Catching Fire

catch me, if I can see it one more time.
    The trip takes twice as long as usual. Cinna’s clothes hold in the heat all right, and I arrive soaked with sweat under the snowsuit while my face is numb with cold. The glare of the winter sun off the snow has played games with my vision, and I am so exhausted and wrapped up in my own hopeless thoughts that I don’t notice the signs. The thin stream of smoke from the chimney, the indentations of recent footprints, the smell of steaming pine needles. I am literally a few yards from the door of the cement house when I pull up short. And that’s not because of the smoke or the prints or the smell. That’s because of the unmistakable click of a weapon behind me.
    Second nature. Instinct. I turn, drawing back the arrow, although I know already that the odds are not in my favor. I see the white Peacekeeper uniform, the pointed chin, the light brown iris where my arrow will find a home. But the weapon is dropping to the ground and the unarmed woman is holding something out to me in her gloved hand.
    “Stop!” she cries.
    I waver, unable to process this turn in events. Perhaps they have orders to bring me in alive so they can torture me into incriminating every person I ever knew. Yeah, good luck with that, I think. My fingers have all but decided to release the arrow when I see the object in the glove. It’s a small white circle of flat bread. More of a cracker, really. Gray and soggy around the edges. But an image is clearly stamped in the center of it.
    It’s my mockingjay.



It makes no sense. My bird baked into bread. Unlike the stylish renderings I saw in the Capitol, this is definitely not a fashion statement. “What is it? What does that mean?” I ask harshly, still prepared to kill.
    “It means we’re on your side,” says a tremulous voice behind me.
    I didn’t see her when I came up. She must have been in the house. I don’t take my eyes off my current target. Probably the newcomer is armed, but I’m betting she won’t risk letting me hear the click that would mean my death was imminent, knowing I would instantly kill her companion. “Come around where I can see you,” I order.
    “She can’t, she’s —” begins the woman with the cracker.
    “Come around!” I shout. There’s a step and a dragging sound. I can hear the effort the movement requires. Another woman, or maybe I should call her a girl since she looks about my age, limps into view. She’s dressed in an ill-fitting Peacekeeper’s uniform complete with the white fur cloak, but it’s several sizes too large for her slight frame. She carries no visible weapon. Her hands are occupied with steadying a rough crutch made from a broken branch. The toe of her right boot can’t clear the snow, hence the dragging.
    I examine the girl’s face, which is bright red from the cold. Her teeth are crooked and there’s a strawberry birthmark over one of her chocolate brown eyes. This is no Peacekeeper. No citizen of the Capitol, either.
    “Who are you?” I ask warily but less belligerently.
    “My name’s Twill,” says the woman. She’s older. Maybe thirty-five or so. “And this is Bonnie. We’ve run away from District Eight.”
    District 8! Then they must know about the uprising!
    “Where’d you get the uniforms?” I ask.
    “I stole them from the factory,” says Bonnie. “We make them there. Only I thought this one would be for . . . for someone else. That’s why it fits so poorly.”
    “The gun came from a dead Peacekeeper,” says Twill, following my eyes.
    “That cracker in your hand. With the bird. What’s that about?” I ask.
    “Don’t you know, Katniss?” Bonnie appears genuinely surprised.
    They recognize me. Of course they recognize me. My face is uncovered and I’m standing here outside of District 12 pointing an arrow at them. Who else would I be? “I know it matches the pin I wore in the arena.”
    “She doesn’t know,” says Bonnie softly. “Maybe not about any of it.”
    Suddenly I feel the need to appear on top of things. “I know you had an uprising in Eight.”
    “Yes, that’s why we had to get out,” says Twill.
    “Well, you’re good and out now. What are you going to do?” I ask.
    “We’re headed for District Thirteen,” Twill replies.
    “Thirteen?” I say. “There’s no Thirteen. It got blown off the map.”
    “Seventy-five years ago,” says Twill.
    Bonnie shifts on her crutch and winces.
    “What’s wrong with your leg?” I ask.
    “I