Chapter Text
The door clicks shut behind us, and for the first time all day, it feels like the air doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds. It’s quiet inside—dim and still, the way Peeta’s house always is when the ovens aren’t going. My boots make a soft sound on the tile as I step forward, Peeta’s hand still wrapped around mine like he’s not quite ready to let go.
Peeta slips out of his boots and shrugs off his jacket, his movements slow, almost careful. I follow his lead, but my eyes are already drawn across the room.
Then I see her. Prim.
She’s still on the couch, legs tucked underneath her, a book open in her lap but unread. Her eyes lift the moment we walk in, and they go straight to me.
We lock eyes.
And just like that, something tightens in my chest. She looks worried—really worried. Not the kind that knots your hands or makes you pace, but the kind that sinks quiet and deep into your face. Like she’s afraid I haven’t forgiven her. Like she thinks I still hate her for telling Peeta. Like she’s already halfway convinced I think she betrayed me.
And maybe earlier, I did feel that sting of betrayal. Just for a second. I’d begged her not to say anything. I’d made her promise. But now, with everything that’s happened, I know why she broke that promise. I know what she saw—and what it cost her to tell him.
I already lost a lot today. And for the first time in a long time, I get to decide what I keep. What I hold onto.
So I walk over and lower myself onto the couch beside her, not too close, just enough that she knows it’s not an accident. Her body tenses a little, eyes still fixed on mine like she’s bracing herself for a scolding, or worse—silence. But I don’t say anything right away. I just look at her, really look, at the girl who tried everything before telling him. At the one who didn’t run. The one who stayed.
Then I give her a quiet smile—sincere, certain. “Thank you.”
Prim blinks. She doesn’t say anything at first. I can see it all running through her—the surprise, the relief, the emotion she’s trying to hide but doesn’t quite manage. Her shoulders drop, just a little, and she exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the moment I walked in. And even though neither of us says another word, something shifts between us—small, but real. The kind of forgiveness that doesn’t need to be explained.
Prim shifts a little closer on the couch, her hand still resting on the closed book in her lap. The silence between us has settled now—lighter, easier. I lean back and lift my wrapped arm slightly, angling the splint toward her with a wry smile. “I got an X-ray.”
Her eyes widen instantly. “Really?”
I nod, and she leans forward like I just told her the most fascinating thing in the world. “What was it like? Did it hurt?”
“No,” I say slowly, glancing at Peeta across the room, who’s lingering near the kitchen, giving us space but clearly listening. “It was… weird. The machine looked like it was about a hundred years old. The doctor had to hit it to make it work.
Prim’s eyes are lit up, all worry forgotten for the moment. “Was it a portable unit? Did they use a flat plate or a grid panel? Was it digital or developed on film?”
I blink. That could’ve been gibberish for all I know. “I—what?”
She sits up straighter, her hands animated now. “There are different kinds. I read about them in a medical book my mom has. Some of the older ones use special film, like photographs, but the Capitol probably uses digital imaging. Did they show you the scan?”
I glance at Peeta again, helpless. “I don’t know. I just saw a picture. It looked like a hand. But… see-through.”
Prim laughs softly, not at me, just amused by the gap in our understanding. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“Good,” I say, grinning a little. “Then I understood at least one part.”
She shakes her head, still smiling, and rests her elbow on the back of the couch, facing me now like we’re just two girls talking again, like everything heavy has been set aside. “I’ve never seen a real one before. I mean, I’ve read about broken bones and traction and internal pins, but no one around here has access to that kind of stuff. Usually it’s splints, slings, willow bark, and hoping it heals straight.”
“Sounds like a solid system,” I joke.
She snorts. “You’d be surprised. But still… I wish I could see something like that someday.”
I study her for a second, the way her eyes still carry that fire when she talks about healing, even after everything. She’s not like me. She doesn’t want to run from this place. She wants to fix it.
“You probably will,” I say.
She looks at me like she doesn’t quite believe it—but maybe she wants to.
Prim shifts a little, tucking her legs beneath her as her eyes flick down to my splinted hand again. She’s trying to act casual, but I can see the curiosity simmering just under the surface—healer curiosity.
