucky, and the rest of Franklin County.

WPA workers began the construction of the Timberline Lodge, located on the south side of Mount Hood in 1936 and finished in 1938. It’s currently a popular tourist attraction (and National Historic Landmark) that draws two million visitors annually. It’s exterior was used to depict the Overlook Hotel in the movie, The Shining .

For curious readers, Sandy, Oregon, is located at the base of Mount Hood, about 35 miles from the Timberline Lodge.

Chapter Text

It’s late when I wake. I’m groggy because of lack of sleep. I stumble about my room and dress. Greet Sae in the kitchen, pack a lunch, and set off to the central library. Thankfully it’s Friday and I don’t have to spend my day on horseback.

In the morning light, my plan to quit my life and set off for Oregon seems downright silly.

But I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that Peeta’s kiss changed me. It’s awakened something deep inside – an inner conviction that there’s something better out there for me than my current life.

My predecessor Clove brings her newborn son to our library meeting. He’s a hardy boy. She hints at returning to her old position, the job I’ve been working at for more than five months.

Before yesterday I would have worried at her comments; today my mind toys with the thought. I follow her outside.

“Would you really come back if a job opened up?”

Clove nods, shifting the boy so that his head rests on her shoulder. “My mother lives with us. She can watch the kids. But we need the money bad.”

I tuck her situation away in my mind.

The following Monday afternoon I visit Delly, secretly hoping that Peeta is at the cabin, that I can see him once more before he goes. To my great disappointment she’s alone with the children.

“Peeta left early Saturday morning,” she volunteers. “He’s got a job all the way out in Oregon. Guess we won’t be seeing him anytime soon.”

She doesn’t ask about my dinner with him, and I’m guessing that Peeta didn’t mention it to his family.

“Did you bring me that book today?”

I move my hand from behind my back and hold it out to her. She squeals loudly, startling her youngest child who clutches her skirt, and cries.

Just that morning, I obtained The Rich Man’s Pearl from a patron, and buried it in my saddlebag, saving it for Delly. She’s pestered me for months about it, ever since the first day we met.

As I ride Mockingjay away, I catch a glimpse of a man walking between the trees in the direction of the cabin. He has a rifle in one hand and a plump rabbit in the other. For a second I think it’s Peeta, but the man is taller and leaner, and his hair is far longer than Peeta’s was only days ago.

It must be Peeta’s brother Rye, the moonshiner.

Seeing him makes me miss Peeta all the more. If I were to go west too, I could meet up with Peeta again. I wouldn’t have to settle for letters; I could have kisses, perhaps even more.

My mother’s advice to Primmie and me sounds in my head. “Never pursue a man. Let him chase after you.”

For the past twenty-six years I took her counsel seriously and did nothing, waiting for some man to notice me. And that tactic did work partly because Gale proposed. But our relationship was all wrong.

To obtain different results, perhaps I should take different actions than I have in the past. Isn’t that the strategy President Roosevelt is using to remedy the economic woes facing the country -- throw out dozens of plans and programs to attempt a solution, and then change course quickly when it’s clear something doesn’t work?

Anyway it’s not like I’m going out west only because of Peeta. I’m going for a job with my uncle, and the chance for a fresh start.

The final spark, though, the one that overwhelming convinces me that it’s time to seek my future elsewhere is when Mags calls me into the study a couple of days later to show me the empty shelves. My father’s books are gone.

“A man came by this morning and took them away.”

“What’s he going to do with them?”

“He said they’d be sold at auction.”

Dr. Snow has changed so many things to the house since he’s taken ownership. Workmen are adding a sorely needed second bathroom. Walls are going up in some rooms to partition them off to house even more patients. Weekly, new faces appear.

The family home I grew up in is gone forever. It’s time for me to accept it and move on.

I write letters, not waiting for answers. I tell my uncle that I am accepting his job offer. “I should be there within the next week or so.”

I let my sister know of my intention, but I don’t plan to visit her before I go because I worry she will try to persuade me from leaving Kentucky. I consider writing Gale, but I’m still upset with him so I decide to wait until I’m settled out west.

On Friday, I arrive early at the central library to speak privately with Mr. Adkins to give notice and suggest that he rehire Clove. He announces my resignation to the others at the close of our meeting.

Everyone wishes me well and tells me I’ll be missed.

“What kind of business does your uncle run?” Johanna asks.

“A profitable one,” I answer, but Johanna’s question causes me to pause.

I have no idea what my uncle does, only that he has offered me a secretarial position. Am I jumping the gun by taking Uncle Haymitch up on his offer without knowing exactly what’s in store? I don’t know what he will pay me or where I will live.

Still I go ahead with my plans, spend the weekend sorting through my belongings, packing up my nicest dresses, those most appropriate for work in an office, and giving away anything that won’t fit in my suitcase.

“Please forward any mail I get to my uncle in Sandy, Oregon,” I tell Sae, hopeful that Peeta may already have written to me.

I bid good-bye to the current residents in my home, and give Mags an extra hug, as she is the nearest to family I have left in Dandelion.

Dr. Snow is very businesslike when I tell him that I’m going. I suspect it’s because he’s already lining someone up for my room.

I leave the house for the last time early Monday morning, carrying a single suitcase as I hike to the bus station. My route west will involve a bus ride to Louisville, where I’ll catch a northbound train to Chicago. There, I’ll purchase a ticket for a second train that will take me west.

A strange excitement stirs within me as I take one last stroll through Dandelion, mentally saying good-bye to the town. For the first time I’m taking charge in my life, not passively falling into a situation. It’s a heady sensation.

I arrive in Louisville late in the day. It’s the biggest city in Kentucky and I’m impressed with the amount of cars on the streets and the crowds.

Walking out of the bus station I set off in search of an inexpensive hotel to spend the night. I need the money I’ve saved from my job and my uncle’s generous cash gift to stretch as far as possible.

A number of beggars stand along the sidewalk holding signs asking for food. A child, dressed in rags, sits on the curb selling pencils. Amazed at the sight, I rush past them. People are poor in Dandelion too, but vagrants aren’t allowed to loiter on the sidewalks.

The sun shines the next morning as I climb aboard the train to Chicago. The conductor helps me set my suitcase in the rack above my seat.

I sit by the window, with my purse on my lap, and watch the scenery pass by. We soon cross the Kentucky state line and move into Indiana. It’s mostly farmland, but the train makes brief stops in a few small towns, to allow passengers to board and disembark.

My thoughts fly to Peeta. Is he already at work at Mount Hood? According to Delly he left 11 days ago.

After two hours of train travel, I grow weary of looking out the window. It’s ironic that a former traveling librarian would forget to bring something to read while traveling. I make a mental note to purchase a book before I get on the train in Chicago.

A little before noon, the train pulls into the station in Abbadon. The conductor announces that we will stop for twenty-five minutes. Leaving my suitcase in the overhead rack, I stand up and step out onto the platform to stretch.

Perhaps I can buy a newspaper.

I walk through the station and out to the front to look for a newspaper vendor. Across the street is a small newsstand.

When I cross the street, I see that the newsstand blocks a small bookshop.

A book would last longer than a newspaper. And I know just the book I’ve been most curious about reading.

I walk past the newsstand and into the tiny shop, crammed with rows of shelving. It’s empty of customers, and has a musty smell. A man stands behind the counter flipping through a magazine.

“Do you have The Rich Man’s Pearl?”

The greatest book ever written, I think, smiling to myself. Finally I’ll get to see if that’s true.

The man’s face scrunches up. “Who wrote it?”

“H.A. McDonald.”

“I might.” He closes the magazine, leaves the counter, and goes down one of the narrow aisles. He returns a minute later with a paperback that looks almost brand new. “That will be 25 cents.”

I set my purse onto the counter, open it and pull a quarter out.

“Don’t bother wrapping it, I have to catch the train.”

I take the book and go outside. I wait to cross the street while a couple of cars drive slowly past the front of the station. A young boy, dressed in a stained, lemon yellow shirt comes up beside me, as if waiting to cross as well.

I take a step forward after the last car passes, and I feel a sharp tug at my wrist. The boy yanks on the leather strap of my purse’s handle, breaks it free from my wrist, and sprints away with my purse, while I stand in the road clutching The Rich Man’s Pearl, in my other hand.

“Stop thief,” I scream. I turn to chase after him, but I’m dressed for travel in a suit jacket, skirt, and low heels, and the youth quickly disappears from my sight.

My heart pounds as it strikes me that I’m sunk. All of my money was in my purse, along with my ticket for the train I’m currently a passenger on.

I turn my head, searching for witnesses, but no one appears to even look in my direction.

Alarmed, I cross the street and go straight to the front of the ticket line, interrupting a transaction between the clerk and a customer.

My voice is loud and excited. “I’ve just been robbed. A boy ran up and stole my purse. My train ticket and all my money was inside it.”

While I’m speaking, a final boarding announcement is made for the train on which I’ve been riding.

My suitcase is on that train.

I don’t wait for the ticket seller to respond to my plight; instead I race to the platform, only to be stopped by a line of people boarding.

By the time I reach my seat, the train has already begun to move slowly out of the station.

My throat grows tight as I consider my plight.

A different conductor than before walks down the aisle checking tickets. He asks to see mine.

“It was stolen.”

I tell him what happened, but he only looks disbelieving.

“If that’s true, miss, you should have stayed at the station and asked to file a report with the police. Without a ticket, you’ll have to get off at the next stop.”

He walks away and I shake with fear. What am I supposed to do now – broke and stranded somewhere in Indiana?

My eyes drop to the book I hold in my hand. The Rich Man’s Pearl. I haven’t read a single page and already I loathe it.

For the next hour I sit in a state of desolation. I was a fool to leave Dandelion. I should have stayed home where life was safe.

The conductor appears at my side when the train arrives at the next station. He pulls my suitcase from the overhead rack and hands it to me. I open it, shove the book inside, and disembark.

I go straight to the ticket line when I depart the train. Once I reach the clerk, I insist on speaking with the station’s manager.

He takes me into his office and I recount my story a third time.

No expression of sympathy appears on his face; in fact, he seems bored, leaving me with an ominous feeling.

“Your story sounds believable, but you see I’ve heard it many times before. We’d be out-of-business if we gave free train rides to every person whose ticket was lost or stolen.

“If this really happened, you should have stayed in Abbadon and filed a police report. The authorities here have no jurisdiction over a crime that occurred in a town sixty miles away. I’m sorry I can’t help you my dear. Good day.”

He stands up and motions for me to leave his office.

I storm out of the rail station and ask the first person I see to direct me to the police station.

But once there, the officer at the desk conveys the same message the train station manager gave me – he can’t help. In fact, he discourages me completely.

“Even if you went back to Abbadon to file a police report, you’d probably never recover your purse. Times are tough. The boy who took it probably already spent all your money on food for his family.”

I leave the station hungry and despairing. I wander down Main Street wondering what to do next. A church steeple at the end of the street catches my eye. Perhaps I can find a kindhearted minister who can help me.

Instead I find a line of disheveled men standing outside the church.

“What’s going on?” I ask one.

“A free meal.”

I’m hungry so I join the line.

Others arrive to stand behind me, mostly men, but a few women as well. People scrutinize me oddly because I’m dressed for travel and carrying a suitcase. The other people in line wear old clothing that is torn and faded, and sometimes dirty.

When I reach the front of the line, just inside the doors of the church hall, two women greet me. They stand behind a table. One woman ladles out watery broth containing potatoes, carrots, and beans into a tin bowl, while the second hands out a slice of bread.

The bread lady’s eyebrows rise at the sight of me, but she doesn’t say a word as I take a slice from her and carry it and the soup bowl to a long, crowded table.

I put my suitcase under the table and then sit down. There aren’t any spoons so I hold the bowl up to my lips and take a sip. It’s bland but it fills my belly. When I’m done, I eat the slice of stale bread, wishing there was a topping for it.

All around me is evidence of poverty. I can’t help but wonder how these people ended up in this place. They make my library customers appear well-off in contrast.

The stench in the stuffy hall is overwhelming, forcing me to breathe through my mouth so I won’t lose my meal.

When I am done eating, I stand, retrieve my suitcase, and look for the women who served the meal.

“Is the minister available?” I ask.

“He’s out making calls,” the soup woman says. “Perhaps I can help you.”

I tell her about my purse, train ticket, and money being stolen.

From the expression on her face, I can tell she doubts my story, but she doesn’t want to say it to me outright.

“Do you have any family that can help?” she asks.

“My sister’s in Lexington, Kentucky.”

“Maybe you should give her a call. There’s a payphone at the diner just down the street.”

Calling Primmie is the last thing I want to do. Call her collect and ask her to rescue me? She’ll be horrified, and I don’t want to make trouble for her with my brother-in-law.

And I can’t call Uncle Haymitch. I don’t know where he works, or if he even has a phone at his house.

Still I walk to the diner, and step inside. A black payphone is attached to the wall, near the door.

The diner is half-full and I hesitate to use the phone because I don’t want everyone listening in to my conversation. I feel like a complete fool to have fallen into this predicament.

Just as I’m reaching for the phone receiver, I overhear a customer complain loudly about how long he’s been waiting for his meal.

“Alice called in sick and the cook’s having to do double-duty, cooking and washing the dirty dishes too. If you’re in such a hurry to eat, maybe you could go in the back and wash a plate for yourself,” says the man behind the counter. He’s tall and has a hooked nose.

The thought occurs to me that maybe he’d pay me to wash the dishes, if he’s short of help. Then, at least I’d be able to pay for my call to Primmie. It would be one less expense to foist on her.

I put the phone receiver down and walk to the counter. After a quick negotiation, he agrees to give me fifty cents if I’ll work until seven when the diner closes.

He hands me an apron. I enter the kitchen, set my suitcase down and get to work on the stacks of plates and glasses that fill the sink and line the countertop. It’s tiring work in the hot kitchen. Sweat drips down my face and into my eyes causing them to sting.

At six thirty, the tall man who is the owner tells the cook, a short, squat fellow, and I to stop working. He serves up three plates of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and a cup of coffee.

We eat at the counter, alongside a couple of customers. My late lunch of watery broth digested long ago, so I eat quickly, then get up and do the last of the dishes.

When I’m through, the owner hands me two quarters. “Can I use the phone before you lock up?”

“It’s broken,” he tells me.

Oh no.

“Is there another payphone around here?”

“There’s one at the drugstore. But they closed at five.”

Sighing, I open my suitcase and put the coins into a sewn-in side pocket.

I’d been so concerned about calling Primmie that I never thought about where I would spend the night.

As if reading my thoughts, the cook, who’s walking out the door says, “If you need a place to stay tonight, there’s always room in my bed.”

“Leave her alone, Bill,” the owner says.

“He’s only joking,” the owner tells me, but still I wait until the cook is at the end of the block before I leave.

I decide to return to the church where I got the soup and see if there is a deacon’s meeting or maybe the choir is having a practice. Perhaps someone will be moved to offer me a place to stay the night.

But the church is locked up tight when I get there, as is the shed behind it.

I make my way back to the train station. Maybe I could sleep inside on a bench? But that is locked up too, and a few, unsavory-looking men linger in the area, so I leave.

I stroll aimless down the sidewalk until it ends and then set off down a dirt road that parallels the train tracks. It’s already dark; fortunately the moon is low and bright making it easy for me to see.

I look for foliage or some kind of sheltered area where I can hide out and sleep. I slept outdoors with my father, Gale, and his father a few times when we were hunting years ago. It’s not too bad, although the ground is hard.

Cresting a small rise in the road, I stumble upon a campground. Several tents are pitched; some are canvass, but many look to be made of white cotton sheets.

A bonfire burns brightly. Men sit around it talking, smoking, drinking.

A couple of the men are as old as Dr. Snow, but instead of a trim white beard, their beards are long and unkept. Others are as young as the students in the schoolhouse along my library route. The majority, though, appear to be in their thirties, only a few years older than me. I recognize a face or two from the meal at the church.

“Looking for a place to spend the night miss,” a voice calls out.

I freeze and turn my head in the direction of the man who spoke to me. He’s as thin as a beanpole and missing a few teeth. He’s probably Gale’s age and I can’t help but compare the two. Gale has the world at his feet; this poor soul is at the bottom of the world.

I need to get out of here.

I may have spent months riding up and down the hills and valleys around Dandelion, but I am in a place where no one knows me, where I have no kin, no one to care a whit about my safety. What have I gotten myself into?

Even though I’m nervous, I keep my voice steady as I answer the man. “I’m walking home to my family. They’re waiting up for me.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” a second man says. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be out walking alone. It’s not safe.”

“Thank-you, but I’ll be fine.”

“It’s awfully dark out miss,” a third voice calls out. “I’d be happy to share my tent with you. I could pay you even.”

My face grows warm as I take in his meaning. I am not safe being a lone woman.

I take off at a fast clip up the crest of a second small hill.

It was a mistake to leave the town. I should have slept in the doorway of a building.

Fortunately none of the men leave the fire to chase after me. As I get close to the top of the crest, I hear two men walking toward me, their voices low.

The heavy dinner I ate rises to my throat. Frantically I look for someplace to hide, but there is not even a tree around here.

I begin to swing my suitcase at my side, up and down to gain momentum. Perhaps I can bash one of the men in the head at least and take off running.

I let go of my suitcase and let it fly forward just as we all meet at the top of the rise. A man’s arms reach out and push it away from him. My eyes follow the trajectory as my suitcase falls to the ground.

Then a familiar voice asks, “Katniss, what are you doing here?”

Perhaps I was never robbed in Abbadon. Maybe it was all a bad dream, and I’m still on the train speeding its way to Chicago.

But it is no dream. Standing in front of me is Peeta, his hands firm on my shoulders.

Author’s Note: One of the novel features of President Roosevelt’s New Deal to address The Great Depression was the speed in which the economic and social programs were introduced to the nation. Many of the reforms were rapidly drawn up, poorly administered, and some even contradicted each other. However, when it was clear that a program wasn’t working, it was ended and replaced with something different. This momentum helped build public confidence because at least the president was doing something to help the nation . Although not everyone was helped by the government work programs, a fair portion of the population was.

I found researching passenger train routes in the United States for 1936 impossible, so I’m less exact in this portion of the story. The train route Katniss intends to take west is based on information provided by Amtrak routing from Kentucky to Oregon. (Amtrak was founded in 1971 to take over the remaining United States passenger rail services.)

Abbadon, Indiana is fictional. The word “Abbadon” means “the place of destruction” in Hebrew. I thought it was a fitting name because of Katniss’ awful experience there.

Many people depended on getting free meals from churches and other charitable institutions during the 1930s. So called “bread lines” and “soup kitchens” were common.

During The Great Depression, millions of urban and rural families lost their jobs, depleted their savings, and eventually lost their homes. Shanty towns with houses constructed of cardboard, tar paper, glass, lumber, tin, and other salvageable materials sprang up. They were called Hoovervilles after President Hoover who was in office when the economy collapsed in 1929. Tent cities or hobo camps developed in areas along train tracks, as men needed places to stay between hopping freight trains to find work.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing here?” Peeta repeats.

“I was… I was…” Trying to speak, I choke back a sob.

Peeta’s hands come off my shoulders, and he reaches around to pull me into a hug.

As soon as the man he was walking with leaves, I bawl, letting go of all the emotions I’ve kept pent up this long, trying day. It takes at least five minutes for Peeta to calm me down. All the while he strokes my hair and whispers “it will be all right,” in a soothing voice.

Finally I break away, embarrassed that I’ve left the front of Peeta’s shirt damp from my tears and my drippy nose.

“Let’s go to the camp,” he says. “Have you eaten?”

“I’m not hungry, and I’m not going back there.”

He looks me in the eyes. “Did you run into any trouble there, Katniss?” His voice takes on a different tone. An angry one.

When I don’t answer, he asks me for a third time how I came to appear before him on a dirt road somewhere in Indiana. I imagine he’s curious because I’m wondering the same thing about him.

What is he doing here?

Haltingly I explain about my uncle’s job offer in Oregon that I received after we said our good-byes, worried that he will think I am chasing after him. After all what are the odds we’d both be offered jobs out west that are so near to each other?

To strengthen my story and explain why I’d give up a perfectly good WPA job, I make an embarrassing admission. “Dr. Snow became the owner of our house after my mother died. I couldn’t stay there any longer.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Peeta mutters. “He’s got his noose around the necks of half the people in Dandelion. But you still haven’t explained how you ended up here.”

“I got off the train to get something to read when it stopped in Abbadon, and my purse was stolen right off my wrist. And my ticket was inside it.”

“But Abaddon’s over a fifty miles away.”

“I went back on the train to get my suitcase and the conductor let me ride until the next stop. I’ve been looking for a place to spend the night. But then I ran into that encampment. And those men…”

“What happened?”

The ferocity in his voice scares me; I don’t want Peeta starting a fight with someone over this.

“A man said he’d pay me to share his tent.”

His lips press together forming a thin, angry line. “The hobo camps are no place for decent women. You should have stayed in town.”

“Stay where? I don’t know anyone and I only have 50 cents.”

“All your money was in your purse?”

“Yes.” He must think I’m a simpleton.

But he doesn’t say anything. Instead he picks up my suitcase from the ground and takes my arm. “Let’s go. It’ll be all right if you’re with me.”

I don’t want to go back to the camp, but what choice do I have – continue to walk alone down a dark road? Besides now that I’ve found Peeta, I’m not letting him go. So I allow him to lead me back.

Hoots and catcalls sound as we come upon the bonfire.

