I've always loved getting clean. I love baths. I love showers. I haven't felt at home too many places but in the bathtub, I always am. It's my happy place.

It was my happy place.

The water in this shower has a mildew smell to it and there are legions of bacteria clinging to the pink walls. The temperature is somewhere just below my natural body heat and never gets much warmer than a room temperature soda. The flimsy shower curtain behind me whips back and I whirl around to see who would've invaded my happy time. As happy as I can get these days, anyway.

I meet the disinterested gaze of a black woman, her burning brown eyes boring into mine. "O-oh I'll be out in a sec," I say as I turn off the water. I grab my towel from the hook next to me and wrap it around my body.

"There best be some hot water left," the woman barks, eyeing me up and down with an unimpressed expression. I nod my head and side-step out of the small cubicle in which we shower. The woman curls her fingers around my towel and pulls it away from my body. Her lower lip protrudes. "You got nice titties, I'll give you that."

I blush even though this is a grave invasion of my privacy. Privacy is something I'm no longer afforded. "Um, thank you."

"You got them TV titties. They stand up on their own, all perky and everything." She giggles at me. I think she's about ten or fifteen years my senior, in her thirties or near forty. Too old to be giggling but I'm not about to tell her since she's got about thirty or forty pounds on me.

"Okay," I respond evenly. These women have been in prison longer than I have. They are used to this massive invasion of privacy, this daily ritual of nakedness and intimidation. I'm not. I don't think I ever will be. Even when I was living in the real world, the outside world, I loved having my privacy. I had blackout curtains on my windows, I kept to myself and didn't have a lot of friends. I tolerated nights out in bars or in fancy hotels but I was much more comfortable in the woods with my brother Gale or at home reading a book.

"Now get the fuck out the way!" she yells at me annoyedly, hands gesticulating wildly. I move out of the way of the shower and she turns on the water and begins singing some old 60's tune that makes the pit of my stomach burble. That was one of her favorite songs. I was born by the river, in a little tent. Oh and just like the river I've been runnin' ever since.

It's been a long, long time comin' but I know a change gon' come.

Four Weeks Before Day One

"Is this for real?" That's how he phrases it to me once he finishes reading the papers the federal agents delivered to our cozy brownstone in Brooklyn, New York. That's what he thinks of me. He thinks so highly of me that he's sure this must be a joke. Peeta grips the papers in his hand - the papers that tell everyone I was part of an international drug smuggling ring - and is just bewildered. "How did I not know about this?"

I shake my head like I don't know. But I do. I didn't want to tell him. I didn't want anyone to know about my years with her. I wanted to erase her and everything she was and everything she made me from my memory and start over. Start clean. "I'm sorry," I reply, unable to look him in the eyes.

"I told you everything about me. The webcam horror. The thing with my brothers and their dicks." He ruffles his blond hair and paces to and fro in our living room. He's right, of course. We've always been honest with each other in the two years we've been dating. Except that I kept three years of my life a giant secret.

"What was I supposed to say?" I ask, looking up at him. "It was my lost soul after-college time. I was so embarrassed about everything after." I don't want to explain it to him because I'm actually more angry than embarrassed or sad at this point. I can't believe she betrayed me. Even after all these years, I can't believe she would do this to me. To other people, sure, but not to me. "I can't believe she did this."

His eyes widen. "I can't believe you did this! I mean, smuggling drugs over international borders?"

"I didn't smuggle drugs," I contest hotly. He's unimpressed. "I smuggled drug money." He wouldn't know, but there's a big fucking difference there. She made sure that if I was involved, it was never with the actual drugs. She didn't like to touch them herself, either. It was her fucked up way of protecting me, I guess.

"I feel like I'm in a Bourne movie. Have you killed?" he asks, but I can tell he's joking. There's a small lift of the corner of his mouth. He stops pacing and comes to sit next to me. I scan over the papers in his hand. My name is plastered everywhere on this official looking indictment. Her name isn't even on here though she must've been the one who named me. I didn't make any friends with her drug-smuggling cohorts. I wasn't there for them. I was there for her. It makes my heart palpitate inside my chest to see the reality of the charges against me. I don't like to be in trouble.

"Witness states, Katniss Everdeen carried drug money. Katniss Everdeen was part of the ring," I recite off the paper glumly.

"Were you?" Peeta inquires genuinely, looking over at me. He wraps his arm over my shoulder and I nod, leaning into his embrace.

"I was 22!" I protest, as if my age gives me the right to do what I want. I was just out of college, fresh-faced and looking for adventure. I found it. That, and much, much more. "I was in love. It was crazy and - and for a while, fun. Then it got scary and I ran away. I became the nice young girl from the good home that I was supposed to be." Anger bubbles up inside me. All the times she said she loved me, she was lying. No one who loves someone could put them through this. "Fuck her. I can't fucking believe this."

There's a lot of silence as Peeta digests this information. I never told him about her, about my past. Now he's learning that I'm a bisexual criminal who smuggled drug money for my girlfriend who ran an international drug cartel that spanned the entire globe. And he's learning that I enjoyed it. Part of it, at least. The unassuming girl he met two years ago is an entirely different animal.

