As the reaping day drew near, a transformation rippled through the usually vibrant District Seven. The bustling lumberyard had wilted into a grey, subdued atmosphere.

  Workers moved silently from task to task, speaking little. When conversations did occur, they centered on the demolished arena and Senator Snow's promised new era.

  Uncertainty permeated the district's inhabitants, and they fervently speculated about their collective future.

  Throughout the day, Hazel also found herself locked in her own inner struggle, unable to escape the haunting thoughts of the various scenarios the Capitol could concoct.

  She envisioned peacekeepers herding unfortunate tributes onto a raft, adrift in the treacherous expanse of the ocean, or perhaps forcing them into the depths of a grim mine, where they would be pitted against each other in a savage struggle for survival in the dark. All televised, naturally, for the insatiable, bloodthirsty amusement of the Capitol. No matter how many times she tried to redirect her thoughts, she failed; her mind always drifted to trying to answer the questions everyone was busy asking.

  Each night at the hospital, she would listen to the nurses pondering over what the Capital had in store while she scrubbed the toilets and folded the linens. It seemed the entire district, if not all of Panem, was caught in unsettling anticipation.

  It dawned on her that Snow's act of destroying the old arena might have been a stroke of dark genius. In one explosive moment, he had captured the undivided attention of every citizen in Panem. Now, they could discuss little else.

  Hazel couldn't shake off the thought that perhaps this was precisely what Snow wanted.

  Over the next two evenings, even home life was peculiar. Linden and Lily kept to themselves. Linden often faced first in a sketchbook while Lily arranged and re-arranged the various vases throughout the house. Rowan wore a look of quiet concern, his eyes often distant. But it was Sage, the youngest, whose change was most heart-wrenching. His usual bubbly demeanor was muted. For two days, he hadn't even mentioned anything even remotely animal-related.

  The last time that had happened, he had been barely three, and it had been a horrid case of the flu.

  But maybe they were all sick in a way.

  Fern was a whirlwind of nervous energy, her hands seldom still as she busied herself with endless chores. Whether cleaning, ironing, or dusting the furniture, her actions seemed more an attempt to distract herself than an absolute necessity.

  Oren was conspicuously absent, his presence at home becoming rarer as he worked increasingly long hours, often returning only after the rest of the family had succumbed to fitful sleep.

  Silus also seemed lost in his thoughts, though he made valiant efforts to maintain a semblance of normalcy for the family's sake. Hazel could see through his facade; the worry in his eyes was unmistakable, a mirror to her internal turmoil.

  Each night, as Hazel lay in her bed, sleep remained elusive. Her mind was a battleground of conflicting thoughts and fears, leaving her tossing and turning in the dark. The anxiety gnawed at her, creating a hollow pit in her stomach that nothing could soothe.

  Morning always came too soon, Silus faithfully waking her, his gentle nudges pulling her from the depths of her insomnia-induced lethargy.

  As the sun set on the eve of the reaping, Hazel stood in front of the pile of warped lumber her father called his home. She shifted her hands over the smooth wooden bowl holding the majority of leftover apple pie. She took a deep breath, enjoying the clean air outside she knew she would miss once she motivated herself to go in.

  Finally pushing the door open, the smell of stale liquor greeted her. The shack's interior was still as desolate while inexplicable the cluttered had returned. Again, the decorations were lumpy piles of clothing, bottles, and bits of trash. Heath, per his usual, lay sprawled on the makeshift bed.

  "Hey, Dad," she called, shutting the door loudly in an effort to rouse him from his near-perpetual stupor.

  Heath's eyes flickered open, a glint of recognition passing through them before being clouded once again. "Brought you some pie. Mom made too much."

  It was a lie. No one had much of an appetite for the last several days, and it was basically sacrilegious to waste food.

  Heath grunted, pushing himself up into a sitting position. "Apple pie, huh? Your mother was always a fine baker."

  Hazel placed the pie on the small, rickety table, her eyes wandering over him. "She still is."

  Heath crossed the room with a surprising amount of balance, especially for that particular time of day. Reaching for the pie, his hands shook slightly. "So, the reaping's tomorrow," he said, the words heavy with a bitterness that Hazel knew all too well.

  "Yeah," Hazel agreed. "It feels like last year's was just yesterday."

  He took a bite of the pie, chewing thoughtfully. "Well, at least this is your last time in the draw, and then you're home free."

  Hazel sighed, collecting several pairs of pants that desperately needed to be laundered. "I won't be able to fully enjoy it until Sage is old enough to be no longer drawn."

  Heath's response was another scoff, his words muttered under his breath, too low for Hazel to catch. She let it pass, focusing instead on at least organizing the mess into more manageable piles.