“Well, it looks like blondie got the girl,” a voice calls out. “How much is she charging you?” It’s the same man that offered me money to share his tent with him.

Peeta leans his head toward my ear. “Is that him?”

My heart races. “I can’t remember.”

Immediately Peeta lets go of my arm and turns in the direction of the man who spoke. “Take that back, or I’ll punch you in the face for insulting my wife.”

What?

Peeta gives me an apologetic look. But he doesn’t need to explain himself because it’s immediately clear that his deception worked.

“Sorry ma’am, I didn’t know you were married,” says the man who propositioned me.

I shudder to think he thought it was okay to make such lewd suggestions to any woman.

An uncomfortable silence falls over the campfire. Peeta attempts to smooth things over. “We only had enough for the one fare across country. My wife was traveling in the coach, while I was riding in a boxcar. But she got off the train in Abbadon for some air and her purse and ticket were stolen. It’s a miracle we found each other.”

I stare at him in astonishment, amazed at the convincing story he spins.

A chorus of “good nights” follow as Peeta leads me away to a small canvas tent.

“This one’s mine for tonight,” he says. I stoop down to crawl inside the small enclosure.

Peeta pushes my suitcase in first, and then follows. It’s a tight space, as it already holds Peeta’s satchel. We sit on the hard ground. I can barely make out his face, but I can tell he is close because his breath warms my skin.

“Why are you even here?” I whisper. “I thought you’d be in Oregon by now.”

“I needed to go to Chicago first to collect some money that was owed me.”

“But why head back south? You can take a train west from Chicago. That’s the most direct route.”

“It’s the most direct route if you have a ticket. But the person who owed me the money skipped town, so I’m taking a more roundabout route, hopping freight trains and riding in boxcars instead. ”

Hopping freights?

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Only if you’re caught.”

Even in the dark I can sense this brother of a moonshiner’s mouth curling up into a grin, mocking me.

“Since we’re heading in the same direction, you’re welcome to join me Katniss.”

I want to travel with Peeta, but hopping freights….

“I don’t know. I was thinking I might telephone my sister and ask her to send me some money for another ticket.”

Peeta’s warm hand lightly touches my shoulder.

“If that’s what you want Katniss; I’ll walk you back to town in the morning so you can call her. It’s late now though, so let’s get some rest.

He reaches for his satchel and moves toward the tent’s opening.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll just be outside sleeping. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe.”

I lie down and consider my options. Phone Primmie who will chastise me for my foolishness, and may or may not be able to pay for the remainder of my trip. Or travel west with Peeta, who has already declared himself to be my pretend husband and protector. It doesn’t take me long to come to a decision.

Despite experiencing one of the worse days of my life, I drift off to sleep, relaxed and even comforted by the thought that Peeta is outside keeping watch.

It’s light when he opens the flap of the tent. “Wake up. It’s morning.”

For a moment I am confused, forgetting where I am and not recognizing Peeta’s voice. But then it all comes back to me.

I sit up and rub my eyes. Already my back hurts and I wish I could take a bath.

“Is there somewhere to wash up?” I ask him. In the morning light, I can see dark circles beneath his eyes and thick stubble on his face that wasn’t apparent in the moonlight the previous evening.

“There’s a stream down the road aways,” he says. “I’ll walk you there and stand guard.”

I drag my suitcase out of the tent.

Peeta’s satchel hangs over his shoulder, but he takes my valise from me and carries it as we head off toward the road.

I tell him of my decision. “I’ll travel with you in the boxcars if you’re still willing to take me. I’m not sure my sister can spare the money to finance my trip west.”

A relaxed look comes over him. “Good.”

Was he worried about me traveling alone?

He gives me a teasing grin, a twinkle appearing in his eyes. “The fellow I was talking with last night when you tried to attack me with your suitcase said there’s a freight train passing through mid-morning headed for Missouri.”

Peeta walks me right up to the stream’s bank, to a section partially sheltered by some bushes. He sets my suitcase down, and then opens his satchel, pulling out a tin cup that he dips into the stream, filling it with water.

“You can wash up here where it’s private. I’ll go over there,” he says, waving his free arm toward the road. “I want to shave.”

I promise to be quick. I squat down and open my suitcase, scowling at the book that lies on top. The Rich Man’s Pearl. If it weren’t for that damn book, I’d still have my purse and be boarding the train in Chicago this morning.

Of course, I’d never have run into Peeta at all.

I shove the book aside and look through the suitcase. I haven’t packed a single pair of trousers. The ones I wore in my library job were old and unflattering. With my high ideals for a new life working as a secretary, I had decided they were unnecessary.

All I have are day dresses, a few blouses and a couple of skirts. Another pair of low-heeled shoes.

I pull out the least form fitting dress I can find and toss it over the top of one of the bushes, along with fresh undergarments. I set the other pair of shoes down on the ground. They are my favorite and go well with the dress I’ll wear. Maybe I’m being vain, but I can’t help but want to look nice for Peeta.

Looking past the bush I spy him in the distance with his back to me, one hand holding a small mirror, the other a razor as he shaves. Thankful that he’s occupied, I strip completely and wade into the icy stream, sitting down on the sandy bottom.

The water just covers my breasts. It’s slow moving, so there is no danger of me being washed along. I pick up a handful of sand to rub over my skin because I don’t have any soap.

I don’t stay in long because of the cold, but when I get out I regret my lack of a towel. I give myself a tiny shake, which is worthless, before proceeding to put clean clothing on my wet body. Putting on stockings over wet legs is tricky.

Once I’m dressed, I unpin my hair, unbraid it, and finger comb through it. Then I rebraid it, and pin it back atop my head. I emerge from the bushes looking far more put together than I entered them. At least I hope so, as I don’t have a mirror to confirm it.

“I’m done,” I call out to Peeta as I walk toward him.

He turns around and surveys me, as I do to him. A speck of dried blood sits on his chin where the razor must have cut it, but overall he looks far neater than before. His hair is damp; I suppose he used some of the water to comb down his curls so they lie flat.

“That’s a pretty dress Katniss, but don’t you have any trousers?”

“No, I didn’t pack any.”

“And those shoes. How are you going to run alongside the tracks in heels? ”

“Run? I thought we just snuck into the boxcar before it leaves the station.”

“We hop the freights a mile or two past the station so we won’t get caught by railroad security.

“Give me your shoes,” Peeta says.

Thinking he plans to inspect the grooves in the soles, I take one off and hand it over to him. He turns it over, breaks off the heel, which he tosses to the ground, and then hands it back to me.

My mouth flies open. “What have you done? These are my favorite shoes.”

“Well they’re no good for running. Give me the other shoe.”

I can’t walk with one heel on and the other off, so I unbuckle the second shoe and hand it over. He neatly breaks off the second heel and hands my shoe back to me.

Miffed, I bend down to pick up the broken heels and put them inside my suitcase. Maybe I can get my shoes fixed when we get to Oregon.

Peeta takes my suitcase from me and we saunter back to camp.

It is easier to walk on flattened soles, still I am annoyed that my best shoes are ruined.

Men stand around the open fire when we return. A frying pan sits atop a metal grill. The smell of bacon fills the air.

Opening his satchel, Peeta retrieves a tin plate. He holds it out to the man overseeing the cooking who serves him scrambled eggs and two strips of bacon.

Peeta pulls a nickel from his pocket and pays.

“I only have the one plate Katniss, so we can share,” he says.

I ate well enough yesterday, so I tell him that I’m not hungry. He ignores my words and hands me a strip of bacon, which I gobble up. My appetite rears up, but I tamp it down.

We move away from the others and sit on the ground while Peeta eats. I listen to the cook tell that the eggs were stolen from a nearby farmer’s henhouse, while the man’s wife had given them the bacon.

“Is that how these people survive?” I whisper. “Stealing and begging for food.”

He finishes chewing and swallows. “It’s not only people in Kentucky that are hurting. The whole country is in a shambles.”

Peeta eats half the scrambled eggs on the plate and leaves the rest for me. There is no cutlery, so I eat with my fingers the same as he did. Afterwards I lick my fingers to wash them. It’s funny how quickly a person’s manners can disappear.

We leave the camp with a small group, many of them teenagers, to catch the freight train.

The boys are friendly to us. Peeta’s comment that we are a married couple has apparently spread because the boys are calling me “Missus,” and treating me respectfully.

A towering, dark-skinned youth named Thresh, explains the procedure of hopping freights to me. “When you see the train you start running. When it gets level with you, reach up and grab on at the front of the car. Then you can climb along the side and get into an open boxcar, or up onto the roof of the train.

“Be careful though,” he adds. “Never grab at the rear of a car cause it’s liable to swing in and hurt you, or run you over. A friend of mine was killed that way last month.”

My heart clutches. How am I supposed to do all this wearing a dress? And what do I do with my suitcase? Toss it into an open boxcar and hope I can land in the same car? The suitcase and its contents are all I have left in the world and I don’t want to lose it.

The thought occurs to me that this exertion must be difficult for Peeta too. Less than six months ago he had a bullet removed from his calf.

I lean close to him. “How do you manage it with your leg?”

He frowns. “It’s not easy. On my ride here from Chicago, someone pulled me into the boxcar while I was running alongside it.

A sense of foreboding comes over me, that Peeta and I will end up separated completely. “I don’t think I can do this. Isn’t there some other way for us to get on board?”

Peeta rubs his chin. “I suppose we could try it your way, sneaking on the boxcar while it’s stopped at the station. The worse they could do is chase us off. But if it doesn’t work, Katniss, we’ll be stuck here until the next train comes through.”

I don’t want to spend another night at the hobo camp, but I’m willing to take the chance if it means we’re safe.

We wish the boys well, as we take leave from them, turning back in the direction of the station.

When we get to town, Peeta stops at a small grocery and purchases a loaf of bread and some cheese slices. I offer to pay for half of the food, but he tells me to save my money. “We’ll need it later.”

We pass the drugstore that the diner owner told me houses a working payphone. For a fleeting moment I think, I could call Primmie, but I dismiss the thought immediately.

As we get closer to the station I warn Peeta. “I can’t go inside there. Someone might recognize me from yesterday.”

“We’re not going inside.”

Instead we make a wide detour around the side of the station. In my upset yesterday, I never noticed a second set of tracks that parallel the main tracks. A few boxcars, their doors open, sit on the second set of rails.

“Maybe we could hide in one of those cars until the train shows up,” I suggest.

Just then a man sticks his head out of one of the boxcars to stare down the tracks.

“Looks like someone already had the same thought.” I point out the man to Peeta.

But instead of leading me to the boxcars, Peeta walks in a shallow drainage ditch that has been cut into the earth and runs parallel to the main track.

“Why are we going in this direction?”

“That man gives me an idea.”

We’re a fair distance past the station, when the train’s whistle sounds ahead of us. Peeta stops, turns, and reaches for my arm, pulling me out of the ditch and back a few feet away from the tracks.

A blast of warm air washes over us as the locomotive and its cars roll past us and into the station.

“Run and get into the first open boxcar,” he says after the last car passes us.

I jump back into the ditch, turn, and dash off in the direction of the station. Peeta stomps after me. There is an open car, second from last. I wait for Peeta to catch up.

He tosses my suitcase and his satchel in, and then picks me up by the waist and propels me inside. I scramble to right myself and then turn to help him on board but already Peeta has hold of the handle of the boxcar’s door and uses it to pull himself into the train.

My heart pounds after our physical outburst, but it’s not over yet. Shouts sound throughout the train yard around us, while Peeta shifts the colorful grain sacks that fill half the dimly-lit car.

Amazed at the strength he exhibits – those sacks must weight close to a hundred pounds -- I gather up his satchel and my suitcase and step aside to watch as he makes a walled-in private area for us to hide behind.

Once Peeta is done, we both squeeze between the sacks and sit huddled together with our baggage next to us.

“Who is that yelling?” I whisper.

Peeta keeps his voice low. “Railroad security, I expect. My guess is that more than one person was hiding in the boxcars on the second track. When I saw that man’s head sticking out, it reminded me of what one of the hobos back in the camp told me about people sleeping in empty boxcars.

“I’m sure railroad security knew people were in there. I was hoping they’d be watching them once the train came in so they wouldn’t be looking our way.”

“Guess you were right.”

“Have you done a lot of freight hopping?” I ask, when the train begins to move.

“Only between Chicago and Kentucky,” he admits. “But you’re right about my leg making it harder now.”

I guess that’s why he gave in so easily to my request. But how are we going to travel all the way to Oregon by train?

The boxcar picks up speed.

“Stay here,” Peeta says, leaving our enclosure and standing in front of the open door. “Maybe I can help pull someone in.”

A knot forms in my stomach thinking that anyone jumping on board might just as easily pull Peeta out of the train.

But I worry needlessly because the two boys he helps into the car, Benny and Jack, are scrawny and malnourished.

But it’s their faces that haunt me because they’re hardened as if those two have seen things that no teenager should know about. Both were with the group walking with us from the camp.

As the train rolls down the track, each boy recounts his story.

“My dad told me to leave home,” Bennie says. “He said Ma and him couldn’t feed me no more. It’s time you make your way in the world.”

So fourteen-year-old Bennie hopped a freight train in his hometown in Texas and had been riding the rails for the past three months.

Fifteen-year-old Jack ran away from his family. “My ma remarried and her new husband beat me,” he says. “Besides I’m a man and I need to make my way in the world.”

My heart aches for these boys who should, in my opinion, still be in school. But when I mention their education, they both stare at me open-mouthed.

“The school closed in our town for lack of money,” Jack says.

Later, as the afternoon grows late, Peeta shares the bread and cheese with the boys.

They are grateful. Apparently they have no money at all and could not afford to buy breakfast at the camp this morning.

“How do you get food?” I ask.

“Steal it mostly,” Jack says. “We knock on the backdoors of houses. Sometimes the lady inside will feed us if we do some work in the yard.”

“Isn’t it exhausting to live that way?”

Not knowing where a body will spend each night, continually concerned about where the next meal will come from -- well I’m going through that now, and even with Peeta by my side, I’m drained.

“It’s hard,” Bennie admits.

As I lean against the stacked grain sacks an overwhelming sadness rises up within me. So focused on my own problems, I didn’t give much consideration to the despair of others, in far worse condition than the Everdeens.

I wonder if my mother would have acted differently, less selfishly, if she could have seen the little I’ve seen so far.

With my belly filled with bread and cheese, I doze off, lulled by the rocking motion of the train.

I awake as Bennie calls out. “The train’s slowing. We need to get off now. We’re almost to the station.”

In less than a minute, without even saying good-bye, the two boys leap out the side of the car.

“Katniss.” Peeta stands, picking up our luggage.

I get up and look out into the dark night. Fear washes over me, rooting me in place. What if I break some bones or crack my head open? What if Peeta gets hurt?

“I can’t jump. Go without me.” I reach to take my suitcase from him.

He holds fast to it. “No, I won’t leave you.”

We go back into our hiding place behind the sacks of grain and wait for at least ten minutes after the car comes to a complete stop before we climb out.

It takes a few moments for our eyes to scan the unfamiliar train yard. In that short time we are caught.

“Stop right there or I’ll shoot,” a voice shouts.

Peeta grabs my hand and squeezes it. We both turn in the direction of the speaker.

A uniformed officer walks up to us. “You’re under arrest for riding illegally on the train.”

Author’s Note: The term hobo originated in the United States around 1890. A hobo is a migratory worker or homeless vagabond, especially one who is impoverished.

More than two million men and around 8,000 women illegally rode on trains roaming the U.S. in search of work during The Great Depression. It’s estimated that 250,000 of those hobos were teenagers, as young as 13 years old. Hopping onto a moving freight train was dangerous – at least 6,500 people were killed each year in accidents or by railroad security hired to make sure that the trains carried only “paying” passengers. Hopping freights became so common, though, that in 1933 Warner Brother’s studio produced a film called “Wild Boys of the Road” to scare young people from riding the rails. In the film a boy loses his leg to an oncoming train. If you’re interested in learning more about this subject, check out Riding The Rails: Teenagers On The Move During The Great Depression by Errol Lincoln Uys. But keep a box of tissues handy. It is a heart-breaking book, especially if you’re a parent.

Chapter Text

Under arrest?

My eyes grow big.

Peeta’s right hand holds fast to me. He sets down my suitcase onto the ground beside him, and raises his left hand to rub the back of his neck as he ponders the situation.

Does he have a plan? What can he possibly say to gain our release?

Satisfied that we appear to cooperate, the railroad detective tells us to stay put. Holding a flashlight, he peers into the boxcars ahead of us. Two cars past ours, he issues a shout and a family climbs out – a mother, father, toddler, and infant.

Surely that couple didn’t run and jump on to the boxcar. They must have snuck on board in the same fashion we did.

“Is he going to arrest them too?”

“I don’t know.” Peeta’s voice is low.

Still more people exit the boxcar just ahead of the one that carried the family. Old men mostly, too run-down to fling themselves out of a moving train in the dark.

A second family also exits. One of the children, a boy around three years old, cries loudly. His mother picks him up, rocks him in her arms, and hums.

Apparently railroad security at the station where we climbed on board, couldn’t stop everyone from sneaking onto the train because there are almost two dozen of us.

Another uniformed man appears. He motions everyone to gather together. Peeta picks up my suitcase, and we move towards the other riders.

“Look folks, you all broke the law and rightfully belong in jail,” the second man says. “But seeing as there’s so many of you, we’re willing to make a deal. We’ll let you off in exchange for all your cash.”

Gasps are heard all round.

“I’d rather go to jail,” an old hobo says.

“We don’t have any money,” the woman who holds the boy in her arms says. “Do you think we’d be riding in a boxcar if we had money?”

“Then you’ll go to jail.”

For how long?

Thoughts go round in my head. If we end up in jail, Peeta and I will be separated. How will we find each other again? Besides my uncle is expecting me, and Peeta needs to start his new job. We don’t have time to sit in a jail cell.

Desperate to escape this situation, I whisper to Peeta. “Give me my suitcase.”

His eyes narrow, but he sets it down in front of me, and lets go of my hand.

I squat down and open it, pulling out the two quarters I earned while washing dishes at the diner.

Closing my suitcase, I stand up and shout. “I have fifty cents. You can have it if you let me and my husband go.”

“No Katniss,” Peeta growls.

But the man who made the offer steps forward with his hand outstretched. I put the coins in it and pick up my suitcase, take hold of Peeta’s hand and give it a tug.

“That lady made the right choice. You all ought to do the same,” he says, as we walk rapidly in the direction of the station.

“We don’t have any money,” the woman says a second time, as the child in her arms begins to wail.

When we are out of hearing range, Peeta speaks. “You shouldn’t have done that Katniss. It was a shake down. I doubt those men even work for the railroad.

“And even if they are railroad security, I’m not sure they’d put all those people in jail because then the town would have to pay to feed them. They’ll likely just get a good tongue lashing.”

His words condemn me. I should have waited to see what happened. But the fear of going to jail was too much. Handing over my money seemed the easiest way to get Peeta and I away from that situation.

“Let me carry your suitcase,” Peeta says.

I hand it to him, still fretting over those families. Hoping Peeta is right, and that they’ll be let go with only a warning.

We walk toward the lights of town. It must be eight, maybe nine o’clock.

Where will we spend the night?

My stomach growls loudly.

“Sounds like you’re hungry.”

“I am.” But the bread and cheese are long gone, and I just gave away all my money.

“Maybe we can find something to eat in town.”

Is Peeta going to buy us a meal? I have no idea how much money he has, but it can’t be that much. Besides he already paid for my breakfast and my lunch today. I feel like a terrible burden to him.

We walk down a street lined with businesses. But every shop, every restaurant is closed. At the end of the street stands a church. Light shines from the windows and singing drifts out the open front door.

This is my story, this is my song.

Praising my Savior all the day long.

“Let’s go to the church. Maybe someone will help us there,” I suggest, remembering the soup line.

Peeta looks doubtful, but he agrees.

Climbing the stone steps, we enter as the song ends and take a seat in the back pew.

The minister stands up in front. He must be at least sixty, and so fat that his stomach overhangs the rope belt that encircles his long white robe.

“Please bow in prayer.”

Heads are lowered. Underneath my eyelashes I look beside me to Peeta. His eyes are shut tightly and I wonder if he is praying, or if he’s fallen asleep. He looks so tired.

It seems that everyone in this town is experiencing hard times, as the prayer goes on and on with specific requests for various individuals. It ends with a loud “Amen.”

Peeta and I join the congregation as they stand up to sing again. I pick up a hymnal from the holder at the back of the pew, but I don’t use it because I know already know the song.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way.

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

My voice soars and more than a few heads turn to look in my direction. Peeta leans close and whispers, “You sound like a songbird Katniss.”

I smile back at him and sing the remaining verses.

We linger in our seats after the service ends. A few people stop to greet us, but their smiles are not overly friendly. I imagine it’s because we have suitcases with us. After years of economic ruin, even charitable folk are bound to grow weary of helping others out.

When the last person has left, we stand up to speak to the minister. I worry that Peeta will say that we are married. I would be ashamed to lie to a man of the cloth.

But Peeta simply tells the preacher that we just arrived by train and are hungry and tired. Can he give us some food and shelter for the night?

The man’s forehead wrinkles. “Son, I’ve heard every version of that story imaginable. My hospitality wore thin years ago when a well-dressed young man asked for help and then held a gun to my head and robbed me of the church collection.”

I think he means to tell us to fend for ourselves when he adds, “Still there’s something in me that says it would be wrong to turn away a tired, young couple seeking shelter for the night.

“Especially when this lady here knows every word to our closing song.

