Catching Fire

father and I collected years ago. I start a small fire, counting on the mist to obscure any telltale smoke. While the fire catches, I sweep out the snow that has accumulated under the empty windows, using a twig broom my father made me when I was about eight and I played house here. Then I sit on the tiny concrete hearth, thawing out by the fire and waiting for Gale.
    It’s a surprisingly short time before he appears. A bow slung over his shoulder, a dead wild turkey he must have encountered along the way hanging from his belt. He stands in the doorway as if considering whether or not to enter. He holds the unopened leather bag of food, the flask, Cinna’s gloves. Gifts he will not accept because of his anger at me. I know exactly how he feels. Didn’t I do the same thing to my mother?
    I look in his eyes. His temper can’t quite mask the hurt, the sense of betrayal he feels at my engagement to Peeta. This will be my last chance, this meeting today, to not lose Gale forever. I could take hours trying to explain, and even then have him refuse me. Instead I go straight to the heart of my defense.
    “President Snow personally threatened to have you killed,” I say.
    Gale raises his eyebrows slightly, but there’s no real show of fear or astonishment. “Anyone else?”
    “Well, he didn’t actually give me a copy of the list. But it’s a good guess it includes both our families,” I say.
    It’s enough to bring him to the fire. He crouches before the hearth and warms himself. “Unless what?”
    “Unless nothing, now,” I say. Obviously this requires more of an explanation, but I have no idea where to start, so I just sit there staring gloomily into the fire.
    After about a minute of this, Gale breaks the silence. “Well, thanks for the heads-up.”
    I turn to him, ready to snap, but I catch the glint in his eye. I hate myself for smiling. This is not a funny moment, but I guess it’s a lot to drop on someone. We’re all going to be obliterated no matter what. “I do have a plan, you know.”
    “Yeah, I bet it’s a stunner,” he says. He tosses the gloves on my lap. “Here. I don’t want your fiancé’s old gloves.”
    “He’s not my fiancé. That’s just part of the act. And these aren’t his gloves. They were Cinna’s,” I say.
    “Give them back, then,” he says. He pulls on the gloves, flexes his fingers, and nods in approval. “At least I’ll die in comfort.”
    “That’s optimistic. Of course, you don’t know what’s happened,” I say.
    “Let’s have it,” he says.
    I decide to begin with the night Peeta and I were crowned victors of the Hunger Games, and Haymitch warned me of the Capitol’s fury. I tell him about the uneasiness that dogged me even once I was back home, President Snow’s visit to my house, the murders in District 11, the tension in the crowds, the last-ditch effort of the engagement, the president’s indication that it hadn’t been enough, my certainty that I’ll have to pay.
    Gale never interrupts. While I talk, he tucks the gloves in his pocket and occupies himself with turning the food in the leather bag into a meal for us. Toasting bread and cheese, coring apples, placing chestnuts in the fire to roast. I watch his hands, his beautiful, capable fingers. Scarred, as mine were before the Capitol erased all marks from my skin, but strong and deft. Hands that have the power to mine coal but the precision to set a delicate snare. Hands I trust.
    I pause to take a drink of tea from the flask before I tell him about my homecoming.
    “Well, you really made a mess of things,” he says.
    “I’m not even done,” I tell him.
    “I’ve heard enough for the moment. Let’s skip ahead to this plan of yours,” he says.
    I take a deep breath. “We run away.”
    “What?” he asks. This has actually caught him off guard.
    “We take to the woods and make a run for it,” I say. His face is impossible to read. Will he laugh at me, dismiss this as foolishness? I rise in agitation, preparing for an argument. “You said yourself you thought that we could do it! That morning of the reaping. You said —”
    He steps in and I feel myself lifted off the ground. The room spins, and I have to lock my arms around Gale’s neck to brace myself. He’s laughing, happy.
    “Hey!” I protest, but I’m laughing, too.
    Gale sets me down but doesn’t release his hold on me. “Okay, let’s run away,” he says.
    “Really? You don’t think I’m mad? You’ll go with