“What bones were broken?” she asks gently.
I shrug. “I think… all of them?” I try to laugh, but it comes out thin. “It hurts everywhere.”
She winces. “Did they set it?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t. Said I need surgery.”
Her whole face lights up. “You’re getting surgery? I didn’t even know you could, here.”
“I’m not.” My voice drops a little. “Not in Twelve. Peeta wants to take me to the Capitol.”
The words land between us, heavier than I expect. Prim’s face shifts. The light dims in her expression, though it doesn’t vanish completely. Her lips part like she might ask something else, but she doesn’t.
We go quiet. Not awkward quiet. Just… full. We both know what the Capitol did to us.
The silence stretches a little too long, heavy with things we’re both still holding. So I glance over at her, and force a smile back onto my face.
“Guess what?” I say, like we’re swapping secrets and not sitting in the middle of something that still aches.
Prim blinks. “What?”
“I’m moving in here.”
Her eyes widen. “Wait—here? In Victor’s Village?”
I nod. “Right across the street from you.”
Her mouth drops open. “We’re gonna be neighbours?”
“Looks like it.”
For a second, she just stares at me, and then the excitement floods in, too fast for her to hold back. “We’re gonna be neighbours!” she says again, like she has to test the words out loud. “Oh, this is so good. We can walk to school together. And I can help you with your bandages. And you can come over for dinner—my mom won’t even notice if there’s an extra plate. And when your hand heals, we can pick flowers in the meadow and bring them back and put them in those weird little glass things Peeta keeps pretending are vases—”
I laugh, and she doesn’t even stop to breathe.
“—and maybe you can help me with herb-drying in the fall, and we can have sleepovers and—”
“Prim,” I say, still grinning. “You’ve got a whole year planned already.”
She laughs, cheeks flushed. “Sorry. I’m just—I’m really glad.”
And for the first time in hours, I don’t feel heavy. I just nod. “Me too.”
The floor creaks behind us, and Peeta steps into the room, brushing his hands on a towel. “I put some bread in the oven,” he says casually, like we haven’t just upended our whole lives. “Figured I’d warm up some stew I made yesterday too.”
He glances at Prim. “You want to stay for dinner?”
Her face lights up like someone flipped a switch inside her. “Really?”
But then it fades just as fast. Her shoulders lower a little, like someone letting out a breath they were hoping to keep. “I probably shouldn’t,” she says. “School’s done now, and if I’m out too long, Katniss is gonna interrogate me.”
She gets to her feet, brushing imaginary lint from her skirt, then looks down at me with a grin.
“We’re neighbors,” she says quietly, like it’s still sinking in.
“We are,” I say, smiling up at her.
Prim turns toward Peeta, her voice a little softer. “Thanks for letting me stay.”
Peeta nods, just as gentle. “Anytime, Prim.”
And with that, she heads for the door, the quiet click of it behind her the only sound left for a few seconds. It feels quieter without her—like the house has exhaled—but not emptier.
Peeta comes up behind the couch, leaning his elbows on the backrest. I twist around to look at him, and he gently brushes a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His voice is soft, careful. “You want me to run you a bath while we wait for the food to warm up?”
I glance down at my splinted hand, tucked carefully against my side. Peeta catches the movement and gives me a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry,” he says softly, “I’ll keep it dry.”
I nod, but I don’t answer right away. Because it’s not just the hand.
It’s the way the air in the bathroom always feels too still. The way I see her face every time I close my eyes for more than a few seconds. It’s the thought of peeling off layers of fabric and skin and armor, sitting exposed in the quiet. Letting someone take care of me like that again.
But it’s also Peeta.
And if there’s anyone I can let my guard down with, it’s him. He’s already seen me at my worst—curled in pain, shaking, scared. He didn’t look away then. He didn’t flinch. So maybe a bath isn’t just a bath. Maybe it’s a chance to let go of a little more of the day. To feel clean again, not just on the outside. Maybe it’s okay to want that. Just for a little while.
I look up at him and nod again.
He smiles—soft and steady, the kind of smile that doesn’t ask anything from me, just gives. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
Then he disappears up the stairs, footsteps quiet against the wood.
