My mother—I had to start thinking of her that way—insisted I stay in bed for another full day, which gave me time to sort through the fragments of Jake Thompson's memories that kept surfacing in my mind.
It was like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, but slowly the picture of who I was supposed to be began to take shape.
Jake Thompson was the seventeen years old son of a blacksmith and an apothecary, part of the merchant class in District 12. Not wealthy by Capitol standards, but practically aristocracy compared to those from the Seam.
We had enough to eat. We had a solid roof. We didn't have to put our names in the Reaping bowl extra times for tesserae.
That privilege came with its own burden of guilt, I realized as more memories filtered through.
Jake had watched hungry Seam kids at school, sometimes slipping them portions of his lunch when teachers weren't looking. Small acts of rebellion that could never address the systemic inequality.
By the second morning, I was going stir-crazy in the small bedroom.
I'd spent hours practicing Jake's voice, his mannerisms, trying to match the fragments of memory I'd received. I'd studied my new face in the mirror until I almost recognized it as my own. I needed to test myself in the real world.
"I'm feeling much better," I announced at breakfast, a simple affair of rough bread and a thin porridge sweetened with a precious spoonful of honey. "I should help Dad at the forge today."
My father looked up from his bowl, studying me with keen eyes. "You sure you're ready? No shame in taking another day."
A memory flashed—the one time Jake had been too sick to work and his father had taken on a double load, returning home with burns up his arms from trying to manage too many projects at once. The guilt Jake had felt.
"I'm sure," I said firmly. "We're still working on the Undersee order, right?"
Relief flooded my father's face, both at my improved health and the confirmation that I remembered our work. "That's right. Mayor wants those gates done by the end of the week."
After breakfast, I followed my father to the small forge attached to the side of our house. The familiar smells of coal, hot metal, and sweat triggered more memories—years of apprenticeship, the gradual strengthening of my arms, the satisfaction of creating something durable and beautiful from raw materials.
My father handed me a heavy leather apron. "Start with the hinges. I roughed them out yesterday."
I nodded, muscles remembering what my mind didn't quite know yet. I pumped the bellows to heat the forge, watching the coals glow red, then orange, then white-hot. I selected the half-formed hinge my father had indicated and a pair of tongs, then placed the metal into the heart of the fire.
"Good to have you back," my father said, his voice gruff with an emotion he wouldn't name. "Wasn't the same without you yakking my ear off about those stories of yours."
Stories. That sparked another memory—Jake using storytelling as escape, spinning tales for Lily at bedtime, adapting old myths and legends he'd learned from his mother's small collection of books. It was the closest thing to fiction allowed in Panem, where Capitol-approved history texts dominated the meager school curriculum.
I smiled, trying to find Jake's easy charm. "I'll try to make up for lost time."
We worked side by side for hours, the rhythm of the forge gradually becoming more natural to me. My body knew what to do even when my mind hesitated—when to strike, how hard, where to hold the metal. By midday, I'd completed three ornate hinges that would eventually hold the mayor's garden gates.
"These are good," my father said, inspecting my work. "Your technique's still sharp despite the fever."
Pride swelled in my chest—both Jake's pride in his craft and my own at successfully navigating this new life.
"Let's break for lunch," he said, setting down his hammer. "Your mother will have something ready."
We washed the soot from our hands and faces at the pump outside the forge, the cold water refreshing after hours by the heat. As we rounded the corner toward the house, something caught my eye—a flash of movement at the edge of the district, near what I knew must be the fence.
I stopped, squinting against the midday sun. Two figures slipped between houses, heading toward what must be the Hob—the black market I remembered from the books. Even at this distance, I recognized the dark braid and determined stride of one of them.
Katniss Everdeen. And beside her, tall and silent, Gale Hawthorne.
Something lurched in my chest—the surreal feeling of seeing fictional characters made flesh, walking through what was now my reality.
They were real people here. People whose fates I knew, whose pain and triumphs I had read about from the comfort of another world.
"Jake?" My father had noticed my distraction. "Something wrong?"
