The feather grazes my cheek. The stretch of the bowstring creaks in my right ear. The wound wool string tugs on my fingers. The graze of the arrowhead brushes my first fingers of my left hand. The smooth wood of the handle pulls on my left hand.

I engage my muscles to compensate. My hair blows softly in the wind. My arrow adjusts itself slightly to the left of the target to compensate for the wind. I take two deep breaths; release the air in my lungs to steady my aim. A cicada starts buzzing somewhere to my left, distracting me. I suppress a stab of irritation and steady my breath again. The muscles in my fingers holding the string pull the arrow back fully, and release the string.

My arrow whizzes through the air, and impales itself directly in the eye of my intended target. I flush, grinning in triumph as the fully-grown buck falls to the ground, dead. My seven year old son gasps next to me.

"Wow, mommy! You got a deer!" he cheers.

"I got a deer!" I repeat happily, and move forward to the creature, my son trailing after me, both of us grinning and laughing like fools, scaring off any game left near us. But it doesn't matter. This deer will feed us for over a month, we don't need any more game. It's only the fourth deer I've ever brought down in my life and the only one I have killed with my son at my side.

Robin, my son, hangs back while I check to make sure the deer is dead. I might be teaching him to hunt, but his innocence is not something I can easily let go of. And something as big and beautiful as a deer, something that was so alive, is crossing a line. Birds are okay. Squirrels are okay. Turkeys are okay. But a deer? I don't want him to see a wounded, dying animal like this. Already dead is one thing. Dying is something completely different.

To my relief the deer is very dead. I gesture Robin over, and he clings to me, laughing. His laugh is so sweet and beautiful and musical it never fails to bring a smile to my face.

I know I will have to let go of his innocence one day, just as my father did with me. I was six then. Robin is seven. I will have to let him kill his own one day soon. I will have to force him to see death for what it really is to make him stronger. But it's so hard to let go of, because every beautiful, innocent thing is precious to me. Especially my children.

Robin removes my arrow from the deer's eye and cleans it off on the grass while I remove my hunting knife from my belt to skin the deer and expertly cut it into more manageable pieces. Robin helps me place the hunks of meat into the bag, and I heft the heavy thing over my shoulders.

"C'mon, Robin," I say, and head off. He trails after me, clinging to the bottom of my father's hunting jacket as though afraid if he let go he might get lost. It makes me smile. I would never let him get lost. He doesn't let go until we reach the gate near the market, where he must to open it for me and close it behind us.

"I can't wait to see the look on Rooba's face!" says Robin excitedly as we near the butcher's shop.

I smile at him as he skips backwards ahead of me, his face lit up like the sun.

"I know," I answer, grinning myself. "She hasn't seen a deer from me since before you were born."

Robin pulls a face, and I laugh. He doesn't seem to realize how young he really is, and he's in too much of a hurry to grow up, like every kid. What I wouldn't give to be his age again, young and innocent, with no nightmares to haunt my sleep, when I still thought the world was a good place.

It is a good place, I remind myself. I only have to look at Robin to know that.

We've reached the butchers and Robin knocks on the back door excitedly. Even though hunting in the woods is no longer illegal, no longer considered poaching, no longer punishable by death or whipping—

As soon as I think the word I hear the crack of the whip, hear it whistle through the air, see it slice through Gale's mangled flesh . . .

No, stop that. None of that right now, I think angrily.

Even though poaching is no longer illegal, it's still not a good idea to drag a fully-grown deer through the streets. People are no longer starved, but it doesn't mean it won't draw some disgust out of the people in the streets. They just want their food. They don't want to know where it comes from.

The door swings open and Rooba answers, smiling down at Robin as he greets her with enthusiasm. Robin is like Prim in the way he can bring a smile to just about anyone's face.

" . . . We got a surprise for you, Rooba!" Robin finishes his ramblings. Being quiet in the woods for so long makes him be a practical explosion of sound when he gets out.

"Oh, really now? What is it?" says the butcher.

Robin grins. I can tell he's bursting to tell her but doesn't want to ruin the surprise. He turns to me and tugs on the bag. "Show him mom!" he says, trying to sound a lot more grown-up. He does that when he's around other people. He'll call me mommy when we're alone and mom in front of other people. Part of growing up, I guess. He'll also call me momma sometimes, but that's beside the point.

I place the bag on the ground as ordered, but let him do the honors. Robin opens the bag and Rooba peers inside.

"A deer!" bursts out Robin. "We got a deer!"

"Well, that is something!" says Rooba, her grin broadening as her eyes land on the meat in the bag.

Robin rambles on about the details of our hunt. Rooba and I just smile at him, reacting in just the way he wants when he wants. We can't get a word in but I don't mind. Seeing him so excited and happy is worth any amount of time. When at last he's run out of breath and concluded his story Rooba and I exchange money, and she takes the deer.