"It's not okay," he begins, looking down at the paper. "But we'll get through this, okay?" He's always so calm, so even, that I want to shake him. Be mad at me! I think. But he's sailed right past anger to acceptance. We are going to get through this, but it's going to take a while.

"You should break up with me," I advise. "You didn't sign up for all this crazy."

Peeta smiles genially and kisses me on the temple. "I signed up for everything, Katniss."

Two Weeks Before Day One

My mother's mouth is hanging open. Gale looks smug, but not as a brother normally would. I was always the model child and Gale the outsider. I did well in school, kept to myself, graduated college. Gale took off out of high school and disappeared for a while into the woods. When I left to travel the globe with her he came back home, met up with my best friend Madge, and they got married a year later. He invested the money we got from my father's inheritance in a start-up company and now has more money than he knows what to do with.

He's smug because he knew. Madge I told, but Gale discovered it. Aside from that, we've always been close and he's always known me very well. "So, I never carried drugs. Just money." I want to make that clear but just like Peeta, nobody seems to get it. Carrying money is a far lesser offense than carrying drugs.

"You were a lesbian?" my mother asks, bewildered. Out of all the information she just processed, that's what she can't wrap her mind around.

"I ...was?" I respond, and Peeta puts his hand on my knee. I'm glad he's here. There's a steadiness that Peeta brings to everything that I need wholeheartedly right now. "I'm bisexual, if you feel the need for labels. I was with a woman, yes, and now I'm with Peeta."

My mother's eyes, bright blue like my little sister Prim's, move to Peeta. "You knew about this?" My mother took to Peeta right away. I think after I disappeared for a while she thought I'd never settle down, never give her the grandchildren she so desired. Madge is pregnant now, though, so luckily that moves the burden off Peeta and I. Prim is only 17 still. As I look at her, she seems unaffected by this information. There's sympathy in her eyes, too. Gale and I are much closer in age, but Prim and I are close emotionally. Though I do feel guilt for basically having stepped out of her life for the years I was with her.

Peeta shakes his head. "No, I-I didn't. I knew she traveled after college but I didn't know about the girlfriend or the international drug smuggling ring. Imagine my surprise."

My mother brings her gaze back to me. "What on Earth did you do with the money?" Again, another bizarre question. Like I would take the money for myself. I barely saw the money. She paid for everything. She took care of everything, including me. When I did it, I didn't even know what I was taking.

"Well, mother, I wasn't really in it for the money," I explain. Gale chuckles and my mother leans back into her couch, placing her hand over her forehead. Peeta's arm wraps around my back and brings me in against him. Prim eyes me sympathetically.

I wasn't. It was never about the money. It wasn't even about the traveling, after a while. It was always just about her.

The Day Before Day One...

Madge took to pregnancy really well. There's that saying that pregnant women have a glow about them but in my experience, most pregnant women look miserable. They look like friends who are carrying moving boxes for someone else. But not Madge. Her hair, a golden cornsilk color, is even shinier than usual in her two cute little plaits. The bar we're in is too loud for our tastes but her husband Gale and my fiancé, Peeta, thought we should have a going away party for me. Like I'm moving towns or something, instead of going to women's prison for over a year.

"I can't believe you're going to jail," she laments, taking a sip of her seltzer and peering over the bubbly beverage at me. Madge was the more adventurous of the two of us growing up, but when she settled down, I uprooted. We've always complemented each other that way.

"Prison," I correct automatically, "not jail." That statement - I can't believe you're going to jail - has been repeated to me about 3,000 times in the last few weeks. From the moment the cops came to tell me I was named in the indictment, life became a blur. Telling my widowed mother, my brother Gale, my sister Primrose that I was going to jail for a crime I committed years ago was embarrassing. It was a great day in a series of great days I've been having with lawyers and cops over the past few weeks. Explaining to a fat man stuffed in a cheap suit that yes, I was with her, yes, I carried the money, no, I don't know anything else about the cartel. Detailing the exploits of my time as the girlfriend of a woman who worked just under the most prolific drug dealer in the world hasn't exactly been a great experience.

Madge pouts at me. She and I have known each other since high school. We left home together and went to the same university where she studied business and I fucked off and barely graduated with a useless major in English Literature. Then she met and tamed my brother while I met and tried to tame her. "You're going to miss my baby shower."

"I know," I lament, putting my hand over hers. I was so excited when Madge told me she was pregnant. She and Gale have been married a little while now and their relationship is enviable. They're both successful, funny, good-looking people who are madly in love. Usually you don't have all the gears working in a relationship, but they do. Perhaps a tad eccentric but there's nothing wrong with that. Those are the types of people who should be bringing babies into the world. "I'm so sorry."

Not people like me. Future convicts with shady pasts. Madge knows all about my lost years with her. She's the only one who ever met her. She's the only person I told, both out of excitement for my newfound freedom and happiness, and out of fear since no one knew where I was most of the time, and she was my alibi.

Not a good enough alibi, evidently, since tomorrow I'm going to prison for the next fifteen months. I will miss Madge's baby shower. I will miss the birth of my niece or nephew. I'll miss the dumb Christening ceremony her mother is making her do and I won't be named a godparent. I'll miss the grand re-opening of the book store we bought together.