I glance around the room, at the couch we just sat on, the wood that’s ready to be lit in the hearth, the folded blankets stacked neatly by the wall. And it hits me—this isn’t just a visit. I’m not going back to the bakery tonight. I’m not creeping out after everyone’s asleep or listening for footsteps overhead. I’m staying.
I think about waking up here tomorrow morning, and the next, and the next. About the sun through the kitchen window, the smell of fresh bread and soap and safety. About falling asleep without having to brace for creaking floorboards or raised voices. About leaving my clothes on the chair and knowing they’ll still be there in the morning. About knowing Peeta’s here too—just down the hall, always steady.
For the first time, I let myself think of this house as mine. Not just a place I run to when things fall apart. But a place I can live in. For good.
But then, almost without meaning to, my thoughts drift back to the old house.
I’ll never have to wake up before the sun rises to knead dough in the dark kitchen. That realization should feel like relief—like freedom—but instead, it lands with a strange, quiet ache. I never liked baking. I never liked the stiff apron strings or the flour in my eyes or the ache in my hands before breakfast. But I liked doing it next to Peeta. And Rye. I liked the rhythm of it, the silent understanding, the way we moved around each other without needing words.
I’m never going to sit on that lumpy old couch again, the one that smelled like ash and stale bread. I won’t feed the pigs in the back pen, or scrub soot off the oven door, or sneak bites of sugar crust when no one’s looking. I won’t wait for Peeta to come home from the square, or steal Rye’s last biscuit just to make him roll his eyes.
That house was cruel, most of the time. But it was mine too, in all its broken, complicated pieces. And even now—even after everything—I think a part of me is going to miss it.
I decide I’m thinking too much. I shake the thoughts from my head like flour off a towel and push myself up from the couch. The sound of running water draws me toward the stairs, soft and steady, like it’s been waiting for me. I follow it up, through the quiet hallway and into Peeta’s room.
I stop at the doorway of the bathroom, one hand braced lightly on the frame. Peeta’s crouched beside the tub, his sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted faintly with flour that didn’t get washed off. He’s pouring salt into the steaming water from a small jar, careful and focused.
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you going to turn me into stew?”
He glances up, and the corner of his mouth tugs into a smirk. He looks down at the jar in his hand like he’s considering it. “Depends,” he says, voice light. “You feeling well-seasoned?”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. He walks over and sets the jar down on the counter with a soft clink, brushing his palms on his pants.
“Prim gave it to me a while ago,” he says, nodding toward the jar. “Said the salt helps with sore muscles. She thought it’d be nice on my leg.”
I nod, eyes flicking to the warm steam rising from the tub.
“Figured it would be nice for you too,” he adds quietly.
Something about the way he says it makes my chest ache a little—in a good way. Like every small thing he does is just another way of saying you’re safe now.
Peeta straightens and gives me a soft look. “Do you want help getting in?”
I nod before I can second-guess it. “Yeah… I don’t think I can do it on my own.”
He steps closer, hands gentle as they reach for the edge of my jacket. “Okay. Just tell me if anything hurts too much.”
I let him ease the jacket off my shoulders, moving slow so nothing jars my hand. He’s careful, peeling it back in pieces, tugging the sleeves past the splint like he’s afraid to cause more pain. Then he moves hem of my shirt—the one Prim helped me into earlier. His hands pause there, like he’s checking, making sure I’m still okay.
I nod again, and he keeps going.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me like I’m broken or fragile or like this is strange. Just moves with that same quiet patience he always has when he’s frosting a cake or smoothing out a pie crust. Like I’m something worth being careful with.
Once the shirt’s off, he crouches again and gently starts unwrapping the gauze from around my ribs. Prim had been quick earlier, her hands practiced. Peeta’s aren’t. He’s slow, careful not to tug at the tape or brush too hard against the bruises beneath.
As Peeta peels back the last of the gauze, I see it—the flicker.
It’s fast, barely there, just a tightening around his mouth, a flash in his eyes when the bruises come into view. They’ve darkened since this morning, splotchy and raw-looking, scattered across my ribs like something blooming in reverse. He doesn’t say anything, but I feel the shift in him—the way he goes still for half a second, the breath he forgets to take. Like he wasn’t expecting it to be this bad. Like the bruises are louder in person.