"Are you hungry or anything? Do you want some dinner?"

"No, thanks, we've got to go meet Peeta and Dee at the bakery," I answer politely. Rooba nods like she was expecting this.

"Well, here's your money," she answers, and we exchange money for the majority of the deer. The rest I keep for us to eat. I thank her and she waves us away.

"Bye!" says Robin. I pick up my empty bag and we head out, waving at Rooba as she waves back and shuts the door.

Robin takes my hand as soon as we're out of eyesight, almost exactly like his father would. His small, warm hand tugs me along. Already his hand is slightly calloused from hunting and has small burn scars from baking. We head to the bakery.

The bell on the front door rings as we enter. Robin takes off like a rocket to the kitchen in the back.

"Dad! Dad!" I hear him shouting as I follow him at a much slower pace. "Guess what? Momma shot a deer!"

"Really?" answers Peeta, sounding amused. I enter the room and lean against the door frame, playing the whole thing off very nonchalantly. Peeta looks at me, grinning broadly. He's covered in frosting and flour. "A whole deer?"

"It was nothing," I say in a false-modest tone, examining my nails coolly. But when I feel Peeta's arms wrap around me and his nose nuzzle into my neck I can't keep the grin off my face that shows how proud I am of myself.

"A deer's not nothing," he whispers in my ear, peppering light kisses up my neck. Keeping up the act would be pointless anymore.

"Oh, hell, who am I kidding. You're right. I'm a badass," I say in an undertone, grinning and twisting to face my husband.

"Robin," says Peeta, in an innocent tone that deceives Robin but not me. "Why don't you go help your sister? She's decorating cakes in the basement."

"Aw, come on," groans Robin. No doubt he wants to regale Peeta with the tale of our hunting exploit.

"Go on, Robin," I tell him, a bit more sternly. "You can tell dad all about our hunting day during dinner."

Robin makes a grumbling sound, but after I've taken him hunting and taken down a deer he won't argue with me. As soon as the door to the basement shuts and we've got the room to ourselves Peeta pulls me in close and gives me a long, deep kiss that leaves me breathless and wanting more.

Unfortunately, I don't get more, because the basement door bursts open again and in walks my ten-year old daughter, Dandelion—nicknamed Dee—looking very irritable and trailed by a very chatty Robin. I groan, throw my head back on the doorframe. Peeta sighs. He has much more patience than me. He gives me a light kiss on the cheek. "Tonight," he whispers in my ear.

This perks me right up.

"Daaad!" whines Dee. We turn to face our children. "Robin's being annoying!"

"Dee, don't whine. Robin, leave your sister alone," I chide, seeking the simplest way out. I don't get out of it that easily, though. Dee has probably been in that 'zone' of decorating that Peeta talks about, and whenever interrupted they get very irritable. So Dee isn't going to be finished ranting for a while.

" . . . he comes down there and starts jabbering on and ruins my cake and you take his side?"

I sigh and Peeta looks shocked.

"What do you mean, ruined your cake?" he says, his body tensing, a touch of anger in his tone that's almost imperceptible. It's one of those things, I realize. One of those lingering fears. Wasted foods is just one of those things that gets the blood pressure up. Because of what it used to be, when we couldn't waste a crumb, when we needed every bit of food we had. It doesn't matter anymore, we have more than enough money. But it's been ingrained so far into us and our society for so long it's instinctual to flinch when food hits the floor.

"It just looked so good!" defends Robin, and Dee huffs in frustration. And the whole thing becomes clear.

"You ate it?" I conclude, forcing back a laugh. Peeta visibly relaxes, realizing his tension's unwarranted.

"The whole thing?" asks Peeta.

"Just a bite," mumbles Robin guiltily, his head hung to the floor.

"A big bite," pipes up Dee. I shoot her a look and she falls into an aggravated silence.

"Robin," says Peeta tiredly. "You can't waste food like that."

"I'm sorry," says Robin, all former excitement gone. Or repressed, rather.

"I know, I forgive you. Just don't do it again, okay?"

"Okay."

"Alright, we're done here anyway. Let's clean up and we'll go home," promises Peeta. Robin cheers but Dee has a hard time putting aside her irritability. Peeta has Robin clean up the kitchen while he himself sneaks downstairs. I briefly wonder what he's doing, but I've got bigger problems to deal with. Like my daughter.

I draw her to the front of the store, away from her brother, and kneel down to her level, take her hands in mine. They are smaller than her brothers' but calloused and scarred in the same way. We teach our children both our skills, and they have inherited both our talents, though I'd go so far as to say Dee is a tad more skilled with the bow than Robin. It could just be because she is older, though. Robin will be just as good when he's stronger. And they both have such an artistic eye. Our children really are the perfect blend of both Peeta and myself.