As I look up I catch the affectionate blue eyes of Peeta. I'll miss him, too. His life won't be too different - he'll get up and go to work at the newspaper - but I'll be gone from it. We won't be able to go on that vacation to Scotland like we were hoping. Our wedding will be pushed off until way after I get out. I won't be Mrs. Peeta Mellark, bookstore owner and wife. Instead I'll be Katniss Everdeen, ex-con.

After we gorge ourselves on food and drink until we require taxis to get home to our cozy apartment in Brooklyn, we settle into bed together. My goodbye to Madge was sad, but she promised to visit me once I was cleared for visitors.

I'll miss this bed. I love the quilted blanket and the softness of the sheets. I'll miss the warmth of another body sleeping with mine. Peeta wraps his strong arms around me and pulls me close, inhaling the scent of my hair. I must be tense because he pulls back and places his hand on my chin, forcing me to look up at him. His smile is gentle, as gentle as he is. "We don't have to do this, you know."

I smile at him and put my hand on his cheek, tracing the sharp incline of his jaw. His kindness to me has been unfailing, even after I disclosed my spotted past to him. He was disappointed, but not that I had committed a felony, but rather that I had lied to him. Once he got over that betrayal we worked toward making the weeks I had left meaningful. There's no way I could repay him for all that he's done. For all that he's been to me in this time.

"I want to," I assure him. I've never been a sexual person; the thought of fifteen months without sex doesn't bother me. There was a time - my time with her - that I developed a voracious sexual appetite I didn't know I possessed. I've never been that way with Peeta. Comparatively I suppose I'm the aggressor in most of our intimate times, but that chronic hunger isn't there like it was. That's not who we are. Our relationship is safe. It's comfortable. We have sex occasionally and that, too, is gentle and safe and loving. The way it should be.

But I owe him this. One last night of our lips together, our bodies connected, feeling him inside of me. It will mean much more to him than to me and that's fine. I love him and I want him to have this memory of me. His hands are around my back as he moves half on top of me, his lips on mine. Suddenly he pulls away from me, his eyes full of worry. "You're crying."

Am I? I feel my face and realize he's right, there are a few tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes. And why not? My life that I worked extremely hard to put together after I left her is falling apart. I will be on pause while everyone else in my life, all the people I love, will be moving along just fine. "I know," I reply and grab a fistful of his shirt. I don't want his pity, his worry. "Just fuck me."

For a split second he looks surprised, but then his face softens. "Katniss," he says kindly, in spite of the desire I see in his eyes.

But I don't want his softness. I lean up and plant a firm kiss on his lips and loop one arm around his neck to keep him there. He complies, of course, and kisses me back fiercely. My other hand snakes beneath the elastic waistband of his sleeping pants and down his pelvis. I wrap my fingers around his shaft and begin slow stroking movements. He's not going to back out now. I won't let him.

Sometimes Peeta can be a real pussy. But not tonight. Not tonight when I need his strength, his comfort, to last me through the next 64 weeks.

Day One

Our goodbye is short. I promise not to let anyone into my granny panties and he promises to help Madge with the store. It's not as if I'll never see Peeta again. He'll be the first person to visit me once I can accept visitors. And I get phone calls! Yes, between phone calls and visits and all the books I want to get through, the time will fly, I'm sure of it. He takes my cell phone and my engagement ring and puts them in his pocket. We kiss, short and chaste, as the officer by the door waits impatiently.

"Let's go Everdeen," she barks. I turn around and eye her nametag. York. Officer York, a fit, no-nonsense, middle-aged woman who looks former military to me. After Peeta leaves we go into the processing room and she appraises me with tired hazel eyes. "What size are you?"

"Six and a half," I respond. "Seven, actually." She hands me shoes and puts them on top of the bedding and uniform I'm carrying. I look at the orange, standard-issue sneakers in my face. I can smell the cheap rubber on the sole. "Those are cute. Like Toms."

"Who's Tom?" she asks brusquely and somewhat disinterestedly.

For a moment I think she's joking but it occurs to me this woman probably does not make jokes. "They're shoes. When you buy a pair they buy one for kids in need. They look like these." As I'm speaking I can tell she's rapidly losing interest so I stop.

"Sounds great. Strip." I widen my eyes as I have the flashback of her that always seems to find me. It doesn't matter what I do or where I go, her memory follows me like a bad cold.

Five Years Ago

I remember her dazzling smile as she walked into the elevator I was in. It was some swanky hotel that my sorority had rented for a night or two right after Madge and I had graduated. Madge was already asleep in our room but I couldn't go to sleep. Around one in the morning I went down to the lobby to get some Tylenol PM. A black-haired girl ran into my elevator just as it closed. Instead of turning around like a normal person, she stared right at me. She was beautiful. But it was her smile, like she knew all of my life's secrets, that drew me in.

"You don't look like the type of girl who frequents hotels this early in the morning, kid," she says, her voice like honey. I want to pour her all over me. Whoa, what? Where the hell did that come from?