His eyes linger, and I can already see the guilt creeping in, pulling at the edges of his expression. He always gets like this when I’m hurt. Even when it wasn’t from Mom. I’d burn my hand on a hot pan or scrape my knee falling on the ice, and somehow he’d still find a way to make it his fault.
Like if he’d just been a little faster. A little closer. Like it’s always his job to catch me before I fall.
“Peeta, I’m cold,” I say softly, the words barely above a whisper—but enough to pull him back.
He blinks, like he’s just now realizing how long he was staring. “Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head quickly. He sets the last of the gauze down on the counter, then moves to help me out of my pants, gentle as ever. The fabric sticks slightly to my skin, but he’s careful, like every motion might break me further.
Then he guides me toward the tub, his hand steady at my back. “Let me know if it’s too hot.”
I nod and ease my foot in. The water is warm—almost too warm—but not quite. He keeps his hand at my elbow as I lower myself slowly, mindful of my splinted hand. When my torso meets the water, I flinch. The heat crashes into every bruise at once, like a thousand pinpricks lighting up across my skin.
For a second, I almost jolt back out. But then… the pain shifts. It softens, ebbs. The warmth spreads deeper, coiling through my muscles until it stops burning and starts to soothe. I sink in a little further, exhaling slowly, and feel the tension in my shoulders start to melt.
Peeta sets a folded towel on the edge of the tub, his hands moving with quiet care. “Keep your arm here,” he says gently.
I nod and lift my splinted hand, resting it where he showed me. The fabric is soft and warm from the heat in the room. He wraps the edges of the towel lightly around the splint, shielding it from any stray drops of water.
Then he stays there—crouched beside the tub, one arm draped over his knee, the other still hovering close like he’s not sure whether to adjust the towel again or just stay still. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t speak again. Just stays there, like he’s making sure nothing else hurts me. Like he’s still holding me up, even without touching me.
He reaches forward and gently tucks a damp strand of hair behind my ear, a smile tugging at his lips. “I used to help you shower all the time, you know.”
I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
He nods, the smile growing. “You were so annoying. You used to whine about how cold the water was, and glare at me when you got soap in your eye—like I was the one who put it there.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Sounds like me.”
“You’d always try to wiggle away the second I turned around,” he says, leaning his elbows on the edge of the tub. “It was like trying to wash cooked spaghetti. I used to have to come up with these elaborate stories just to keep you distracted long enough to get all the flour, mud, and grumpiness off.”
I smile at that—really smile—and shake my head. “What kind of stories?”
He grins. “Oh, you know. Mostly ones where you were the hero. Brave Briella, champion of bath time. Defender of soap bottles and slayer of the evil shampoo dragon.”
I let my head tilt back against the rim of the tub, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I forgot about that one.”
“I didn’t,” he says softly, and there’s something in his voice—fond and fragile all at once. “You were always easier to take care of when I made you laugh.”
I open my eyes and look at him again, the steam rising gently between us. “You always made it easier to be taken care of.”
Then a memory starts to tug at the edge of my mind. It’s one of those half-formed things, soft and faded around the edges—something you’re not quite sure actually happened or if you just made it up over time.
“Did you…” I pause, frowning slightly. “Did you used to carry boiling water up the stairs to give me baths in the winter?”
Peeta blinks, like I just reached into the past and tugged on something he didn’t expect. “You remember that?”
“Not clearly. Just… parts of it. How warm I felt. Like the water had been touched by sunlight or something.”
He lets out a quiet breath, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I always hated giving you showers in the winter. And not just because you somehow managed to get more water on me than on yourself.”
I huff out a small laugh, and he grins, but then his face softens again.
“You were always so cold afterward,” he says. “That stupid shower would freeze you to the bone. Blue lips, shivering, teeth chattering so bad you couldn’t even complain properly.” He shakes his head. “I hated watching you shake like that.”
He pauses, and I can see the memory behind his eyes.
“So I had this idea one time,” he continues. “I figured if I boiled enough water and mixed it into the bath, it’d be warm enough. I must’ve gone up and down those stairs ten times with pots from the stove. Nearly burned my hands trying to carry them fast enough.”