“Come home with me. I’ll give you something to eat, and a blanket. The night is warm. You can sleep under the eaves behind the church.”

He is a trusting man to invite two bedraggled strangers into his home.

We follow him to a small house behind the church. He offers us simple fare – bread and jam, and tea. But it fills the hole in my belly.

He also lets us use the bathroom in his house. I wash up as best I can in the tiny sink, remembering my bath in the stream that very morning. It seems like I have aged a dozen years this day.

We sit on the concrete porch behind the church, and lean our backs against the wall. Peeta hands me the blanket.

“No, we can share.”

He shakes out the blanket to cover both of us.

“I had no idea how bad it was outside of Dandelion.”

I thought the people that I delivered books to in the hills around home were poor, but at least they had houses to live in and ground to keep a garden.

“It is bad, “ Peeta says. “All over.”

“I wish I had given my money to Bennie and Jack, instead of those two crooks at the station.”

“Well, if you’d given it to them, then you couldn’t have bought our freedom,” Peeta points out. “But don’t worry about those boys. I gave them each a dime while you were sleeping.”

It comforts me that Peeta was bothered by their stories as well.

We talk some more, but eventually my eyes droop. I lean my head onto Peeta’s shoulder. After a while, I find myself being shifted.

Peeta’s arm is around my waist and the blanket covers us. I don’t think I’ve ever been so comfy before.

I awake to the sunrise. Birds chirp in the distance. I lift Peeta’s arm from my waist and slip out from under the blanket.

Needing to use the toilet badly, I walk around to the front of the church, hoping the door is unlocked. Surprisingly, it’s propped open. I go inside. Ahead of me, the minister is kneeling at the front, his head bowed.

I find the ladies room. When I exit, my face is washed and my hair neatly arranged.

The minister meets me at the entrance to the church.

“Thank you for everything. We’re heading out west for jobs in Oregon.”

He nods and tells me he something for us. I follow him back to his house. He hands me the rest of the bread loaf we ate from last night in a paper sack.

“There’s a widow in our congregation that has set her cap for me. She’s always bringing me baked goods even though I don’t need any more fattening up.” He rubs his hand over his protruding belly.

“You know dear, when you’re settled at your final destination, you ought to join a church choir. You have a lovely voice. It would be a shame not to share that gift with others.”

Tears come to my eyes. Will I ever be settled again?

I thank him again and then go to Peeta. His eyes are just opening.

“I have some bread.”

He smiles at me sleepily. “That’s good Katniss.”

He stands, folds the blanket up and brings it to the door of the parsonage. The minister invites him inside, to use the bathroom I expect. I sit down on my suitcase and wait for Peeta to return.

I tear off two big chunks of bread for us to eat. When we are finished, we leave the church behind and amble past the still closed shops. Peeta carries my suitcase and his satchel. I carry the sack with the remaining bread.

I assume we head back to the train station, and the thought makes me shudder, but Peeta has a different idea.

“Maybe we should try hitchhiking.”

Relieved, I keep close as he leads us to a road that goes west out of town. We stand at a spot along the highway where it would be easy for a car to pull to the side without hindering traffic.

Every time a car approaches, Peeta closes his fist and puts out his thumb to indicate that we’re looking for a ride. I do the same, but several vehicles pass us by.

“This reminds me of a movie,” I say.

“A movie?”

“Yes. Didn’t you see It Happened One Night? It played at the Dandelion Theater a couple of years ago.

Peeta shakes his head. “I haven’t been to the movies in a long while. What happens in it?”

“Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert try to hitch a ride. No one will stop for him, but a car stops when she lifts her skirt to show a portion of her leg to the passing drivers.” I lift my skirt ever so slightly to show him.

Peeta’s face grows red. “No Katniss. You’re not doing that.”

Even though I have no intention of flashing my leg to passing motorists, I immediately take offense at the tone in his voice.

“Well, it worked in the movie.”

“That was a movie, not real life. What kind of driver is going to pick us up if you do that? Will he expect something in return when you’ve as good as offered it to get a ride?”

His words make my silly story ring hollow because I know he’s right. In the shelter of the movie theater, surrounded by a world of pretend where everything usually works out in the end, teasing drivers to get a ride is good for a laugh. In the real world, it could end up with frightening consequences for the both of us.

While we bicker on the side of the road, a vehicle stops beside us, and a man calls out, “Katniss Everdeen, whatever are you doing so far from home?”

I startle at the sound of my name, and turn. Darius Whitlock, the red-headed man who stayed at my mother’s house after my engagement ended, is leaning across the passenger seat and calling out to me from the open window of a shiny black car.

“Darius.”

Peeta’s eyebrows go up suspiciously, and I immediately explain.

“Dr. Snow brought Darius to our home to stay for a week to rest up.”

I turn back to Darius. “Can you give us a lift?”

“Where are you heading?”

“West. We’ll go as far west as you can take us.”

“Sure, hop on in.”

Peeta nods, but I have a nagging sense that he’s upset that I know the driver. He shoves our luggage into the back seat and climbs in after it, while I sit in the front next to Darius.

As Darius drives down the highway, we play catch up. I tell him about my mother’s unexpected death.

He appears genuinely distraught, even wiping a tear from his eye. “Not Lil. She was far too young.”

“She was,” I agree.

“And is Mags still there?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Oh, I liked her a lot. She reminds me of my grandmother.”

The conversation turns. “So how did you meet your traveling companion?” Darius cocks his head slightly toward the backseat.

“Peeta was the first patient Dr. Snow brought to our house.”

Darius looks in his rear view mirror to catch Peeta’s eyes. “So Katniss played nurse to you too?”

I spent far more time with Peeta than I ever spent with Darius, but Peeta doesn’t know that. I turn my head to gauge Peeta’s reaction. He nods to Darius, but his lips are pressed together and he doesn’t speak.

“So Katniss, how is it that you ended up hitchhiking?”

I tell him about my job in Oregon for my uncle and my stolen purse, but I am vague about the rest, the hobo camp, riding in the boxcar, almost getting arrested, sleeping on the church porch with Peeta.

“I was lucky to run into Peeta because he’s headed out west too.”

“Do you have people in Oregon as well?” Darius looks in his rear mirror again directing his question to Peeta.

“I have a job waiting for me,” Peeta says. “Painting murals on a lodge that’s being built at Mount Hood.”

“You’re an artist?”

“Yes.”

“I once had an artist friend.”

I think Darius means to tell us about his artist friend, but Peeta doesn’t ask about him, so instead Darius talks to us about his new job for the Seneca Necktie Company.

“I thought you worked for Langley’s Department Stores? Aren’t you related to the owner?”

“I am,” he says. “But my uncle and I had a falling out, so I quit.”

Peeta makes a funny sound in his throat, as if he’s clearing it. I turn back to look at him as he holds up an empty liquor bottle. He points to the floor, where several other bottles lie empty.

I turn back quickly to see if Darius noticed Peeta’s gesturing, but his eyes are fixed firmly on the road.

“My territory covers Missouri, Arkansas, and Oklahoma. I could take you as far west as the Oklahoma Panhandle, but not until sometime next week. I have a lot of stops along the way.”

Peeta and I cannot accept Darius’ offer. I have no money for lodgings or food, and I doubt Peeta has it either.

“Thanks for the offer, but we’re in a hurry. My uncle is expecting me, and Peeta has to start his job soon, too.”

“I understand Katniss. Just wanted to help if I could.”

We ride with Darius across the state line into Arkansas, where he has an appointment to meet with a business owner of a clothing store.

He lets us off in the downtown business area. Before we go, he opens his wallet and hands me a crumpled bill. “Here, Katniss. Take it.”

Normally, I’d refuse, but I have no money at all and am nowhere close to Oregon.

“Thanks, I’ll pay you back someday,” I say, all the time knowing it is a lie.

I’ll never see this man again. But he must know that too.

He gives me a genuine smile. “Have a good trip, Katniss.” He gives Peeta a stern look. “Take care of her.”

“I have been.”

The look that is exchanged between the two men is curious, but it makes me angry. I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I can do just fine on my own.

“Do you want to stop and get a meal?” I ask Peeta as we take leave of Darius.

“We still have some bread left. Save your money.”

We walk down the street. “Where are we going now?”

“To the gas station we passed as we rode into town. I think it would be easier to pick up a ride there.”

It’s a hot, sweaty walk in the heat as we hike back to the station. “You should have told Darius to let us off there,” I mutter.

“I would have, but I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.”

Is Peeta jealous of Darius?

My throat is parched when we reach the gas station. It’s almost as if Peeta can read my mind, or perhaps he’s thirsty as well, because he sets down the suitcase and satchel onto the curb and tells me to wait. In a couple of minutes he returns with a bottle of Pepsi.

We sit down on the curb and share the soda. The sugary liquid flows easily down my throat. The few moments of rest refresh and energize me.

“How will we get a ride?” I ask when the bottle is empty.

“Your friend gave you that single. We could offer to pay for a few gallons of gasoline in exchange for a ride.”

“It’s a five.”

Peeta’s eyebrows rise. “Okay then, let’s get some change.”

We go inside and the manager makes change for us – four singles and four quarters.

Gasoline costs 10 cent a gallon and we sit on the curb outside the station to wait for a likely driver who would be interested in our offer. We want to get as far west as possible for the least amount of money.

Peeta does the talking, but I stand alongside him. We have our story down. It’s a concoction of a little bit of truth and many lies.

We are a young married couple from Kentucky who were robbed of our train tickets while traveling out west.

Most drivers seem hesitant to give us a lift, despite our offer to pay for part of their gasoline. Peeta is average height, but his shoulders are broad and he looks strong. He hasn’t shaved in over a day and the stubble on his face gives him a desperate appearance.

I too, though small, give off an aura of fitness as a result of my daily horseback rides up and down the hills around Dandelion. Possibly drivers worry that Peeta and I could be another Bonnie and Clyde, robbing them, or even attacking them and stealing their vehicle.

After a couple of hours, I grow concerned. No one is interested in our offer, and we have already devoured the bread. It will be dark soon.

“Maybe we should walk back into town,” I suggest.

Just then, a beat up truck pulls into the station. Two boys, around the same ages as Bennie and Jack, sit in the back of it, atop a pile of furniture and other household items.

“That truck is too full,” I tell Peeta, but already he’s hurrying toward it.

The driver exits the cab, and Peeta speaks with him. I come alongside Peeta just as the man’s lips turn up into a crooked grin.

“Sure you can travel with us,” he says. He puts his head into the cab. “Can you believe this Mary? I told you everything would work out. This is Peeta and Katniss Mellark. Peeta’s going to help pay for our gas, if we’ll give him and his wife a ride.”

“Have her sit up front with us,” Mary says. “It would be nice to have someone to visit with.”

Ten minutes later, I’m riding in the cab with Hal and Mary Brown and Peeta is riding with our luggage in the truck bed with Bobby and Earl, Hal’s teenaged brothers.

The couple is only a couple of years younger than Peeta and I. Yet they’ve been married for three years already, and Mary is expecting.

Her large belly appears out of place on her thin frame. Hal, too, is noticeably thin. The bones on the sides of his wrist protrude, causing his hands to look overly large on the steering wheel.

As we drive down the highway, lit only by the moon and the stars, Hal recounts their plight.

“We had a farm here in Arkansas, but we can’t make a living with it anymore. So we decided to pack up and head out west. Talk is there’s farm jobs out in California.”

“Now you tell us your story,” Mary insists. “You two been married long?”

I feel awful about lying to them. “Not too long. We’re from Dandelion, Kentucky, but we’ve both got jobs waiting for us in Oregon.”

“You’re lucky to have work already lined up,” Mary says.

“I know.” Peeta and I are lucky.

Hal looks to me. “Your husband said you were robbed and your train tickets were stolen?”

“They were. Just outside the train station in Abbadon, Indiana.”

I hesitate to provide too much detail because I have no idea what Peeta is telling Hal’s brothers. I already like these people and I don’t want to get caught in a lie.

“They get your ring too?” Mary asks.

My eyes fly to her left hand that nervously rubs her belly. The thin gold band gleams in the moonlight.

“They did,” I mumble, automatically rubbing my bare ring finger. The only ring that finger ever wore was my engagement ring to Gale.

Suddenly a thought crashes into my mind.

I still have my engagement ring hidden in the sewn-in pocket of my suitcase.

Why did I worry about how we’ll get to Oregon? I can sell the ring to finance the trip.

Author’s Note: The song Katniss and Peeta hear drifting from the open doors of the church is “Blessed Assurance,” a well-known Christian hymn. The lyrics were written by Fannie Crosby in 1873 to music composed by Phoebe Knapp.

The hymn Katniss sings in the church is “It Is Well With My Soul." The lyrics were written by Horatio Spafford, and the music was composed by Philip Bliss. The song was published in 1876.

It Happened One Night is a 1934 movie directed by Frank Capra. It was the first movie to win all five major Academy Awards: best picture, director, actor, actress, and screenplay.

Pepsi became a popular drink during The Great Depression because it came in a 12-ounce bottle and sold for a nickel, while it’s rival Coca Cola sold in 6-ounce bottles for the same price.

Bonnie Elizabeth Parker and Clyde Chestnut Barrow were American criminals who traveled through the central United States during The Great Depression with a gang of friends and relatives. They’re known for robbing banks, but they mainly robbed small stores and rural gas stations. Their gang is believed to have killed at least nine police officers and several civilians. In 1934, they were ambushed and killed in Louisiana by law officers.

“Oakies” was the label put on refugee farm families from the drought-ravaged states of Kansas, Colorado and New Mexico, Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, and Missouri during the 1930s. These refugees were escaping two separate, yet simultaneous catastrophes, the collapse of tenant farming due to sinking commodity prices and agricultural mechanization, and the environmental disaster of the Dust Bowl, which made farming impossible and caused massive dust storms that impacted a large portion of the U.S. For more information about the Dust Bowl, I recommend Timothy Eagan’s book The Worst Hard Time .

Chapter Text

Hal drives for a couple of hours. Mary dozes, her head on my shoulder when he pulls off the road. In the dark, it’s hard to tell where we are, but the ground is flat and the sound of rushing water indicates a stream or creek is nearby.

Bobby and Earl find twigs and a branch on the ground and start a campfire. Two makeshift tents are quickly set up.

Peeta and I have no food, but the Browns offer to share their meal. Mary opens a few cans of beans, and makes a flatbread from flour, oil, and a pinch of salt. She fries it in a pan over the fire.

Peeta gets the tin plate out of his satchel and Mary heaps enough beans and bread onto it for the both of us.

Our experience is not so different than those who traveled west by covered wagon more than eighty years ago except that their journey took six months. According to Hal, this trip will take three or four days.

After the meal, Earl pulls out a harmonica and plays, while Mary and I walk a distance away and take turns squatting in the dirt to pee where the men can’t see us.

Later, Hal gives Peeta a blanket and tells us to sleep in the back of the truck. For a second night I lie next to him. We could both use a bath, but I’m too tired to care.

“We got lucky,” Peeta whispers, his arm around my shoulders as we rest on a cushion that is propped up against the back of the truck. “They seem like good people. Hal asked me if we wanted to continue to travel with them in exchange for contributing some money for gas.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“I’m glad you approve, because I already said `yes’.”

“Will we have enough money? We’re going to need to buy some food too.”

“With the money your friend provided, we should be okay. I have a dollar, too.”

“Good.”

I hold off telling Peeta about the ring because it sounds like he’s figured out a way to get us as far as California. Besides it’s not like I’ll run into anyone who’s willing to buy it in the middle of nowhere.

We travel with the Browns along Route 66 for the next three days, sharing day-old donuts, cowboy coffee, and more beans and flatbread. Hal drives mostly, but occasionally he turns the wheel over to Peeta to get a rest, and joins his brothers in the truck bed.

Peeta tells humorous stories about his childhood to Mary and me as he drives. We laugh so hard that Mary forbids him to tell us any more because she fears she’ll wet herself.

“Katniss, your husband is so funny.”

Peeta catches my eye and winks and for a moment I forget that we are only play-acting at being married and I grin back at him.

It’s easy to feel married to Peeta as he acts like a devoted husband to keep up the lie. He uses terms of endearment when speaking to me, touches me often, and even leaves the occasional peck on my cheek or lips. Every night we sleep in each other’s arms, wedged tightly in the truck bed between the household items the Browns’ have brought with them.

In Texas, Bobby and I shoot rabbits for dinner. Hal and Peeta skin them and Mary rolls them in flour, salt and pepper and fries them over the fire. I can’t remember when I enjoy a meal more.

In New Mexico, Earl finds a ten-dollar bill lying on the floor in the gas station restroom. He gives it to Hal who is so excited at the find that he tells us to keep our money.

“I’m paying for all the gasoline from now on.”

We stop driving early that day. We camp along a creek, where we get the chance to wash up. The weather has been a scorcher and we stink like pigs.

Our trip goes smoothly until we reach Arizona. While stopping for gas we hear rumors from the station attendant that California has turned back some people from entering the state.

“I don’t know what’s going on now, but earlier this year they had police stationed at the border. If you didn’t have proof of a job or a wallet full of cash they wouldn’t let you in.”

“That can’t be right,” Hal says. “This is America. I’m a citizen and I can go wherever the hell I want.”

We camp close to the California state line that night.

“What am I going to do if they turn me back?” Hal frets as we sit around the campfire. “There’s nothing for us back home.”

“They must be letting people in,” Peeta points out. “We haven’t seen too many vehicles driving east.”

“That’s true,” Hal mutters.

“Look maybe I can help. I have a letter from the governor’s office in Kentucky recommending me for my job in Oregon. We could say we’re only passing through California and don’t intend to stay.”

Early the next morning, before the sun is even up, Peeta drives Hal’s truck across the California state line. All of our worries were for naught because there isn’t even anyone there to question us.

We spend the entire day on the road, crossing the Mojave Desert in the cool morning hours and then meandering our way further west, before turning north.

Along the way we stop for tacos at a roadside stand. It is the first time any of us have eaten Mexican food.

“I hope this spicy dish won’t cause my labor to start,” Mary jokes.

Her silly comment makes me pause thinking about how alone she’ll be without family to help her.

Peeta and I say our goodbyes to the Brown family in Salinas. They want to drive to the farm fields in the Salinas Valley in hopes of finding work, while we have a better chance of obtaining a ride north if we stay in town.

Mary cries at our parting, as do I. We, who come from such varied backgrounds, have become fast friends, thrown together under such unlikely circumstances.

I ask Mary to drop me a line in care of my Uncle Haymitch in Sandy, Oregon, when she has the baby. I wish I had something to give her, something that would help make her days easier. Then I remember that I do. I open my suitcase and pull out The Rich Man’s Pearl.

I haven’t read it, maybe I never will, but I hope she’ll like it because I know that it made the women on my library route happy.

“Here’s something for you to read while the baby naps.” I shove it into her hands. “I hope you’ll like it.”

They drive away, and Peeta and I are on our own again.

“Let’s get something to eat Katniss.”

It’s long past dinnertime but we find a diner that is open. We share a plate of french fries.

“I have two dollars left from the money Darius gave me.” I swirl my french fry around in catsup as I speak. “I think we should get a room to stay in tonight. It would be nice to take a shower, and sleep in a bed for a change.”

“It would be nice,” Peeta agrees, “but you might want to save your money. We’ve still got more than 500 miles to go.”

“Well, here’s the thing.” That’s when I tell Peeta about my engagement ring and my plan to sell it. “Hopefully I can get enough money for it to buy us bus tickets to Oregon.”

He frowns. “If you want to sell your ring, that’s your business. But I can’t accept a bus ticket from you.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t answer because the waitress picks that moment to slap the bill on the table. Immediately Peeta picks it up. “I’ve got this.”

We go outside and wander around, looking for a place to spend the night. But we’re in town, not the countryside, and all the park benches are taken. It doesn’t take too long for Peeta to agree that we’ll have to pay for lodgings, like I suggested, unless we want to sleep in an alleyway. Eventually we find a place on a side street for $1.75. It’s dingy, but there’s a bed and a shower.

When we get inside, Peeta kicks off his shoes and lies back on the bed, while I head straight for the bathroom with my suitcase. I take a long shower, enjoying the water as it washes over me, and then scrub my hair with bar soap. Can it only be seven days since I said my goodbye to Dandelion? It seems like a lifetime ago.

I comb through the tangles in my wet hair, and braid it, but leave the braid hanging down. I put on a clean dress because even though I slept in Peeta’s arms for the past four nights, wearing my nightgown seems more intimate, like we really are married.

Peeta dozes, but I gently shake his shoulder. “You can shower now.”

He startles awake. He sits up and looks at me in the same bold fashion he did when I entered his family’s cabin months ago.

“You look nice Katniss.” His voice is low, and a shiver runs through me as I consider that I’m alone in a hotel room with him. There’s nothing to stop us from acting on the growing physical attraction that has been building throughout our trip.

Peeta gets off the bed, grabs his satchel and goes into the bathroom.

I set my suitcase on the bed and pull out the small cloth bag that contains my engagement ring. I put it on my finger, and think back to the day Gale gave it to me.

Never would I have expected to be sitting in a hotel room on the other side of the country with a different man planning to sell this ring that once held so much promise, and being happy about it.

I’ve certainly changed.

Putting the ring away, I lie down on the bed and daydream.

For some reason another scene from It Happened One Night comes to mind. Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert, who are unmarried, share a hotel room.

Of course being the movies, the room has two twin beds, unlike the lumpy double bed in this room. For modesty purposes, Clark Gable strings up a blanket between the two beds.

