Mockingjay

waits in silence while I sit at the table and scrawl out my list. Buttercup. Hunting. Peeta’s immunity. Announced in public.
    This is it. Probably my only chance to bargain. Think. What else do you want? I feel him, standing at my shoulder. Gale , I add to the list. I don’t think I can do this without him.
    The headache’s coming on and my thoughts begin to tangle. I shut my eyes and start to recite silently.
    My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me. Peeta was taken prisoner. He is alive. He is a traitor but alive. I have to keep him alive. . . .
    The list. It still seems too small. I should try to think bigger, beyond our current situation where I am of the utmost importance, to the future where I may be worth nothing. Shouldn’t I be asking for more? For my family? For the remainder of my people? My skin itches with the ashes of the dead. I feel the sickening impact of the skull against my shoe. The scent of blood and roses stings my nose.
    The pencil moves across the page on its own. I open my eyes and see the wobbly letters. I KILL SNOW. If he’s captured, I want the privilege.
    Plutarch gives a discreet cough. “About done there?” I glance up and notice the clock. I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes. Finnick isn’t the only one with attention problems.
    “Yeah,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse, so I clear my throat. “Yeah, so this is the deal. I’ll be your Mockingjay.”
    I wait so they can make their sounds of relief, congratulate, slap one another on the back. Coin stays as impassive as ever, watching me, unimpressed.
    “But I have some conditions.” I smooth out the list and begin. “My family gets to keep our cat.” My tiniest request sets off an argument. The Capitol rebels see this as a nonissue — of course, I can keep my pet — while those from 13 spell out what extreme difficulties this presents. Finally it’s worked out that we’ll be moved to the top level, which has the luxury of an eight-inch window aboveground. Buttercup may come and go to do his business. He will be expected to feed himself. If he misses curfew, he will be locked out. If he causes any security problems, he’ll be shot immediately.
    That sounds okay. Not so different from how he’s been living since we left. Except for the shooting part. If he looks too thin, I can slip him a few entrails, provided my next request is allowed.
    “I want to hunt. With Gale. Out in the woods,” I say. This gives everyone pause.
    “We won’t go far. We’ll use our own bows. You can have the meat for the kitchen,” adds Gale.
    I hurry on before they can say no. “It’s just . . . I can’t breathe shut up here like a . . . I would get better, faster, if . . . I could hunt.”
    Plutarch begins to explain the drawbacks here — the dangers, the extra security, the risk of injury — but Coin cuts him off. “No. Let them. Give them two hours a day, deducted from their training time. A quarter-mile radius. With communication units and tracker anklets. What’s next?”
    I skim my list. “Gale. I’ll need him with me to do this.”
    “With you how? Off camera? By your side at all times? Do you want him presented as your new lover?” Coin asks.
    She hasn’t said this with any particular malice — quite the contrary, her words are very matter-of-fact. But my mouth still drops open in shock. “What?”
    “I think we should continue the current romance. A quick defection from Peeta could cause the audience to lose sympathy for her,” says Plutarch. “Especially since they think she’s pregnant with his child.”
    “Agreed. So, on-screen, Gale can simply be portrayed as a fellow rebel. Is that all right?” says Coin. I just stare at her. She repeats herself impatiently. “For Gale. Will that be sufficient?”
    “We can always work him in as your cousin,” says Fulvia.
    “We’re not cousins,” Gale and I say together.
    “Right, but we should probably keep that up for appearances’ sake on camera,” says Plutarch. “Off camera, he’s all yours. Anything else?”
    I’m rattled by the turn in the conversation. The implications that I could so readily dispose of Peeta, that I’m in love with Gale, that the whole thing has been an act. My cheeks begin to burn. The very notion that I’m devoting any thought to who I want presented as my lover, given our current circumstances, is demeaning. I let my anger