Exiting the astringent hospital, the brisk evening air chilled Hazel’s skin. It was cooling off, which meant she was running out of time. With a soft under-breath curse, she increased her pace.

  Shoving down the nagging concern about being late, she attempted to reassure herself.

  It’ll be real quick. No big deal.

  The district’s market was a collection of stalls and small shops clustered in the town center. Despite the looming curfew, many were still open, though most vendors were packing away their wares.

  The place was a vital hub for the district, providing access to various foods and goods, some locally grown and others sourced from farther afield. The selection was often limited, dictated by the district's remote location and the Capitol's control over supply chains.

  With Oliver securely strapped to her back, Hazel navigated the narrow pathways between shops. Passing by crates of Capitol-issued cornmeal and stale crackers, she deliberately steered clear of the apple stand.

  At one stall, she selected a medley of root vegetables – potatoes, carrots, and turnips. The nut bread she chose retained a hint of warmth, its crust crinkling ever so slightly in her grasp.

  A nearby vendor displayed jars of preserved meat, their contents sealed within glass vessels. Hazel carefully selected one, and its label indicated the contents as venison.

  She added a couple of flats of vibrant red pickleberries to her growing collection. They were Lily's favorite. Why was a complete mystery. Their pungent, sweet, yet tangy flavor was definitely an acquired taste.

  With her purchases securely stored in her bag, Hazel felt the warmth of the fresh bread seeping through the fabric. As she exited the bustling market area, she moved faster.

  Leaving the market, she could see the faint glow of lanterns and candles flickering in the windows of the homes. Families were settling in for the evening’s announcement.

  Hurry, Hazel.

  The trail she followed became less defined, winding through the outskirts where the neatly arranged buildings of the town gave way to a more haphazard arrangement.

  The outermost fingers of District Seven were markedly different from its bustling heart. Here, the houses gave way to simpler, poorer dwellings. Most were rudimentary wooden shacks thrown together with plywood scraps and reclaimed Capitol shipping containers.

  Some of the poorest residents had even set up repurposed military-issued tents in the woods. Though lately even that had become increasingly difficult. Hazel noticed the absence of the usual small trails leading into the forest, a sign of the Peacekeepers' recent crackdown. Even the freedom to camp for recreation, once a cherished part of life in District Seven, had been severely curtailed.

  Nestled just beyond the fringes of the tree line was one of the last inhabitable dwellings. It was an unfortunately familiar yet solitary shack. The walls had been constructed from weather-beaten planks, the roof leftover food crates, though the Capitol‘s symbol had worn off years ago.

  Gathering her resolve, Hazel murmured a quiet, self-soothing pep talk under her breath before extending her hand to grasp the door handle.

  The door made of warped cedar planks protested in a piercing creak of a complaint. A humid heaviness hung in the air. The odor of stale gin clung to every surface, as did dust.

  The interior of the shack was a study in simplicity. A small dining table sat off to the side, and a couple of metal lawn chairs, long past their prime, were beside it. Nailed-together palettes in one corner of the room served as a makeshift bed. It was piled high with a jumble of threadbare blankets. Atop it was a human-shaped lump. Their presence was betrayed only by the subtle rise and fall of breathing.

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  Hazel's gaze swept over the figure on the platform, a wave of familiar resignation washing over her. She shifted her attention to the small dining table, carefully setting down her bag. With another long sigh, she unpacked the items she had brought: the chestnut bread, still radiating a faint heat, the jar of venison, and one of the flats of berries.

  As Hazel continued her task, her senses picked up the chill that had started to seep into the shack. Despite the fact that it was the middle of July, District Seven's elevated location ensured that evenings and nights were notably cooler than the daytime. The simple wooden structure provided minimal protection from the encroaching coolness.

  The figure didn’t move, still shrouded in blankets like a hibernating bear.

  "Hey," Hazel called to the cocooned man. "Can't stay long, but I brought you some food."

