Mockingjay

plan on filming me? I turn to Boggs. “This won’t work,” I say. “I won’t be good here.”
    He must see the panic in my eyes, because he stops a moment and places his hands on my shoulders. “You will. Just let them see you. That will do more for them than any doctor in the world could.”
    A woman directing the incoming patients catches sight of us, does a sort of double take, and then strides over. Her dark brown eyes are puffy with fatigue and she smells of metal and sweat. A bandage around her throat needed changing about three days ago. The strap of the automatic weapon slung across her back digs into her neck and she shifts her shoulder to reposition it. With a jerk of her thumb, she orders the medics into the warehouse. They comply without question.
    “This is Commander Paylor of Eight,” says Boggs. “Commander, Soldier Katniss Everdeen.”
    She looks young to be a commander. Early thirties. But there’s an authoritative tone to her voice that makes you feel her appointment wasn’t arbitrary. Beside her, in my spanking-new outfit, scrubbed and shiny, I feel like a recently hatched chick, untested and only just learning how to navigate the world.
    “Yeah, I know who she is,” says Paylor. “You’re alive, then. We weren’t sure.” Am I wrong or is there a note of accusation in her voice?
    “I’m still not sure myself,” I answer.
    “Been in recovery.” Boggs taps his head. “Bad concussion.” He lowers his voice a moment. “Miscarriage. But she insisted on coming by to see your wounded.”
    “Well, we’ve got plenty of those,” says Paylor.
    “You think this is a good idea?” says Gale, frowning at the hospital. “Assembling your wounded like this?”
    I don’t. Any sort of contagious disease would spread through this place like wildfire.
    “I think it’s slightly better than leaving them to die,” says Paylor.
    “That’s not what I meant,” Gale tells her.
    “Well, currently that’s my other option. But if you come up with a third and get Coin to back it, I’m all ears.” Paylor waves me toward the door. “Come on in, Mockingjay. And by all means, bring your friends.”
    I glance back at the freak show that is my crew, steel myself, and follow her into the hospital. Some sort of heavy, industrial curtain hangs the length of the building, forming a sizable corridor. Corpses lie side by side, curtain brushing their heads, white cloths concealing their faces. “We’ve got a mass grave started a few blocks west of here, but I can’t spare the manpower to move them yet,” says Paylor. She finds a slit in the curtain and opens it wide.
    My fingers wrap around Gale’s wrist. “Do not leave my side,” I say under my breath.
    “I’m right here,” he answers quietly.
    I step through the curtain and my senses are assaulted. My first impulse is to cover my nose to block out the stench of soiled linen, putrefying flesh, and vomit, all ripening in the heat of the warehouse. They’ve propped open skylights that crisscross the high metal roof, but any air that’s managing to get in can’t make a dent in the fog below. The thin shafts of sunlight provide the only illumination, and as my eyes adjust, I can make out row upon row of wounded, in cots, on pallets, on the floor because there are so many to claim the space. The drone of black flies, the moaning of people in pain, and the sobs of their attending loved ones have combined into a wrenching chorus.
    We have no real hospitals in the districts. We die at home, which at the moment seems a far desirable alternative to what lies in front of me. Then I remember that many of these people probably lost their homes in the bombings.
    Sweat begins to run down my back, fill my palms. I breathe through my mouth in an attempt to diminish the smell. Black spots swim across my field of vision, andI think there’s a really good chance I could faint. But then Icatch sight of Paylor, who’s watching me so closely, waiting to see what I am made of, and if any of them have been right to think they can count on me. So I let go of Gale and force myself to move deeper into the warehouse, to walk into the narrow strip between two rows of beds.
    “Katniss?” a voice croaks out from my left, breaking apart from the general din. “Katniss?” A hand reaches for me out of the haze. I cling to it for support. Attached to the hand is a young woman with an injured leg. Blood has seeped through the heavy bandages, which are crawling with