Peeta and I stare at her in shock. I am completely stunned. We share a look and I see my disbelief, joy and sorrow reflected on his face.
"I'm still pregnant?" I ask, still not willing to let myself believe it.
"Yes," she smiles. She wipes the gel off my abdomen and leaves, allowing Peeta and me to talk.
A few hours later, when Peeta has gone to have a shower, Gale appears.
"Gale," I whisper.
"Hey, Catnip." He sits down on the bed. I look at him. One side of his face has been burned recently and his arm is in a sling. What has happened in district twelve? How is he here?
"Prim?" I gasp.
"She's alive. So is your mother. I got them out in time."
"Out of district twelve?"
"After the games, they dropped fire bombs. Well, you can guess what happened to the hob."
"They're not in district twelve?" I repeat.
"Katniss," he says softly. His hand reaches out to me, but I flinch away. I recognize that voice; the one he uses to approach wounded animals before he delivers a death blow. I instinctively raise a hand to block his words, but he catches it and holds on tight.
"Don't," I plead.
"Katniss, there is no district twelve."
It's all my fault. I killed my baby and thousands of innocent people. Gale quickly leaves and I turn to face the wall next to me. Peeta is next to me, but I don't know what to say, in fact, I don't want to say anything. I stare into space for hours, feeling numb. Eventually, I fall asleep.
I don't know how much time has passed when I wake. Images of blood and ashes from my burned-down district flood my mind: my nightmares. I sit upright suddenly, my heart racing and try to catch my breath.
"Prim," I say breathlessly.
"Katniss," Peeta says, "It's ok. It's not real, Prim's fine. You're safe."
My breathing slows and the waves on the monitor become more regular. I take a sip of water and put the glass down on the table. Suddenly, I feel a movement in my abdomen, then a soft nudge. I freeze and inhale abruptly.
"Katniss?" Peeta asks worriedly, "What is it?"
"The baby," I say, "It's kicking." I reach for his hand and guide it to my small bump. I am now sixteen weeks pregnant. He smiles and kisses me softly. I instantly feel better and cling to him, ignoring the pain from my various injuries.
"Peeta," say, pulling away, "I love you."
He smiles at me, his eyes reflecting my emotions.
"I love you too," he whispers, "both of you." He rubs my bump and the baby kicks against it.