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Chapter Thirty-One

In spite of the inconvenience of having to travel to and from the farm each day, Martha continued to stay with Clark — something for which he was grateful, not only for his own sake, but for hers. It was a mile from the Kent farmhouse to the home of the Irigs, their nearest neighbors, and being so isolated meant that if something happened, it was unlikely that help would arrive in time. Even if Martha shouted for Clark, he feared that he might not hear her if he was asleep, especially if he was in the depths of a nightmare, which had been growing ever worse since Jonathan’s death.

After falling out the window, Clark looked for a way to keep himself in his room while he slept, and preferably in his bed. At first, he considered just leaving the window open so he wouldn’t break it if he floated into it, but he quickly rejected the idea, realizing that there was no telling where he would end up — or who would see him if he floated out the window. He tried covering the window with heavy blinds that he would bump against before going through the glass, but he didn’t like how dark they made the room.

Finally, he purchased some chicken wire and constructed a screen on a frame that he used to cover the window. The frame had hinges that he could use to move it when he wanted to open the window, but it was far sturdier than the glass. It wouldn’t stop him from crashing through the window if he hit it hard enough, but then, the walls wouldn’t keep him in the room if he hit them with sufficient force, either. It wasn’t likely to happen, though — he hadn’t put a hole in a wall since he was thirteen and learning to control his strength, and though he sometimes bumped against the walls while sleep-floating, he never damaged them.

He had tried tucking himself in tightly, but that made Clark panic at the feeling of being confined. Next, he tried buying some rope and tying himself to his bed. It worked, to a certain extent, but he hated the feeling of being tied down, and it wasn’t long before the ropes were broken. Finally, he resigned himself to the knowledge that as long as the nightmares continued, he would float while sleeping and be awakened by hitting the floor. The ability to fly, which had once brought him such joy, now brought him little more than misery.

Martha, for her part, worried less about the isolation of the Kent farm than she did about leaving Clark alone. Physically, he was completely healed, but the scars inside would take far longer to disappear — if they ever did. The flogging was just one more traumatic event in a long line of painful occurrences that had taken place since the day Clark’s name had been drawn from the Reaping bowl.

Clark had hidden his despondency well while his father’s relatives were staying in his house, but once they left and weren’t there to distract him anymore, it became apparent that he was sinking into a deep depression. When Martha expressed her concern, though, he denied that anything was wrong and told her that he was fine — he had a few nightmares, but they weren’t real and were getting fewer and farther between all the time. Martha knew better — she heard him crash to the floor every night, frequently more than once, and heard him murmuring his mantra to himself afterwards — but Clark refused to say anything more on the subject.

Clark desperately wanted to forget the events of the past few months and go on with life, but he couldn’t. His nightmares had grown even darker, more violent, and more terrifying after his father’s relatives had left — the morning he had fallen out the window was only the beginning. Images of the horrors of the arena filled his dreams, interspersed with memories of the day he had been flogged and Jonathan Kent had died. The tributes he had outlived marched through his dreams, especially Becky, Lois, and Lysander, their deaths replaying themselves over and over in his mind. At the same time, Clark’s sleeping mind also conjured up terrifying images of his friends and family being tortured and killed, even his father, who was beyond anyone’s reach now, and the Kents and the Stams, who he had not originally considered to be in danger because, while he knew them, he wasn’t particularly close to any of them.

At first, Martha tried to comfort Clark when he awakened with a crash from a nightmare, but he soon started locking her out of his room. He didn’t want to bother her with a problem that he felt was his alone, nor did he want to talk to her about his nightmares. They were frightening enough for him; he didn’t want to burden his mother with them, too. When Martha knocked on his door, he would tell her that he was fine, then burrow under the covers or pace the room, whispering his mantra to himself until exhaustion finally overcame him and he was able to go back to sleep.

Clark would sometimes lie awake for hours, exhausted but unable to sleep; what sleep he did get was so frequently interrupted by horrific nightmares that he literally became afraid of sleeping — at least while he was awake, he had some control over his thoughts. Sometimes he would pace his bedroom at night, walking incessantly across the floor before he also started pacing the walls and ceiling. Other times, he would try to distract himself by reading the Capitol-approved books from the shelves of his study, but they held little interest for him.

Some nights, he would turn the television on, the sound turned so low that only he could hear it, but most of what was broadcast in the districts, aside from sports and news reports that inevitably showed the Capitol and President Snow in an overwhelmingly positive light and the districts in an extremely negative light, was reruns of the Hunger Games, especially those with victors from District 9. Because of Clark’s victory, the Capitolites were suddenly interested in all of the District 9 victors, even the long-deceased John Dennings. Clark soon learned just how his mentors had survived, and gained a greater understanding of his mentors. Matilda’s Games in particular were often shown late at night, and Clark had to admit that he might have found her “performance” appealing had he not known the bitter, broken woman she had become.