He calls the blanket “the wall of Jericho.” It’s a joke that runs throughout the movie, because at the conclusion, when the couple weds, the wall falls down.

I close my eyes and think of Peeta’s lips covering mine, his strong arms encircling me. I’m twenty-six years old and more than ready for the walls to fall down. And I don’t care if our marriage is real or not.

My mind made up, I decide to seduce Peeta when he gets out of the bathroom. But he’s in there too long, and I fall asleep.

The room is nearly dark when I awaken. Only a faint streetlight shows where the drapes don’t quite meet up at the window.

The other side of the bedspread has been folded over me. I turn to my right to see Peeta lying next to me. He is on his stomach, but his face is turned toward me. I reach out to touch his cheek that is smooth now that he’s shaved. I put my hand on his hair. It’s still damp from the shower. He makes a squeaking sound.

My opportunity has passed. I curse myself for falling asleep and ruining everything.

Sadness pierces my heart as I realize that we won’t be together much longer. We’ll soon arrive in Oregon. I’ll work for my uncle, while he’ll work at Mount Hood.

It was Peeta’s suggestion to let everyone think we were wed, but is it all pretend to him? Before he left Dandelion, he told me that he liked me. But have his feelings grown?

I guess I should be grateful that he’s been a gentleman at least, although a good part of me wishes he wasn’t. Sighing I fall back asleep.

It’s late when I wake up, almost nine. The drapes have been drawn open and the room is empty. Where is Peeta? Has he left me behind?

His words in the diner the previous evening when he rejected my offer of buying him a bus ticket spring to mind. A momentary panic comes over me until I spy his satchel on the chair. Perhaps he stepped out for some fresh air.

I go into the bathroom to ready myself for the day, wash my face, fix my hair and brush my teeth. At least I’m clean, although my dress is wrinkled from sleeping in it.

When I exit the bathroom, Peeta sits at the small table. He has two donuts and a cup of coffee.

“There’s a bakery down the street. I noticed it when we were walking around last night.”

He gives me a donut and we share the coffee.

He finishes his donut before me. “I wanted to talk to you about the rest of the trip. You don’t have to pay my way. You should be safe traveling by yourself on the bus. I can hitchhike.”

My heart sinks. “But I thought you said we’d travel to Oregon together.”

“Yes, but I don’t want you to think you’re obligated to pay for me.”

Does he plan to say good-bye right now? “Will you at least come with me while I try to sell the ring?”

“Of course. I’m not leaving you until I see you safely aboard a bus headed to Oregon.”

We pack our things up and return the room key. When I ask, the proprietor directs us to a jeweler on Main Street.

The shop is small. We’re a few minutes early, the sign says it opens at ten, so we wait outside and look in the display window.

Soon, a man appears who turns the sign on the door around from “closed” to “open.”

Peeta opens the door for me and we step inside.

A balding man watches us from behind the counter.

“What can I do for you?” He looks to Peeta. “Looking to buy a wedding band young man?”

My cheeks grow warm, as Peeta murmurs “no.”

I step forward. “I have a ring I want to sell.”

“I don’t buy jewelry. I’ve got too much inventory already. You’ll have to go to the pawn shop.”

My face drops.

“Well, let me take a look at it anyway. I can at least give you an idea of what it’s worth.”

Peeta gives me my suitcase and I set it onto the glass counter, open it, and pull out the cloth bag.

I hand the bag over and the jeweler pulls out the ring. He holds it up and turns it over.

“The stone is onyx,” I say.

He picks up a loupe, holds it to his eye, and studies the stone, turning the ring this way and that.

Finally he sets the loupe down and hands me back the ring and the bag.

“I’m sorry to tell you but that stone isn’t onyx. It’s colored glass.”

“That’s impossible.” Gale was proud of the ring he bought for me. He never would have tried to pass off colored glass as a gemstone.

“Is there someone else around who could take a look?”

The man nods. “Go to the pawnshop down the street. She knows her stuff.”

I put the ring back into the cloth bag, and grab my suitcase. Peeta follows after me as I stomp forward, convinced that the jeweler must lie, although I can’t figure out a reason for him to do so. He’d already said he wasn’t interested in buying the ring before he even looked at it.

I rush into the pawnshop. It’s larger than the jewelry store and filled with shelves holding the cast-off luxuries, and even necessities, of people’s lives.

“I have a ring.” I hand the cloth bag over to a woman who must be as old as Mags. “Could you tell me its value?”

She picks up a loupe and studies it the same way the jeweler did.

“Honey, this is colored glass and the band is made of 10 karat gold. That means there’s more alloy metals in it than real gold. The best I could offer you is a couple of dollars for it.”

Two dollars! Angry tears leak out the corner of my eyes. I think I may be sick.

“Was the ring a gift?” she asks.

I nod, taking a moment to choke back my emotions. “It was an engagement ring, but we broke it off.”

“I’m sure your fiancé purchased it in good faith. An unscrupulous jeweler deceived him. There are a lot of them around these days.”

She holds the ring out to me, but I can’t accept it back. I only have 25 cents to my name and 500 more miles to go.

“I’ll take the cash.”

She hands me two singles from a box beneath the counter.

Two dollars. I don’t have enough money for a bus ticket.

“I’m sorry Katniss,” Peeta says when we stand on the sidewalk outside the shop.

Wiping angry tears from my cheeks, I muster up a smile. “Can I travel the rest of the way to Oregon with you, Peeta?”

“Of course.” He rubs his hand in circles on my back to calm me. “Let’s walk to the highway. Maybe we can catch a ride from there.” He picks up my suitcase and we set off.

We don’t wait too long before a driver stops. We end up riding in the flatbed of a pickup truck. It only takes us a few miles north, but we continue that pattern for the rest of the day. Going in a northeastern direction mile-by mile. We sleep in an orchard that night.

The second day we’re lucky when we’re offered a ride that takes us all the way to Portland, Oregon. We spend that night in a Hooverville camp, set up on an empty lot between two office buildings.

It’s a stifling hot day as we beg rides to Sandy, which is a little less than 30 miles east of Portland.

Peeta says he’ll escort me to my uncle’s house before hitching his way to Mount Hood. It seems the place where he is to work is only 35 miles down the road from Sandy.

We arrive in my uncle’s hometown a little past noon. I don’t know his address because his letter was in my stolen purse, so I go to the post office and ask for directions.

Turns out he lives a mile outside of town. It’s early afternoon when we arrive.

Uncle Haymitch has a large, two-story clapboard house. It’s painted white, but the front door is dark green to match the trim around the windows. A white picket fence surrounds the grassy front yard. Wildflowers are planted along the front of the house.

The overall appearance is picturesque, like an illustration in a storybook. The house and property look far larger, and better-tended than my mother’s home in Dandelion.

A wave of anger goes through me as I think about my family’s financial losses. Surely my uncle could have helped us.

Peeta’s mouth is agape as he takes in the sight, reminding me of his amazed reaction to my father’s library. I can’t help but think he’s comparing this house to his family’s cabin in the hills above Dandelion.

“Come with me to the door,” I tell him, wondering if I carry the stench of the Hooverville camp with me.

I am nervous about meeting my uncle who is a stranger. But I’m also not ready to say good-bye to Peeta yet.

We open the gate and walk up to the house. I knock on the door. No answer. I knock again. Still no answer. I pound on the door with my fist. No one comes.

“Maybe he’s at work,” Peeta suggests. “Isn’t today Thursday?”

I’ve been traveling so long that I’ve lost track of my days.

“You’re right, that must be it.” I put my hand on the front door and turn the knob. Perhaps my uncle left it unlocked for me.

No such luck.

“Let’s go around back. Maybe there’s an open window.”

We leave the enclosed front yard and walk around the house. Behind it stands a small outbuilding. An older-model pickup truck is parked nearby.

I climb the stairs to the back porch and peer in the kitchen window, as the curtains are parted. A man sits at a table, his head slumped over a typewriter.

I gasp, causing Peeta to come up beside me to look in.

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“No, if you look closely you can see his back is moving up and down from breathing.”

Peeta turns the knob on the back door. It opens.

“You better go in first Katniss since he’s your uncle. I don’t want to get shot or something.”

Remembering the few times, shotguns were pointed at me as I appeared at cabins on my library route, I step inside and call out, “Uncle Haymitch.”

He snorts loudly, but continues to sleep slumped over the typewriter.

I step in further. Peeta follows me into the house. It’s a large kitchen, but the counters are covered with dirty plates and pans. The floor needs sweeping.

Peeta lifts a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam whiskey off the counter. “This must be the reason he can’t wake up.”

“He’s drunk?”

“Appears so.”

I am aggravated at the messy state of his house and his person. Has he enticed me to Oregon to take care of him? Perhaps my mother was right about her brother.

I go over to the sink and pull out a dirty pot. I prime the pump a few times until some water runs out. Filling the pot to the top, I walk toward him.

“That might not be a good idea Katniss,” Peeta warns.

But I don’t care. I’ve spent the last week and a half doing what would have once been unimaginable to me to get here. And this is the welcome I receive?

I empty the pot of water onto my uncle’s head.

“What the hell?” he shouts, jerking awake.

His eyes are crazed as he looks at me.

I take a step back, sure that he’s going to throw the typewriter at me because he’s already lifting it off the table.

“Uncle Haymich, it’s me, Katniss, your niece.”

“Katniss?” He blinks several times. “I got your letter, but you never showed up. I figured you weren’t coming after all and I’d have to type it up myself.”

He sets the typewriter down.

He glares at Peeta, and rubs his temples. “Who in the hell are you?"

“Peeta Mellark.”

“Oh really?” His voice takes on a suspicious tone. “Well don’t think you’re moving in too. I promised my niece a job. Only my niece.”

Furious at him for threatening Peeta, I lash out. “He doesn’t need a job. He has one with the WPA at Mount Hood. We’ve been traveling together ever since my purse was stolen and I was kicked off the train.”

“How convenient.” My uncle’s voice drips with sarcasm.

He looks down at himself suddenly as if noticing that his clothes are wet. “I need to change. Do something useful and make me some coffee.”

He exits the room, leaving Peeta and I puzzled.

Author’s Note: Route 66 was a highway that opened in 1926. It began in Chicago, Illinois, and ran through Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and ended in Santa Monica, California. It was the main route for migrants who traveled west to escape the Dust Bowl.

In February and March of 1936, the Los Angeles Police Department launched what was referred to as a “Bum Blockade” deploying 136 officers to 16 major points of entry to California on the Arizona, Nevada, and Oregon state lines. They turned away migrants with “no visible means of support.” Although it was ruled illegal by the state, it was halted only because of the negative publicity and threatened lawsuits of legal residents of the state who found themselves unable to return to their homes after traveling or doing business outside of California.

People escaping the Dust Bowl environmental disaster and the economic woes that faced farmers in the 1930s flocked to the Salinas Valley in California to find farm jobs during The Great Depression. Author John Steinbeck, a native of Salinas, describes their plight in his novel, The Grapes of Wrath .

The price of gold in 1936 was $35 per troy ounce, a price set by President Roosevelt. In 1934, Congress passed the Gold Reserve Act, which prohibited private ownership of gold in the U.S., except for personal jewelry and small quantities that coin collectors and dental practitioners could hold. Owners of gold were required to sell their gold to the government in exchange for cash, or face jail time. It wasn’t until 1974, under President Gerald Ford that Americans were permitted to own gold again.

Portland, Oregon, had several Hooverville camps (named for President Herbert Hoover who was in office at the start of The Great Depression in 1929). The camps had housing made from scrap wood, car parts, corrugated tin and cardboard boxes. The largest camp was located under the Ross Island Bridge. It was home to about 300 people.

Chapter Text

“This is nutty,” I say to Peeta.

I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but it wasn’t a drunk in an unkempt house. I thought my uncle was a businessman who needed a secretary. If so, why isn’t he at his place of work?

Peeta searches the cupboards and locates a tin of coffee.

“You know Katniss, I’d like to get to Mount Hood today if possible so I have a place to spend the night.” He hands me the tin. “Will you be all right staying here with your uncle?”

Where else can I go? I only have a nickel to my name.

I fill the coffee pot with water, add coffee to the basket on top and put it onto the stove to boil before I turn to look at him. “I’ll be fine, Peeta.”

“You’re sure.”

“I was robbed, harassed by hoboes, rode in a boxcar, hitchhiked, and pawned my engagement ring. I think I can manage my uncle.”

“I think you can do anything you put your mind to.” He grins at me, but his smile fades as he notices the serious look on my face.

I’ve been dreading this moment for days.

“I’ll miss you.” There is a catch in my voice that I’m sure Peeta hears because he comes close and wraps his arms around me in a tight hug, resting his chin on the top of my head.

“I’ll miss you too, Katniss. You made this trip a hundred times easier than I ever thought it would be.”

“Will I see you again?” I sound pitiful in my own ears.

He squeezes me tighter. “Of course. I’ll visit you when I get a chance.”

He steps back, dropping his arms. He puts a hand under my chin and tilts my head upward. He gently presses his lips to mine. It is a tender kiss, with far more feeling than the pecks he bestowed upon me when we were traveling with the Browns, but still it’s not enough. After ten days of travel together I want something to remember Peeta by until I see him again.

So when he pulls away, I reach my hands up to cup his cheeks and pull him back toward me. The stubble on his chin scratches my face, but I don’t care. I open my mouth slightly hoping to elicit that same sensation that occurred when he kissed me in front of my house in Dandelion.

But this kiss far exceeds that one. It’s as if a dam of pent-up emotion has been unleashed. At some point, Peeta picks me up by the waist and twists me around so that he is pressing me against the back of the counter. His mouth leaves mine and falls to my neck.

I feel the weight of his body against me, hard and firm. The coffee bubbles loudly in the glass dome at the top of the pot and the smell of it wafts through the air. I know I should turn off the stove before it burns, but I can’t find it in me to push Peeta away.

“What the hell is going on here?” My uncle’s voice startles us and our connection breaks. We fly apart.

Peeta’s hands fall from my waist and he turns toward my uncle. “I was just going, sir.”

He gives me a dazed smile. “I’ll be in touch.”

And then he’s out the door, leaving me weak in the knees, and mentally cursing my uncle.

I glance out the kitchen window at the truck that is parked outside. If my uncle were a decent sort, I’d ask him to drive Peeta to Mount Hood, so he wouldn’t have to hitchhike.

But he seems to dislike Peeta without knowing him so I don’t suggest it. Instead, I pick up a dirty mug from the sink, wash it, and pour him a cup of coffee.

My uncle takes the cup, and I follow him out of the kitchen, suitcase in hand. We walk through the dining room with its massive table that is littered with papers and a large cabinet filled with dusty fine china and crystal glasses, and into the living room where more mess awaits.

Tabletops are covered with notepads and even more dirty dishes. Piles of clothing, no doubt dirty, sit on the two armchairs that face the sofa. Dust lies on the uncovered surfaces and bits of lint and other flotsam lie on the large carpet that covers the wooden floors.

I push aside a pile of clothing and perch on the edge of one armchair.

“Why aren’t you at work today, Uncle Haymitch?”

It had crossed my mind that the reason he was drunk and at home in the middle of the week was because he’d lost his job.

Where would that leave me?

He reclines on the sofa, which he’s turned into a nest with a blanket, pillow, and a nearby table filled with notepads and several pencils. He waved his arm that holds the coffee, causing some of it to spill onto the carpet.

“Why would I need an office when I have my house?”

“I don’t understand. What do you do here and why would you require the services of a secretary?”

He points to the stack of notepads on the table. “I need you to type these up for me.”

“What are they?”

“It’s my book.”

“You wrote a book?”

“I’ve written almost three dozen.” He points to a bookcase against the wall.

My jaw drops. My uncle is a published author. I had no idea. I stand up and walk closer. The shelves are filled with paperbacks.

I glance at the titles.

The Baby in the Basket, The Woman Behind the Wall, The Fiery Furnace of Love, Beauty and the King, The Good Neighbor, It Happened in a Garden.

Suddenly a title jumps out at me, causing me to gasp.

The Rich Man’s Pearl.

My eyes fly to my uncle. “You’re H.A. McDonald?”

At the mention of his pen name, his face erupts into a smile. “That’s me. McDonald was my mother’s, your grandmother’s maiden name.”

“I had no idea.”

He scowls. “Didn’t my sister tell you anything about our people?”

Not enough apparently. “Did my mother know that you wrote books?”

He snorts loudly. “I sent her the very first one I ever wrote, but I never heard back from her. Guess she didn’t think too highly of The Fiery Furnace of Love.”

With a title like that, it doesn’t surprise me. Still it was wrong of my mother to refuse to acknowledge her brother’s success.

“The Rich Man’s Pearl, is the most popular book on my old library route in Dandelion. Women were begging me to save it for them.”

My uncle beams. It seems I discovered how to get on his good side – flatter him.

“Did you like it?’

“I never read it.” I almost tell him about how that book changed my life only the week before, but I decide to save that story for another day.

He sets down his coffee and walks to the bookshelf. “Well you might as well read it now that you’ve got the chance.”

I take the book from him and set it atop my suitcase.

His mood changed for the better, Uncle Haymitch takes me on a tour of the ground floor of the house, which includes a sunroom with large windows and a bathroom with a shower.

The mess seems to be contained downstairs fortunately. Upstairs are four bedrooms and a second, much larger bathroom that has a claw-footed bathtub in it.

“This is a big residence for one person.”

“Well I didn’t expect to be living here alone when I had it built.” My uncle’s voice is gruff.

He points out a bedroom that has a canopied bed. “Think this would work for you?”

The room faces the front of the house.

“So you mean for me to live here, then?”

“That was my idea.”

“And you’ll be paying me, as well as providing board.”

My uncle frowns. “I suppose you’ll be wanting some kind of allowance.”

“Not an allowance. A salary. You said you needed a secretary.”

“I’ll pay you $1 for every day you work for me.”

It’s less than the WPA paid me as a librarian, but if my uncle provides for my meals and board, it seems reasonable.

“All right then. We have a deal.”

“Good. Why don’t you get settled? Then you can come downstairs and get to work. I’m already late getting this manuscript to the publisher.”

I set my suitcase on the bed and unpack. All of my dresses need a washing, but I hang them in the wardrobe anyway. I haven’t bathed in a couple of days and look longingly at the claw foot tub in the bathroom.

But dirty as I am, that tub looks even dirtier. It will need a scrubbing before I bathe in it.

When I go downstairs my uncle hands me a stack of notepads that are numbered.

He’s moved the typewriter from the kitchen table to the dining table, clearing an area around it and putting a stack of white paper next to it. I put a piece of paper into the typewriter and turn the roller until the paper appears in front of the keys.

Looking at the first page of notepad number one, I begin to type.

The Prodigal Daughter.

My uncle’s handwriting is difficult to read, but I do my best to figure it out.

“What’s this word?” I call to him.

He lies on the couch, licking the end of his pencil and staring at a notepad.

Groaning, he gets off the couch and comes over to me.

“It’s `beleaguered’.” He glances at the page I’ve partially typed.

“No, no, no. You’ve done it all wrong. It needs to be double-spaced, not single-spaced.”

I put my hand on the end of the paper to rip it out of the typewriter, but he puts his hand atop mine to stop me.

“Just double-space from this point on. This isn’t the final draft, I have to edit it first.”

I type for a couple of hours, but stop when my hands begin to ache. Fifteen pages are completed beside me.

“Can I take a break?”

My uncle lifts his head from the notepad, and frowns at me.

“Okay. Why don’t you make us something to eat?”

The clock in the kitchen announces that it’s nearly 6 p.m. It seems unbelievable that only this morning I was sleeping in a hobo camp in Portland with Peeta. It’s as if I’ve stepped into another world altogether.

As I stand in front of my uncle’s refrigerator looking for something to make for dinner, my mind wanders to Peeta.

Has he made it to the lodge yet? Is he already at work too?

Peeta said he would be in touch; but when will I see him again? My tongue has been running over my swollen lower lip all afternoon, my mind drifting back to our kisses.

I sigh. After spending the past few hours typing up a romance story, I’ve gone moony with the idea of love.

It takes me almost an hour to fix a meal for us because I wash the dishes too. I carry a tray into the dining room that has two bowls of canned soup and two grilled cheese sandwiches on it.

My uncle clears more of the table, shoving his paperwork aside. He wolfs down his sandwich, and slurps up his soup.

When he has finished, I ask, “How did you ever become a writer of romance books?”

He pulls a cigar from his pocket, and lights it before he speaks. “I wrote my first one because I had to get it all down.”

“Get down what?”

“The story of my life.”

He puts the cigar in his mouth and holds it there for a few minutes. Then he removes it, slowly breathing out puffs of smoke.

My eyes water.

“I was engaged. I built this house for my fiancée and the large family we planned to have. But Maysilee died in 1919 from the flu.”

My uncle refers to the Spanish influenza that spread across the world around the time of The Great War. I was only a child, but I remember my parents talking in hushed voices about it.

“Her death nearly killed me. Afterwards, I decided to write down the story of our time together, thinking that if I could see the words on paper it would give me peace because nothing seemed to make sense any more. But once I got it all down and read through it, I was even more depressed.

“One day though after reading what I’d written for the fiftieth time, torturing myself yet again, a thought occurred that ultimately changed my life.”

My uncle puts the cigar back to his lips. He seems lost in his thoughts. Curious, I set down my spoon and lean forward in my chair waiting for him to continue his tale.

After a few minutes, he goes on. “I realized that I could re-write the ending. Instead of Maysilee dying, she could live. We could even have five children, like she wanted.

