(no subject)
While he's still more aware of his back than any human being ever needs to be, he's honestly starting to feel better. Paul has stopped making disapproving noises every time he cuts the bandages away. It's going to scar, but it's going to heal too. And nobody died. Gale has no word for what he's lost here, compounded every time he runs into Katniss, but he knows that 'death' is not the word for it.
The compound is a weird place, far removed from the narrow falling-down houses in the Seam; there's nothing in it that really makes Gale comfortable, except for the laundry, which, unfamiliar machines aside, smells a little like his mother. He doesn't mind the kitchen, though. The hustle and bustle is good. The long tables remind him of eating at the mines, belonging to something, however small.
He sits at the foot of one of the tables, a length of rope in his hands, and he ties a snare. He studies it for a long moment and then undoes it and starts to tie it again, the same knot but better.
His coffee starts to go cold.
The compound is a weird place, far removed from the narrow falling-down houses in the Seam; there's nothing in it that really makes Gale comfortable, except for the laundry, which, unfamiliar machines aside, smells a little like his mother. He doesn't mind the kitchen, though. The hustle and bustle is good. The long tables remind him of eating at the mines, belonging to something, however small.
He sits at the foot of one of the tables, a length of rope in his hands, and he ties a snare. He studies it for a long moment and then undoes it and starts to tie it again, the same knot but better.
His coffee starts to go cold.