With his difficulty sleeping, Clark sometimes did not doze off until it was almost morning. Then he would sleep until the sunlight—or a nightmare—awakened him, long after his mother had left to take care of the animals. Clark told Martha to wake him if he wasn’t up in time to help her with the chores, but she had seen how exhausted and haggard he was growing and didn’t have the heart to wake him.

After oversleeping, Clark would dress in a hurry and run to the farm to help, but he couldn’t use his superspeed during the day for fear of being seen, so often the chores were done before he got there. Martha assured him that it was okay, that she could handle taking care of the animals, but they both knew that it was a lot of work for one person. Even when they worked together, some tasks took a fair amount of time. Not everything could be done at superspeed — much of the animal care had to be done at the animals’ pace, not Clark’s — but Clark’s special abilities were helpful with everything else, especially the heavy work.

Martha was torn over what to do about the farm. She occasionally thought about returning there to live, but the small house was empty with only her in it, and running a farm alone was probably more work than she could handle. Clark would help, but he had a home of his own now, and though she would never tell him so for fear of confirming his low opinion of himself, he wasn’t always reliable lately — even with his super strength and speed, he sometimes found what should have been fairly simple tasks overwhelming, or was too distracted to complete them, and had to be prodded to get things done. Clark knew that he wasn’t as helpful as he could be and felt guilty about not helping more, though Martha told him repeatedly that he did more than enough.

Martha had also contemplated giving the farm up and moving to Victor’s Village permanently. Clark had told her more than once that she could stay there forever if she wanted, though she knew that it would be awkward having her there at such time as Clark decided to marry and start a family — Clark hadn’t told his mother about his decision to never marry and have children. He was happy to have her there now, but she was sure it would be more comfortable for all concerned if she lived elsewhere after Clark brought home a wife.

Martha and Clark often spent the whole day at the farm, taking care of the myriad things that needed to be done even late in the fall and only returning to Victor’s Village in the evening. Martha rode the mare to and from Victor’s Village to make the trip faster and easier, but Clark’s backyard wasn’t the best place to keep large animals, so they didn’t bring the other horse with them. The three mile journey to and from the farm posed no difficulty for Clark, no matter how tired he was, so it didn’t bother him to walk or run while his mother rode.

One of the biggest problems was the distance to the farm itself. Traveling there daily, whether once or twice, took a fair amount of time and required Martha to get up earlier and stay up later in order to get everything done. Even in the winter, the animals would need caring for, and travel would be more difficult when the rutted, potholed dirt road was covered with ice and snow. Clark insisted that she didn’t have to go back and forth to the farm, that he could do it, but he was sleeping in far too often for that to be practical — the animals needed to be cared for at the same time each day, especially the cows, who would reduce the amount of milk they produced or stop altogether if not milked on a regular schedule. In addition, there was no one to take care of emergencies that happened at night, so if an animal got sick or a predator got into the barn or henhouse, it was likely that the problem wouldn’t be discovered until it was too late.

The real challenge would come in the spring, when it was time to plow the fields and plant the crops. Farming was a great deal of work — hard work. Even working together, Martha and Jonathan had struggled to keep the farm going. It wasn’t until Clark had been old enough to help that it had gotten easier — and even with Clark’s unusual abilities, it had still been backbreaking hard work.

It would be virtually impossible for one person to keep the farm running all alone. Martha knew that Clark would help as much as he could, but there was a strong possibility that he would have to spend a fair amount of time in the Capitol — many victors spent part of the year in the Capitol, not just during the Games, but at other times, too. Clark could easily fly home to help, but if anyone caught on to the fact that he was in District 9 when he was supposed to be in the Capitol, it would raise questions and possibly reveal his secret. It was bad enough that Snow knew what Clark could do — to have other people find out would most likely prove disastrous.

Martha was capable of doing enough work on the farm alone to keep herself going and even have some extra to sell in town. That wouldn’t be enough, though. Farmers didn’t own the land they worked — the Capitol did, and if the people who lived on a farm couldn’t keep it productive enough, they would be evicted and the farm would be given to someone else.

If Clark hadn’t been Reaped, there would have been no question as to what would happen with the farm. He would have continued to help his parents and, as an only child, the farm would have been his to work when his parents were gone, so he would probably have brought his wife to live with him on the farm; another house would have been built for them, far enough away that they would have their own space for themselves and their children, but still close enough to help the elder Kents keep the farm going. It was what Jonathan and Martha had done in the early months of their marriage, until Martha’s homesickness for her family had convinced Jonathan to apply for land closer to town.

