Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

A/N- You don't have to read Sleep and Salvation to read this, though you might want to.

In the Meadow, Rye no longer plays.

When he was old enough to read the memorial plaque, and old enough to understand that his favourite play place was a graveyard, it lost all its charm. He remembers asking his father about it one night, not too long after he'd begun to read picture books, and Peeta nervously explaining what a "resting place" was. His father's voice had been thick and awkward, as if he was suddenly dropping a load on Rye's shoulders, which turned out to be exactly what he did. It deeply disturbed him, knowing how lax and uninhibited he'd played in the meadow, naked even! The bodies of his relatives underneath him all the while. He thought it was perverse.

Now, he just stands around in the meadow. Looks at the trees, listens to the birds, and he thinks about his mother in a feathered costume; a video from The Games that he saw of her when she had fatter, younger cheeks and a dress that was like magic- the Mockingjay.

He waits for his mother. She'll appear soon with her kill, and her tiredness, and her strangeness that makes him want to cling to her all the time. His mother scares him, she fascinates him. He can remember growing up, and how his sister always asked stupid questions like "why is the sky blue?" and "why can't I fly?", but Rye only ever wanted to know "why is Mommy sad?"

He will be eighteen in a month, but he feels younger somehow.

"You're up early." She comes from behind him, sweat on her brow, rabbit in her hand. He hadn't heard her coming through the trees. She's flighty and light on her feet like the birds.

"I wanted to walk with you." He loops his arm through hers, and they begin walking through the grass, passing by the memorial plaque that describes the morbid function of this meadow. He tries his hardest not the think about the bodies under his feet, and how flowers sprout from death, and how the birds and the bugs eat the flowers, and how Rye eats the birds, and how death seems to just run through all of them like a vein.

"You should have come hunting," his mother says suddenly. "Saw a dear."

"Really? Why didn't you get it?"

"You think I'd be able to drag that thing around?" She is tired, she is old, her hair is grey, but she walks fast and she can still shoot a rabbit right through the eye. It occurs to Rye that she's taught him everything she knows about hunting, and he wonders if he will take those lessons with him when he goes. "Come on, we'll have breakfast." She gives the rabbit a little shake.

They pass out of the Meadow, toward the path that leads them to the gate. It had once been an electrified fence, his mother said. He's seen footage of the old Miner's County, when it was called District 12, when his mother had slid underneath that fence in the early mornings to poach off the land.

"You know, Fin wants to come visit us." He says it out of the blue, figuring it's the only way to bring Fin up. There's no way he'd be able to naturally work it into a conversation because his mother doesn't talk about Fin and Annie very often. It's been years and years since Fin has been in Miner's County, but Rye and him talk on the phone, write, and send photos. He is a lot older, married and has children even, but Rye always thought of his pen pal as an older brother, one who is full of hilarious stories about his long months on the fishing boats.

"That's a long way, District 4," she says. It's not called District 4, it's called Port Salt, but she's always called the towns by their old names and she always looks like she's remembering something. His father always looks like he's trying to remember something. Rye can't find the answers to the questions he has about his parents in the textbooks at school. He can't know exactly how they all ended up the way they did. The secrets of the war are so embedded in his parents the way the ruins of Miner's County are embedded into the ground. As they walk into town, they pass by the old mines that have been filled with stone for ages.

Rye glances at the few miners that are stepping quietly out of their houses, some of them with their ventilation masks and white suits already on. The new mines are very structurally sound, technical, and safe. The old method of explosives and breathing in all that coal dust seems barbaric these days, but it sometimes is hard for him to imagine a world where the things that they say happened actually happened. Like public whipping, and people starving, and the Hunger Games.

If Rye was staying in Miner's County, he'd probably get a job at the mines, like all the boys do.

His mother ignores the miners when they pass by her, as they walk toward the factory, giving her only a little glance of recognition. Everyone, the new residents, the old residents, knows who Rye's parents are. Who they were. She hands him the rabbit to carry and is quiet.

While they walk, Rye wonders what his Father would think of Fin visiting. He almost wants to ask if his friend can come and stay for a bit, but he knows he never will. He gets the sense that Fin is unwanted in their house. He gets this sense from his mother. His father isn't the way his mother is, he would probably love having Fin visit after so long. He's kinder, somehow, more honest. His mother doesn't ever lie to him, but she tends to run away, to spend long, worrisome, solitary hours in the woods.

Her face pinches a little in the sunlight. Rye worries that he's always made the comparison between his mother and father too severe, or if he ever gave her the impression that he favours his father over her, when fact, it's the opposite. He would not deny that his father was easier, but his mother had him drawn tightly to her, their bond was as taught as the string she plucks on her bow.

The neighbourhood once called Victor's Village has grown. A few more houses were built and Rye can remember the weeks of their construction when he was six or seven. It was a summer spent admiring all the fancy equipment and the men who lazed about in the sun, and the sounds of hammers and drills, and the constant chatter between the workers. Bow spent the hottest part of the summer sweating in the kitchen, baking pretty little things to pass out to the house builders. They paved a cul-de-sac and the neighbourhood became a semi-circle that Rye would ride his bicycle in. He looks across the street to where the smallest house is, the house that belongs to his sister.