A stray memory nags at me. Someone else who talked about re-writing the ending to a sad story.

“Writing that new ending made me happier than I’d been in a long while. It changed my life.”

“But how could it change anything?” My uncle startles from my interruption, immediately taking a puff from the cigar. “No offense, Uncle Haymitch, but your fiancée was still gone.”

He glares at me, like I’m stupid. “You’re right. It didn’t bring Maysilee back. But the act of removing myself from my pain and imagining happiness, even if it was only for a moment, changed my perspective. It may sound crazy, but it gave me hope to continue living.

“To make a long story short, I showed my story to a friend who showed it to another friend that worked for a publishing house.

“I sold The Fiery Furnace of Love and became a published author. I’ve been writing romance books ever since.”

I suddenly remember that it was Delly who talked of changing the ending to Romeo and Juliet. Heaven knew how much pain she suffered living in poverty with a husband who spent time in jail because of his work as a moonshiner. Maybe that’s why she liked my uncle’s book.

“Do all your books end happily then?”

“Of course. That’s what my readers want. It’s what they need.”

“But isn’t that unrealistic.” I think back to the lives of the people I met on my journey west. “I’ve seen a lot of suffering over the past week. Real life doesn’t always end well.”

My uncle taps the end of his cigar on the rim of the empty soup bowl and the ashes fall into it. “Bingo. The real world isn’t like some damn Shirley Temple movie where everyone sings and dances at the end.

“But the way this country is going these past few years, we all need some reason to hope. I’m just doing my part to prevent an uprising.

“Are you finished eating?” His voice turns strangely gruff, as if he’s angry about revealing himself.

He sets his cigar into the bowl and clears the table after I nod.

I open and close my hands a few times to stretch my fingers before I begin to type again.

My uncle returns with the bottle of Jim Beam that Peeta had found in the kitchen. He lifts it directly to his mouth to drink. He sits down on the sofa and picks up his notepad, flipping back the pages to re-read what he’s already written.

As I type I ponder his words. It’s obvious that he believes he is helping others with his books, but if so, why does he drink so much?

I push the thought from my mind, but an hour later, I call it quits and tell my uncle I am headed up for bed.

I consider bathing, but I’m too exhausted to scrub out the tub. Instead I strip down to my slip and climb under the blankets. The Rich Man’s Pearl sits on my nightstand, but I’m too tired to read and my eyes fall shut.

In the middle of the night, I startle awake from the sound of an owl hooting. My arm reaches out automatically for Peeta, and a chest-crushing panic comes over me when I realize he is gone.

Is he missing me as well?

I think of my uncle’s story about his fiancée dying and find a morbid comfort in it. At least Peeta is alive. With that thought, I doze off.

Sunlight flits through dirty windows as I come awake. Sitting up in bed, I have a sneezing fit. I climb out of bed and put on the dress I wore yesterday.

My uncle lies on the couch downstairs, snoring loudly. Does he sleep in his bed or only on the sofa?

I find a rag and some cleaning powder I used in the kitchen yesterday. I scrub out the bathtub and fill it with water, undress, and climb inside.

Scrubbing my body and my hair energizes me. I take all of my clothing that I put away yesterday and wash it in the washing machine I noticed in a utility room off the kitchen.

I hang everything on a clothesline I improvise by tying a rope between two trees when a dark-skinned man with one arm appears from behind the shed carrying a basket.

My nerves rattled, I scream. “Who are you?”

He guffaws at my reaction. “Chaff Milburn, the gardener. And I guessing you’re Katniss?”

My eyes narrow. “Yes, but how did you know?”

“Haymitch told me you’d be coming after Effie left.”

“Was Effie my uncle’s secretary?”

He chuckles, “A lot more than that I’d say.”

I suspect Effie also did the housekeeping for my uncle. It would certainly explain the filthy state of the house in contrast to the manicured exterior.

“It’s nice to meet you Mr. Milburn. “You’ve done a wonderful job with the yard.”

“Thank-you.”

He walks off in the direction of the front of the house. I go inside and make a meal -- scrambled eggs and toast with jam, along with some coffee.

When the food is done, I portion it out onto two plates and carry it into the dining room.

“Wake up Uncle Haymitch. I’ve made you something to eat.”

He snorts a couple of times before he sits up. “Did you finish typing everything?”

“No, I did my laundry this morning and I met your gardener.”

The man who bared his heart to me the night before is gone. Judging from the scowl on his face, I’m guessing Uncle Haymitch is suffering a fierce hangover. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“I’ve been working ever since I got here. I cleaned up your kitchen, your bathtub, and made a few meals in addition to typing many pages of your manuscript. You offered me a job as a secretary, not a housekeeper.”

He grimaces, but doesn’t reply.

After eating, I type. I am soon caught up again in my uncle’s story. Abigail is a rich girl who falls in love with Samuel, who is poor. In my mind I have cast myself as Abigail and Peeta as Samuel. For some reason it makes the typing go faster.

I stop at six o’clock to cook dinner for us. There is little food left in the kitchen and we settle for egg sandwiches on toast.

“We’ll go shopping tomorrow,” my uncle promises.

I spend the evening dusting my bedroom, and ironing my freshly washed clothing. I even pen a short letter to Primmie to let her know I’ve arrived safely in Oregon, although I leave out the part about my robbery and my circuitous journey west. Why worry her?

The next morning, my uncle drives us into town. “Do you know how to drive?” he asks, as I sit beside him.

“I never had the chance to learn.” My father had a car when I was young, but my mother sold it after his death.

“Well, you can drive home and I’ll give you a lesson.”

My head spins. Does he expect me to be his chauffeur too?

We drop off my letter at the post office and my uncle collects his mail, before we going shopping.

The grocery reminds me of the one in Dandelion because both serve as hubs to exchange news for the community. A large bulletin board hangs by the front door with notices about events in town. A flyer on orange paper publicizes a community dance held on the last Saturday of every month.

I wonder if any of the WPA workers ever come down from the mountain to go to the dance?

As we wander up and down the aisles of the grocery store gathering foodstuffs, my uncle introduces me to everyone we meet.

“This is my niece Katniss. She’s traveled all the way from Kentucky to help me with my writing.”

Heads nod and faces smile at me, but I sense something is awry.

While my uncle pays and then helps the clerk box up the purchases, someone hisses at me from behind. I turn to find a pretty, middle-aged woman, with bright red lipstick who wears a straw hat with a large flower. She motions me to join her in the canned goods section where she hides.

Curious, I walk over to her. “Can I….”

“Be careful,” she whispers.

My eyebrows rise at her warning. “What do you mean?”

“Haymitch is a thief.”

My uncle calls out. “Shake a leg, Katniss. I haven’t got all day.”

I turn my head toward him. “All right.”

From behind me I feel my arm being squeezed. “Don’t forget what I said. Take care dear.”

I help my uncle carry out the boxed purchases. We put them in the back of the truck. Hoping he’s forgotten about our driving lesson, I walk toward the passenger door. I want to figure out what that woman was talking about.

“Get in on the other side, Katniss.”

I frown and climb into the driver’s seat. I listen as my uncle explains how the gears shift and the pedals work.

He directs me to start the motor. It takes several attempts, until the motor is humming. The stick is in neutral, and my uncle is already red-faced from shouting at me.

All the while I am listening to his directions, my mind repeats the woman’s words. He is a thief. What does she mean? And who is she?

Eventually, I get the car turned around and slowly drive toward home.

As we leave town, my eyes fly toward a group of men dressed alike who are picking up large rocks from the ground and loading them into a truck parked on the side of the road.

A slender woman with shoulder-length brown hair holds a clipboard. She stands facing a man whose back is turned to me, but I recognize him immediately.

It’s Peeta. Why is he doing manual labor? He’s supposed to be painting murals on the wall of the lodge.

I think to call to him through the open window of the cab, but I catch sight of the smile on the woman’s face and how her hand reaches for a piece of her hair, twirling it around her finger.

A memory surfaces. Madge Undersee and Gale.

Peeta is not my fiancé I remind myself. He is my …friend, traveling companion, pretend spouse, the man that was kissing me in my uncle’s kitchen two days ago.

In my anger, my foot automatically presses down onto the gas pedal. The truck’s motor grows louder.

Above it, my uncle shouts. “Shift to a higher gear, damn it, shift up.”

I attempt to do so, but the vehicle stalls out, coming to a lurching halt.

Embarrassed, I look in the rear view mirror to see whether or not Peeta looks in my direction. But he has joined the others to gather stones. None from that work party appears to have noticed my poor driving.

I restart the motor and we continue down the road.

“Was that your traveling companion I saw back there?” Uncle Haymitch asks.

“I’m not sure. It looked like him.”

“You’re pale. Let’s get home and eat some lunch and you can tell me all about him.”

Author’s Note: There was no minimum wage in 1936. It wasn’t until 1938 that President Roosevelt signed the Fair Labor Standards Act into law that a mandatory federal minimum wage of 25 cents per hour was established.

“The Great War” is the name people used for World War I prior to the start of World War II.

Beginning in 1918 (through 1920) the world suffered a horrific flu pandemic involving the H1N1 influenza virus. About one-third of the world’s population was infected. It killed between 500,000 to 650,000 people in the United States, and from 50 to 100 million worldwide (three to five percent of the world’s population at the time). An unusual aspect of this flu was that unlike previous influenzas that targeted the elderly and people in poor health, this illness killed healthy young adults. It was called the “Spanish flu” by newspapers, even though it did not originate in Spain. Spain was neutral during the war, thus newspapers focused on the effects of the influenza in that country in an attempt to maintain public morale during the war, and to minimize reports of illness and mortality that were occurring worldwide.

Sandy, Oregon, is a real town. Geographic information about the town is accurate in this story, but I have fictionalized everything else.

Chapter Text

We put the groceries away. My uncle insists I sit in the kitchen with him while he makes us sandwiches. He fries bacon, which he places on bread and tops with lettuce and a thick slice of beefsteak tomato.

Over lunch he questions me about my trip west. It’s the first time he’s shown any interest in how I got to Oregon. I tell him about the theft of my purse in Abbadon.

He’s fascinated when I reveal that the robbery occurred because I had left the station to purchase his book. And pleased when I tell him that I passed it along to Mary because I thought she’d appreciate it.

“Have you begun reading the copy I lent you?” he asks.

“You’ve kept me too busy.”

“I guess I have.”

His face takes on a dark look when I tell him about the soup kitchen and working in the diner for fifty cents and having no where to shelter for the night.

“I ran into Peeta near a hobo camp in Indiana, but I knew him from Dandelion. He stayed at my mother’s house to heal from a gunshot wound.”

That bit of information leads us off into a different conversation altogether, my mother’s wasteful spending habits and Dr. Snow’s takeover of our family home.

But eventually he steers me back to my original narrative. I recount our experience in the boxcar with Bennie and Jack, our shakedown at the train yard, the help from the minister, and our decision to hitchhike. I speak of Darius and the Browns and the other individuals who gave us rides.

We talk for a couple of hours, his voice growing softer as he coaxes me to reveal more about my life. Even though it doesn’t pertain to my trip west, I even tell him of my engagement to Gale, my trip to Frankfort to visit him, the ending of our engagement, and Gale’s quick marriage to Senator Undersee’s daughter.

Drained, I excuse myself and go upstairs to soak in the tub. My mind goes round and round, as I replay our conversation. I didn’t tell my uncle everything about my trip with Peeta– some things are too personal to reveal such as our fake marriage and sleeping in his arms and my thought to seduce him in the hotel room in Salinas.

But surely he must have a good idea about my feelings for Peeta; after all he interrupted us in the kitchen.

It isn’t until much later, after I’ve come downstairs and typed up several more pages of my uncle’s latest story that I remember the woman’s warning.

He is a thief.

My fingers rest on the typewriter keys as I survey the room, looking for evidence of thievery, while my uncle naps on the couch.

What can he have stolen? He seems well off. Why would he need to steal anything?

I dismiss the woman’s warning as my thoughts turn to Peeta. It was stupid of me to not slow the truck and call out to him on the road.

If we’d spoken, perhaps we could have made arrangements to meet up, but I have no way of contacting him now. Besides the shock of seeing him in Sandy when I thought he was working on Mount Hood confused me. Why was he even there?

I leave Abigail, the heroine of A Prodigal Daughter, just as frustrated as I am when I stop typing at six.

Hungry, I dip two cube steaks in egg and flour. While they fry, I cut thick slices of bread and spread them with butter. Chaff left some ripe strawberries on the front porch, gathered from wild plants on my uncle’s land. I wash the dirt from them and arrange them on a plate.

I carry everything to the dining table, before waking my uncle.

He snorts several times, but sits up and excuses himself to use the bathroom. The notepad resting on his chest falls to the ground.

Picking it up to set on the table in front of the sofa, I glance down at it, assuming it is more of The Prodigal Daughter. I am curious about what will happen to Abigail and Samuel as I’ve just typed up a chapter in which my uncle has separated the two lovers.

But instead of the story I’m typing, he has written down a list that appears to be the outline for a new story.

engaged to childhood friend

engagement ends because of other woman??? (protagonist seems the jealous type)

meets second man as traveling companion

romance ensues amidst a series of adventures

separation (more jealousy)

happy ending??? (how?)

Why has my uncle made notes on the personal information I confided in him. Why does he need to write it down?

A shiver runs down my back as the words of the woman in the grocery store ring in my head. He is a thief.

How does a middle-aged man who appears to have little interaction with others, most especially women, write a slew of popular romantic stories from the female point of view?

The woman’s warning makes sense now.

Uncle Haymitch doesn’t steal things; he steal’s women’s stories.

I rip the page from the notepad.

“What is this?” I wave the page in front of him when he returns. “Why have you taken notes on everything I’ve told you?”

My uncle gives me a cagy look. “I have a faulty memory. It’s one of the burdens of old age.”

He’s not even fifty.

“But why would you need notes? Are you planning to turn my story into one of your books?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he walks past me, sits at the dining table, and takes a bite of his cube steak. When he has finished chewing it, he answers me.

“No one would read a book about you because it wouldn’t have a happy ending.”

His words sting because at this very moment he’s right. Still I refuse to accept his insult.

“It may not look like blue skies now, but my story is not over yet.”

My uncle chuckles. “I like your fire Katniss.”

I join him at the table. “I’ve guessed correctly, haven’t I?”

He doesn’t answer; instead he continues to eat his cube steak.

“A man could get used to hot meals like this.”

I expect this comment is his thank-you for my cooking his dinner.

When he has finished eating, he pulls a cigar from his pocket and lights it before he launches into an indirect answer to my question.

“Where do writer’s get their ideas? Who knows? Ideas are all around us. Writers don’t steal them; they simply grab hold of things that catch their interest, polish them up, and give them new life.”

Blinking away tears from the smoke of his cigar, I reply, “So that’s what you were doing by taking notes of the personal things I shared with you? Grabbing hold of some ideas?

“Is that why a woman in the market warned me that you are a thief?”

His face turns red. “A thief? What did this woman look like?”

“She had a hat with a big flower on it.”

“Effie,” he mutters.

“Your old secretary?

He nods.

“Is she right?”

He puts his cigar between his lips and stares at a spot in the corner of the room. After a long silence he speaks. “Not in the way that you think.”

“So you completely made up the story of The Prodigal Daughter?”

He sighs and turns his head to look at me. “It depends on what you’d call `made up’.”

“I don’t understand. How did you come up with the plot?”

“There might be some similarities between The Prodigal Daughter and Effie’s life.”

“What similarities?”

“Both Effie and Abigail were born into wealth. Both fell in love with men who worked for their fathers. Both eloped and were cut off by their fathers. Unfortunately, Effie’s husband died, leaving her penniless.

I haven’t typed that far into the story, and my heart twists. “Samuel dies?”

I picture Peeta, who I have mentally cast into the role of Samuel, pale and still. The food in my stomach rises to my throat.

“No, no, no. That’s what happened to Effie’s husband. His name was Fred by the way, not Samuel. And I’m not going to kill him off. What kind of story would that be?

“Instead Samuel gets sick, so ill that he can’t survive without an operation that they can’t afford. Behind her husband’s back, Abigail will go to her father, and beg him for help. She’ll promise to leave Samuel to make her father happy if he’ll pay for the surgery to save her husband’s life.”

My eyes grow big. “And her father agrees to this bargain? Does he force her to give up her husband?”

My uncle smirks. “You’ll have to wait and see how my story ends.”

I frown. “But at least tell me that Abigail and Samuel are together at the end.”

“I already told you how my stories conclude.”

He leaves the table, returns to the couch, and takes a few swigs from a newly opened bottle of Jim Beam.

I clear the table, and wash the dishes. It dawns on me that Uncle Haymitch completely sidestepped the question of why he took notes about what I told him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The days continue much the same. Every morning I wake up before my uncle, do some housekeeping tasks and then make breakfast for the both of us before I sit down to type.

I lose track of time.

“We forgot to celebrate the Fourth of July,” I say to Uncle Haymitch on July 6^th.

“We’ll celebrate double next year; I’m on a deadline.”

Once the last page of the hand-written draft is typed, my uncle gives me the revised beginning of the book and I begin typing the final copy of the story.

“Make sure to keep the copy clean,” he insists.

Almost a month after I arrive, The Prodigal Daughter is completed. I drive my uncle to the post office to mail off his manuscript to the publisher. A letter awaits me from Primmie.

I open it as I lie in bed that evening. It’s full of news about her husband’s practice and the summer heat that sets records across the country and astonishment at our uncle’s writing success.

But then the subject changes.

Gale Hawthorne is running for a seat in the United States Congress. His father-in-law was slated to run but had to step aside due to poor health. However, Senator Undersee convinced the party to support Gale in his stead. Of course he likely won’t win, but what if he does?

I dig around inside myself, trying to register something, but I only find relief. My anger at Gale has faded altogether. Perhaps now that I have some free time, I should drop him a line to brag about myself. Tell him I’ve moved to Oregon and work for my uncle, a popular author. Of course I’d wish him success in his political campaign. And maybe hint that his jeweler is a crook.

I close Primmie’s letter and sigh. I miss Peeta. Every morning I awake wishing his arms were around me. How could I have grown so accustomed to sleeping next to him in such a short period of time?

Without a looming deadline, my uncle takes a rest from his writing. It seems he has nothing for me to type because he has no thought for his next story.

He spends his time lounging on the sofa, drinking from his bottle of Jim Beam and searching the wedding section of The Oregonian for a story idea.

I keep myself busy housekeeping and helping Chaff outside. He shows me where to pick blueberries and blackberries. I collect two buckets full and spend a long day in the kitchen making jam.

I sleep in the next morning, waking to the sound of knocking on the front door.

I stick my head out of my bedroom window. I can’t see the door because of the overhanging roof that covers the porch so I call out, “who’s there?”

The knocking stops and Peeta steps out from beneath the porch.

My cheeks rise in a grin so high that my face hurts.

He has kept his word and returned to see me.

“Hello Katniss.”

“Hello Peeta.”

“Are you still in bed? It’s past ten o’clock.”

It dawns on me that I’m wearing a thin nightgown. My hands rise instinctively to cover my breasts.

“Give me a few minutes to dress, and I’ll be right down.”

Giddy at the sight of him, I quickly put on a blouse and skirt, one of the only outfits of mine Peeta hasn’t seen. I fix my hair, brush my teeth, and put on a hint of lipstick.

My uncle snores on the sofa as I pass through the living room. I’m grateful that Peeta’s knock didn’t rouse him. I don’t need Uncle Haymitch getting between us again.

Peeta sits on the porch steps with his back to me, but he turns and stands as I step outside.

Remembering how we parted, I want to run into his arms, but shyness comes over me.

“Can you get away for a few hours?” Peeta sounds nervous as he shifts the satchel that hangs over his shoulder. He’s probably worried about Uncle Haymitch chasing him off. “I brought some food for a picnic.”

“Sure. Let me leave a note for my uncle. He’s still asleep.” I step back inside and jot a short note onto my uncle’s writing pad that lies on the small table next to the sofa. I head toward the door, but then turn around and go to the kitchen pantry and pull out a jar of blueberry jam, before going out.

“This is for you. I made it.”

Confusion appears on Peeta’s face for a moment, but he accepts it from me with a “thanks” and puts it into his bag. We set off down the road.

“How have you been?” I ask him.

“Much busier than I expected.”

“Are there a lot of murals to paint?”

“I haven’t even begun to paint yet. The lodge is still under construction so they’ve set all of us to build it first. Then we’ll construct the furniture and weave the linens.”

“Do you know how to do all that?”

“Nah. But neither does anyone else. They have instructors who are teaching us. It reminds me of art school, having to try out every kind of craft, even things we have no interest or ability to do. It can be frustrating at times, but at least I’m picking up some new skills.”

“I saw you a couple of days after we arrived when my uncle and I were out driving,” I confess. “You were loading rocks into a truck.”

“You saw me? Why didn’t you yell out?”

Because a woman was flirting with you. But I can’t say that.

“My uncle was giving me my first driving lesson. It was all I could do to keep the vehicle from stalling out.”

Peeta leads me away from the main road to a beaten-down path, lined by fir trees. Ahead of us is the sound of rushing water.

“Are we going somewhere specific?”

“We are, if I can find it. Finn, the fellow that shares my tent, told me about a spot he said would be a good place for a picnic.”

After a ten-minute hike, the trail ends and we find ourselves in a grassy meadow dotted with dandelions. It’s a picturesque setting.