As long as a family was successfully working the land allotted to them, they could decide who would take over the farm if they gave up farming or died. In most cases, parents passed the land they worked on to their children, though anyone capable of farming could be selected. If the family was unable to keep the land productive, though, they would be evicted. Personal belongings could be taken, but everything else belonged to the Capitol.

When a family was evicted from a farm, it was usually the job of the Peacekeepers to remove them and make sure they didn’t come back — and they were often rough about removing people, especially if someone resisted. Even if the residents complied with the order to leave, the Peacekeepers were known to go through their belongings and take whatever they wanted, and there was very little that could be done to stop them. These thefts increased the tension between the residents of District 9 and the Peacekeepers; although stealing was illegal, few Peacekeepers would turn in their colleagues, and complaints by the owners of the stolen property were generally ignored.

Martha did not want to be evicted from the farm, but she had to acknowledge that if she tried to keep it going on her own, that was probably what would happen. It would be better to talk it over with Clark before eviction became a probability and decide what to do. The farm couldn’t be turned over to him; he couldn’t live there. If she gave up the farm before she could be evicted, someone else would have to take over.

Martha hadn’t yet broached the subject with Clark for fear of upsetting him further. She knew that he was attached to his childhood home and had no particular affection for the house in Victor’s Village, and would happily have given it up if he’d been allowed to. Giving up the farm, which had once been his heritage, would surely make him more unhappy than he already was.

It would be worse if she was evicted, though — although Martha didn’t want to think that Clark might lash out violently at the Peacekeepers if they removed her from the farm, she couldn’t be sure. Clark had been different since returning home from the Games, in subtle and some not-so-subtle ways, and it was increasingly hard to predict his reaction to such a thing.

For his part, Clark blamed himself for the things that had gone wrong since he had taken part in the Games, and it only made him feel worse when he failed to help his mother with things that he could do so easily. Martha’s forgiveness of what he saw as failures made things worse — he would have preferred it if she had yelled at him for not doing his share. Clark was angry with himself, and the fact that no one else seemed to blame him just confused him.

Martha was older and wiser than her son, and saw straight through his claims that everything was fine. She recognized that he was grieving, not just for his father, but also for the others he had lost so recently, and for his own loss of innocence. She was concerned that he would not, or perhaps could not, express that grief — not in words, not in tears, not in any way except the incessant nightmares that he denied were happening.

Martha spoke to Haver about Clark, wondering if he had any advice, and found that the older victor was also concerned, especially since he strongly suspected that Clark had jumped out the window, despite the young man’s apparent lack of injury. Martha knew otherwise, of course, and danced around the subject so skillfully that it took Haver a few minutes to realize she hadn’t answered any of his questions about the incident. Both of them were worried about the young victor, but Martha had to keep Clark’s secrets and Haver wasn’t sure that Martha could understand what Clark had been through.

Martha knew that Clark hadn’t jumped out the window — not that it would have hurt him if he had. Nonetheless, she was concerned about his mental state, and on the first day of November, while Clark was helping to distribute the food parcels to everyone in District 9, she went to the farm alone and dug up the Kryptonite that had been buried in a deep pit. She broke it into small pieces and reburied it in two dozen locations around the farm. It wouldn’t stop Clark from getting it if he was determined to do so, but it would slow him down a little, and none of the pieces was large enough to quickly render him unconscious or kill him.

In truth, Clark had no desire to die. He would not leave his friends and family to Snow’s tender mercies, nor would he give Panem’s president the satisfaction of destroying him. Beyond that, he had an innate will to live, the same will to live that had allowed him to survive a journey through space as a newborn, tended by machines, and had given him the strength to survive a deadly game eighteen years later. He had not survived so much to give up now, no matter how depressed he was.

In spite of everything, there were a few bright spots in Clark’s life. He was able to provide well for Martha, and she was beginning to lose the gaunt look she had had for as long as he could remember, a look that had grown more pronounced with every failed pregnancy. Now, with plenty to eat and a warm, comfortable house in which to sleep, she was healthier and less careworn. Clark wished that he could do more for her — he heard her crying for Jonathan late at night, when she thought he was asleep — but he didn’t know what to say or do to offer comfort, or even if she would want his comfort. In spite of Martha’s insistence that she did not blame Clark for Jonathan’s death, he couldn’t help suspecting that, deep down, she held him responsible. Clark did what he could for his mother, and was more than happy to do so, but the one thing that would wipe away her sadness — bringing her husband back — was something that not even Clark could accomplish.