She's grinning at me and I can tell I'm being teased. Normally I don't like that, but... She's wearing a deep emerald dress that clings to her in all the right places and her stiletto heels raise her height to just above mine. Her hair is black, a choppy cut that's just passed her shoulders with a few streaks of red through her tresses. Her eyes are brown and wide-set behind a pair of thick-rimmed black glasses. In short, she looks like sex in heels and I think I'm sweating. I'd let her tease me whenever she wants.

"And you do?" I question, using my hand with the packet of Tylenol PM in it to wave at her formal outfit. She grabs my hand and turns it over, exposing the drugs.

"Why else would I be dressed like this at some hotel in the middle of nowhere, brainless?" I balk at her term of address but let it slide. "Can't sleep?" she asks, nodding toward my pills, stepping ever-so-slightly closer to me. I suddenly realize the elevator hasn't moved. Neither of us has hit any buttons.

I shake my head. "No. I have a hard time going to sleep at night," I confess for no other reason other than I want her to keep talking to me. And it's true. Ever since my father died I've had pretty awful night terrors that wake me and keep me awake, or it takes me a few hours to fall asleep.

"That right?" She gets down on one knee and unties the side of her heel, then the other. She kicks them off into the elevator and hits the '17' button as she rises from the ground. There's only 17 floors in this hotel; she must be here for quite an event to get the penthouses on the top floor. She spins around. "Unzip me?" she asks, but it's more like a command. I shove the packet in my pocket and grasp the zipper on her dress and slowly drag it down to just above her butt. She has a tattoo on her shoulder, a salt shaker. She also has some roses tattooed on her arm and a tribal band around her wrist. Her dress falls to the ground and my jaw nearly falls with it. The lights that pass us as we ascend reflect off of her breasts when she whirls around to face me again. I'm mesmerized by this light show. She steps closer to me and now my back is pressed against the cool glass. "I know a good way to get tired."

I lick my lips and look down into her face. Now that she's not wearing heels I see that I have a few inches of height on her. She's clad only in a pair of red lace underwear and the heat of her body is pressed against mine. "Oh?" That's all I can manage. Her body is absolutely to fucking die for and I think I'm dying as we stand here.

She nods, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. "Do you want to know what it is?" I nod my head. The elevator opens behind her as we get to her floor. She slips a silver card into my back pocket from the clutch in her hand that I didn't even notice because I was so enthralled by her breasts. She exits in all her glorious nudity on to her floor. "Let's do this again sometime," she calls over her back.

Her hips sway exaggeratedly and I watch like a pubescent boy until the doors close. I numbly press the button for the floor that I'm on and take the silver card out of where she shoved it. The business card is silver with tiny black lettering that only takes up two lines. Her name on the top line: Johanna Mason. And her phone number below it.

I don't know who she is or why she stripped in front of me, but my body is on fire in a way I have never known and in spite of the Tylenol, I can't sleep that night. I want to go back to the 17th floor and find her. I had no idea that making that one decision would dramatically alter the rest of my life.

Day One

After stripping and redressing for Officer York, I am herded into a white van that's parked with the engine on outside the facility. There's a young girl already in there when I scoot in next to her. She's maybe 19 or 20, beautiful curly black hair and flawless caramel skin. She doesn't smile or even look at me as I get in next to her. There's a woman in the front seat, pale as milk. She's got large, rounded sunglasses over her face. Her hair is bright blonde and curled into ringlets. "That it?" she calls in a slightly affected voice.

"No," Officer York barks. "One more. Hold up."

I'm fiddling with the poor jacket they provided me as we wait for the next woman. "My zipper's broken," I say, to one in particular. What I want to say is that it's fucking freezing and I wish I were anywhere but here. But I think that goes without saying.

The woman in the driver's seat eyes me in the rearview mirror. She dips her sunglasses down and I see two shining green eyes. "First time down?"

I scrunch my eyebrows in confusion. "My - my first time here?"

She shakes her head curtly. "No, your first time in prison, dear." Her tone is kind and formal and I reckon she's the escort to and from the prison from her attitude like she's a real estate agent showing me a new home.

"Oh." I nod. "Yeah."

She shrugs her shoulders. "It isn't so terrible. Everyone is mostly decent. You must be wary of the stealing." The girl next to me and I move our pitiful things closer to our bodies. "What's your name? Your last name, dear. That's what we use here. I'm Trinket." She turns around in her seat and nods to the young girl beside me. "That's Watson."

"Everdeen," I reply softly.

She smiles at me. "How much time did you get?"

"Fifteen months," I tell her. I didn't think you were supposed to ask that. In the books I read it said that wasn't appropriate. Or maybe you don't ask what you're in for. There were so many rules in those books.

Trinket smiles kindly at me. "You'll be out in no time. I have 34 months but I'm hoping to do less with good behavior." My eyes widen in surprise. She's one of us? And they let her drive? She's interrupted by another girl, a shaking, red-haired girl with wild green eyes who climbs in behind us. Officer York slaps the side of the van a few times. "Okay, that's everyone."

"They let you drive?" I ask finally as Trinket settles back into her seat.

She laughs. "Who else is going to do it? We do practically everything around here," she replies with an air of haughtiness that seems wholly inappropriate in this setting.