  It was like trying to tidy a dumpster, but it gave her hands something to do.

  "Speaking of your other family, it seems your stepfather has been stirring the pot. Not that I'm surprised," she swore. Heath smirked. She wasn't sure the last time she had seen the man come close to cracking a smile.

  Hazel paused in her efforts, her brow furrowing. "What?" Dropping the bottles into the trash bin, she tried to mask the sudden spike of concern. If even District Seven's resident alcoholic, who was barely conscious at any given moment, was aware of Oren's actions...then who didn't know?

  "C'mon, Hazy. It's no secret. He's got the Capitol thinking he's rebel adjacent or something," Heath replied, a syrupy smile fell into place. Something was definitely off. Maybe he was dying. He finally overdid it. She kicked herself for leaving him those coins.

  Either that or this was a new tactic to engage her in a tirade about Oren all over again.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "I don't know what you're talking about. Sounds like rumors to me," she mumbled as she abandoned the helpless clothing and drew closer to the door, eager to escape the conversation.

  "Hey, hey, don't leave." Heath raised his hands in a placating gesture. "No need to be so sensitive. Forget I said anything," he implored. "Sit down and have a piece of pie with your dear old dad. You're always in such a rush to get out of here."

  Pausing, she contemplated his surprisingly coherent plea. It was as close to a sincere request as she was probably going to receive unless it really did start to snow in July.

  "Seriously, grab a fork and have some pie with me. I promise I won't say anything more about your beloved stepfamily."

  She shot him a grimaced frown and then relented. Making her way to what could only be described as a makeshift kitchen, she rummaged around.

  God, watch me get food poisoning from this right before the reaping, as if the whole experience didn't cause enough nausea all on its own.

  As she opened several drawers in her quest for a fork, her fingers brushed against something crumpled and forgotten.

  A picture?

  Curiosity overcame her initial mission, and she gingerly plucked it from its hiding place. The image that stared back at her burned her eyes. Forest green irises. The same ones, frozen in youth, that had haunted her since childhood.

  Cedar.

  In the photograph were her father and Cedar; their smiles were radiant as they stood together, axes in hand, in front of a towering pile of freshly harvested lumber. Their youth was striking, their matching eyes and shades of auburn red hair painting a picture of an idyllic past.

  Cedar, the younger of the two, appeared similar to the age she was now. With her finger tracing the jagged edges of the photograph, she couldn't help but envision her father and Cedar as they were in that frozen moment.

  It had to have been just before his reaping.

  Nothing was ever the same afterward.

  Noticing her reluctance to approach the pie, Heath glanced up and seemed to comprehend what had captured her attention.

  "Good ol' Cedar, wonder what he would have thought of them blowing up his burial ground. Maybe now he will start haunting someone else."

  Hazel turned her gaze towards her father, recognizing the familiar shield of humor he often wielded. She joined him at the table with the fork in hand and the crumpled photograph held gently between her fingers. The aroma of the pie wafted up to her.

  "I'm sorry, Dad," she said sincerely. She couldn't fathom the depths of grief her father had endured after losing Cedar. She couldn't comprehend the thought of losing one of her own siblings; it was a scenario her nervous system fiercely rejected.

  Heath nodded, his gaze still locked on the photograph, his eyes distant as though he had been transported back to a different time when his world was whole.

  I fucking hate the Hunger Games," he muttered. Hazel blinked. A rare moment of truth, raw and unguarded. It almost made her smile.

  "Me too, Dad, me too," she replied. The one thing they agreed on was their shared loathing for the annual spectacle of despair.

  After eating in reverent silence, Hazel finally couldn't take another bite. Setting her fork down, she turned to her father, her curiosity bubbling up. "What do you think will happen now that the arena is gone?"

  Heath pondered the question as his shoulders stiffened, his glare fixed on some distant horizon. "God, if I know," he coughed. "Those snakes, I'm sure, are cooking up creative ways to keep those Capitol wolves satisfied for another year." Pushing his chair back, he ambled to a dusty corner of the room, retrieving a sizable bottle of dark amber liquid. "How 'bout a toast before your last reaping, huh?"

  It was apparently going to be a night of firsts.

  "Thanks, Dad, but I'm not old enough."

  Heath chuckled, his voice tinged with a hint of defiance. "Ain't no Peacekeepers here, sweetheart, unless you're starting a new career you haven't told me about."

  "I appreciate it, Dad, but I'm probably just going to head home," Hazel replied gently.

  "I see," he muttered, his tone growing defensive. "Too good to have a drink with me."

  When we were having a halfway decent moment.

