Mocking Jay

In the hospital, I find my mother, the only one I trust to care for them. It takes her a minute to place the three,
given their current condition, but already she wears a look of consternation. And I know it's not a result of seeing
abused bodies, because they were her daily fare in District 12, but the realization that this sort of thing goes on
in 13 as well.
My mother was welcomed into the hospital, but she's viewed as more of a nurse than a doctor, despite her
lifetime of healing. Still, no one interferes when she guides the trio into an examination room to assess their
injuries. I plant myself on a bench in the hall outside the hospital entrance, waiting to hear her verdict. She will be
able to read in their bodies the pain inflicted upon them.
Gale sits next to me and puts an arm around my shoulder. "She'll fix them up." I give a nod, wondering if
he's thinking about his own brutal flogging back in 12.
Plutarch and Fulvia take the bench across from us but don't offer any comments on the state of my prep
team. If they had no knowledge of the mistreatment, then what do they make of this move on President Coin's
part? I decide to help them out.
"I guess we've all been put on notice," I say.
"What? No. What do you mean?" asks Fulvia.
"Punishing my prep team's a warning," I tell her. "Not just to me. But to you, too. About who's really in control
and what happens if she's not obeyed. If you had any delusions about having power, I'd let them go now.
Apparently, a Capitol pedigree is no protection here. Maybe it's even a liability."
"There is no comparison between Plutarch, who masterminded the rebel breakout, and those three
beauticians," says Fulvia icily.
I shrug. "If you say so, Fulvia. But what would happen if you got on Coin's bad side? My prep team was
kidnapped. They can at least hope to one day return to the Capitol. Gale and I can live in the woods. But you?
Where would you two run?"
"Perhaps we're a little more necessary to the war effort than you give us credit for," says Plutarch,
unconcerned.
"Of course you are. The tributes were necessary to the Games, too. Until they weren't," I say. "And then we
were very disposable--right, Plutarch?"
That ends the conversation. We wait in silence until my mother finds us. "They'll be all right," she reports.
"No permanent physical injuries."
"Good. Splendid," says Plutarch. "How soon can they be put to work?"
"Probably tomorrow," she answers. "You'll have to expect some emotional instability, after what they've
been through. They were particularly ill prepared, coming from their life in the Capitol."
"Weren't we all?" says Plutarch.
Either because the prep team's incapacitated or I'm too on edge, Plutarch releases me from Mockingjay
duties for the rest of the day. Gale and I head down to lunch, where we're served bean and onion stew, a thick
slice of bread, and a cup of water. After Venia's story, the bread sticks in my throat, so I slide the rest of it onto
Gale's tray. Neither of us speaks much during lunch, but when our bowls are clean, Gale pulls up his sleeve,
revealing his schedule. "I've got training next."
I tug up my sleeve and hold my arm next to his. "Me, too." I remember that training equals hunting now.
My eagerness to escape into the woods, if only for two hours, overrides my current concerns. An immersion
into greenery and sunlight will surely help me sort out my thoughts. Once off the main corridors, Gale and I race
like schoolchildren for the armory, and by the time we arrive, I'm breathless and dizzy. A reminder that I'm not fully
recovered. The guards provide our old weapons, as well as knives and a burlap sack that's meant for a game
bag. I tolerate having the tracker clamped to my ankle, try to look as if I'm listening when they explain how to use
the handheld communicator. The only thing that sticks in my head is that it has a clock, and we must be back
inside 13 by the designated hour or our hunting privileges will be revoked. This is one rule I think I will make an
effort to abide.
We 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-