When Clark took the money he had promised to the Rasens, he was pleased to see that they, too, looked healthier and better fed. The coins he provided allowed them to get enough to eat, and because they had enough money for food, they were able to spend some of the money they earned in the factory on clothing that would keep them warm in the winter and on sufficient coal for their stove in order to cook their food and heat their tiny apartment. The stove’s location next to the thin wall separating them from their neighbors also helped to keep the next apartment warm.

The food that Clark helped to distribute on Parcel Day was a godsend to the people of District 9, supplementing the often meager provisions they were able to obtain for themselves, even in a year with a good harvest. He didn’t have to fake his smiles when he gave the food to the hungry people. For Clark, moments of happiness were few and far between, but they did exist, and he savored them.

There was a moment of tension on Parcel Day in November, when the photographer from the Capitol tried to insist that Clark remove the black armband he wore in memory of his father, insisting that it looked too depressing. Though the camera crews that had followed Clark around on the first Parcel Day wouldn’t be back until the beginning of the Victory Tour in March, a photographer still traveled with the Capitolites who were helping to deliver the parcels in order to get pictures of the latest victor, something the celebrity-worshipping Capitolites couldn’t get enough of. The editors of the various publications in the Capitol were eager to purchase the photos, and potentially scandalous pictures, which the photographer almost got, brought an even higher price.

It was the custom in District 9 for family members of the deceased to wear the black armband for a month following a death, and Clark flatly refused to remove his. When the photographer insisted, he got angry, trying to grab the camera even as she snapped pictures of his clenched fists and furious face, and Haver had to step in. Mysteriously, none of the pictures the photographer took of Clark’s display of temper turned out — Clark had accidentally discovered that his X-ray vision could ruin film, and had used it deliberately to destroy what he didn’t want all of Panem to see.

After the argument with the camera crew, Clark found it even harder to stand staying in his house in Victor’s Village. Feeling claustrophobic, he started pacing his yard and the now winter-brown green at night, not at all bothered by the chilly autumn air. Before long, he realized that Haver was right — the Peacekeepers very seldom came to Victor’s Village, and weren’t usually interested in whether someone spent the night there or not. Nevertheless, Clark didn’t stray far from home at night. In spite of his superspeed and ability to fly, District 9 seemed overwhelmingly large, though before the Games it had seemed almost small because of his ability to move so quickly. It didn’t seem to be worth the effort to roam — the wide plains and farmlands that had once been so fascinating to explore now seemed dull and uninteresting. Clark didn’t know why he felt that way, or why, in spite of his desire to get out of his house, he didn’t want to go anywhere.

Mostly, Clark was tired, a bone-deep weariness that was worse than the overwhelming exhaustion he’d experienced in the arena as a result of barely sleeping in nine days. When the Games had ended, he’d been able to rest, at least for a while. Now, sleep brought such terrifying dreams that he feared and avoided it, and that, combined with the depression he couldn’t seem to shake, was taking its toll on him.

*****

The first snow fell midway through November. Clark and Martha continued to go to the farm to take care of the animals, but there wasn’t much other work to do, so they returned to Victor’s Village between the morning and evening chores — Martha, at least, found Clark’s house much warmer and more comfortable than the drafty farmhouse. Fall was rapidly turning into winter — that first snow had melted, but when the temperature had dropped again, the road had turned into a dangerously icy mess.

The difficulty of traveling to and from the farm strengthened Martha’s conviction that she wouldn’t be able to keep the farm going alone. Even if she moved back to the small farmhouse, the work was likely to overwhelm her after a while, and Clark, while very helpful, couldn’t always be there — that morning, Clark hadn’t gotten up until Martha had returned to Victor’s Village after taking care of the livestock. As always, he had complained that she hadn’t awakened him, but after hearing the sound of him crashing to the floor of his bedroom three times, shouting incomprehensibly the third time, she’d had no intention of waking him, and had left the house very quietly — so quietly that Clark couldn’t have heard her without using his superhearing, and because he’d finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, he hadn’t had the faintest idea that she’d left.

This evening, there had been the sound of wolves howling in the vicinity — perhaps three-quarters of a mile away from the farm, by Clark’s estimation when he’d used his superhearing to locate them. The Peacekeepers were supposed to hunt down predators that got under the district fence and posed a threat to people or livestock, but they weren’t always diligent about it, especially when the predators stayed out in the countryside and didn’t pose a threat to people or animals in town.