"Hey, stop being a grouchy guss," I tell her. She scowls, just like I would, and that makes me smile. "You're too much like me. It'll get you in trouble someday," I comment.

"I wanna be just like you, momma," she reluctantly grumbles.

"You don't want to be like me," I say sadly, wiping a bit of flour off her cheek. "I'm too damaged. You just stay you. I like you the way you are. When you're not being grumpy."

"Hmph!" she says, turning her nose up in the air. I work hard to suppress a laugh.

"How's this. I'll make a deal with you. You cheer up, be nice to your brother, and we'll go swimming tomorrow at the lake. Sound fair?"

Her eyes instantly brighten at the promise of swimming.

"Deal," she agrees, shaking my hand. Her smile is back and I feel that much happier. I give her a swift kiss on the cheek, and nudge her into the kitchen.

Robin's almost finished cleaning and Peeta's returned from the basement with a large paper bag. I can only guess the cake Robin ruined is probably in there. My mouth starts to water at the prospect of cake.

We help finish up and Peeta locks up the cash register while I go around locking the doors and windows. Dee switches over the open sign to closed, Peeta locks the door behind us and we go on our merry way. Peeta and I linger back while the kids race up ahead, their previous quarrel forgotten. I watch them fondly.

"I love that smile," says Peeta quietly. I look over to see he's been watching me.

"What smile?" I say. He takes my hand.

"That smile that means you're happy."

Far from irritating me this comment makes me smile. I pull him a bit closer and place my head on his shoulder, looking up at him happily. He just grins.

"I promised Dee we'd go swimming tomorrow," I spring on him. He groans.

"Katniss! I've got a cake to do for the O'Reilly's wedding!"

"So close up early. I'll help you."

"Oh, no, you'll just make things worse," he says. I gasp, slightly offended.

"What, you don't have faith in my cooking skills?"

"No," he answers, grinning. I give him a playful shove as we start the climb to the Victor's Village. He rolls his eyes. "Okay, well, you are getting better at the bread, but I wouldn't let you anywhere near . . . anything, really, with frosting. I wouldn't want to submit the O'Reilly's to something as horrible as your decorating skills."

I gasp, really offended now. I drop his hand and quicken my pace, walking a few feet ahead of him so he can't see my grin.

"Hey! Katniss, wait up! I was just joking," he says, hurrying to catch up with me. The minute he sees my grin the game's up and he gives an exasperated huff. I loop my arm through his and give him a kiss to let him know he's forgiven. But he can't seem to keep his mouth shut. "But you have to admit, you are a horrible froster. You remember the last time I tried to teach you how to do icing."

I remember. The one and only time Peeta tried to show me how to do the beautiful frosting he does was a complete disaster. My flowers looked more like piles of purple poo, the lettering was absolutely terrible and the edging was completely uneven. Honestly, a three-year old could do a better job than me decorating those things. They did, actually. But that's not entirely fair, I think, because they've got Peeta's baker blood working for them and I have absolutely zero artistic talent.

I scowl at the memory and Peeta laughs. I can't really blame him, though. Once you got over the fact that the cake was so hideous and actually ate the thing is was delicious. Plus it was before we had the kids and that cake led to . . . I smile at the memory.

"So how bad did Robin ruin the cake?" I ask, before my thoughts could go far down that road I'm not allowed to tread until tonight.

"Oh, it wasn't that bad. I don't know what Dee was so upset about, really. It was just one of the birthday cakes. I cut off the bit he ate from. He was right. It is delicious."

Peeta gives me an impish, caught-in-the-cookie-jar kinda grin and my mouth falls open with an indignant noise.

"You ate without us after chastising Robin for doing the same thing?"

"What? I couldn't let it go to waste. It was just a bit," he defends and I huff at him. He gestures the bag to me. "Don't worry, there's plenty left for you, sweetheart."

I roll my eyes, but my desire for sweets beats out my pride.

"Is it the kind with the strawberries?" I ask eagerly.

"Your favorite," he says with a grin. And my irritation disappears on the spot.

"You're amazing," I tell him, even though it's really Robin that I have to thank for the cake, not Peeta. But Peeta could have just as easily chose not to bring it home.

Peeta smiles at me, his eyes twinkling. He glances back to our children, their playing figures silhouetted in the setting sun. I follow his gaze, and smile in happiness. I have everything I never realized I wanted out of life.

Peeta gives me a quick peck on the cheek, and he looks at me, his eyes sparkling. He takes my hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze as he says;

"And so, my love, are you."

We share a smile, and we go home.

-THE END-