Just beyond the meadow a river rushes past. A memory surfaces, Peeta taking me to the river near the hobo camp so I could bathe.

It seems like a lifetime ago.

We walk closer to the water and find a level spot to sit.

“This is the Sandy River,” Peeta says. “Did you know that wagon trains used to cross it eighty or ninety years ago?”

I shake my head. “You sure know a lot about the area.”

“All of the workers at the lodge grew up around here. I’ve heard lots of stories about how this place was settled.

“Are you thirsty?” He takes a bottle of Pepsi from his bag. “I got you your own bottle. We don’t have to share.”

“I don’t mind sharing.”

“Okay. We can save the second bottle for later.” He pulls a penknife from his pocket and pries off the cap. He hands the bottle to me.

After a sip or two I hand the bottle back. While he drinks, I ask Peeta a question I’ve been wondering for a long while.

“How is it that you were able to attend art school?”

“Actually, I have Coriolanus Snow to thank for it.”

My eyebrows rise. “Dr. Snow? That awful man?”

Peeta snorts at my reaction. “Yes. He saw some of my sketches when I was a child and thought I showed promise. When I turned eighteen, he offered to pay for me to attend art school in Chicago.”

“He paid my sister’s tuition for nursing school. But he expected her to work for him afterwards at reduced pay. And when that plan failed, he turned our home into a nursing facility.”

“There are always strings attached when Dr. Snow is involved.”

“Do you still owe him money?” I blurt out without thinking.

“No.” Peeta’s face grows hard. “It wasn’t easy, but I repaid him every last penny for school.”

“At least you stayed on decent terms. I, mean, he removed the bullet from your leg.” And let you live in our home for a month.

“It was an even exchange. I spent a week painting his portrait after I left your house. Do you know how hard it is to make a snake look friendly?”

He smiles at his own joke and I burst into laughter, at his description of the doctor.

Peeta sets the bottle of soda down onto the ground and opens his satchel. “I have bread, cheese, and potato chips. Are you hungry?”

We stop talking, and eat. Peeta finishes the first bottle of soda and opens the second.

“I’ve only been talking about myself,” he says. “How do you like working for your uncle?”

“It’s fine. It turns out he’s a romance writer. He’s published almost three-dozen books. I just typed up his latest one.”

“Sounds like he’s doing pretty well for himself.”

“I guess he is, although he hasn’t come up with an idea for his next book, so I don’t have much to do right now. Yesterday I made that jam I gave you.”

Peeta bites his lip and looks away from me and toward the rushing river. I worry that my conversation is boring. Surely there must be something interesting I could tell him.

“I got a letter from my sister the other day. She said my old fiancé is running for the U.S. Congress.”

Peeta inhales deeply. He turns back to me and reaches for my hand. “Let’s walk along the river Katniss.”

He helps me up and holds my hand as we gingerly make our way along the rocky shore. He lets go of my hand for a moment and bends down to pick up a rock. He tosses it into the river.

“Can you imagine traveling here by ox and wagon? It must have been quite a journey.”

“Worse than sneaking on boxcars and hitching rides?” I joke.

“I don’t know.” He catches my eyes and gives me a sad smile. “Sometimes I wish I was born then. Life was so much simpler. A man could come west and start fresh.”

We continue to walk hand-in-hand when Peeta stops suddenly.

“It’s probably best if I don’t visit you any more.”

My throat goes tight. I’m standing in the sunshine beside a rushing river and I think I may faint from lack of air.

I drop Peeta’s hand. “I don’t understand. Why?”

Peeta grimaces. “I care about you Katniss, so much. I can’t even close my eyes at night without seeing your face. If your uncle hadn’t walked in on us…well, I would have… “ his voice trails off.

“But you can do better than me. You’re pretty and smart. You come from money and you have connections. You can have any life you want.”

Peeta is everything I want. I love him. But my tongue lies thick in my mouth.

“I have nothing to offer you. I’m twenty-six years old and I have a dollar to my name. I just sent most of my paycheck to Delly because my brother is back in jail. I’ll be living in a tent at the WPA camp for the next year at least.”

“I know times are hard right now Peeta, but things will improve. You graduated from art school…"

He cuts me off. “I never came close to graduating. I left school after one semester.”

“But Delly said you were a popular artist up north.”

“I drew pictures of half-naked women for the covers of pulp magazines. Honestly, I’d be embarrassed if you saw them. I’ve done a lot of other things too, baked bread, painted houses, dug holes, even sold pencils on the street corner.”

I have a sudden urge to slap him. To make him understand that regardless of where we began, we are the same now, he and I. Both casualties of the time in which we live. Why shouldn’t we throw in our lot together?

Instead, I do the only thing I know to stop him from talking, I take a step closer, cup his face between my palms, and press my lips to his. He tries to pull away, but I hold him fast.

He groans. But his protest is short-lived. His arms soon go around me. He pulls me closer until I can feel his body pressing into mine.

It’s not long before I’m ready to push him down onto the ground on top of me and give myself to him, like I wanted to do in the hotel room. I reach a hand down and unbutton the first two buttons of my blouse. But he comes to himself and breaks free.

“No Katniss. This is all wrong.” He sounds angry, but I can’t tell who he’s angry with – me for kissing him, or himself for giving into me.

“I’ll take you home now. He strides ahead of me and I rush to catch up, red-faced as I re-button my blouse. He handily grabs his satchel from the ground where we ate and we walk back to my uncle’s house.

A terrible silence hangs over us, and it’s all I can do not to cry.

Once the house is in sight, Peeta stops to explain himself again.

“You would never be happy with me. I’m always going to be the guy who comes from a family of moonshiners, and you’re always going to be the daughter of the mine owner.

Never be happy? Is he crazy?

“None of that stuff matters.” I stare into his troubled face and ask, “Why did you even bother to visit me today, Peeta? I don’t understand why you went to all the effort you did to bring me lunch and find that meadow to eat it in.”

“I’m sorry, but I had to see you one more time.” His voice is strained.

The tears that I’ve been holding back, race down my cheeks. “I don’t care about your background. My family has its own problems. If you stopped being so proud, maybe you’d have figured out that I love you too.”

Embarrassed, I run to the house, almost knocking Chaff down as I hurry to get away.

Author’s Note: The Oregonian is a daily newspaper based in Portland, Oregon. It began publishing in 1850 as a weekly, and has been published daily since 1861. It’s the largest newspaper in Oregon.

Between 1841 and 1866, around 350,000 people came west to Oregon by wagon train. Pioneers who chose the land route (rather than taking the wheels off their wagons and floating down the Columbia River) went by way of The Barlow Road, a treacherous, toll-road that began at The Dalles in Oregon and concluded at Oregon City. They crossed the Sandy River as part of their journey.

In the building of Timberline Lodge at Mount Hood, the WPA wanted to develop the skills of workers, so people were provided training in a wide variety of jobs and asked to do work that they’d never previously done. For example, a carpenter might learn to do iron-work, in addition to building cabinets.

Chapter Text

I slam the door behind me so hard that the front windows rattle in their frames. The noise leaves me oddly satisfied, as it releases some of my pain.

Uncle Haymitch sits on the sofa, his arms spread wide to hold the newspaper that he reads. At the sound, he lowers it and glares at me.

“Where were you?”

I wipe my cheeks clean of their tears. “Didn’t you find the message I left? I wrote it on your notepad.”

He picks up his pad from the low table in front of him and reads aloud. “I’m going on a picnic with Peeta.”

He lets out a loud, exaggerated sigh. “So I’m guessing you’re not hungry anymore and won’t be making me something to eat.”

Perhaps my uncle means to calm my foul temper with a joke, but I’m in no mood for it. “Is that all I’m good for – taking care of you?”

He folds up the newspaper and sets it down onto the low table in front of him. “Okay, what the hell happened on your picnic?”

I’m hesitant to tell him anything personal because I know he’s desperate for a story idea, but I’m trapped between fury and distress. I have no one to discuss this matter with and I need to talk.

I perch on the edge of the armchair across from him. “Peeta told me he can’t see me anymore because he has nothing to offer me.”

“Well he doesn’t.” My uncle is so matter-of-fact that I immediately begin to argue.

“That’s not true. He’s a hard worker and a talented artist. He has a job with the WPA at Mount Hood.”

“And I’m guessing he lives in a tent on the mountain and is sending most of his pay home to help his ailing parents.”

My eyes narrow. How has Uncle Haymitch summed up the situation so easily without my telling him a word? Angry with him for not taking my side, I point out his one error.

“His parents are dead, he sends the money to his brother’s family.”

“The details aren’t important. The thing is he’s not in a position to take whatever the hell the two of you have any further. A decent man thinks about the future. And right now he knows he can’t. Believe me, if he’s serious about you, he’ll be back once he’s got some money set aside.

“Haven’t you read The Rich Man’s Pearl yet? It’s all in there.”

“He won’t be back,” I wail. “He said I’ll always be the miner’s daughter and he’ll always be the guy who comes from a family of moonshiners.”

“The longer he’s away from the class prejudices that exist in Dandelion the quicker he’ll be cured of that thought. If anything good’s come from this crippling economy it’s that the playing field has been leveled for just about everyone. A resourceful man can go far.

“But what’s this, you say, about his family making moonshine?”

When I’d told him about Peeta previously, I’d deliberately avoided the topic of moonshining because it seemed irrelevant to the story, and also because it was illegal.

“Is their moonshine good?”

I frown. “How would I know? Besides, Peeta’s not a moonshiner. It’s his brother who does that work, and keeps getting caught by revenuers.”

“Well, he may not be personally involved, but some of those families in the hills have been making moonshine for a couple hundred years. It’s a way of life. He no doubt has the family recipe memorized.”

“I don’t care about some stupid family recipe. This is my life and I can’t let Peeta go. I need him.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, my mind flies back to the manuscript I’ve typed up for my uncle. Abigail said those very words to her father.

The thought that my life has become as angst-ridden as one of my uncle’s sappy romance novel surprises and horrifies me.

My uncle smirks. “Whatever happens Katniss, you’ll survive.”

For the second time today, I resist an urge to slap someone.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Even though Peeta said we were all wrong for each other, I can’t bring myself to believe that it’s completely over between us. Surely my parting declaration of love will persuade him otherwise.

I cling to Uncle Haymitch’s idea that time will cause Peeta to forget the difference in our social background, and that he will return to me once he has some money saved. Since the WPA only pays workers once a month, it makes sense that I won’t hear from him for at least another month.

In the meantime I keep myself busy to avoid the despair of my broken heart. I put the house in order, help Chaff in the yard, take long walks, and write cheerful letters to my sister, Mags, and even Gale, extolling the wonders of my new home out West.

I even crack the cover of The Rich Man’s Pearl but stop after one page because I’m in no mood to read a romantic story.

One morning, I’m in the shed organizing things when I hear voices.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Chaff says. “He’s been drinking a lot since you left.”

I step outside to find Chaff and the woman from the grocery store. She’s in a colorful dress, and wears a large hat with a purple feather on it.

“Can I help you?”

She throws me a pleading look. “I’d like to see Haymitch.”

“Are you Effie?”

“Yes. Effie Trinket.”

“It’s nice to officially meet you. I’m Katniss.” I extend my hand to shake hers, but she only stares at it. I look down and see that it’s covered with a cobweb. I wipe my hand on my skirt and put it out again.

Effie takes my hand and squeezes it lightly. “It’s nice to meet you, dear.”

It may seem childish, but I marvel that the real Abigail stands before me. After typing up her story I feel as if I know her.

“I’m not sure if my uncle’s even awake yet. He stayed up late listening to the radio.” Uncle Haymitch has taken a rabid interest in the Olympic Games being held in Berlin, Germany.

“It’s urgent that I speak with him.”

“Well, I could see if he’s awake.”

“No bother, I know my way around the house.”

She hurries to the back door.”

“He’s gonna be teed off,” Chaff says as Effie enters through the kitchen.

“Maybe I better go inside and stop her.”

“No, it would be better if you waited out here. They can be a loud couple.”

Couple?

“My uncle and Effie…” I don’t even finish my sentence and Chaff winks at me.

My mouth flies open. “They’re a couple?”

Chaff nods.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but after hearing Uncle Haymitch’s sad tale about his dead fiancée Maysilee, I naively assumed he was still pining for her.

And how could Abigail, I mean Effie, be so disloyal to Samuel, that is, Fred.

I give them their privacy until the shouting starts. Chaff shakes his head at me as I run to the house.

“I won’t be spoken to like that Haymitch,” Effie says, when I enter the living room.

My uncle sits on the sofa with a notebook on his lap. His darkened eyes fly to me.

“Why did you let her in?”

As if I could stop her.

Effie’s face is red and near to tears. I recognize the look on it as one of shock and despair. The same look I no doubt had when Peeta bade me farewell.

“I’ll be going now,” Effie says. “But mark my words Haymitch. If that book is published, I’ll sue you.”

A nervous tingling passes down my spine because The Prodigal Daughter sits on the publisher’s desk at this very moment.

“Just try that Effie and you’ll find that you’re in as big of trouble as me. I’m not the only one who borrowed material from someone else.”

She heads for the front door and I follow her outside.

“Wait,” I call out as soon as we are past earshot of the house. She turns and stops.

“What’s going on?”

Haltingly she tells me a story that confirms what Chaff has told me. For many years she and my uncle had a relationship that was far more than employer and secretary.

But three months ago, while reading the handwritten draft of The Prodigal Daughter she realized that it was her story. She’d confronted him and after the ensuing fight she’d left.

All this occurred just prior to my uncle writing to offer me a job working for him.

“Will you really sue him then?”

Tears come to her eyes. “I don’t want to, but what recourse do I have?”

I don’t know how the law works, but I’m not sure if Effie has much of a case if The Prodigal Daughter only loosely follows her life. I understand her anger, though. Hadn’t my uncle contemplated doing the very same thing to me?

Still, I’m curious. “Why did he say you’d be in trouble too, if you sued him.”

Her face goes white. “It was nice speaking with you dear, but I have an appointment and I don’t want to be late.”

She leaves me in the front yard pondering her lack of an answer.

When I go inside, Uncle Haymitch lies on the sofa with his eyes closed.

“Has she left?”

“Yes. You never told me that your former secretary was your…” I hesitate to use the word “girlfriend.” It seems like a juvenile way to describe a middle-aged couple. I settle for “sweetheart.”

“I think she’s serious about suing you.”

He opens his eyes and catches mine. “It’s all talk. She’ll never sue because if I’m guilty, she’s equally guilty. She came up with the plots for the last dozen books I wrote. All of them were stories about so-called `friends’ of hers.”

My jaw drops. I’m amazed that no one has come forward to string up the pair of them.

“No one has guessed? How is that even possible?”

My uncle sits up. “Because I’m a damn fine writer, that’s why. I’ve changed names, disguised situations, re-worked endings. Made homely women beautiful, and turned louts and bumpkins into Prince Charming. Believe me, it would be impossible to prove theft if you were to compare the real persons to my characters.

“You sound very sure of yourself.”

“Of course, I’m sure. Besides I’ve changed the conclusions to their stories, drastically in some cases. On the whole, Effie’s friends didn’t have much luck with men.”

He pauses for a moment before continuing. “By the way I’ve been thinking about your recent boy trouble.”

Like Effie, I am ready to lash out at him. How dare he reduce what has happened me as `boy trouble’. I am in despair over the matter.

“There is a simple solution to your problem. I’ve written this scenario into several of my stories. You need to make him jealous. Then he’ll realize his feelings for you and fight to get you back. It works every time.”

“It works because you make it work.”

I don’t like his idea. I certainly don’t want Peeta that way, but his words remind me of the day Darius gave us a ride. At that time, I’d thought Peeta was jealous of Darius. Afterward he’d certainly shown a lot more affection toward me when we traveled with the Brown family.

But how can I make Peeta jealous now if we’re not in contact? The question weighs on my mind over the next few weeks.

I don’t hear from him. Slowly it’s sinking in that I might never hear from him again. My uncle’s house is spotless, and his pantry is stocked with jams and enough pickled vegetables to last all winter. I am irritable and moody.

My uncle, who is still at a loss for a story idea, is the same.

“Does it always take this long to come up with a new idea,” I ask him over dinner one night.

“No,” he admits. “This is the worst case of writer’s block I’ve ever experienced. But I have an idea about how to solve it, and how to snap you out of that blue mood as well. We’re going to the community dance tomorrow night.”

I’m aghast at his suggestion. I have no desire to go to a dance – it seems like I’m giving up on any hope of Peeta returning altogether. Besides, I can’t believe my uncle plans to deliberately search out women whose lives he can write about.

I argue with him the entire day, but he won’t give in. “I’m not dancing with anyone,” I warn him.

“You don’t have to. Just get out there and mingle. It will do you some good to get out of the house.”

We leave far too early for the event. The sky is filled with an orange glow as I drive my uncle the short distance to the community hall.

The musicians aren’t even there yet, only the organizers -- three women who look to be past sixty and a couple of old men. The women set out cookies on the refreshment table alongside a large bowl of punch.

My uncle knows the men and goes over to help them set out chairs along the wall.

“Do you usually get a good turnout for these dances,” I ask the women.

“We do,” one woman says. “Entire families come, kids too, from town and the outlying farms.”

She gives me a sympathetic glance. “You know occasionally we’ve had young men from the WPA camp on the mountain drive down and join us. I’m sure they’d appreciate having a pretty, young dance partner, rather than some old widow like me.”

My heart twists at her words. I hadn’t considered that Peeta might attend. He may claim to care about me, but he also rejected me. I can’t imagine he plans to stay a recluse for the remainder of his days.

I get a cup of punch and sit down. Furious at the thought that he might show up to seek comfort in someone else’s arms, I mentally prepare a speech in case I run into him.

Slowly over the next hour, the room fills up. The musicians are the first to arrive, taking up a corner of the room where an upright piano sits. They play a little of everything, swing, jazz, and popular tunes.

Uncle Haymitch circulates among the women in the room like a bee spreading pollen. In his hand he carries a cup of punch, which I suspect he’s spiked from the silver flask he carries in his pocket.

Idly I wonder if he brought a pocket-sized notebook as well, to jot down the facts so he won’t forget.

After an hour of watching, a man asks me to dance. He looks to be about fifty and I suspect Uncle Haymitch put him up to it. He looks kindly though, and I’m too embarrassed to refuse. When the dance is over, a second man asks me to take a spin. He, too, is as old as the first man.

After the second dance, I make an excuse to go outside. The room is warm and the back of my dress is damp against my skin.

It’s dark now, but white lights are strung up. Many people stand outside talking, likely to escape the heat inside. Some are dressed for a night out, while others dress for a day of labor in the field. They stand clumped in small groups. A few children run after a barking dog.

I scan the crowd, but I don’t recognize a soul, and I don’t feel inclined to converse with strangers. Maybe I should go inside and look for my uncle to ask him if we could leave.

Just as I turn to go back into the hall, a woman’s voice calls out to me. “Excuse me, are you Katniss by any chance?”

I turn in the direction of the voice to catch sight of the woman who was flirting with Peeta when he was loading rocks onto the truck. She walks toward me.

She wears a white cotton dress that clings to her lithe figure. Her hand reaches up to her head, a lone finger running through the curls that lie on her shoulders.

She’s the reason Peeta won’t visit me. It’s just like what happened with Gale.

I turn my back to her, my face growing warm. I take a few steps toward the hall when a hand lands on my shoulder.

I twist around ready to yell something rude when I catch sight of a tall, slender man in front of me. He has beautiful sea green eyes and hair the color of polished copper. He is sensuous in a way that would cause most women to go weak in the knees. I think he could be a movie star.

“You must be Katniss,” he says. “Peeta told me about your hair that you wear pinned up in braids and those beautiful grey eyes.”

How does Peeta know this man and why would he be telling him about me?

“I am Katniss, but I don’t know you.”

“I’m Finn Odair. Peeta and I share a tent on the mountain. Of course I’d rather be sharing it with my wife Annie but the government keeps us apart.”

The woman who called out to me steps forward and Finn puts his arm around her waist.

“We have to keep our marriage a secret because the WPA doesn’t allow married couples to work on the same project,” she explains.

The loving glances the two of them exchange are proof enough that I never had a reason to be jealous of Peeta and Annie.

Confused, I look around. “Is Peeta here too?”

Finn shakes his head. “He’s back in camp. He’s been working on all our days off for extra pay. He’s exhausted.”

“He’s been down in the dumps ever since he saw you,” Annie adds.

Even though I don’t know these friends of Peeta’s, I can’t help but blurt out. “Has he told you what he said to me?”

Finn nods. “If it’s any consolation, my wife gave him hell for it.”

“My dad shot himself in `33 after the bank closed and his business failed,” she says. “I came from money but I didn’t know what happy was until I met Finn. Now we have everything but money.”

“Funny how that goes,” Finn says, kissing the side of her head. “It’s like that old song, `The Best Things in Life are Free’.”

“If Peeta’s feeling bad about our conversation, why doesn’t he come tell me?”

“Well, he’s been working continuously,” Finn points out. “He’s spends the evenings writing letters to folks back home to get some family matter straightened out, and then there’s some editor he says never paid him for a job.

“My uncle has a truck. I could drive up to see Peeta if that would make it easier for him.”

“You should probably wait for him to come to you,” Annie suggests. Her comment reminds me of my mother’s warning about chasing men.

“But how long will that take?”

“Maybe not much longer if I tell him we saw you here dancing,” Finn says.

I snort. “I danced with two men old enough to be my father.”

“Ah, two beaus.” Finn bites his lip to hold back a smile. “That would give Peeta something to chew on.”

