Mockingjay

go outside into the large, fenced-in training area beside the woods. Guards open the well-oiled gates without comment. We would be hard-pressed to get past this fence on our own — thirty feet high and always buzzing with electricity, topped with razor-sharp curls of steel. We move through the woods until the view of the fence has been obscured. In a small clearing, we pause and drop back our heads to bask in the sunlight. I turn in a circle, my arms extended at my sides, revolving slowly so as not to set the world spinning.
    The lack of rain I saw in 12 has damaged the plants here as well, leaving some with brittle leaves, building a crunchy carpet under our feet. We take off our shoes. Mine don’t fit right anyway, since in the spirit of waste-not-want-not that rules 13, I was issued a pair someone had outgrown. Apparently, one of us walks funny, because they’re broken in all wrong.
    We hunt, like in the old days. Silent, needing no words to communicate, because here in the woods we move as two parts of one being. Anticipating each other’s movements, watching each other’s backs. How long has it been? Eight months? Nine? Since we had this freedom? It’s not exactly the same, given all that’s happened and the trackers on our ankles and the fact that I have to rest so often. But it’s about as close to happiness as I think I can currently get.
    The animals here are not nearly suspicious enough. That extra moment it takes to place our unfamiliar scent means their death. In an hour and a half, we’ve got a mixed dozen — rabbits, squirrels, and turkeys — and decide to knock off to spend the remaining time by a pond that must be fed by an underground spring, since the water’s cool and sweet.
    When Gale offers to clean the game, I don’t object. I stick a few mint leaves on my tongue, close my eyes, and lean back against a rock, soaking in the sounds, letting the scorching afternoon sun burn my skin, almost at peace until Gale’s voice interrupts me. “Katniss, why do you care so much about your prep team?”
    I open my eyes to see if he’s joking, but he’s frowning down at the rabbit he’s skinning. “Why shouldn’t I?”
    “Hm. Let’s see. Because they’ve spent the last year prettying you up for slaughter?” he suggests.
    “It’s more complicated than that. I know them. They’re not evil or cruel. They’re not even smart. Hurting them, it’s like hurting children. They don’t see . . . I mean, they don’t know . . .” I get knotted up in my words.
    “They don’t know what, Katniss?” he says. “That tributes — who are the actual children involved here, not your trio of freaks — are forced to fight to the death? That you were going into that arena for people’s amusement? Was that a big secret in the Capitol?”
    “No. But they don’t view it the way we do,” I say. “They’re raised on it and —”
    “Are you actually defending them?” He slips the skin from the rabbit in one quick move.
    That stings, because, in fact, I am, and it’s ridiculous. I struggle to find a logical position. “I guess I’m defending anyone who’s treated like that for taking a slice of bread. Maybe it reminds me too much of what happened to you over a turkey!”
    Still, he’s right. It does seem strange, my level of concern over the prep team. I should hate them and want to see them strung up. But they’re so clueless, and they belonged to Cinna, and he was on my side, right?
    “I’m not looking for a fight,” Gale says. “But I don’t think Coin was sending you some big message by punishing them for breaking the rules here. She probably thought you’d see it as a favor.” He stuffs the rabbit in the sack and rises. “We better get going if we want to make it back on time.”
    I ignore his offer of a hand up and get to my feet unsteadily. “Fine.” Neither of us talks on the way back, but once we’re inside the gate, I think of something else. “During the Quarter Quell, Octavia and Flavius had to quit because they couldn’t stop crying over me going back in. And Venia could barely say good-bye.”
    “I’ll try and keep that in mind as they . . . remake you,” says Gale.
    “Do,” I say.
    We hand the meat over to Greasy Sae in the kitchen. She likes District 13 well enough, even though she thinks the cooks are somewhat lacking in imagination. But a woman who came up with a palatable wild dog and rhubarb stew is bound to feel as if her hands are tied