I shook my head. "Just thought I saw someone I knew."
He followed my gaze, his expression hardening slightly when he spotted the Seam hunters. "Hmm. Everdeen girl and her cousin. Good hunters, from what I hear."
Not cousins, I thought but didn't say. That was a fiction they would create later, after the Games, to hide their close friendship from Snow.
"Do you know them?" I asked carefully.
My father shrugged. "Not really. Her mother was friends with yours, before she married the miner. They bring herbs to your mother sometimes, things that only grow in the woods." He lowered his voice. "Good thing the Peacekeepers here aren't too strict about the fence."
District 12's Peacekeepers were relatively lax, at least for now. I remembered that would change after the 74th Games, when Thread arrived to crack down on the district.
"Come on," my father said, turning back toward the house. "Food's waiting."
Lunch was simple but filling—a rabbit stew that I learned had been traded for one of my mother's remedies, again highlighting the under-the-table economy that kept District 12 functioning despite the Capitol's restrictions.
After we'd eaten, my father returned to the forge while I was tasked with delivering medicines to several homes in town. My mother handed me a basket with carefully labeled packages.
"The blue one goes to old Mr. Barth for his joints, the green to Mrs. Cartwright for her daughter's cough, and the white packet to the Mellark bakery—the baker's wife has been having headaches again." She gave me a knowing look. "Though I suspect it's the baker who ends up taking it."
Another piece of context clicked into place—Mrs. Mellark, the witch who had abused Peeta and would have let her own children starve if not for their father's intervention. She wasn't shown much in the movies, but here, she was a real woman with apparent migraine problems and a cruel streak.
"Be polite, and don't forget to collect payment," my mother added, handing me a small leather pouch. "The Mellarks will pay in bread, but the others owe coin."
I nodded, tucking the pouch into my pocket. "Got it."
The errand served as a perfect opportunity to explore District 12 and test my knowledge of Jake's life against reality.
I stepped out into the afternoon sun, basket in hand, and made my way toward the town square.
District 12 was simultaneously better and worse than I had imagined from the book spoilers and films. Better in that there was a community here—people greeted each other, children played in small groups, there were moments of laughter and normal life continuing despite the oppression. Worse in the obvious signs of poverty and deprivation—the gaunt and hopeless faces of Seam residents, the ever-present coal dust that coated everything, the dilapidated buildings patched with whatever materials people could find.
The division between town and Seam was obvious—not just in location but in appearance.
Town residents, while hardly prosperous, had cleaner clothes, healthier complexions, slightly fuller frames. Seam residents were uniformly thin, dark-haired, olive-skinned, with that hungry look in their gray eyes.
As I walked, people greeted me.
"Afternoon, Jake."
"Good to see you up and about, Thompson."
"Your father says you were ill—feeling better now?"
Each greeting triggered fleeting memories—a school classroom, a festival day, trading at a market stall. Jake Thompson had been well-liked, I realized.
The handsome, charming son of a respected family. I tried to match his easy smile, his confident nod, as I responded to each person.
My first stop was the Barth house, where an elderly man with gnarled hands gratefully accepted the blue packet. "Your mother's a miracle worker," he told me, pressing a few coins into my palm. "Only thing that lets me hold my grandbabies without screaming in pain."
Next, the Cartwrights—a family of shoemakers with a daughter about my age who blushed when I handed over the medicine. Delly Cartwright, I realized. Peeta's friend who would later help him recover from hijacking. She was rounder and more cheerful than I'd imagined, with blonde curls and a smile that never seemed to fade.
"Thank you, Jake," Mrs. Cartwright said, counting out coins. "Would you tell your mother the last batch worked wonders for Delly's cough?"
"I will," I promised, feeling Jake's memories of Delly surface—playing together as children, sitting near each other in school, a comfortable friendship without the complications of romance.
My final stop was the bakery, a modest building with delicious smells wafting from the open windows. The bell above the door jingled as I entered, and I found myself face to face with Peeta Mellark.
It was jarring, seeing him in person—the boy who would be reaped, thrown into the arena. Here, he was just a sturdy blonde teenager with flour on his forearms and a friendly expression.