Although they made sure to secure the doors of the barn and henhouse, Clark and Martha weren’t particularly concerned about the wolves. The animals seldom attacked humans, and on the off chance that they were hungry enough to go after them, they were no match for Clark, who could easily move the entire pack outside the electric fence in under a minute without injuring a single wolf.

The mare that Martha rode, however, was not so convinced that there was no danger, and started nervously at every sound the wolves made that carried to her ears, nearly unseating her rider twice. Martha had just decided that it was safer to walk back to Victor’s Village when a howl perhaps a quarter of a mile away caused the mare to rear. On the icy road, the horse’s hind legs went out from under her, and only Clark’s fast reflexes saved both woman and horse from a nasty fall.

Clark floated about five feet in the air after grabbing Martha with one arm and the horse with the other. Though he was easily strong enough to hold onto the mare, it was awkward holding her with only one arm, and the horse, already panicked by the sound of the wolves and even more bewildered at finding herself floating, started kicking. One hoof landed hard against Clark’s leg, and though it didn’t hurt him in the slightest, the blow was hard enough to injure the animal.

Belatedly, Clark realized that he should have lifted the mare by the crop of the saddle just under the horn — she might have found it less startling than being abruptly grabbed under the chest and lifted into the air, and even if she had been frightened, he would have been far enough away that she couldn’t have kicked him. He’d never picked up a live horse before, though — a couple of years earlier, he had picked up one that had died from eating a section of rusty wire and brought it back for butchering before the meat could spoil. Carrying a dead horse had required no finesse or care, but picking up a live one — especially with just one arm — did.

Clark quickly set both Martha and the horse down. Though startled, Martha was uninjured, so they turned their attention to calming the mare. In spite of her injured leg, she was frightened and wanted to run, so Clark held onto her, exerting just enough strength to keep her from taking off. When she kicked and tried to bite him, he moved out of her way just enough that she didn’t injure herself further.

When the mare stopped trying to run away, Clark and Martha soothed the nervous animal, who was favoring her left hind leg and occasionally whinnying in pain when she tried to put weight on it. When the mare was calm enough to stay still, Clark gently examined her injured leg, using his X-ray vision to see whether it was broken.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Clark told Martha, “though she probably shouldn’t be ridden for a while. When I was trying to hold on to both of you, I didn’t move away from her kicking as fast as I should have.”

“You should probably take her back to the farm,” Martha told him. “It’s only half a mile away and the liniment and other supplies to treat her are there.”

“Do you want to come?” Clark asked, “Or would you rather go back to Victor’s Village?”

Martha hesitated. She knew how to treat minor injuries in a horse as well as Clark did, but she was growing tired and hungry, and most of the food supplies were now at the house in Victor’s Village, since that was where they ate most of their meals. She didn’t want to leave Clark with all the work, but the thought of going back to the farm, taking care of the mare, and then walking all the way back to Victor’s Village on the dark, icy road just made her feel more weary. She hadn’t slept well since Jonathan’s death, and being awakened nightly by the sound of Clark crashing to the floor, and then lying awake worrying about him, hadn’t helped matters.

Clark sensed her hesitation. “I can take care of her, Mom. You go on home.”

“You’ll probably be done before I’m halfway back to your house. I don’t want to leave you with all the work …”

“I can do it, Mom. It’s not a problem.” He looked away. “I know I sometimes don’t get things done when I should, but I can do this.” He patted the mare gently as she started at the sound of the wolves, who had heard her whinnying in pain and had come closer to investigate the potential source of food.

Clark looked into the darkness, seeing the wolves slowly coming closer. He didn’t want Martha walking home alone with them nearby — wolves didn’t usually attack people, but if they were hungry enough or thought that a lone human made easy prey, they could be dangerous. He also didn’t want to leave the mare alone — the wolves were stalking her, and with her injured leg, she would have difficulty outrunning them. Carrying both Martha and the mare back to either the farm or Victor’s Village would be awkward, no matter how quickly he moved, and he didn’t want to risk injuring either of them.

The small pack of wolves continued to move closer, some of them whining uncertainly. The injured horse was tempting prey, but the two humans made them hesitate. It wasn’t the first time this pack had tunneled under the fence, and their experiences with humans hadn’t always been pleasant.

Clark held onto the reins, not allowing the mare to bolt. Looking towards the small wolf pack again, he finally made up his mind. Handing the reins to Martha, he rushed forward, grabbing the two largest wolves before they had time to do more than give startled snarls, and flew in the direction of the district fence. After depositing the bewildered animals on the other side of the fence, he returned, picking up two more wolves and leaving them with their fellow pack members. The fifth and final wolf had started to run by the time he got back, but Clark caught it easily, depositing it with the rest of its pack.

