Mockingjay

Johanna’s motivational insults driving me on, I have to drop out after a mile.
    “It’s my ribs,” I explain to the trainer, a no-nonsense middle-aged woman we’re supposed to address as Soldier York. “They’re still bruised.”
    “Well, I’ll tell you, Soldier Everdeen, those are going to take at least another month to heal up on their own,” she says.
    I shake my head. “I don’t have a month.”
    She looks me up and down. “The doctors haven’t offered you any treatment?”
    “Is there a treatment?” I ask. “They said they had to mend naturally.”
    “That’s what they say. But they could speed up the process if I recommend it. I warn you, though, it isn’t any fun,” she tells me.
    “Please. I’ve got to get to the Capitol,” I say.
    Soldier York doesn’t question this. She scribbles something on a pad and sends me directly back to the hospital. I hesitate. I don’t want to miss any more training. “I’ll be back for the afternoon session,” I promise. She just purses her lips.
    Twenty-four needle jabs to my rib cage later, I’m flattened out on my hospital bed, gritting my teeth to keep from begging them to bring back my morphling drip. It’s been by my bed so I can take a hit as needed. I haven’t used it lately, but I kept it for Johanna’s sake. Today they tested my blood to make sure it was clean of the painkiller, as the mixture of the two drugs — the morphling and whatever’s set my ribs on fire — has dangerous side effects. They made it clear I would have a difficult couple of days. But I told them to go ahead.
    It’s a bad night in our room. Sleep’s out of the question. I think I can actually smell the ring of flesh around my chest burning, and Johanna’s fighting off withdrawal symptoms. Early on, when I apologize about cutting off her morphling supply, she waves it off, saying it had to happen anyway. But by three in the morning, I’m the target of every colorful bit of profanity District 7 has to offer. At dawn, she drags me out of bed, determined to get to training.
    “I don’t think I can do it,” I confess.
    “You can do it. We both can. We’re victors, remember? We’re the ones who can survive anything they throw at us,” she snarls at me. She’s a sick greenish color, shaking like a leaf. I get dressed.
    We must be victors to make it through the morning. I think I’m going to lose Johanna when we realize it’s pouring outside. Her face turns ashen and she seems to have ceased breathing.
    “It’s just water. It won’t kill us,” I say. She clenches her jaw and stomps out into the mud. Rain drenches us as we work our bodies and then slog around the running course. I bail after a mile again, and I have to resist the temptation to take off my shirt so the cold water can sizzle off my ribs. I force down my field lunch of soggy fish and beet stew. Johanna gets halfway through her bowl before it comes back up. In the afternoon, we learn to assemble our guns. I manage it, but Johanna can’t hold her hands steady enough to fit the parts together. When York’s back is turned, I help her out. Even though the rain continues, the afternoon’s an improvement because we’re on the shooting range. At last, something I’m good at. It takes some adjusting from a bow to a gun, but by the end of the day, I’ve got the best score in my class.
    We’re just inside the hospital doors when Johanna declares, “This has to stop. Us living in the hospital. Everyone views us as patients.”
    It’s not a problem for me. I can move into our family compartment, but Johanna’s never been assigned one. When she tries to get discharged from the hospital, they won’t agree to let her live alone, even if she comes in for daily talks with the head doctor. I think they may have put two and two together about the morphling and this only adds to their view that she’s unstable. “She won’t be alone. I’m going to room with her,” I announce. There’s some dissent, but Haymitch takes our part, and by bedtime, we have a compartment across from Prim and my mother, who agrees to keep an eye on us.
    After I take a shower, and Johanna sort of wipes herself down with a damp cloth, she makes a cursory inspection of the place. When she opens the drawer that holds my few possessions, she shuts it quickly. “Sorry.”
    I think how there’s nothing in Johanna’s drawer but her government-issued clothes. That she doesn’t have one thing in the world to call her own.