"Hey," he said with a smile. "Heard you were sick. Good to see you're better."
"Thanks," I managed, finding Jake's memories of Peeta—casual interactions at school, occasional trading when Jake brought designs for specialty cake decorations that his father had forged. They weren't close friends but were on good terms, typical of kids from merchant families.
"I have medicine for your mother," I said, retrieving the white packet.
Peeta's smile dimmed slightly. "She's resting. Another headache. I can take it to her."
"My mother says two teaspoons in hot tea, twice daily," I recited, passing him the package.
"I'll make sure she takes it," he said, though something in his tone suggested otherwise. "Wait here a moment for your payment."
He disappeared into the back of the bakery, returning moments later with a paper-wrapped package that smelled heavenly. "Fresh today. Cheese buns and a loaf of the hearty bread your sister likes."
"Thanks," I said, placing the bread in my basket. I hesitated, then added, "Hope your mother feels better soon."
Peeta's expression was carefully neutral. "Thanks. Tell your mother we appreciate her help."
As I turned to leave, the bell jingled again, and the front door opened. I found myself face to face with Katniss Everdeen.
The protagonist. The Mockingjay. The symbol of rebellion who would bring down the Capitol.
In person, she was smaller than I'd expected but somehow more intense. Thin but wiry strong, with her dark hair in its practical braid and those striking gray Seam eyes that missed nothing. She carried a small game bag and had clearly come to trade.
Our eyes met for a brief moment. I saw no recognition there, just the wariness Seam kids typically showed around more privileged town residents.
Still, coming face to face with her sent a jolt through me—this was the girl who would change everything, who didn't yet know her own importance.
"Excuse me," she muttered, stepping aside to let me pass.
"No problem," I replied, nodding politely.
As I walked past her into the spring afternoon, I heard Peeta's warm greeting behind me, knew he was probably offering a good trade for whatever squirrels she'd shot through the eye. The beginning of his lifelong devotion to her was already in place, though she remained oblivious.
I made my way home with the coins and bread, mind whirling with the surreal experience of meeting characters—no, people—from a story I'd once watched for entertainment.
The stakes of their lives, of all our lives, felt crushingly real now.
Back at home, I delivered the payments to my mother and escaped to my room, needing time to process. I sat on my bed, staring at the worn wooden floor, trying to reconcile my two sets of memories—Jake Carter's comfortable college life and Jake Thompson's hardscrabble merchant existence in a dystopian world.
A soft knock at my door interrupted my thoughts. Lily peeked in, her blonde hair falling around her small face.
"Jake? Can you tell me a story? Mom says you're feeling better."
Something in my chest tightened at the sight of her—this innocent child who existed in a world where children were sacrificed for political control. Jake's protective instincts surged within me.
"Sure, squirt," I said, the affectionate nickname coming naturally from Jake's memories. "What kind of story?"
She bounded into the room and settled cross-legged on the floor in front of me. "A brave one. With a hero who wins against impossible odds."
I smiled sadly, knowing that's exactly what this world needed—heroes who could overcome the Capitol's seemingly invincible control. And I knew who those heroes would be, had met them both today.
"Once upon a time," I began, drawing on both Jake's storytelling style and my own knowledge of how this world would unfold, "there was a girl with a bow and a boy with a kind heart, and together they would change everything..."
Lily's eyes widened with delight, not knowing I was telling her a true story that had yet to unfold—a story I was now part of, whether I wanted to be or not.
Later that night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I came to a decision.
I would stay quiet. I would keep my head down. I would let events unfold as they were meant to, without interference.
The Reaping would come, Katniss would volunteer for Prim, Peeta would be selected, and they would become the star-crossed lovers who defied the Capitol with a handful of berries. I knew the prices they would pay, the suffering ahead, but I also knew it would eventually lead to freedom from the Capitol's tyranny.
My role would be to protect my new family when the rebellion came. To survive until then. To avoid the Capitol's notice.
But little did I know how spectacularly that plan would fail.