  "Is that my daughter talking to me or Oren Starlin's daughter? That stick in the mud wouldn't know fun if a lumber truck ran him over with a load of it."

  "Dad, please," trying to defuse the situation. "Don't be mad; I just don't want to."

  Heath opened the bottle, taking a quick swig before continuing, "Figures, anything to be different than me, right?" He let out a resentful sigh before his voice grew louder. "That bastard already took my wife; now he's practically adopting my daughter. Oren will get what's coming to him sooner rather than later. I'm sure the Capitol will be the heavy hand of karma before you know it."

  "What is that supposed to mean?" Hazel knew her father's rants, and this felt different.

  "Don't be like your mother, Hazelbug. Everyone knows what he's up to, and he will get his. And I, for one, will be eating popcorn on the sidelines while it happens."

  Hazel couldn't bear it any longer. "I've got to go," she announced abruptly, her voice cracking.

  "Of course you do. Go on home to that man who took everything from me," Heath grumbled as he settled onto a mound of blankets, cradling the bottle.

  "Goodnight, Dad," her words tinged with frustration. She turned away, the door closing behind her with a hard thud.

  A single tear trailed down her cheek, and she hastily wiped it away. The last thing she needed was to arrive home with red, swollen eyes, knowing full well that Silus and others would bombard her with questions she was unprepared to answer.

  The cool evening breeze gently caressed her face, offering a subtle respite as it dried the tears and cooled the flush around her eyes.

  Upon reaching her doorstep, Hazel paused momentarily, taking a deep breath, her chest rising and falling as she collected herself. With a shuddering exhale, she wiped away any lingering traces of dampness and straightened her posture.

  Stealthily, she made her way inside, mindful of every sound her footsteps made on the creaky floorboards.

  Everyone was in their own rooms, preparing. In her room, the twins were laying out their best clothes.

  Linden had selected a pale rusty red dress shirt paired with dark brown pants, the best he could muster from their limited wardrobe. He lay on the top bunk of their small, shared bed, his nimble fingers engrossed in an intricate drawing, the charcoal pencil dancing across the sketchbook's pages.

  Meanwhile, Lily delicately arranged her deep maroon dress on the lower bunk, the color similar to that of the ripest pickle berries. The hues contrasted well with their chocolate-tinged eyes and caramel-toned hair.

  Wait...Pickle berries?

  Hazel had wholly forgotten about buying them a few days prior.

  Intruding upon their preparations, Hazel interrupted, "Lily! I have something for you." Her bag rustled as she rummaged through its contents, prompting a bewildered exchange of glances between the twins, who had been unaware of her return.

  "Didn't even hear you come home," Lily remarked, her surprise mirrored in her brother's curious stare.

  Hazel produced a modest flat of pickle berries from the depths of her bag. Though slightly worse for wear after a day or two in her bag, their vibrant hue and tart scent were unmistakable. Lily's eyes brightened as she reached for the small treasure.

  "Thank you, they are my favorite," she replied warmly.

  "Gross, Hazel, I can't believe you wasted your money on those horse manure-flavored berries for her," Linden grumbled.

  Lily's reaction was swift and unapologetic. She grabbed one of her pillows and hurled it with pinpoint accuracy, smacking her brother square across the face.

  "Shut up. They're better than that disgusting pine butter you always ask Mom to buy you. It tastes like eating dirt."

  Linden, despite the impromptu pillow assault, remained unfazed. "Better dirt than poop."

  Laughing, Hazel chimed in, "Next time I go to the market, I will buy you some dirt butter, Linden."

  "Thanks, sis," he deadpanned, returning his attention to his drawing.

  Having made her point, Lily gave Hazel a heartfelt hug. With that, she resumed her task of laying out her reaping attire.

  Hazel turned to her meager closet, the wooden doors squawking as she pried them open. It had always been sparse, with her attire primarily consisting of practical clothing suited for life in the woods. However, one exception was a single outfit that held a special place in her heart, given to her by her mother.

  It hung like a fragile memory, a pale green cotton shirt paired with a darker shade of the same verdant hue in the form of a generously sized skirt. It was one of her mother's old maternity dresses. Annually, for the last five or so years, she had worn it on Reaping Day. Typically, she had to cinch it with a thick brown belt to keep it from falling off her altogether.

  Her mother always insisted that it made her green eyes stand out, but Hazel wasn't sure. To her, it seemed more likely that her mother reveled in seeing her in something other than lumberjack garb.

  She gingerly extracted the top, skirt, and trusty brown belt. This was the last time she would anxiety sweat through this outfit, fearing certain death would be handed out to her via a tiny little scrap of paper in a glass fishbowl.

  She stared at it, knowing sleep wouldn't come tonight.

  Maybe not ever.