Less than a second after leaving the last wolf on the other side of the fence, Clark was back beside Martha and the mare. It was two miles to the fence, and he could have taken all the wolves there in a matter of seconds, but Clark never used his full speed when carrying a living creature, being unsure of what the effect would be. It had taken him just under a minute to remove the wolf pack.

Martha was staring at Clark with wide eyes. He had mentioned on more than one occasion that he had removed predators from District 9, but she had never seen him do it before. Much of it hadn’t been visible to her in the darkness, but the sky was clear and the moon was nearly full, so she’d seen enough to be amazed, once again, at what her son could do. He hadn’t done the wolves any injury, either — they hadn’t been happy about being moved, but once they got over their bewilderment at suddenly being outside the fence, they would be fine.

The still-frightened mare had pulled free of the reins and started running back in the direction of the farm. Clark went after her, stopping her and working to calm her once again. By the time the horse was calm and Clark had ascertained that she hadn’t done herself any further injury, Martha was coming slowly towards them, picking her way along the icy road.

“Mom, I thought you were going back to Victor’s Village.” Clark had been about to pick the mare up and carry her the rest of the way to the farm when he heard Martha coming toward them.

“I dropped the flashlight when the mare slipped, and then she trampled it while you were taking care of the wolves. I thought I’d help you take care of the mare, then get the lantern so we can go back to Victor’s Village.”

Clark looked at Martha, seeing her weary face and the way she shivered in the icy weather in spite of the warm clothing he had insisted she buy for herself. It was a long walk back to Victor’s Village, even with the lantern to light her way, and the slippery, potholed road made for a hazardous trip — it would be easy to slip and fall. And if there happened to be another predator out there …

“Brace yourself,” he told Martha, picking her up.

“Clark, what —“ Martha’s words were cut off as he flew in the direction of Victor’s Village.

Thirty seconds later, Clark set Martha down on the dark road just outside Victor’s Village. He looked around quickly, making sure there was no threat. “Can you make it back to the house from here?” he asked anxiously.

“Of course I can.” Martha pressed a hand to her chest, trying to still her pounding heart. It wasn’t the first time Clark had picked her up and moved her somewhere in a hurry, but it never failed to startle her — especially since Clark wasn’t very good about warning her of what he was about to do.

“Are you okay?” Clark’s superhearing had picked up on her heart rate. He looked at Martha anxiously, fearing that she, too, was having a heart attack. If she was, he would fly her straight to Dr. Greenlaw, regardless of the possibility of his secret being discovered.

“Clark, I’m fine.” Martha put a soothing hand on his arm. “You just startled me is all. You should warn me before you fly off with me like that!”

“I told you to brace yourself …” Clark trailed off. Sometimes he forgot that the reaction times and reflexes of normal people were much slower than his. “Sorry, Mom.” He hung his head.

Martha patted his arm. “There’s no harm done, Clark. Now, go take care of the mare before she hurts herself further. I’ll start dinner.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Clark, I’m fine. Go.” She pointed in the direction of the farm.

Clark checked once more to make sure it was safe, then nodded, disappearing down the dark road.

*****

It was over an hour before Clark returned to Victor’s Village. It hadn’t taken him long to fly the mare back to the farm, but he’d taken his time tending to her injured leg and making sure she didn’t have any other injuries, and then he had saddled the other horse and ridden it back slowly, checking the road for any obstacles along the way.

After releasing the horse into the small shelter he’d built in the backyard and taking care of it, he went into the house. Martha was in the kitchen, keeping dinner warm.

“I was starting to wonder if you were coming back,” she told him. “I was about ready to walk out to the road and call for you.”

Clark shrugged tiredly. “I took care of the mare, then rode the other horse back so you won’t have to walk so far.”

Martha started serving the meal, avoiding looking Clark in the eye. “There’s a phone message for you.” She pointed to a piece of paper at Clark’s place at the table.

Clark frowned, confused, wondering who could be calling him. None of his friends had telephones, and if his mentors wanted to talk to him, they just walked over to his house.

“Who is it from?” Clark asked.

“Marcius,” Martha told him, finally looking straight at him. “He called several times before I got back and was annoyed that you hadn’t answered the phone.”

“Does he think I just sit around waiting for him to call?” Clark scowled. “What did he want?”

“Why don’t you read the message and see?”

Clark scanned the piece of paper, quickly getting the gist of the message — Marcius had called to remind him that he would be in District 9 in two weeks to see how Clark’s “talent” was developing.

