There's a gasp that she can't quite hold back in time because even though Katniss has seen this twice now, it doesn't get any better on repeat. His scars are not yet healed white-pink, but still bare the dark red of barely scabbed-over wounds that form a crisscross against his back, almost as intricate as a spider's web.

She pushes the back of her shirt up but keeps it on her arms, pushing the rest of the fabric against her chest, flushing furiously. Katniss has seen it in the mirror, she knows what is must look like. Half-healed fissures of skin that look melted, patches of pink and olive where the surgeons thought it could be salvaged. She's a patchwork, a fire-mutt. An unfamiliar cool breeze hits her skin and she's surprised she can feel it even through the grafts, shivering slightly.