My conversation with the couple is interrupted by the appearance of my uncle.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” His voice slurs. “I’m ready to go.”

His eyes roam past me to Finn and Annie, but stop on Annie.

“You must have lived an interesting life young lady.”

Finn’s eyes narrow as he studies my drunken uncle. He pulls his wife closer to his side.

“This is my uncle, Haymitch Abernathy,” I introduce him.

Finn’s face relaxes. He stretches out his hand. “Finn Odair and this is my… Annie.”

My uncle shakes Finn’s hand, but looks to Annie. “Nice to meet you. My niece could use some friends. Are you new to the area?”

“We’re part of the WPA crew building the lodge on the mountain.” Annie says.

“You don’t say. Well, Katniss here, is in need of friends. Maybe you know her…”

I cut him off before he can continue his drunken ramblings. “I’ll take you home now. We should probably get going anyway. I could have sworn I saw Effie.”

He pales and reaches for my arm.

I wave goodbye to Finn and Annie, thankful for the news they gave me about Peeta. My gloomy mood lifts.

My uncle questions me about them on the way home. They are a handsome couple and I’m sure he would love to re-imagine their life for his own financial gain.

He’d be rapturous if he knew about their secret marriage and the scandal Annie’s family faced, but I have no plans to tell him any of that.

“Did get any story ideas at the dance? You were talking to a lot of people.”

“I got a couple of possibilities, but I’ll have to play around with them. But what I was really looking for was something to inspire me. Without inspiration a writer can do nothing.”

He begins another one of his many lectures on writing and how everyone has the same hopes and dreams and that his stories are popular because he taps into his readers’ emotions, but I stop listening.

Instead I think about Peeta and how he will react when Finn tells him I was at the dance tonight.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

We’re eating lunch a couple of days later when someone raps on the door.

My heart pounds. Could it be Peeta? Is he here to make amends?

I jump up and rush to the door and throw it open.

A young boy stands in front of me, note in hand. “I have a telegram for Mr. Abernathy.”

I put my hand out to take it, but my uncle is already behind me and snatches it from the boy.

He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a nickel for the youth.

As soon as the door closes, he opens it.

A flash of anger appears on his face as he reads the telegram. He tosses it onto the floor.

“Damn her,” he shouts.

I pick it up to read.

Stopping publication of book due to pending lawsuit.

Plutarch Heavensbee

I guess Effie wasn’t kidding.

Author’s Note: The WPA workers who built the Timberline Lodge lived at a camp set up at Summit Meadows. Walled and floored tents, a kitchen, mess hall, and quartermaster’s store were erected, and showers with hot/cold water provided, along with a complete infirmary. There weren’t many women who were assigned to the camp. And married couples were not permitted to work on the same WPA project.

The 1936 Summer Olympics were held in Berlin, Germany from August 1-16. Reich Chancellor Adolf Hitler saw the Games as an opportunity to promote his government and his ideals of racial supremacy. Jewish athletes were forbidden to compete for Germany. The only exception was made for fencer Helene Mayer (whose father was Jewish and mother was Lutheran). Mayer had won a gold medal for Germany in the 1928 Summer Olympics and won a silver medal in 1936. Most countries did not send Jewish competitors so as to not offend the German government. Hitler’s racial theories were challenged though when American runner Jesse Owens, a black athlete won four gold medals in the sprint and long jump events.

Around 9,000 banks failed in the United States during The Great Depression. By 1933, depositors saw $140 billion disappear through bank failures. That same year, President Franklin Roosevelt signed the 1933 Banking Act which created the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC), an independent government agency that insures bank accounts in FDIC-insured banks in the event that bank fails. At that time, the insurance covered the first $2,500 of a person’s funds; today it covers the first $250,000.

The Best Things in Life are Free was a song from the 1925 Ray Henderson-Buddy DeSylva musical “Good News.” The song took on new life during The Great Depression.

Chapter Text

My uncle takes a few swigs from his bottle of Jim Beam.

“I need you to drive me into Portland to see my lawyer.”

I’ve never driven so far and certainly not in traffic on city streets. The thought makes me nervous.

“Why can’t you drive yourself?”

“I’m too upset -- who knows what could happen.”

“But I don’t have a driving license,” I point out. “What if I get stopped?”

“Well, drive carefully and no one will ever know you’re breaking the law.”

As it’s already afternoon and my uncle has drank a fair amount, I suggest that we delay the trip until the next day so he has time to sober up. Fortunately he agrees.

We’re on the road before eight the next morning. Uncle Haymitch directs me to the office of Beetee Latier.

“He helped me collect my inheritance when my parents died. He seemed competent enough.”

It seems crazy to show up in the office of a lawyer you haven’t seen in nine years without an appointment and expect immediate assistance, but my uncle seemed fixed on the idea that this man will right everything.

My nerves grow frayed as I maneuver my way through city streets, where I must shift gears often in the stop-and-go traffic. I’m damp with perspiration when I park the car.

“I’ll see if I can fit you in somewhere,” the receptionist says. “But you should have called and made an appointment. Without one, you’ll have to wait.”

Uncle Haymitch scowls and takes a seat in the tiny waiting area. I sit beside him separated by a small table.

He drums his fingers angrily on the wooden armrest of his chair.

“Why don’t you have a phone?” I ask him. Mama didn’t have one at home because of the expense. But surely my uncle could afford one.

“You sound just like Effie. I had to pay a fortune to get the electric company to run a line out to my house. I’m not paying the phone company, too. Besides why do I need a phone? I don’t want anyone bothering me.”

I pick up a copy of The Oregonian that sits on the small table.

“Do you want a section, Uncle Haymitch?”

He shakes his head, and continues to drum his fingers.

I’m almost done reading the entire paper when the receptionist calls my uncle.

He stands, and then glares at me. “Well get up, we don’t have all day.”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to go in there with you.”

“You’re my witness,” he says.

Witness to what? I don’t want to get involved in this situation.

The visit only serves to make Uncle Haymitch angrier even though Mr. Latier, a nervous man with thick, corrective glasses, notes that Effie’s allegation would be difficult to prove.

“From what you’ve told me it sounds like she’s set it into motion because of a grudge against you.”

Which she has every reason to have based on my uncle’s actions.

“Now I can talk with her attorney and try to reach a settlement between you two. Or I can represent you in court. But it’s understandable that your publisher would hold up the printing of the book until this matter is resolved.”

“This is ridiculous,” Uncle Haymitch shouts. “No matter what happens I’m out money. You’re all just a bunch of damn crooks. You, her, and Heavensbee.”

He stands up. I throw Mr. Latier an apologetic glance before following my uncle out.

My uncle strides through the reception area, picks up the newspaper off the side table and shoves it under his arm before walking out.

“Why did you steal his newspaper?” I ask as we ride down the elevator.

“I might as well get something for the money I’ll have to pay him for that worthless piece of advice. Maybe I’ll strike it lucky and get a story idea out of that paper.”

My uncle keeps silent as we drive through the traffic that has increased since we arrived in Portland a couple of hours earlier. Glancing down the street ahead of us, I catch sight of a movie theater marquee. Romeo and Juliet.

A memory surfaces in my thoughts -- Peeta in my father’s study quoting a line to me from that play. A wave of sadness washes over me.

As we get closer to the theater, my uncle breaks his silence. “Now that’s one sad story.”

“Maybe you could take that story and change the ending.”

“I already did,” he says. “It was the plot of Star-Crossed Lovers.”

“So you’ve stolen from Shakespeare too?”

“I’d prefer to use the term `borrowed’, but yes I’ve gotten ideas from Shakespeare and a lot of other classics, including the Good Book itself.”

We pass a Hooverville camp as we leave the city outskirts and head back to Sandy. A few men are walking about, their clothing dirty and some in tatters.

“You ought to write about those poor souls,” I say. Living with my uncle in his big house, going to bed with a full stomach, sleeping in a canopied bed makes my hellish journey west seem like a bad dream.

But my experience was real and not a day passes that I don’t think about Bennie and Jack and Thresh and the portly minister that gave us the loaf of bread and let us sleep behind his church, and the Browns.

My uncle sighs. “I’ll leave that job to a better writer than myself.”

Surprised that he admits there are better writers, I can’t help but ask him to explain himself.

“It takes a certain talent to incite your readers to action. Harriet Beecher Stowe had that gift. And Erich Maria Remarkque shows it in All Quiet on the Western Front, although I’d say the jury’s still out on that book. Those folks in Europe seem never to tire of fighting. Look at what’s going on in Spain right now.

“But my skill lies elsewhere. I’m meant to cheer people up.”

It’s all I can do to not burst out laughing.

Cheer people up? My uncle is one of the least cheerful people I know.

My eyes leave the road for a mere second to look at his face to see if he is joking. But his countenance is serious, sad even. I have a sudden urge to encourage him because I don’t need him depressed any longer. I need him writing again so I have something to do.

“I don’t know if one kind of writing is better than another, but I do know that every woman I delivered books to in the hills around Dandelion wanted to read The Rich Man’s Pearl. You made their lives better. In fact, just being the one who delivered that book always made me feel good.”

A faint smile comes to his lips. “So what did you think of it?”

“Um, well..,” I stutter.

“You haven’t read it yet; have you?”

“No.”

As we drive up the to the house, something shiny on the front porch catches my eye as it flashes in the late morning sun. I drive the truck to the spot behind the house where my uncle keeps it parked. As usual, we enter the house by the back door.

Later that afternoon, Chaff hands me a mason jar, with a paper folded up inside it. “I found this on the porch. Is it yours?”

That must be what sparkled on the porch this morning when we drove up to the house.

It’s the same kind of jar I’ve used for all my jam making and pickling. How did it get outside of the kitchen? And what can be inside it? I twist open the lid to retrieve the note.

Thanks for the jam. It was delicious.

Peeta

My face grows warm and I look up to find Chaff staring at me.

“Yes, it’s for me. Did you see anyone put it there?”

He shakes his head. “No, but it wasn’t there when I left yesterday.”

Peeta must have returned it when Uncle Haymitch and I were in Portland.

Oh, if only I’d been here to see him, to talk with him.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

After visiting his lawyer, Uncle Haymitch’s gloomy mood grows even worse. He predicts dire consequences. “My writing career is over.”

Finally, sick of his pouting, as well as desperate to do something besides keep house, I devise a plan to end the conflict between my uncle and Effie Trinket.

“Do you know where Effie lives?” I ask Chaff.

He frowns. “She’s staying with a friend in town. But you should probably stay out of it.”

“I have to do something.”

Reluctantly he gives me directions. The next morning, I lie and tell my uncle I’m walking to town to mail a letter to Primmie. Instead I go to Effie’s residence.

She shares a house with a widow. I look at the white-haired lady who answers the door and wonder if she is the heroine in any of my uncle’s books.

“Is there something my uncle can do to make you drop the lawsuit?” I ask Effie as we sip iced tea.

“No. He stole my story.”

I know from Uncle Haymitch that Effie is just as much of a thief as he is. But pointing out her own faults probably won’t win her over.

“You’re right. It was awful of him. But it’s my understanding that he’s changed the details considerably. No one will recognize you.

She picks up her glass and takes a sip of tea.

What does she want from my uncle?

I don’t think her actions are motivated by money because they were sweethearts for a long time. It dawns on me that Effie knows that the public won’t recognize her in the book, what she wants is my uncle to recognize her value to him.

“What if he added a dedication page to you that said you were his inspiration for the story.”

Finally she smiles. “That would be nice. I’d like to be paid, also.”

Ah, so maybe I was wrong about the money.

“You should meet with him and discuss it. Come to dinner at six tomorrow evening.”

“Did Haymitch send you here?”

I already lied to my uncle about where I am. What’s one or two more lies? “He did. He wants to set everything right.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

While my uncle snores the next morning, I prepare for a feast. Cold fried chicken, potato salad, green beans, and biscuits. Blueberry pie for dessert.

When he awakes after two, the dining table is set with flowers.

“What’s going on here,” my uncle sputters as he eases himself into a sitting position on the sofa.

“We’re having a guest for dinner.”

Uncle Haymitch raises an eyebrow suspiciously. “Who? Have you found a new boy to play with or did the old one return?”

I glare at him, taking pleasure in my answer. “Effie Trinket.”

His face goes red. “I will not have that woman in my house.”

“Maybe you should listen to her. It might save you a lot of money.”

We argue back and forth all afternoon about the matter, but thirty minutes before she’s due to arrive, he goes upstairs to bathe.

Effie is seated in the living room with a glass of wine in her hand when my uncle descends the stairs.

He pours himself a glass of Jim Beam and sits down to join her. Their conversation is stilted, mostly about the exceedingly warm weather.

I call them to the dining table and set out the food. I have already decided to play waitress for this meal with the hope that my uncle and Effie will forget I am around and discuss their concerns like mature adults. Besides, I’m well aware of my uncle’s temper and I don’t want to be struck in the crossfire.

Neither talks at the table. Effie cuts the meat off her piece of fried chicken with a knife and a fork, while my uncle takes the drumstick up with his hand, licking his fingers when he sets it down on the plate. A piece of meat gets caught between his teeth and he puts a finger in his mouth to dislodge it.

“Oh really Haymitch,” Effie mutters at the sight.

After serving them iced coffee and pie, I escape from the house to give the pair some privacy. Morbidly, I find myself tracing the steps Peeta and I took to the river to our picnic. In all my walks, I’ve avoided going here before.

It’s still light. I pick up some stones on the edge and throw them into the rushing water and fret about Peeta. Is there any significance behind the appearance of the jam jar, or was he merely being polite? Did he leave the jar himself, or did he get someone to drop it off?

It’s dark when I return home. The house appears empty. The lights are off, Effie is gone and my uncle is nowhere to be found.

The thought that he may have killed her flits through my mind, but I toss it away as too fanciful. My uncle may be angry, but I can’t imagine he’d go so far as to commit murder.

I clear the table, wash the dishes, and make my way upstairs to bed. A light shows beneath my uncle’s closed bedroom door. It’s the first time he’s slept in his room since I arrived here more than two months ago.

Surely it’s a good sign.

I fall into a dreamless sleep, waking only when I think I hear a woman laughing. But it must be a dream as I’m the only woman that lives in this house.

But when I go downstairs for breakfast, Effie sits at the dining table with my uncle, drinking coffee and eating toast. She wears one of his button-down shirts. My uncle wears a plaid bathrobe, I’ve never seen before.

“Good morning Katniss.” My uncle’s voice is hearty. He gives me a cheeky grin.

My face goes red at the sight of the middle-aged lovers. “I’m guessing you two made up.”

“We have. Effie agreed to drop the lawsuit.”

I look to Effie who nods back at me.

“In fact right after we’ve finish eating we’re starting the outline for the next book,” Uncle Haymitch says.

“You came up with a story idea?”

“Effie did. Sit down I’ll get you some coffee and tell you all about it.” He stands up and goes into the kitchen.”

I look to Effie and whisper. “What have you done to my uncle?”

A sly smile forms. “I stayed away long enough for him to realize that he he couldn’t get along without me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Haymitch can write, but he can’t come up with plots for the life of him. That’s what I do.”

My uncle comes into the dining room with my coffee. “Has she told you her idea yet?”

“No.”

Uncle Haymitch licks his lips. “It’s a doozy and timely too. You’ve probably seen those pictures in the papers about King Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson.

I nod. I’d read about the unmarried British king and his married American friend while I sat in Mr. Latier’s waiting room. Apparently the royal family was upset over it.

“Kings have always had mistresses, but Effie suggested we twist the story and have the king renounce his throne for the love of a commoner.”

“But why would he have to give up his throne? Couldn’t a king marry whoever he wanted?”

“Royalty has to follow all kinds of rules,” Effie says. “Kings marry princesses, not commoners.

“It will be the most romantic story ever, a man giving up everything for the woman he loves,” Effie continues.

A thought nags at me. “Isn’t that the plot behind A Rich Man’s Pearl, a man giving up everything for love?”

“You’ve finally read it?” My uncle looks surprised.

“Just the back of the book.”

“That’s the plot of a lot my stories,” my uncle admits.

“Because it’s something women enjoy reading about.” Effie winks at me.

While I’m happy that my uncle has an idea, the couple’s enthusiasm depresses me because it reminds me that I’m alone.

As the days pass, a further realization hits. By reconciling my uncle and Effie, I have put myself out of a job.

I suppose I could stay on and be the housekeeper and cook, but Effie soon moves in and makes changes to the household routines. Although we get along, it’s likely that because we are so different, at some point we will inevitably come into conflict over some ridiculous matter if I stay on.

And clearly she is good for Uncle Haymitch. His drinking decreases considerably after her return. He writes again.

I came to Oregon for a new start, but it seems as if I’ve reached an impasse.

And I still miss Peeta.

Was giving up my job in Kentucky to head west a mistake?

Without talking about it to my uncle and Effie, I begin a search for work. First in town, but when that avenue quickly proves dead, I apply for jobs in Portland. School has started up again so it’s too late to look for a teaching position, but now that I know how to type, perhaps I can find work in an office.

September is a scorcher. Even with the window open, my bedroom is too warm. I take a blanket and pillow and go downstairs to sleep outside on the porch. Sleeping outside reminds me of my journey west with Peeta.

I think back to Effie’s comment that she stayed away long enough for my uncle to realize how much he needed her. Is Peeta coming to a similar realization after our separation? Does he miss me at all?

Two weeks after I begin my job search, I strike gold. I receive a letter in the mail asking me to come to Portland for an interview.

I show Uncle Haymitch the letter. “Can I borrow the truck?”

He frowns. “I don’t know. You don’t have a license.”

Is he serious?

“Oh Haymitch, let her take the truck.” Effie smiles at me and I’m guessing she understands my predicament.

“But if she takes a job in the city, how’s she going to get there? She can’t take my truck everyday.”

“She can find a place to board in Portland.”

It’s clear that Effie is ready to take over as the only woman in my uncle’s household. She’s just too polite to say it to my face.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cinna Jackson is a tailor. He leads me into his messy shop and asks me about my job experience.

I tell him of my work history --- teaching school, delivering books by horseback, and most recently typing up my uncle’s manuscript.

“Sounds like you have people skills,” he says.

I wouldn’t describe myself that way at all. But if it helps me get the job I will agree to almost anything he says.

“This job is only temporary, a few months at most,” he warns. “My wife works with me, but she’s expecting, and she gets tired so easily these days.”

I must make a good impression, or maybe it’s because I can start immediately that he offers me the job on the spot.

As soon as I leave his shop, I purchase a newspaper, find a bench to sit on and look for a place to live. By the time I return to Sandy that afternoon, I’ve rented a room at the home of Jacob and Isabel Boggs.

A couple of days later, I’m living in Portland and working at Cinna’s shop. My life is changed so quickly yet again. But maybe it’s better that way. It’s been a month since Peeta returned the empty jar, two months since he said goodbye. Despite what I feel for him, I know deep down he’s not coming back.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Uncle Haymitch, Effie, and I sit at the diner on Spring Street and make small talk while we wait for our food.

“I like what you’ve done with your hair,” Effie says.

“Thank you.”

“Humph. You look like every other girl now.” My uncle shakes his head in disapproval.

My hand goes up to the end of my shoulder-length hair and I twirl it round my finger. After moving to Portland a few weeks ago, I went to the hairdresser and had my hair cut off. Partly for a change and partly for the money I received by selling it to a wigmaker.

I need warmer clothes. Foolishly I got rid of all of mine when I left Kentucky, not realizing that it gets cold in Oregon too. And I need a warm coat; my father’s leather jacket looks outlandish over a dress.

“Are the Boggs treating you well?” my uncle questions.

“Yes.” Surprisingly he was quite concerned about me renting a room from strangers. But the Boggs are decent people. Mr. Boggs is a clerk at the Portland City Hall and a deacon at his church. Mrs. Boggs is a homemaker. They have no children, only a tabby named Buttercup.

“How’s the job?” Effie asks.

“It’s fine. I’m learning how to cut out patterns.”

“That’s good. But it’s only temporary?” my uncle probes.

“Yes, until his wife has the baby.” I’ll have to begin searching in a few months again. I’m not looking forward to it.

Our lunch arrives on three plates that rest on the flat, out-stretched arm of our waitress.

“Do you need anything else?” she asks.

My uncle’s eyes narrow as he studies her lined, tired face. “You’re a marvel with those plates. Been waitressing a long time have you? I bet you’ve seen some things.”

Effie slaps at his arm. “Not today Haymitch. We came here for Katniss.”

“How’s the book going?” I ask my uncle.

Effie frowns, as my uncle pours catsup over his meatloaf. “The writing’s coming along fine; it’s just those damn newspaper articles are making me nervous.”

“What do you mean?”

Effie answers. “Mrs. Simpson has filed for divorce from her husband. Rumors are flying that the king intends to marry her.”

“Can he do that? I thought you said kings can’t marry commoners.”

Effie shakes her head. “It’s just not done. And the thing that makes me angriest is that if he abdicates for that horse-faced woman, it will ruin our book altogether. Everyone will think we stole the idea instead of making it up.”

I have to bite my lip from laughing at these two thieves who ironically may be caught because the only original idea they ever came up with might happen in real life.

I pick up the catsup bottle from the table and douse my fries. I bite into one when my uncle turns to me, “Meet any nice young men?”

“Now Haymitch that’s none of your business,” Effie warns.

I scowl at him and continue chewing, not revealing that I’ve not only met someone, but reluctantly been out on a date too.