The blonde woman puts away a magazine she was reading and puts the car into drive. The journey isn't too long but long enough for me, Watson, and the hysterical girl behind us to be cold. I can hear their teeth chattering over my own. Nobody speaks, but I guess this is procedure. What would we have to talk about anyway? That we're sorry for each other's lot? I close my eyes and lean my head on the cold glass of the van and let a memory drown me, trying to glean warmth from it.

Five Years Ago

I'm so nervous my palms are sweating. I wipe them on my jeans as I approach the bar at the bottom of the hotel. My plan was to just leave with Madge but I saw her in the lobby and I couldn't resist another chance to talk to her. She's dressed less formally now, in a pair of skinny jeans tucked into a pair of boots. Her black tank top exposes all her tattoos and her pale skin. A few chunky necklaces sit atop her chest, gleaming in the lights of the bar.

There's a table of women that she's talking with, women who look like they might be into Ani DiFranco and Lillith Fair, if that's still a thing. Johanna doesn't look much like them. She doesn't look much like anyone I've ever seen. While she seems out of place among them, she commands their attention.

Mustering up my courage I walk confidently to the bar and order something laden with sugar and alcohol. I sit atop the bar stool and cast looks at her over my shoulder. Finally we make eye contact and I hurriedly return to my drink. She slinks over to me and leans her elbow on the bar. "Whiskey neat," she drawls in a husk to the man behind the bar. She eyes my drink and makes some additional motion to the bartender. Her brown eyes turn to me, engulfing me entirely. "How's it going, brainless?" I roll my eyes at her but I can't stop the grin from spreading on my lips. "All the rest of your high-pitched sisters left."

My sorority sisters were obnoxious. Madge and I spent most our time seeing the sights and ordering room service, but I'm sure Johanna was treated to their immature hijinks. I'm sure she was relieved to see them go. "They're not my sisters."

The corner of her mouth dimples into a smirk. "Sure, kid. Either way, they all left without you. Why'd you stay?" The tumbler of amber liquid is placed in front of her and she sips it, unbothered by the burn that I know comes with drinking straight whiskey.

"Can't sleep." I meet her eyes meaningfully and while they're alight with playfulness, there's a small hint of affection behind them. I take another sip of my drink and watch her carefully. We seem to both be staring each other down, or sizing each other up. I don't know how she does it but she makes me feel young and helpless, but also like I'm the only person in the room. Maybe the only person on the planet.

"What's your name?"

I gulp. "Katniss Everdeen."

Her ruby red lips break into a catlike grin. "And what do you do, Katniss Everdeen?"

"I um, I just graduated." I feel about five years old as I look up at her. I don't know how old she is, probably not much older than me, but she carries a sense of worldliness I do not possess. There's no judgement in her eyes but she looks amused by my naïveté. "And what about you, Johanna Mason?"

Her teeth come out to tug on her bottom lip as her eyes narrow toward me. "I work for an international drug cartel." Her tone is flat and humorless, but her eyes are twinkling. I have no idea if she's serious or not but we both erupt into laughter. She knocks back the remainder of her drink and signals for the bartender. "Charge all this to room 1701. Theirs too," she says, waving to the group of women behind us. The bartender nods. "And send a bottle of champagne on ice to the room for me?" The bartender gives me a look and a lecherous smile and I turn my attention back to her. "Well, Katniss Everdeen, would you like to see my room?"

"Is that what you say to all the girls?" I ask, but I'm sliding off the stool and taking another, final sip of my drink. I'm going to follow her and she knows it, but I don't want her to think I'm easy. I'm not easy, at least not until tonight.

She chuckles in a low tone and begins walking toward the elevators, her boots clicking against the marble. The elevator dings its arrival and we both walk inside the glass enclosure. The moment the doors close and the button is pressed she slams my back against the doors and her hands are in my hair, her lips on mine. I can't help the gasp of arousal that comes out as she plunges her tongue into my mouth, tasting of whiskey and olives. Her teeth and lips are bruising mine but it's not a real hurt. My hands go underneath the hem of her shirt around her back, flattening my palms against her back muscles that flex beneath my touch. She pulls away from me, panting, and holds my face between her hands. "I lied to you, Katniss Everdeen."

"What?" I reply, confused, aroused, and wanting to be in her room as fast as possible. I didn't think I was able to get this turned on this fast but I think I've been wet since the moment her and I locked eyes in the bar.

She grins and runs her thumb over my lips. "I'm not going to help you sleep. I'll get you into bed and your eyes will be closed." Her lips move to my ear. "But I am going to set every inch of you on fire." I look into her eyes and the flames of desire I see there make me think her promise is true. And god, do I want it. Her lips return to my neck and she laces kisses across my skin and swirls her tongue around my pulse point. I want her. I wasn't ready for how she was going to make me feel. I wasn't ready for her. But if I learned only one thing about Johanna Mason it would be that she was going to happen to me whether I was ready or not.

Day One

I'm shuffled into the facility, Panem Correctional Institute, behind the redhead and Watson. Trinket takes the lead as we get catcalled by women behind bars. One of them wiggles her tongue at me in what I think she believes is a suggestive manner but it's downright disgusting. "I've got to send you all to processing," she announces, like she's giving us a grand tour. "You have your room assignments. I'll meet you back here."

