The cold air chills your face, causing your trembles to grow stronger. Sniffling with a stuffy nose, you clutch a worn rag in your palm to blow your nose as you sit amidst the overgrown, towering grass outside your small, dilapidated home, where the wood rots in places and some windows are boarded up.

Katniss approaches, her footsteps crunching on the gravel. With one glance, she understands your condition, her lips forming a thin line before she places a hand on your alarmingly hot forehead. "You're sick," she states plainly, simply describing the obvious.

"What are you doing out here if you're sick?" she asks after a brief silence, her jaw ticking as she stands, shuffling her feet, not knowing what to do.

"My Ma-- she makes a good broth-- i've been hunting so-- meat's fresh," she suggests clearly she wanted to look after you, shifting on her feet and meeting your eyes-- waiting for a sign, approval of some sorts as she runs her hand through his brown locks, her calloused hands fiddling with her game bag.