His expression growing stormier with every word he read, Clark wadded the piece of paper up and focused his heat vision on it, quickly incinerating it. He brushed the ashes into the trash can and turned to see his mother staring at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Burning the message isn’t going to change it,” Martha pointed out.

“I don’t want him here!”

“He’ll be staying at the hotel in town, just like after you came home from the Games, not here.”

“I don’t want him in District 9! I don’t want any of the Capitolites here!”

“Whether you want him in District 9 or not, he’s coming.” Martha set two plates of food on the table. “Sit down.”

Sullenly, Clark sat in his chair, staring at his plate with such intensity that Martha half-feared he would set his dinner on fire.

“You knew he would be coming to visit three months after the Games,” Martha reminded him. “He told you that several times.”

“He just likes to hear himself talk,” Clark said, picking up his fork and poking at his food.

Martha sighed. “As a victor, you’re supposed to develop a talent. You hear about it on television every year during the Games and the Victory Tour.”

“I don’t have any talents.”

“You have a lot of talents.”

Clark set his fork down and resumed staring at his plate. “Not ones I can show to everyone in Panem.”

“You have plenty of talents besides picking up tractors and setting things on fire with your eyes.”

“Yeah. I can fly, too, and look through walls.”

“You’re good with animals.”

Clark rolled his eyes. “I’m sure President Snow wants me to show the whole country how I can pick up wolves and put them over the fence — not that it matters, since they’ll just crawl back through their tunnel or dig a new one. They’ll be back in District 9 by morning.”

Martha took a deep breath, about to say something about his attitude, but thought better of it. “You’re a good writer.”

“I haven’t written anything since I finished school, and that was kid’s stuff. Nobody wants to read that.”

Martha slammed her fork down. “Clark, stop putting yourself down!”

Clark winced at the volume of his mother’s voice, putting his hands over his ears. “Mom!”

Martha lowered her voice, but didn’t back down. “Ever since you came home, it’s been the same thing. You think you’re too dangerous to be around other people — so you avoid your friends. Nothing you do is ever good enough, or fast enough, no matter what I tell you.”

“You tell me to quit staring into space and get my chores done.”

“That’s because you do sit and stare into space. As fast as you are, you could get things done and have more than enough time to stare into space — or anything else you might want to do.”

“I don’t want to do anything.”

“I’ve noticed. Clark —“

“Mom, I know you’re trying to be nice, but — I know I’m not doing what I should. You wind up doing the morning chores by yourself half the time because I oversleep, and you don’t wake me up because you’re afraid I’ll lash out at you.”

Martha looked at him incredulously. “I’m not afraid you’ll lash out at me. I can’t even open your door because you lock it.”

“Then why don’t you knock and wake me up, or just unlock the door? You know where the key is.”

“Because you’re tired, Clark — exhausted even. I can see it in your face, in the way you move. I hear you crash to the floor of your bedroom every night, and I hear you pacing — especially when you walk on the walls or the ceiling.”

“Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to keep you awake.”

“Clark, stop apologizing. You keep blaming yourself for things you have no control over.”

Clark shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. Just because you have so much strength and power doesn’t mean that you can control everything. You weren’t responsible for being Reaped into the Hunger Games. You couldn’t have saved Becky —“

“I know that, Mom. She had advanced tuberculosis — no one could have saved her. It would have been better if she’d died at home, but … there was nothing that could have been done for her. As to the Reaping — yes, it was random chance that my name was drawn, though maybe if I hadn’t taken the tesserae those three times, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“If you hadn’t taken the tesserae, we all would have starved, including you. Speaking of which …” Martha looked at Clark’s plate. “… you haven’t touched your dinner. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Clark …” Martha looked at him warningly.

Clark crossed his arms, looking back at his mother. They stared at each other for a moment before Clark looked away, picking up his fork and poking at his food, then stuffing everything into his mouth and swallowing it in a matter of seconds. He barely tasted it, but it didn’t matter — it might as well have been sawdust for all he was interested in it.

Mealtimes had turned into a frequent battle of wills since Jonathan’s funeral. There had been plenty of food at the wake, but Clark had eaten very little — something that Martha hadn’t noticed until the Kents had left and she realized that she was the only one eating the leftovers. Clark would take a few bites, at most, and then say that he was full. He had little appetite, and though Martha prepared his favorite foods in an attempt to get him to eat more, not much appealed to him. Martha wound up eating most of what she prepared herself — Clark’s favorite foods were the rich comfort foods that the Kents had occasionally indulged in when they could afford them, and she liked them as well as her son did.