Processing is the routine of fingerprinting us, assigning us badges and generally, making this ordeal as awful as possible. The next room I go into is a blank one with beige walls and no furniture. Behind a pane of glass there are two male officers. One of them is an older man with slicked back gray hair and a thick gray mustache. He might be in his early fifties but still pretty fit. It's ironic that here, where we can't go anywhere, the officers are fit and muscular. Whereas on the streets of New York it's hard to find any officer with over five years of service who can still fit in his issued pants.

"Raise your head, look at the lens," the officer instructs me. I narrow my eyes to see his nametag. Thread, it says. Interesting name. I do as he asks and as he goes to take the picture, there's a large error noise from the computer. "Ah fuck," he laments, smacking the computer angrily. "New guy!" he shouts, startling the bronze-haired man next to him. That officer is ridiculously handsome, young with beautiful sea green eyes and muscles that I can see defined through his shirt. His cheekbones are high and his features almost feminine, giving him a model quality. "Odair, that your name? Odair, fix this shit."

"Did you turn it on?" he asks in a genuine voice.

Thread's face becomes red. "Of course I fuckin' turned it on."

Officer Odair taps a few of the keys and tries to take the picture again. They fail once more. "There's a cord," I pipe up, pointing to the back of the computer. "D-do you think that's supposed to be plugged into something?"

"Shut your fuckin' mouth and stand still," Officer Thread replies, glaring at me with stone gray eyes. I roll my eyes and stand still. Officer Odair looks at the cord I was speaking of and plugs it into the back of the computer. There is a satisfying whirring noise that happens.

Officer Odair smiles at me. "She was right."

Suddenly a bright light flashes. "Next!"

"But I-I wasn't ready," I protest. I wasn't even looking!

"Tough shit."

The next room is with the nurse who is giving me a TB test. The woman is kind, and reminds me a little of my mother. She's got blonde hair that's graying now, pulled back into a sensical bun behind her head. I wince a little as she digs the needle into my arm. "No track marks, nice."

"Thanks," I mumble.

"Any tattoos?" she asks. I'm disoriented but after a few moments I nod. I turn around and lift up my braid to expose the back of my neck. "What's that?"

"A mockingjay," I inform her. "I saw them on vacation. I thought they were beautiful." I sang to them, too, I want to tell her, but I'm sure she won't care. Mockingjays are increasingly endangered but they were one of my favorite animals growing up. Seeing them was one of the best experiences of my life. One that I shared with her.

"It's pretty," she remarks, letting my braid fall to my back.

"Thanks."

Once I've been blinded by the flash, poked and prodded by the nurse and overall demoralized, I'm sent to my advisor, a Mr. Haymitch Abernathy. I walk into his office and he's not quite what I expected. He's an older man like Officer Thread, but his hair is still blonde. It's not short like the military types that work here. It's long, just above his cheekbones in straggly blond pieces. There's a five o'clock shadow on his face that looks pretty permanent. He's got blue eyes like Peeta and a strong build, but there's also the faint smell of alcohol in here, and a tiredness in his features that smacks of old alcoholism.

"Ms. Everdeen, please sit down." I sit in the chair across from his desk, nervously gripping the sides. There's a lot of paperwork in his office. No picture frames or anything meaningful, which is kind of sad. He opens a file and skims over it. "What's Eversee?"

I blink a few times. "Oh. It's the book shop I opened with my best friend Madge." Eversee Books, with a cute little owl on the logo with glasses reading a book. Peeta designed the logo for us. I already miss him.

He nods his head and flips through the papers. "You've got a pretty big case. Criminal conspiracy." He looks at me and, like everyone else, there's a bit of disbelief in his eyes.

"That's what they charged me with," I say, unable to really say anything else. "I carried a suitcase of money. Drug money. Once. Five years ago."

"That's tough," he says, straightening out the papers and placing them back in my file. He clasps his hands over the file and looks at me. "And here you are. Sweating in my chair, costing the taxpayers money." I'm not sure what to say to this so I just sit there and continue to sweat and cost taxpayer money. "Look, Ms. Everdeen, I'm going to be honest with you. You seem like a good kid. A little stupid, but a good kid. This is your only offense and you got fucked with the minimum sentences they put on drug-related charges. I've been here 25 years and I don't understand this system. I got a crack dealer doing nine months and a girl who tapped a police cruiser with her bumper doing 14 years. But no one in here is going to mess with you unless you let them."

"Okay."

He eyes me suspiciously. "Are you going to barf?"

I blink in surprise again. "What? No. I'm not.. I'm not going to barf."

"I will be truly displeased if you barf anywhere but in that can," he states flatly, pointing to a little round metal bin.

"I'm not going to barf."

He leans back in his chair. "They might peg you for rich and try to hit you up for commissary but women don't fight, physically. They gossip and bitch at each other but no one's going to harm you. And there are lesbians. If that's your thing, fine, but don't get fuckin' caught. They can be real nasty. And I don't mean physically," he says, motioning over his face, "though that's true, too. I mean they get petty and jealous and possessive."

"I-I have a fiancé," I explain, totally flustered. "Peeta Mellark."