Peeta lets out a soft laugh. “Still can’t believe no one questioned a nine-year-old hauling pots of boiling water up the stairs.”
A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth before I can stop it, and for a second, it’s like I’m back there again—knees pulled to my chest, Peeta perched on the edge of the tub, steam curling in the air around us. A small, quiet act of love I didn’t even understand the shape of until now.
I lean my head back against the edge of the tub, letting the warmth soak through me, letting Peeta’s words echo in my mind. Boiling water on the stove. Carrying it up the stairs. Just a kid, nine years old, hauling heavy pots so I wouldn’t shiver after every bath.
And it hits me—harder than I expect—that he’s always been like this. Always taking care of me. Not just now, not just when things got bad. Always.
When did that start? When did he decide it was his job to look out for me? Who even taught him how to do that? Because it wasn’t our parents.
It wasn’t our mother, with her sharp words and sharper hands. And it wasn’t our father, who stood by and let it all happen.
So how did Peeta learn? How did he know I needed warm baths and soft distractions, stories to keep me still while he scrubbed flour out of my hair? How did he always know what I needed—even when I didn’t?
He was just a kid. A boy. My brother. And yet, somehow, he always made space for me. Made warmth out of nothing. Gave me safety when we had none.
Even now—he’s sixteen. Still a kid, really. Still dealing with more than anyone should have to. But he’s here, kneeling beside the bathtub, sleeves rolled up, watching me like making sure I’m okay is the most natural thing in the world.
And the awful part is—I don’t know if anyone’s ever done that for him.
I don’t know if anyone’s ever looked at him and thought, he’s just a boy. Not a victor. Not a provider. Not someone who has to hold everything together.
Just… Peeta.
And the ache in my chest is suddenly bigger than my body.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Peeta looks up, eyes catching mine like he doesn’t understand at first. “For what?”
“For all of it,” I say, voice a little rough. “For the stories. The warm water. For… being the one who always made me feel safe.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. His expression softens, and something flickers in his face—something quiet, almost sad. He reaches forward, tucks the edge of a towel tighter around the side of the tub where my splint rests, making sure it stays dry.
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he murmurs, barely above the sound of the water. “That’s just what you do when you love someone.”
And even though the water’s warm and the room is quiet, I feel my throat tighten. Because that’s the thing—he’s always loved me like that. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just constantly. Like it was never even a question.
Peeta’s voice breaks the silence, soft and steady. “Let’s wash that hair, huh?”
I nod, and lean forward over the edge of the tub, resting my arms carefully on the folded towel. Peeta crouches beside me, and I feel his fingers brush against the back of my neck as he gently tugs out the hair tie. My curls spill free, tumbling over my shoulder, and he smooths a few strands back before reaching for the handle of the shower.
He doesn’t turn it on full, just a soft stream—barely more than a trickle—warm water flowing gently over my scalp. I flinch at first, just from the surprise of it, but it fades quickly, settling into something comforting.
Peeta pours a little shampoo into his hands and starts working it through my hair with slow, careful movements. He’s quiet, completely focused, his fingers moving in gentle circles like he has all the time in the world. The rhythm of it—his fingertips against my scalp, the warmth of the water, the low hum of the pipes—starts to lull me. My eyes flutter closed without meaning to.
He’s so gentle I could almost forget everything else. Forget the splint on my hand. Forget the last few days. Forget the house I just walked away from.
I let my head tip forward more as his hands move to the base of my neck, still massaging, still impossibly patient. I think I might fall asleep right here.
“You always had the thickest hair,” he murmurs quietly beside me. “Used to take forever to get the knots out.”
A sleepy breath leaves me in something that’s almost a laugh. “You were always the only one who had the patience for it.”
His hands pause for just a second, and then he starts rinsing. And even though we don’t say anything else, I know he heard what I meant.
I lean back against the curve of the tub, my eyes slipping half-closed again, and Peeta laughs under his breath.
“Hey,” he says softly, teasing, “don’t fall asleep in there. I’ll be right back.”
I nod, not bothering to open my eyes. I hear his footsteps retreat, then the faint creak of the bathroom door as it closes behind him. The warmth of the water is starting to fade now, but I don’t mind. I’m so relaxed I could melt into the porcelain.
