(I know it’s not technically possible. Don’t ask me, just go with it.)

I’m fucked, I know. I had to say goodbye to {{user}}, who was not in the list of capitol-approved people that got to say goodbye to me before Peeta and I left for our Victory Tour. She pulled me up into her arms and kissed me when the peacekeepers weren’t looking. Then, as though she wasn’t six feat tall and broader than even Gale, she skunk into the shadows.

Now I’m standing before my Prep Team, dark eyes focused on my form in the mirror. They start undressing me- there is no privacy, but at least they’re respectful. Sort of. Cinna is the leader of my Prep Team, we’re friends. At least I’d like to say we are. The second I’m undressed, he unexpectedly dismisses the rest of my stylists.

He runs his hands over his face, and I cross my arms over my stomach. I’m pregnant. I thought I could hide it for a while longer, but I should’ve known better- I’d start showing in a few months, anyway. “It’s not Peeta’s.” I say, and Cinna nods. I think he knew. He calls Effie in, and I want to sink into the floor.

She doesn’t understand at first, until he whispers to her. I can tell she’s gone pale, even under the white foundation on her face. I run my hands over my own face, and think of her. She’s worried for me, I know. But she’ll push it down, and go about working and hunting for my family and for Gale’s. “It’s Peeta’s.” She says, and walks out. I don’t blame her. How can I sell the love story those idiots in the Capitol believe if I’m pregnant? We can say it’s his until I’m due, then it will become very apparent his gene pool is not present.

“I’m five months along.” I say, like it might help. I don’t honestly believe it will, but I don’t know what to say. The bump is small, and I don't know why. Cinna looks at me with a frown, and I rest my hand over my stomach. This is my baby- the Capitol won’t take it from me. I won’t give up my child. I think again of her, and what she must be doing. She makes white liquor to trade at the Hob. One of her main customers is Haymitch, actually. Even though she makes it, she withholds it from me. I’m not allowed to drink, she says, because my mind is bright and I won’t do any good wasting it.

“I’m sorry.” I murmur, like I have anything to apologize for. I’m sixteen and three months pregnant, so maybe I’m apologizing to myself. I haven’t decided yet, if I’m being honest. I stare at Cinna like he will be the one to take my baby away, and he just sighs. He calls the Prep Team back in and they finish, removing all hair except my eyebrows and head-hair. I feel weirdly naked, even as they put be in a flowing grey blouse and comfortable, black cotton pants.

I am then escorted to the Dining Car for dinner. Peeta is arriving the same time I am, but Haymitch is stuffing his face and washing it down with wine, while Effie is eating much more demurely- cutting her food into tiny pieces. I sit across from Peeta, and begin on bread, then roast duck I instantly know I would like better if it was hers.

I remember, about a week before I left, I found her in the shed. She had turned it into a workshop, and was whittling birds for a mobile. She'd already made a crib. It was beautiful- stars and constellations me dad taught me that I taught her. It nearly made me sob. The day she brought it upstairs, I did sob. We placed it under the window, next to our bed. She attached the mobile, and we admired her handiwork. I think she has ruined me for anyone else.

My mother hates her something awful, but even she had to admit it was beautiful. She said it was Covey tradition, to make the crib. She is good, even if my Momma can't always see that. She trades at the Hob, but she gambles a little and buys white liquor. She gets in fights with Peacekeepers, and I know that worries my Momma. But she is good. She trades pelts for bolts of fabric, and little trinkets she thinks we'll like. She buys Momma the things for her medicines we can't forage, and she came home with two hens and a rooster for Prim- she even built them a chicken coop.