"He in the file?" I nod. "He can visit you this weekend. I'll make sure the file gets to the desk in the visiting room." I sit in the chair, awaiting more instructions. He raises a pale blond eyebrow at me. "You can go." I bite the inside of my cheek and get up, turning around to leave.

Trinket peeks her head into the office. "All finished here?" Mr. Abernathy nods at her from behind me and Trinket smiles widely at him. "Wonderful. Okay Everdeen, let's go onward with your tour." I roll my eyes at her exuberance and follow her closely. "We have to hurry because they're doing the count soon. If you're not in your bunk before the count, there is hell to pay."

Watson and the redhead end up in our small pack as well. "What's your name?" I whisper to the redhaired girl, whose sea green eyes are puffy and reddened.

"Annie," she replies softly. "I mean, um, Cresta."

I smile warmly at her. "I'm Everdeen. But you can call me Katniss."

The other girl, Watson, pipes up from my left. "I'm Rue." She's even tinier than me, I notice. God, she can't be a day over 18. I wonder what she did to get herself in this hellhole.

I grin. "So we all agree the last name thing is weird?" They both nod. "Okay, cool. Then we'll be Annie, Katniss, and Rue to each other."

Trinket clears her throat and turns around. "It's lovely that you're making friends but please pay attention." She waits for us to stop whispering and we all stand still. "Wonderful. Now, the dorms are down here," she says, motioning down a hallway. "Those are some offices up there. The dining hall is down there to the left." She leads us down a series of corridors. "The common room, that's the counselor's office."

"When will we get outfits like everyone else?" Annie inquires in a soft voice. Everything about her is so gentle and timid, I wonder how she got in here, too. I look around and notice that everyone is wearing beige except for us. Us and a few other people, I suppose, but we still stick out like sore thumbs in the bright orange jumpsuits.

Trinket shrugs. "Tomorrow after breakfast you can go down to the office to the lady and she can get you into the regular clothing, if you'd like. Trust me darling, you can't do much more with beige than you can with orange." We come to the bunks we had passed on the way in. "Everdeen, Cresta, this is you." We enter a room of four bunk beds. Five of the beds are taken by women of various ages. Four older women, one of them hooked up to an oxygen machine, and then a younger woman with blonde hair. Trinket hands us each a basket with toiletries in it. "These are for you."

I look behind her at Rue who is wide-eyed and looking around timidly and noticeably empty-handed. "What about her?"

Trinket purses her lips. "They'll take care of her." They? Who's they? I look around at the women in the bunks and it suddenly dawns on me that everyone is white. I must look disgusted because Trinket rolls her eyes at me. "Don't look at me like that, Everdeen. It's tribal, not racist." I balk at her. When Trinket moves out of the way I step one foot out of the door and take Rue by the wrist.

We lock eyes. "Hey, if they don't get you anything, I'll give you some of my stuff, okay?" I tell her in a low voice, giving her a small smile.

She mirrors my smile and nods, hurrying after Trinket who is several steps ahead of her. Annie has already settled into the bottom bunk with her basket in her hands, glancing around nervously. The woman on the other top bunk, the younger one, ruffles her hair and I can see that one side of it is shaved, with vines tattooed around her ear and down her neck.

"Everdeen, huh?" she says, her voice low and scratchy. "What's your first name?"

"Katniss."

"I'm Cressida," she says, hopping off her bunk. Her eyes are bright and blue but unlike Peeta's I feel like I can see right through them. In spite of, or maybe due to, her odd hairdo she is incredibly striking. "What are you in here for?"

My mouth opens and closes a few times. I look around to the other women for support but they don't seem perturbed. "I thought you weren't supposed I ask that. I read that - that you're not supposed to ask that."

Cressida raises an eyebrow and smirks at me. "You read about prison? What did you do, study for it?"

"Oh lay off her, Cress," the woman attached to the breathing tube says. I look at her and flash her an appreciative smile. "Cressida's only in here because she told a CO to go fuck himself."

"Deserved it," Cressida mumbles.

"It was dumb," the woman responds, rolling her eyes. "She got put in SHU. That's solitary."

"Yeah yeah," Cressida says, waving them off. "Here's the deal. They're about to do the count. When they do the count, you stand next to your bed and don't say shit, okay?" She's talking to me and Annie now. "We'll make your bed for you until you get your own bunk in the dorms."

"I can make my bed," I insist with an eye roll.

"No you fuckin' can't. We'll do it right so we don't have to do it again and we can get to dinner on time. Sleep on top of your blankets."

"What if I want to sleep in my bed?"

Cressida steps closer to me and invades my personal bubble. She sizes me up which would be threatening, but she's got a grin on her features. "Then you'll be the only person in here who does."

Another woman, a brunette with gray eyes like mine, steps forward. "Cressida, please." She looks to me. "I'm Hazelle. Look, it's just a good idea to follow these rules until you get used to everything. Once that's done," she claps her hands together, "you're on your own, okay?"

We hear a voice over the loudspeaker and everyone stands, or sits in the case of the woman with the oxygen tank, near their beds. Annie and I do the same, being as still and silent as possible. Officer Thread sticks his head into the room and clicks something in his hand to account for us. Once they're done - and they do it twice because, as Cressida put it, "They can't fuckin' count," - we head to dinner.