A few minutes later, the door opens again and Peeta steps back in, holding something folded in his arms. He sets it on the counter and moves toward the tub.
“Alright, come here,” he says gently, offering his hand.
I let him help me up, water trickling down my back as I step carefully onto the mat. He doesn’t let go. Just steadies me, then reaches for a towel and wraps it around my hair, tucking it in loosely. It’s warm—fresh out of the dryer—and a sigh slips out before I can catch it.
He grins. “Yeah. I wanted it to be warm for you. Unlike that old freezing death-trap shower you used to love so much.”
I snort. “Love is a strong word.”
He just smirks and picks up the other thing he brought with him. It’s soft and white, and as he unfolds it, I see the sleeves and tie—a robe. Without a word, he eases it gently over the splint, moving slowly to keep from bumping anything. Then he wraps it around my waist and ties the belt in a loose knot.
I glance down at it. “Where’d this come from?” I ask, voice still heavy with sleep.
He smiles, tugging the end of the belt snug. “I bought it for you.”
I roll my eyes a little, mostly out of habit. And the second I do, he grins like he’s been waiting for that.
“Check this out,” he says, and before I can react, he flips the hood up over my head.
“It’s got bunny ears.”
I blink, caught off guard, and look at the mirror in front of us. For the first time in what feels like days, I don’t see the bruises. I don’t see the split lip or the swelling in my cheek or the exhaustion carved under my eyes. I don’t even see the heaviness that’s still curling somewhere inside my ribs.
All I see are the droopy little ears hanging over my forehead. Silly and soft and entirely unthreatening. And Peeta’s reflection—standing just behind me, proud and grinning like he’s just fixed the world.
“You’re such a loser,” I say, but it comes out too soft. Too full.
We step into Peeta’s room, and I feel the warmth hit me before anything else—soft lamplight, the smell of clean sheets and something faintly sweet, like bread that lingered in the air too long to leave. It’s quiet. Safe.
On the bed, he’s laid out a pair of pajamas. Dark green. Next to them, a folded pair of thick socks.
I freeze.
They’re the same ones I was wearing that night. Not the exact ones, but close enough—same fabric, same softness, same fit. Just a different colour. I feel my chest tighten before I can stop it.
Peeta notices instantly. “What’s wrong?”
I try to shake it off, but the words come out slow. “I was wearing the blue ones when…” I trail off. My throat clenches. I can’t finish it. I don’t want to.
His face falls. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, already stepping toward the bed, reaching to gather the clothes. “I’ll get you something else.”
“No,” I stop him, voice firmer than I expected. He turns back, brows drawn.
“It’s okay,” I say, quieter now. “I’m not letting her ruin anything else.”
His eyes search mine for a second, then he nods. He doesn’t try to argue. He just steps forward and helps me into the pyjamas, slow and gentle like he’s afraid I’ll splinter if he moves too fast. Once I’m dressed, he takes his time folding the towel and robe, setting them aside before disappearing into the bathroom for a moment.
When he comes back, there’s a brush in his hand.
He sits behind me on the bed and starts brushing, carefully working through the damp tangles with long, even strokes. It’s quiet except for the sound of bristles moving through hair. The motion calms me more than I expect it to—each gentle tug grounding me in something soft and familiar.
Then he starts to braid it, his fingers weaving slowly, methodically. My eyelids start to slip shut before he’s even halfway done. By the time he ties the end, I’m barely awake.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of my damp hair, and I lean back into him just a little. The bruises on my back still ache when they press into him, but I’m too tired to care.
He wraps his arms lightly around me, then murmurs into my ear, “C’mon, Tiger. Why don’t you take a nap while I figure some stuff out.”
I feel too warm and safe to ask what he means. What stuff. I just nod, and let him guide me gently down to the pillow. The blanket comes up around my shoulders, soft and warm, and I sink into it like it’s holding me up.
He moves to the window, pulling the curtains closed until the light disappears. The room goes dim—quiet and safe.
Then he sits on the edge of the bed, leans over, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I don’t even remember closing my eyes. I’m just gone.