  The pile stirred, emitting a groan reminiscent of creaking floorboards. If the floorboards were painfully hungover. Slowly, as if resisting the intrusion of the world outside, a hand emerged, pulling the covers down to reveal the face of the man beneath.

  His auburn hair, the same fiery hue as Hazel's, was a tangled mess. A coarse beard peppered his chin. Once-vivid green eyes, now dulled by years of hardship, met hers. His words were slurred and off-center. "Bring anything else?" he asked. "Nothing fun?"

  "Didn't have time.” She set a couple of coins beside the food. "You can use these to buy something else if that's what you want."

  A bitter smile twisted the man's lips as he slowly extracted his limbs from the quilt heap. His movements were poorly balanced as he slumped into one of the rickety chairs. Ignoring the food at first, he fumbled with the coins, discontent flickering in his eyes before pocketing them.

  Without acknowledging Hazel or uttering a word of gratitude, he seized the warm chestnut bread, gnawing at the edges.

  While he ate, Hazel set to work tidying up the cramped space. She gathered the scattered clothing from the floor, folding it neatly before discarding the empty bottles and rinsing out the chipped cups in the small, grimy kitchen sink. The only sounds in the shack were the rhythmic chewing and the soft clink of water and dishes. It was a routine that had become all too familiar.

  Glancing at her watch, she sighed. It was nearing curfew. Turning to the man, still sitting and nibbling at the bread, she cleared her throat. "I've got to go.”

  He stopped chewing briefly and looked up at her, his expression confused and hazy. Hazel knew he was likely oblivious to the day's events, lost in his own ethanol-fueled world.

  “There's the Capitol's announcement and the early curfew tonight." She said, inching toward the exit. "I'll try to come by and see you in a couple of days,"

  "Quick visit," he mumbled. However, the critical nature of his statement wasn’t lost on her. "Didn't even ask how I was doing today."

  Her shoulders sagged. "How are you doing?"

  "Living the dream, Hazelbug, living the dream.” His words dripped with sour sarcasm. "All thanks to your mother and her bastard of a husband." His bitterness oozed like poison. One that she had not quite grown immune to. She tolerated it more than anything else, though it still stung whenever he made such comments.

  Hazel should have known better than to take the bait. It made her want to escape even more.

  "I know that's how you feel. I don't have time for this right now. I told you I have to be back by curfew. I really can't stay longer, but I'll try to stop by again before the reaping in a couple of days."

  "Sure," he replied, no longer meeting her eyes. "And it's not how I feel; it's the truth. People don't like hearing the truth."

  “See you later, Dad,” Hazel muttered, liberating herself from the shack and closing the door behind her.

  I'm doing fine myself. Thanks for asking.

  She glanced at her watch again.

  6:42 PM.

  Another curse escaped her, frustration and dread twisting in her gut. Time was slipping through her fingers like sawdust. She had lingered too long at her father's shack, allowing guilt and obligation to pull her into conversations she had hoped to avoid.

  She tightened the straps holding Oliver to her back and adjusted the bag on her shoulder, ensuring the second flat of pickle berries was secure. With that, she broke into a jog.

  The streets of District Seven, typically alive, were eerie as the majority of the district's residents obediently observed the Capitol's imposed curfew.

  Hazel's eyes darted anxiously to the narrow alleyways, usually used by children at play and workers seeking shortcuts, now transformed into empty passages. She noticed the increased presence of Peacekeepers. They were beginning their patrols, guns in hand, searching for stragglers.

  Stragglers like her.

  Damn it.

  Her family's cabin was tantalizingly close, just around the corner. Her racing mind played out the steps to make it home in her head. Turn left at the next corner, straight down the familiar path, and with a few paces, she'd be at her own doorstep.

  The inviting glow of the porch light beckoned in the distance.

  Almost there.

  As Hazel turned the corner, the last stretch of road to her house in sight, a commanding voice shattered her thoughts.

  "Halt, citizen!"

  Hazel's heart rate bounded against her ribs. Spinning around, she found herself trapped under the probing glare of a Peacekeeper.