The meal is pretty sad - something that might pass for meat if you squint at it, some blanched vegetables and a white bread roll - and Trinket, who comes up behind me with Cressida on her heels, shakes her head when I reach for the pudding. "I wouldn't," Cressida cuts in. "The containers they come in have 'Desert Storm' written on them."

I grimace and follow them to a table where a short older woman with long, gray hair is sitting down, fiddling with her fork. She's got eyes like Annie's, who sits down next to her. "Everdeen, this is Yoga Cohen. But you can call her Mags. She runs the yoga class here."

I nod at the woman and she smiles kindly at me. She's missing a few teeth but the smile looks genuine. "How are you, Everdeen?" Her voice is old and hard to understand, not to mention a Creole accent that makes her even more undecipherable.

"Katniss, please, and I... I don't know how to answer that question, to be honest."

Mags nods her head. "You like jazz, Katniss?" My fingers reflexively grip around my fork. I never did like jazz until I met Johanna. Then everything she loved, I came to love through her. I nod my head, though. "Back in the ol' days, before recordin' an' all that, the jazz clubs would be hot. Not just with Ella and Louis, no, but greats you ain't never heard of. Know why? Because they didn't record nothin'. They made music for days, weeks, songs that were longer than any record could hold. And then at the end of the night, all that beautiful music? It was gone. Pfft, never to be heard again. Beautiful melodies that would make any man or woman weep. Masterpieces."

"This story got a point, Mags? Effie and I will be as old as you before it ends," Cressida interjects, nudging Trinket in the arm. So her name is Effie, I guess. The two of them are very close, almost intimate, as they sit together on the bench. Weird.

Mags rolls her eyes at Cressida's impatience but her smile never wavers. "Think of your time here like those jazz songs. Beautiful, but temporary. Make something meaningful as you can and then pack it away."

I nod my head in understanding. This is only temporary. This is not who I am. The thought almost relaxes me and I can nearly stomach the flavorless vegetables we're ingesting. The five of us begin to eat, with Effie and Cressida talking quietly to one another. Finally Cressida turns to me. "So, Everdeen, what's your story, huh?"

"My story?" I ask, raising my eyebrow. This entire day has been exhausting and I'm about done answering all of these women's questions. I just want to go home to my own bed and snuggle in my blanket with my caring fiancé and sleep and hope this is all a bad dream.

A tall, slim black woman with a long ponytail sits down next to Mags on her other side. "Yeah. Like uh, Sister Paylor right here. She chained herself to a flagpole near a nuclear testing site." The woman looks at me and while she doesn't say anything, I see the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"I chained myself to a drug dealer."

Both of the older women nod and Cressida rolls her eyes. "Typical. Well-bred white girl falls for the tragic backstory brunette. Am I close?"

I nod. "Just about." She's almost right fucking on point but I don't want to give too much of myself away. And, of course, talking about Johanna is painful. Not just because she's the reason I'm here. It was always too painful.

Cressida nods. "I figured. A good girl like you, she isn't here for drugs or murder. You don't have the look about you." She clears her throat and smiles smugly at me. She doesn't exactly look like a drug dealer or a murderer either, to be honest. None of these women do. But, I remind myself, a lot of them are in here for real crimes. Crimes they didn't commit just because they were in love.

"Take the wisdom of a junkie philosopher," Paylor interjects, quirking her eyebrow. "I pray for you, Cress."

"I lust after you, sister," Cressida replies, wiggling her eyebrows at the other woman.

Paylor smirks. "You should watch me do yoga with Mags."

"That whole common room smells like a fart, it kinda takes away the magic for me." Cressida turns her attention to me as Effie circles her arms around Cressida's right arm that she had on the table. "So Katniss. Kat. Kitty Kat. You like pussy, Kat, as your name would suggest?" I spit out my water and Cressida leans her head back in a laugh. "I'm getting some sapphic vibes off of you."

"Leave her alone," Sister Paylor says, shaking her head.

This just emboldens Cressida whose cheek dimples as she smirks. "Oh come on, sister. You know if you hadn't gotten hitched with Jesus, you would've gone my way."

The table erupts in laughter and I can't help but chuckle as well. Maybe this won't be so bad. None of these women seem like the vicious killers you see on television. They all seem pleasant, even Cressida who is one of the more aggressive women I've seen here.

A figure standing next to me breaks my attention from the group. Then I see her boots. I wouldn't recognize them by sight because they look like everyone else's. But as my eyes trail up her figure, it only takes me a few seconds to realize it's her. Her dazzling smile, though it's a bit uncertain. Her black hair, but there are no streaks in it now. Those brown eyes I adore. Adored. Past tense. There's still a line of eyeliner underneath both her eyes. She adjusts her glasses on her face.

That voice. My heart stops. The world stops. "Hey brainless. This a bad time to say hi?"

Author's Note: Welcome to Joniss OITNB! I can't promise any consistency in updates but I will try. The title comes from the O. Henry quote, "It ain't the roads we take; it's what's inside of us that makes us turn out the way we do." The song lyrics are Sam Cooke's "A Change Is Gonna Come."

Thanks to johannas-motivational-insults for her superhuman beta reading abilities.