Not that Cato Ableman means anything to me. He’s a deacon at the Boggs’ church. I met him when I attended Sunday service with the Boggs and got trapped into accepting his offer for dinner when he asked me in front of them and I couldn’t think of an excuse.

He has a steady job for the Portland Electric Company. Mrs. Boggs calls him “a catch."

But after our date, I’m ready to throw him back. He’s no Peeta.

It’s not until our pie arrives for dessert that my uncle pulls something out of his pocket. A stack of envelopes.

“This mail arrived after you left.”

Primmie’s neat handwriting is on the top envelope. I guess Mags and Gale wrote me too. Maybe even Mary Brown. I’ve been wondering about her lately.

My uncle hands them over and I shove them into the new purse I purchased, one with an extra sturdy hand strap.

“Aren’t you going to read them?” Effie asks. “What if they need an immediate response?”

“I’ll read them later.” I can’t help but wonder at Effie’s odd question. Certainly it would be rude to read my mail while visiting with them at the restaurant.”

Afterwards, I hug the both of them to say goodbye. “Be sure to read those letters,” my uncle says, before he and Effie walk toward the truck.

My interest piqued, I wander down the street to a nearby park and sit on a bench. I pull the envelopes from my purse and begin to sort through them. Other than Primmie’s letter, all of them bear a return address of Summit Meadows, Oregon.

My heart races. These letters are from Peeta.

Author’s Note: A film version of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet was released in 1936. It starred Leslie Howard and Norma Shearer. Howard was 43 years old when he played the role of a 17-year-old, while Shearer was 34 years old while playing the role of a 14-year-old.

Uncle Tom’s Cabin was written by Harriet Beecher Stowe and published in 1852. The anti-slavery novel is credited for helping the abolitionist movement.

Erich Maria Remarque, a German veteran of World War I, wrote All Quiet on the Western Front . The book describes the German soldiers’ extreme physical and mental stress during the war and their detachment from life when they returned home. It was made into a movie and won the Oscar for Best Picture in 1930.

Spain erupted in a civil war in July 1936.

Edward VIII became king of the United Kingdom and the Dominions of the British Empire and Emperor of India on January of 1936 at the death of his father. He abdicated his position as king on December 11, 1936, to marry Wallace Simpson, a twice-divorced American woman. They lived the remainder of their lives in France. Ironically, the growing romance between the king and Mrs. Simpson was kept out of British newspapers, but was publicized in the American press.

Chapter Text

I set Prim’s letter aside and organize the ones from Peeta by the postmark date. I open the oldest one first, written a couple of days before I moved to Portland.

Dear Katniss,

Thank-you again for the blueberry jam. I left the empty jar on your porch. I hope you found it.

I knocked on the door but no one answered, then I walked around back and noticed the truck was gone. I expect you and your uncle were out.

But maybe it’s better you weren’t there. I don’t want to cause you any more pain. I never expected our last meeting to go so badly. My thought was to see you one last time and make you understand why it could never work between us. But it didn’t go that way at all. I’m so very sorry to have hurt you.

From the first moment I saw you back home, when you came into the house with Delly, I was bowled over by your striking appearance and your level-headedness.

I remember the way he looked at me that day – how nervous I was.

As I got to know you better, I was impressed by your kindness.

You gave Delly a copy of Romeo and Juliet, and as I read it I couldn’t help but think of you as Juliet and myself as Romeo.

My heart flutters at his words.

But one thing stuck in my mind as I finished reading that play while convalescing in your family’s house. We are the same as those star-crossed lovers because we, too, come from different worlds.

Your father owned a personal library. My dad couldn’t even read.

I clutch the letter in my hand wishing he were standing in front of me so that I could tell him how foolish his argument is. Maybe his father and mine would not have been intellectual equals but Peeta and I are.

That’s only one of the many differences between us. There are many others.

I know I told you that those differences would always divide us, but I’m starting to wonder if that’s true. I’ve met a fair number of people working on Mount Hood from all kinds of backgrounds and we all get along fine.

In fact, my friend Finn is the son of a fisherman. He married the daughter of a well-to-do business owner and I’d be hard pressed to find a better-matched couple.

You know Finn; he told me that he and his Annie met you at a dance a few weeks ago. He said that you looked well and had even danced with a couple of different partners. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I wished I’d been there to dance with you, if you’d have let me.

So Finn was right. Peeta did take notice of my dance partners. Is that why he returned the jar only a few days later?

But I expect that I have destroyed whatever feelings you once had for me. You have every reason to be upset and angry, but I’m hoping that you can see it in your heart to forgive me.

Peeta

I refold the letter. I’m not angry with you Peeta.

I pull my father’s coat tighter around me, as the wind picks up. The branches on the tree nearest to me sway gently in the bitter breeze. I open the next envelope.

Dear Katniss,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’m keeping busy. Every morning, they feed us a hot breakfast and transport us in trucks up the mountain to work. The labor is strenuous, different than any I’ve done before, but I can’t complain because I’m learning new skills. We break mid-day for lunch and when the trucks return us to Summit Meadows at night we are fed another hot meal.

In the evenings, we unwind in the usual ways, playing cards, talking, and reading.

Recently Annie loaned me a book, The Rich Man’s Pearl. She said it was one of her favorites. I heard Delly speak of it a couple of times, so I was somewhat suspicious about its content as her interests favor weepy stories. But I was pleasantly surprised. It was quite the entertaining tale, a story about the sacrifices a body makes for love.

I set the letter down for a moment to smile at Peeta’s comment about Delly’s taste in literature. He is dead on, in my opinion. And now, here is another favorable review of The Rich Man’s Pearl. One of these days, I must read that book.

If a body’s willing, the WPA will permit him to work on his days off for extra pay, and I’ve taken advantage of that opportunity. While I have no debt, it weights on my mind to help out Delly as best I can until my brother returns home. It would help greatly too if I could collect payment from that editor I told you about when we met up in Indiana. He never paid me for a series of illustrations I provided for his publication at the end of last year. I’ve already written him a couple of letters about the matter.

Sorry if this talk of my financial situation seems ill mannered, but these matters consume my daily thoughts, just as much as my feelings for you.

He thinks about me daily?

I hope that I will hear from you someday soon.

Peeta

I tear open the next envelope, as the wind grows stronger.

Dear Katniss,

I wanted to write and tell you about a painting that will be on the wall of the lodge if you should ever get up here and see it, or in case anyone tells you about it.

I was asked to do some preliminary sketches for a mural and they wanted me to include an Indian princess. Unconsciously the woman I sketched bears a striking likeness to you with her long braid, and piercing eyes and a scowl that could make a man flinch in his place. (I’m only kidding.) I didn’t even realize the resemblance until I was looking over my supervisor’s shoulder as he reviewed it.

Of course he liked it immediately and wouldn’t allow me to make a single change so I must warn you that your likeness will be memorialized on a wall in the lodge.

If it bothers you, please let me know.

Peeta

He painted an Indian princess to look like me? I’m flattered. Mama always insisted the Everdeen side must have some Indian ancestor in our bloodline – which attributed to Primmie’s and my high cheekbones. For a moment I regret cutting my hair. But it will grow long again.

The sky grows darker as I open the next letter. If it begins to rain, I’ll need to find shelter.

Dear Katniss,

I’m writing this letter while I sit outside watching the sun go down. The sky is painted with orange and red streaks. It’s a beautiful sight and I wonder if you, too, are staring at the same sky that looks to be on fire.

I try to stay away from my tent for at least an hour every evening after dinner so Finn and Annie can have some privacy. They have to keep their marriage secret because the WPA won’t permit married persons to work on the same project.

It’s funny to see how they attempt to hide it, although I think most everyone in the camp has figured it out by now. Finn and I share a tent, although I’m sure he’d much rather be sharing it with his bride who bunks with another woman.

In a way I have an inkling of how he feels because even though we were only pretending to be married, it was nice to fall asleep with my arms around you. Maybe that sounds too forward, especially in light of what I said later, but it’s the truth. In spite of the difficulties of our trip west, my dreams were always pleasant when I held you close.

I hope to hear back from you one of these days, although I would understand if you’ve given up on me. Still a man hopes.

Missing you and wishing you the best,

Peeta

The rain falls lightly as I stare at the page in front of me.

It was nice to fall asleep with my arms around you.

“Oh Peeta, I felt exactly the same,” I whisper.

I shove all the letters into my purse and stand up. I need to find shelter to read Peeta’s last letter and Primmie’s as well.

The public library is a few blocks away. I go inside and search for a place to sit. It’s packed on this rainy day. I find a seat on a wooden bench, fitting myself between a pregnant woman and a hobo.

I pull the last two letters from my purse. I open Peeta’s letter first.

Dear Katniss,

You haven’t replied to any of my letters. But if you could find it in your heart to see me once more, I would greatly appreciate it.

I can get a ride to Sandy this Sunday afternoon. I’ll be at your house at 1 p.m.

Looking forward to seeing you soon.

Peeta

I look at the date at the top of the letter and realize that he’s asking to meet me today. I left the diner with Uncle Haymitch and Effie around 1 p.m. The library clock shows that it is now 1:35 p.m.

I have missed Peeta completely. He has no idea that I only received his letters today. And there was no one at my uncle’s house to tell him that I moved to Portland three weeks ago.

Disappointed again at our failure to connect, I stare off into space mentally composing a letter to Peeta, losing myself in thought. But the pregnant woman next to me begins to cough, interrupting my thoughts, and I remember that I still have one more letter to read. Primmie’s.

Dear Katniss,

I wanted to tell you the good news. Maybe it’s gruesome of me to call it good since a man died, but seeing as it’s someone we both loathe, you may feel the same.

Yesterday I received a letter from a lawyer. It seems Coriolanus Snow died unexpectedly in late August. He had no known heirs and no legal will. According to the lawyer, his entire estate will be turned over to the probate courts. As our old family home is one of the many properties Snow owned, the lawyer says he would be happy to help us file paperwork to put in a claim for the return of our old house. He thinks he could persuade the judge that Mama was under severe duress when she signed the paperwork. Of course the lawyer would expect remuneration on his end, but he said we wouldn’t have to pay right off. It might be worth considering…

My eyes skim over the rest of the letter. I might have cared about reclaiming our family home in Kentucky once, but I have no desire to partake in a prolonged court battle, or worry about paying an attorney who is clearly fishing for business.

My sister can fight that battle on her own. I’m not interested.

I shove all of the letters into my purse. My heart is flooded with emotions. I stand up determined to return to the Boggs’ house and write to Peeta this afternoon. I’ll drop my letter off in the mail tomorrow morning before I go to work.

The rain is falling heavily when I leave the library. I half walk, half run back to the Boggs’ house.

I don’t even get the chance to turn my key into the lock when Mrs. Boggs opens the front door.

“You’re soaking wet dear,” Mrs. Boggs says as I come inside. “Maybe you should go upstairs and change before you talk to your guests.”

Guests? Who would visit me here? A fearful thought runs through my mind. Has Cato brought his widowed mother to visit me? He’d mentioned that he lived with her while we were on our date. He said he wanted me to meet her. Of course, I tried to discourage him.

“Who is it?”

Uncle Haymitch appears in the entryway. “Didn’t expect to see me so soon?”

My jaw drops. “What are you doing here?”

“Effie and I got all the way home and found a friend of yours sitting on the porch. Effie insisted I turn around and drive him to town to meet with you.”

“Peeta?” I whisper.

My uncle nods, and he leans close. “Play this right sweetheart and I may get a story out of you yet.”

How is it possible for my uncle to have made the round-trip to Sandy and back again so quickly? But I’m too excited to think about the logistics. Instead I roll my eyes at him.

Uncle Haymitch looks to Mrs. Boggs. “Thanks for your hospitality, ma’am. I enjoyed our conversation about how you and the mister met. At a boxed lunch social at church. Very sweet.”

“Your uncle is a fine man,” Mrs. Boggs says as she closes the door behind him. “Why don’t you put on some dry clothes? I’ll entertain your gentleman caller in the meantime.”

It takes me less than two minutes to put on dry clothes and fix my hair, wondering what Peeta will think of it cut short. I come downstairs and find Mrs. Boggs and Peeta in the living room talking about the lodge where Peeta works.

“There you are dear,” Mrs. Boggs says, causing Peeta to turn and catch sight of me. He stands and Mrs. Boggs excuses herself and suddenly Peeta and I are alone in the Boggs’ living room.

The look of longing on his face makes me want to fall into his arms. But after not seeing him for nearly three months, I want to hear what he has to say first.

“How are you Katniss?”

The mere sound of his voice saying my name causes my heart to ache.

“I just got your letters today.”

“Your uncle told me. Have you had a chance to read them yet?”

“Yes.”

A sheepish look comes over him. “Will you sit down and listen to me.”

I sit in the armchair.

Peeta perches at the edge of the sofa, leaning forward.

“I was wrong to push you away Katniss. Things had been bad for a long while and even though I love you, I couldn’t drag you into it.”

He loves me.

“But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since we’ve been apart, and it’s obvious to me that I can’t live my life based solely on my outward circumstances.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way things are going in this country, I don’t know if I’ll ever have a good enough job or enough money to provide for you in the manner you deserve. But if you’ll let me, I promise to take care of your well-being -- your heart and everything that’s you.”

His words melt my heart.

“Oh, Peeta.” I reach out to grab one of his hands, as the other hand is already in his pocket.

He pulls out a tiny box, and drops to one knee.

“You might think I’m moving too fast or perhaps I’m too slow, but would you do me the honor of becoming my wife, for real?”

He hands me the box and I open it to find a pearl ring inside.

“It’s genuine.” He catches my eye. “I had it appraised.”

I grin back at him remembering my first engagement ring with the stone of colored glass. I’m glad Peeta had the good sense to make sure he wasn’t cheated.

I pull the ring out of the box and place it onto the fourth finger of my left hand, as he stands before me.

“So I’m guessing that’s a yes then?”

My cheeks grow warm, and my eyes fly up to his face. “It is. Yes, I’ll marry you Peeta.”

“When?”

“My job ends in a few months when Cinna’s wife has the baby.”

“How about today?”

My mouth falls open. “But what about…”

Before I can complete the question, my uncle’s booming voice calls out. “Today would be perfect.”

I startle and turn around to see that Peeta and I have an audience. Uncle Haymitch stands in the arched entryway besides Effie who holds a cake box. Next to Effie is Mrs. Boggs who is crying into her handkerchief, while her husband’s arm is draped round her waist.

“If you’re willing, I can call the minister,” Mr. Boggs says. ‘He can come over and perform the ceremony right here in the house. And don’t worry about the license, I’ll take care of it at work tomorrow.”

I turn back to Peeta, puzzled. Clearly this entire scenario must have been planned in advance with my uncle handing me a stack of letters, bringing Peeta to the Boggs’ house, and Effie obtaining a cake. Even Mr. and Mrs. Boggs play roles in this finely edited story in which everything works out perfectly in the end.

But the look on Peeta face is guileless. “What do you say Katniss?”

It’s like that moment I was standing at the open door of the boxcar ready to fling myself out into the darkness of the night. I didn’t do it then, because it seemed too risky. And perhaps I am taking a risk marrying Peeta.

But I loved him three months ago, and even after a three-month separation I love him still. Why should I wait any longer?

The thought of sleeping in his arms tonight makes the decision easy.

Everything that follows is a blur. I remember reciting vows and a short, passionate kiss with a hint of more to come. Cake and coffee follow, along with some mild teasing from the others about our wedding night.

Peeta’s ears turn a bright shade of red, which pleases me because it shows he’s as nervous as I am.

Then Mr. Boggs drives us, along with my uncle, to The New Heathman Hotel, one of the finest in the city. The rain is coming down in sheets as we walk the short distance to the entrance. Peeta pulls me close in a vain attempt to keep me dry.

While my uncle goes to the front desk to get us a room and Mr. Boggs wanders off to explore the hotel’s ornate lobby, Peeta leans close and whispers into my ear. “You’re chilled to the bone, Katniss. You need to get out of these wet clothes.”

My eyes widen at the implication in his words. His warm breath on my bare neck causes a shiver to run down my back. His hand rubs gentle circles round my back, and I can’t help but think of that couple I nicknamed “the newlyweds” back in that hotel in Frankfort.

My uncle gives Peeta the key and promises to return early in the morning to drive him to work on Mount Hood. Soon we are up in our room, helping each other undress. Still we are practical creatures draping our wet clothing around the room to dry before falling into each other’s arms.

Afterwards, as I lie curled up beside him, I question my new husband about the events of our wedding day.

How did my uncle turn into Friar Lawrence encouraging our quick wedding?

“So how did Uncle Haymitch get involved in all of this?”

Peeta shifts so that he faces me. “I went to his house a week ago to ask for your hand, not knowing you’d already moved to Portland. Haymitch and Effie were sympathetic and suggested I write that last letter and set up a meeting.”

“So they didn’t drive back and find you on their porch this afternoon?”

“Nah. I rode into Portland in the back of the truck, and wandered around until you all finished lunch. Then Haymitch and I went to the Boggs’ house, while Effie and Mr. Boggs went to a bakery.

“Are you already having regrets?” Peeta nips at my lips playfully.

“No,” I murmur, stunned, and I admit, flattered at all the trickery involved.

“Your uncle said he owed you, although he did ask me for something in exchange.”

“You didn’t offer to let him use our story? He’s having some doubts about the current one he’s penning.”

A confused look comes into Peeta’s eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about Katniss. He wanted me to build him a still and make up a batch of moonshine.”

Relief comes over me, and curiosity, too. “You know how to do that?”

“I’m a Mellark,” he says simply. “It’s in our blood.”

Maybe I should be angry about everyone’s machinations, but I’m not because right now I’m lying beside the man I love with his pearl ring on my finger.

I place my hand on Peeta’s warm chest, feeling his steady heartbeat.

As we begin round two, a dozen thoughts race through my mind, about our jobs, and how soon we’ll be able to live together as man and wife, and getting in touch with my sister to tell her I’ve wed.

But they all fall away as I’m swept up in Peeta’s embrace, my own, personal Kentucky home, here in the state of Oregon.

Epilogue

Our abrupt honeymoon ends early the next morning, as Peeta returns to the mountain. I arrive at Cinna’s shop flashing my pearl ring, and telling him of my new name, Katniss Mellark.

Juliet was right when she called “parting such sweet sorrow.” Peeta and I are apart more than we are together during our first year of marriage. He works at the WPA camp on Mount Hood until the lodge is completed in early 1938, while I continue my employment with Cinna even after his son’s birth, as his wife decides to stay at home for the baby’s first year.

Uncle Haymitch and Effie are kind enough to let us rendezvous in my old room with the canopied bed when our schedules match up.

They vacate the house while we are there to give us privacy, with the proviso that Peeta leaves baked goods behind. Unfortunately, because we are newlyweds many of the baked goods are burned. And Peeta doesn’t get around to building that still for a couple of years.

By 1941, we are doing so well that we have begun to save for a house. We live together in a small apartment in Portland – I’m a typist in a medical office, while Peeta does freelance work as a magazine illustrator.

But our lives are upset in early December.

“I may be called up,” Peeta says when we hear the radio announcement about the bombing of Pearl Harbor while eating Sunday lunch with my uncle and Effie.

Only a year earlier, Peeta and even Uncle Haymitch, a veteran of the Great War, had to register when the U.S. enacted its first peacetime draft for men ages 18 to 65.

“Well, if they take you, Katniss can move in here,” Uncle Haymitch says. “She can keep Effie company while I’m gone.”

“Where are you going?” Effie questions.

“Back into the army to finish what we should have taken care of the first time around.”

The only way I can break up the subsequent argument that ensues between Effie and my uncle is to share our good news. With a nod of approval from Peeta, I tell them that after five years of marriage, I’m expecting.

“At least stay around for the baby’s birth, Uncle Haymitch.”

As it turns out, neither my uncle, nor Peeta are deemed fit for combat. My uncle is too old, and the gunshot wound Peeta suffered at the hands of a revenuer which now, years later, causes him to limp when he is tired makes him physically ineligible.

But Peeta serves the government in another capacity, creating posters and other propaganda materials to support the war. And my uncle helps out in his own way, too, by writing love stories that feature women and their soldier beaus.

One day in the fall of 1944, as our daughter naps, I come across a familiar name in the newspaper. American soldier Earl Brown liberated an entire French town from the Germans.

Is this Earl the same lucky teen that found a ten-dollar bill on the restroom floor in a gas station in New Mexico years ago when we traveled west with his family? I’ll likely never know because Mary Brown didn’t write me after we parted in Salinas.

I often think about her and Bennie and Jack and Darius and all the others Peeta and I came across in our journey west. Whatever became of them?

I look in on the child. Her breathing is even and I suspect she’ll be down for another hour at least.

Then I go in search of some paper and a pencil, hoping that I have a few drops of McDonald blood in my veins.

I have an idea.

THE END

Author’s Note: The New Heathman Hotel opened in 1927 at the intersection of Park and Salmon streets. The luxury hotel stood 11 stories and had 300 rooms. The hotel still exists, although it is now called The Heathman Hotel and is relocated one block away at the corner of Broadway and Salmon Street.

WPA workers completed the building of the Timberline Lodge in February 1938.

Thanks so much for reading Everything But Money . I appreciate all the kind words I’ve received about this story. It is my last multi-chapter, historical fanfic. I’ve written ten fanfics that are historical in nature, and I’m ready to try my hand at writing original, historical romances. But rest assured, I have no plans to leave the THG fandom, quit my tumblr, or remove ANY of my stories to turn them into originals books. I hope to continue writing THG stories, but they will likely be shorter works.