His mother gives the neighbourhood a quick look of distaste, hating it secretly, but not so secretly. She says that she misses the way the town used to be, when it was simpler and smaller in size. Since the mining industry boomed, the population has grown, and the town is now turning into a small city.

When they get inside, the smell of raisin bread is thick in the air and Rye's stomach rumbles. Bow sits at the kitchen table with a loaf of yesterday's bread in front of her, her sketchpad resting on the swell of her belly. His father is bending toward the oven, pulling out the fresh raisin bread, and groaning slightly because his back has been getting sorer and sorer.

"What'd you get?" Bow asks with the same Sunday morning excitement she's always exuded. The whole family loved to guess what Katniss would bring home on hunting days, making it a betting game. More often than not, Bow would guess something like wild turkey, because she didn't like imagining the death of little rabbits, the animal characters she frosted onto cupcakes and cookies.

"Rabbit," Rye says a little thickly. He knows she'll look away when their mother starts to clean the game. Since she got pregnant, Bow hasn't been able to stomach much. She's a lot fatter, a lot moodier, and a lot more trouble, too.

Bow lives with Gage in the house across the street, but it still feels like she lives at home since she's here for most of the time. Family dinners, and family breakfasts when Gage goes to work in the mines. His sister has been with Gage since their final year of school, but they only moved in together last year, and already they're having a kid. She was stupid, getting pregnant so young, but Peeta is more than thrilled to become a grandfather. Rye doesn't know how his mother feels about the baby; it's another one of those unanswered questions that he has stockpiled in his mind. One day, he'll ask his mother everything he wants to know, and she will either tell him, or she will turn him away. One thing he does know is that Bow will stay in Miner's County forever. He has something else in mind.

Bow sits up a bit, her mouth half- full with the day old bread. She says something unexpected.

"So, Gage was thinking about selling the house."

Rye stares at his sister, and she looks back at him with a bit of curiosity. This wasn't a part of his plan. He was supposed to be leaving things normal, slipping out of the back door while things were still calm. Rye watches his father and mother exchange a look and he is amazed at what can go on between them when they don't talk. His family is a quiet family, the quietest on the block. Sometimes Rye will hear the neighbour's lives through their open windows, their arguments, laughter, their dialogue. In his house, the windows stay mostly shut, and the talking is small and calm.

"We were thinking of it. It's too small." Bow looks directly at her mother. "I think it will be nice, being closer to town."

"Wouldn't you rather wait until after the baby comes?" Katniss asks, walking over to the sink, where she begins ripping the hide of the rabbit with her best pocket knife.

"I'd rather get settled into the new place before the baby, so we can start fresh. No one wants to lug a newborn and a truck full of furniture around." Bow brushes the crumbs off her belly. Then she looks up at Rye. He's mad at her for this thrown dagger.

"Anyway, the meeting with the property saleswoman isn't until next week. We were thinking of someplace close to the school." Bow gets up, struggling to lift herself when there's a baby hanging from her middle. Katniss turns on the tap and Rye trades places with his father while he goes to help Bow get into a standing position. He notices that his father has said nothing yet, but it doesn't surprise him. His father usually lets plans and arguments unfold around them, but no one says anything after that.

Rye watches his mother rinse the blood from the carcass of the rabbit. Watches her swiftly and cleanly take off the head and add it to the sad pile of fur and entrails. He wonders if his mother is disturbed by Bow moving closer to town, since she has always been so near to them. And if it is too hard for her to accept this, how would he ever bring up the prospect of him leaving? He watches his mother prepare breakfast the way she has his entire life, the practiced way she flays and fries and serves. It's the change, he realizes, that is the scary thing. Bow on the other side of town, Rye on the other side of the country.

"I can't wait until I can stand up on my own," Bow says suddenly.

The baby will be here next month, and Rye may not.

"Wake up, baby."

He's dreaming about the waters of Port Salt. The photographs that Fin sent him of the boats setting sail, the wide expanses of blue that he's dreamed of before. He sits on the edge of a rock, watching as his mother and father swim in small circles, far away from him. He wants to swim, but doesn't know how to start. He dips his big toe tentatively into the sea, and small ripples form out from where he disturbed the water. He watches them spread out into the ocean, half circles getting larger. The ripples turn to little waves that collect air, and become bigger waves, until the air is thick with a mist. The waves begin to foam and crash on each other, stirring the water. The sky is dark, the air wet, he hears gasping and has forgotten all about his poor parents. By now the water is raging, boiling. He sees a mess of flesh as the undertow pulls them down. He screams for them.

"Rye. Wake up."

When he opens an eye, the silence of the room surprises him. No more rushing water, crashing waves. He blinks, but everything's still blurry. He lifts a hand and it collides with something warm.

"You had a bad dream," she says, his mother, and she is stroking his head. It smells like her in his room. He wonders how long he's been tossing and turning, he must have been shouting.

"What time is it?" he croaks. His mother looks out the window briefly. The room is blue, the light blue of pre-dawn.

"Early."

