Mockingjay

flies. Her face reflects her pain, but something else, too, something that seems completely incongruous with her situation. “Is it really you?”
    “Yeah, it’s me,” I get out.
    Joy. That’s the expression on her face. At the sound of my voice, it brightens, erases the suffering momentarily.
    “You’re alive! We didn’t know. People said you were, but we didn’t know!” she says excitedly.
    “I got pretty banged up. But I got better,” I say. “Just like you will.”
    “I’ve got to tell my brother!” The woman struggles to sit up and calls to someone a few beds down. “Eddy! Eddy! She’s here! It’s Katniss Everdeen!”
    A boy, probably about twelve years old, turns to us. Bandages obscure half of his face. The side of his mouth I can see opens as if to utter an exclamation. I go to him, push his damp brown curls back from his forehead. Murmur a greeting. He can’t speak, but his one good eye fixes on me with such intensity, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail of my face.
    I hear my name rippling through the hot air, spreading out into the hospital. “Katniss! Katniss Everdeen!” The sounds of pain and grief begin to recede, to be replaced by words of anticipation. From all sides, voices beckon me. I begin to move, clasping the hands extended to me, touching the sound parts of those unable to move their limbs, saying hello, how are you, good to meet you. Nothing of importance, no amazing words of inspiration. But it doesn’t matter. Boggs is right. It’s the sight of me, alive, that is the inspiration.
    Hungry fingers devour me, wanting to feel my flesh. As a stricken man clutches my face between his hands, I send a silent thank-you to Dalton for suggesting I wash off the makeup. How ridiculous, how perverse I would feel presenting that painted Capitol mask to these people. The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That’s how they recognize me, why I belong to them.
    Despite his controversial interview with Caesar, many ask about Peeta, assure me that they know he was speaking under duress. I do my best to sound positive about our future, but people are truly devastated when they learn I’ve lost the baby. I want to come clean and tell one weeping woman that it was all a hoax, a move in the game, but to present Peeta as a liar now would not help his image. Or mine. Or the cause.
    I begin to fully understand the lengths to which people have gone to protect me. What I mean to the rebels. My ongoing struggle against the Capitol, which has so often felt like a solitary journey, has not been undertaken alone. I have had thousands upon thousands of people from the districts at my side. I was their Mockingjay long before I accepted the role.
    A new sensation begins to germinate inside me. But it takes until I am standing on a table, waving my final good-byes to the hoarse chanting of my name, to define it. Power. I have a kind of power I never knew I possessed. Snow knew it, as soon as I held out those berries. Plutarch knew when he rescued me from the arena. And Coin knows now. So much so that she must publicly remind her people that I am not in control.
    When we’re outside again, I lean against the warehouse, catching my breath, accepting the canteen of water from Boggs. “You did great,” he says.
    Well, I didn’t faint or throw up or run out screaming. Mostly, I just rode the wave of emotion rolling through the place.
    “We got some nice stuff in there,” says Cressida. I look at the insect cameramen, perspiration pouring from under their equipment. Messalla scribbling notes. I had forgotten they were even filming me.
    “I didn’t do much, really,” I say.
    “You have to give yourself some credit for what you’ve done in the past,” says Boggs.
    What I’ve done in the past? I think of the trail of destruction in my wake — my knees weaken and I slide down to a sitting position. “That’s a mixed bag.”
    “Well, you’re not perfect by a long shot. But times being what they are, you’ll have to do,” says Boggs.
    Gale squats down beside me, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you let all those people touch you. I kept expecting you to make a break for the door.”
    “Shut up,” I say with a laugh.
    “Your mother’s going to be very proud when she sees the footage,” he says.
    “My mother won’t even notice me. She’ll be too appalled by the conditions in there.” I turn to Boggs and ask, “Is it like this in every district?”
    “Yes. Most are