Clark didn’t understand why he had no appetite — he knew he hadn’t been exposed to Kryptonite, since he didn’t feel sick, weak, or in pain, and his powers worked just fine, even when he wished they wouldn’t. He simply wasn’t hungry most of the time, and had even begun to think that he come to the point where he didn’t need food at all until people started pointing out that he was losing weight, and a good look in the mirror confirmed it. It wasn’t the first time he’d lost weight — he’d gotten thinner during hard winters, especially when the days were short and the sky overcast, and he’d lost weight in the arena after the fire. There’d been plenty of sunlight in the arena — there hadn’t been a single overcast day — but he’d still lost weight, proving that he did need food.

Martha had some understanding of why Clark had so little appetite — and it wasn’t because he didn’t need food. Nineteen years earlier, after her brother had been killed in the Games, Martha had gone to help her parents with her younger sisters and with their farm. Her parents and one of her sisters had displayed the same lack of appetite that Clark did now — and it wasn’t because of illness or lack of a need to eat. The pain of losing their son and brother had robbed them of their appetites, as well as their will to do much of anything except sit and stare at the television as the Games went on. Unlike the young man who was their grandson and nephew, however, the Stams had been able to acknowledge their grief, and they didn’t hold themselves responsible for what had happened — they blamed Clark Stam’s death squarely on the Capitol, for putting him into the Games, and the District 1 boy, ultimately the victor, who had killed him.

District 9’s newest victor, on the other hand, refused to acknowledge to anyone, even himself, how deep his grief ran. As far as Clark was concerned, he was responsible for the death of his father, no matter what anyone said. He had killed Lois, who he would have given his life for, if he could have, and Lysander — despite how vicious the District 2 tribute had been, he had been a human being with hopes and dreams, and Clark had taken that from him. In Clark’s mind, because he had caused these deaths, he didn’t have the right to mourn them; a person didn’t get to complain about problems they themselves had caused. Even Becky, whom Clark had come to accept that he couldn’t have saved, was someone he had trouble acknowledging his grief for — he’d barely known her before they’d both been Reaped, so what right did he have to mourn her death? He’d hardly known her.

Martha was worried about her son — she knew he was hurting, but she didn’t know what to do or say to help him. She could push him to eat, to work instead of staring morosely into space, but she couldn’t get him to open up to her, and as far as she knew, he hadn’t talked to anyone else, either, though his mentors might have understood what he was going through.

Martha watched as Clark picked up his glass of milk and his mug of tea and drained them both in under a second. Then he got up and left the kitchen without a word. Martha listened to his footsteps on the stairs, then sighed, resting her chin in her hands and trying to think of what to do.

She hadn’t planned on arguing with Clark about his low opinion of himself. She had intended to talk to him about the prospect of her giving up the farm. Though she knew it would upset him, it was something they needed to discuss, but Marcius’s phone call and Clark’s irritated reaction to it had distracted her enough that she hadn’t brought up the subject.

It was pointless to go after him now — trying to get him to come back downstairs and discuss anything at the moment, especially something as unpleasant as giving up his childhood home, would just provoke another argument, and she wasn’t sure she had the energy to deal with that right now.

It had been a rough day. It was the one-month anniversary of Jonathan’s death, so she and Clark had removed their black armbands that morning and put them away. Martha had cried when she had put the freshly washed and ironed pieces of fabric away, while Clark had done his best to comfort her, but neither had known quite what to say. It was time to start moving on with life, but that was proving more difficult than either had thought possible.

Martha knew that Clark was having a harder time than she was, but she didn’t know how to help him. She had thought about returning to the farm to live, leaving him to resolve his own problems, but feared that he would just grow more morose and isolated and perhaps give up completely. Unlike his mentors, he couldn’t take refuge in alcohol or magic grass or morphling — at least not without being exposed to Kryptonite first, something she wanted to keep out of his hands at all costs.

She suspected that part of the reason he wouldn’t open up to his mentors was the fact that he had to keep his unusual abilities a secret, but those abilities were intertwined with his survival in the arena and the events that had taken place after he’d come home. She knew what he could do, but he also refused to open up to her.

She contemplated doing as he wanted — waking him up in the morning to help with the chores and pushing him to get things done even when he was too distracted to concentrate well. Martha knew from experience that keeping a regular schedule and keeping busy could help — it was how she had dealt with the grief of losing her brother, her babies, and her husband. It wasn’t easy to keep going, but it was necessary.

With that thought in mind, Martha resolved to help Clark find ways to keep himself occupied, whether it was with chores, developing the “talent” that Marcius expected him to have, or making use of his unusual abilities. He might fight her on it, but something needed to be done.

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