Rye feels a sickness, heavy in his gut. He wants to forget about the dream, about his parents drowning. It's stupid; they are far from the sea. Looking to his mother, he gets a longing for her, but doesn't want to be in his bed anymore. He sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes, letting his mother brush down his wild hair with her fingers. It's unruly as hers, but as blonde as his father's. His mother has her hair out of the usual braid since she's come from sleep.

"Can we go hunting?" he suddenly asks. It's earlier than usual, so it will be darker, but the chances of them bagging something is greater. "We could get that deer."

His mother smiles a little, then gets up from his bed. She hovers in the doorway for a moment.

"Meet me downstairs in 5," she says.

They set out for the woods 7 minutes later, with their bows on their backs and knives in their pockets, leaving the quiet house alone to Peeta. The whole world feels asleep as they walk across the lawn of one of the neighbours, taking the shortcut through the field behind the house that leads to the meadow. All the woods in the world won't shake the oceanic nightmare he had. He swallows thickly as they pass through the gate, his mouth cottony and in need of a cleaning.

They walk briskly through the woods until they come to the familiar clearing that they usually observe from the trees above. His mother bends down and inspects the soft ground, which is wet with dew, for any tracks.

"Anything?" he whispers. It's the dead quiet whisper of a hunter, as to not scare off any game.

"This way," his mother says, pointing north. They take off, silently avoiding twigs and branches, trying to be figments of the forest. He gets excited, following the droppings and hoof prints of the deer. Usually, the bucks and does stay farther into the forest, but every now and then one wanders out toward the edge. It's better to hunt closer to home. These woods can swallow you up if you stay too long in them, go too far.

They stay hidden behind the brambles where the tracks end. A deer has been here and they both sense it. After a careful moment of breathless search, they both seem to spot it at the same time. However, the brown mass of deer is too hidden a berry bush about fifty feet away. Now is the tricky part; to get closer without scaring off your prey. He follows two steps after his mother, putting his feet down in the exact spots she did. It was easier to do this in the wintertime, when her footprints were there for him to copy, but he relies on memory now to follow. He follows her almost blindly until they reach the other side of the brambles, where they stop behind an old, rotting tree. He only then bothers to exhale.

His mother removes her bow from her shoulder, silently pulling the arrow out of her sheath with the other hand. Rye bites the inside of his cheek as his mother pulls back on the string and releases the arrow fiercely. Holding his breath, Rye hears the sound of impact as the arrow hit's the deer's side, and the leaves and branches rustling under the panicked thing's weight. Rye's already pulled an arrow from his sheath and loaded it. The deer makes a quick run for it, bit Rye mathematically shoots at the right time, sending the arrow right into the deer's path, hitting it in the neck.

"Good shot," his mother says.

"You too."

For a moment they stand there, a little euphoric. He loves this, loves his mother, loves how they together can conquer any beast. Then he just says it,

"I'm leaving."

She looks at him strangely, knowingly, with sad eyes. He feels very much like her son.

"I'm going to Port Salt when the summer is over," he says. His mother says nothing, so he keeps talking. "Fin offered me a job on his boat, and I'm gonna take it."

The deer is still lying dead ahead of them. He feels the confession run from him like a stream runs from a broken dam. He's kept this a secret since Fin sent him the ticket and the letter.

"What do you think?" he asks, studying his mother's face as if he were watching for shooting stars.

"District 4 is a long way," she says to him again.

"It's not called District 4."

"I know."

"I worry about you…about dad and you and Bow."

"I know."

"I don't know if I should go."

His mother looks up then, like she's been slapped.

"Do you want to go?" she asks him. It's a question he's asked himself many times. Lots of people from his class left to join the military or go the science schools they have in the cities. Lots of them stayed, but Rye never wanted to end up in the dark, in the darkness of the mines, no matter how structurally sound they were. He was built to work. To hunt. He wasn't meant to stay underground.

"I do."

"Then you'll go," his mother says.

Rye's chin quivers. He wants to be strong for his mother, strong the way she is, but he can't keep it in.

"I'm leaving though," he says. "Aren't you mad?"

He feels her arms around his shoulders, and he drops his bow to the ground. She presses him into her shoulder as he cries. He cries because he hates Miner's County, but loves her. And he cries because he's so scared that his mother will turn into a figment of his imagination, a wisp of smoke carried off. She's so tenuous now, how could she be more solid when he's miles and miles away?

"You should see the world, Rye. I saw some of it when it was a bad place, and now I'm stuck here. You don't have to be stuck here. I don't want you to be, okay?" She pulls his face up, cradles it in her hands. "Okay?"

He nods, sniffling, tears messy on his cheeks. His mother's face looks softer than he's seen it in a long time. Looking into her face like this, he feels more confident in her, that she'll always be his mother, his hunting partner alone. The conflict in his heart is still there- stay with her, or see the world. That's a question he has, too; why are we so in need of each other? It's never going to be easy to say goodbye.

"Now, help me carry this home."

He picks up his bow and slings it back over his shoulder, watching his mother ahead of him as they approach the dead deer, pulling it up to shoulder it between the two of them. Wherever he goes, he'll help her carry anything.