breathing, which is far too rapid for my pace.
Debris begins to litter the forest floor. We come to our first crater, thirty yards wide and I can’t tell how deep. Very. Boggs says anyone on the first ten levels would likely have been killed. We skirt the pit and continue on.
«Can you rebuild it?» Gale asks.
«Not anytime soon. That one didn’t get much. A few backup generators and a poultry farm,» says Boggs. «We’ll just seal it off.»
The trees disappear as we enter the area inside the fence. The craters are ringed with a mixture of old and new rubble. Before the bombing, very little of the current 13 was aboveground. A few guard stations. The training area. About a foot of the top floor of our building—where Buttercup’s window jutted out—with several feet of steel on top of it. Even that was never meant to withstand more than a superficial attack.
«How much of an edge did the boy’s warning give you?» asks Haymitch.
«About ten minutes before our own systems would’ve detected the missiles,» says Boggs.
«But it did help, right?» I ask. I can’t bear it if he says no.
«Absolutely,» Boggs replies. «Civilian evacuation was completed. Seconds count when you’re under attack. Ten minutes meant lives saved.»
Prim, I think. And Gale. They were in the bunker only a couple of minutes before the first missile hit. Peeta might have saved them. Add their names to the list of things I can never stop owing him for.
Cressida has the idea to film me in front of the ruins of the old Justice Building, which is something of a joke since the Capitol’s been using it as a backdrop for fake news broadcasts for years, to show that the district no longer existed. Now, with the recent attack, the Justice Building sits about ten yards away from the edge of a new crater.
As we approach what used to be the grand entrance, Gale points out something and the whole party slows down. I don’t know what the problem is at first and then I see the ground strewn with fresh pink and red roses. «Don’t touch them!» I yell. «They’re for me!»
The sickeningly sweet smell hits my nose, and my heart begins to hammer against my chest. So I didn’t imagine it. The rose on my dresser. Before me lies Snow’s second delivery. Long-stemmed pink and red beauties, the very flowers that decorated the set where Peeta and I performed our post-victory interview. Flowers not meant for one, but for a pair of lovers.
I explain to the others as best I can. Upon inspection, they appear to be harmless, if genetically enhanced, flowers. Two dozen roses. Slightly wilted. Most likely dropped after the last bombing. A crew in special suits collects them and carts them away. I feel certain they will find nothing extraordinary in them, though. Snow knows exactly what he’s doing to me. It’s like having Cinna beaten to a pulp while I watch from my tribute tube. Designed to unhinge me.
Like then, I try to rally and fight back. But as Cressida gets Castor and Pollux in place, I feel my anxiety building. I’m so tired, so wired, and so unable to keep my mind on anything but Peeta since I’ve seen the roses. The coffee was a huge mistake. What I didn’t need was a stimulant. My body visibly shakes and I can’t seem to catch my breath. After days in the bunker, I’m squinting no matter what direction I turn, and the light hurts. Even in the cool breeze, sweat trickles down my face.
«So, what exactly do you need from me again?» I ask.
«Just a few quick lines that show you’re alive and still fighting,» says Cressida.
«Okay.» I take my position and then I’m staring into the red light. Staring. Staring. «I’m sorry, I’ve got nothing.»
Cressida walks up to me. «You feeling okay?» I nod. She pulls a small cloth from her pocket and blots my face. «How about we do the old Q-and-A thing?»
«Yeah. That would help, I think.» I cross my arms to hide the shaking. Glance at Finnick, who gives me a thumbs-up. But he’s looking pretty shaky himself.
Cressida’s back in position now. «So, Katniss. You’ve survived the Capitol bombing of Thirteen. How did it compare with what you experienced on the ground in Eight?»
«We were so far underground this time, there was no real danger. Thirteen’s alive and well and so am—» My voice cuts off in a dry, squeaking sound.
«Try the line again,» says Cressida. «‘Thirteen’s alive and well and so am I.’»
I take a breath, trying to force air down into my diaphragm. «Thirteen’s alive and so—» No, that’s wrong.
I swear I can still smell those roses.
«Katniss, just this one line and you’re done today. I promise,» says Cressida. «‘Thirteen’s alive and well and so am I.’»
I swing my arms to loosen myself up. Place my fists on my hips. Then drop them to my sides. Saliva’s filling my mouth at a ridiculous rate and I feel vomit at the back of my throat. I swallow hard and open my lips so I can get the stupid line out and go hide in the woods and—that’s when I start crying.
It’s impossible to be the Mockingjay. Impossible to complete even this one sentence. Because now I know that everything I say will be directly taken out on Peeta. Result in his torture. But not his death, no, nothing so merciful as that. Snow will ensure that his life is much worse than death.
«Cut,» I hear Cressida say quietly.
«What’s wrong with her?» Plutarch says under his breath.
«She’s figured out how Snow’s using Peeta,» says Finnick.
There’s something like a collective sigh of regret from the semicircle of people spread out before me. Because I know this now. Because there will never be a way for me to not know this again. Because, beyond the military disadvantage losing a Mockingjay entails, I am broken.
Several sets of arms would embrace me. But in the end, the only person I truly want to comfort me is Haymitch, because he loves Peeta, too. I reach out for him and say something like his name and he’s there, holding me and patting my back. «It’s okay. It’ll be okay, sweetheart.» He sits me on a length of broken marble pillar and keeps an arm around me while I sob.
«I can’t do this anymore,» I say.
«I know,» he says.
«All I can think of is—what he’s going to do to Peeta—because I’m the Mockingjay!» I get out.
«I know.» Haymitch’s arm tightens around me.
«Did you see? How weird he acted? What are they—doing to him?» I’m gasping for air between sobs, but I manage one last phrase. «It’s my fault!» And then I cross some line into hysteria and there’s a needle in my arm and the world slips away.
It must be strong, whatever they shot into me, because it’s a full day before I come to. My sleep wasn’t peaceful, though. I have the sense of emerging from a world of dark, haunted places where I traveled alone. Haymitch sits in the chair by my bed, his skin waxen, his eyes bloodshot. I remember about Peeta and start to tremble again.
Haymitch reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. «It’s all right. We’re going to try to get Peeta out.»
«What?» That makes no sense.
«Plutarch’s sending in a rescue team. He has people on the inside. He thinks we can get Peeta back alive,» he says.
«Why didn’t we before?» I say.
«Because it’s costly. But everyone agrees this is the thing to do. It’s the same choice we made in the arena. To do whatever it takes to keep you going. We can’t lose the Mockingjay now. And you can’t perform unless you know Snow can’t take it out on Peeta.» Haymitch offers me a cup. «Here, drink something.»
I slowly sit up and take a sip of water. «What do you mean, costly?»
He shrugs. «Covers will be blown. People may die. But keep in mind that they’re dying every day. And it’s not just Peeta; we’re getting Annie out for Finnick, too.»
«Where is he?» I ask.
«Behind that screen, sleeping his sedative off. He lost it right after we knocked you out,» says Haymitch. I smile a little, feel a bit less weak. «Yeah, it was a really excellent shoot. You two cracked up and Boggs left to arrange the mission to get Peeta. We’re officially in reruns.»
