Chapter Text
In the depths of sleep, I feel someone shaking me. I try to cling to that hazy space between dreaming and waking, but whoever is disturbing my rest is persistent, almost desperate. A faint frown pulls at my brow as I slowly force my eyes open.
I didn’t sleep well last night. The nightmares were relentless, worse than usual, and the knowledge that it’s Harvest Day only sharpened their edges. Every year on July 3rd, I become a storm of nerves—moody, restless, brittle. It never truly ends until the next day at three in the afternoon, when the names have been called and I can breathe again, when the world resumes the fragile routine, it pretends is normal.
I try to adjust to the darkness around me. Through the worn curtains, I can see the faint gray light of dawn seeping in; it’s still early. Again, I feel someone grip my arm and shake me gently but insistently.
“Mom,” a soft voice whispers, breaking the fragile silence that blankets the room.
“What are you doing awake?” I murmur back, my voice rough with sleep and something heavier.
“I can’t sleep. Besides, it’s already dawn. You said you were going to hunt early, before the Peacekeepers start their patrols. Mr. Grumpy is waiting for you.” I take one of her dark braids between my fingers and tug lightly.
“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” I say with mock reproach, though there’s warmth beneath it. “Let’s go outside so we don’t wake your father.”
We slip out of the room carefully. Before closing the door, I glance back and see the silhouette of his sleeping form beneath the thin blanket. I smile faintly at the sight. We head straight to the kitchen, where stale bread and weak coffee wait for us. My son is already there, eating his portion in silence when we arrive.
“How are you?” I ask as I sit down and break off a piece of bread. I’m not sure I can swallow it; my throat feels tight, constricted with unspoken fear. But I hate wasting food. This bread must be eaten before it turns to stone. In District 12, nothing is ever thrown away if it can still be consumed.
“I’m fine,” he answers indifferently.
Sometimes it’s impossible to read him. His gray eyes are so guarded, so impenetrable. But I know him. I know he’s nervous—like every child in Panem today. My daughter tries to chase away her own nerves by murmuring songs I taught her over the years, soft melodies that tremble slightly at the edges.
“I see you’re ready already. Remember, we have to be careful today,” I say, noticing he’s wearing my father’s old boots and jacket—the ones I gave him two years ago. It is worn and patched, but he knows how important that jacket is to me. And I know he likes the weight of it on his shoulders.
“I know. We have to be careful,” he replies, rolling his eyes. I frown at the gesture but choose not to comment. There are more important battles today.
“I’d like to go with you to gather some plants,” my daughter says as she carries her plate to the sink, “but I’m going to clean the house before Dad wakes up.”
“Try not to wake him. He had to work half a shift at the mine last night and came home exhausted.”
We sit in complete silence on the rock where I once used to sit with Gale. Between the two of us, we’ve already gathered a decent amount of game to trade before the Harvest. The forest is still, holding its breath with us. I hear him sigh as we watch the sun slowly push its way above the trees.
“You’ll be fine. You won’t be harvested. Neither you nor your sister has ever taken out tesserae,” I tell him, trying to calm him—and myself.
“We both know that’s just a false sense of security,” he replies quietly. “Remember the trader from last year? I’m sure he never took out tesserae, and he was still harvested.”
My son thinks too much like me. We’re realists. We see the world for what it is—oppressive, unstable, cruelly arbitrary. My little girl, on the other hand, still lives in a softer world, one woven with songs and hope. She reminds me so much of Prim when she was young that it aches. It’s inevitable that I worry more about her. At least the boy beside me knows how to hunt. He has perfected his skills with the bow and arrow. She has never been drawn to weapons or blood.
“You’ll be fine,” I repeat, firmer this time, as if conviction alone could shape reality. “You’ll be fine.” He nods and rests his head on my shoulder. “Do you remember the first time I brought you to the forest?” I ask, forcing brightness into my voice.
“How could I forget? I was eight. It felt like discovering a new world. Everything was so different. So alive,” he says, a small smile touching his lips.
“Yes—until you tripped and fell. I had to carry you all the way back to your grandmother’s to have your leg checked.” That day, I was so terrified I couldn’t even use the little healing knowledge I had. I just ran, heart pounding, clutching him as if he might disappear. After that, I hesitated to bring him back. But after weeks of pleading and stubborn glares, I finally gave in.
“It was worth it,” he says softly, lost in memory.
We deliver our supplies to the bakery, the shoe store, and to Darius, head of the Peacekeepers and a loyal customer. Then we go to the Hob to exchange what we can for essentials. We save a rabbit for dinner—something to anchor us after the Harvest, if we are all still together.
When we return home, everything is spotless. Despite how worn and faded everything is, my daughter manages to make it look welcoming. She’s placed wildflowers in the center of the table. She emerges from the bedroom wearing a pink dress Prim gave her last year and two red ribbons tied carefully into her braids.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, and she blushes at the compliment. I press a kiss to her forehead. “Where’s your father?”
“He went to Uncle Rory’s. Something about the mines. He said he’d meet us at the plaza,” she answers, adjusting herself in the small, cracked mirror on the wall.
“All right. Let’s change before we go. I don’t want the Peacekeepers looking for us.”
Once we’re ready, we head toward the plaza. Along the way, families emerge from their homes with their children. The tension is visible in every pair of gray eyes from the Seam. I feel my daughter’s fingers tighten around mine.
At the plaza, Peacekeepers stand posted everywhere, as if expecting rebellion from a district too exhausted to revolt. I spot Effie Trinket in a white dress streaked with black markings, a silver wig perched perfectly atop her head, black lipstick sharp against her aging skin. She can drown herself in cosmetics, but from where I stand, I can still see the lines carved by time. She is deep in conversation with the only living victor from District 12—Mr. Mellark, as everyone calls him, winner of the 74th Hunger Games.
The sunlight makes his golden curls gleam, matching his gold shirt and white trousers. At least he isn’t drunk today. That vice once consumed his mentor, Haymitch, who died two years ago, his liver destroyed by alcohol. And Mr. Mellark seems to be walking the same edge. I sigh and look away, refusing to dwell on ghosts.
Instead, I focus on Madge, the mayor. She looks beautiful, her hair falling freely down her back, her blue dress brushing below her knees. Her gaze is fixed on the group of boys gathered before the stage. I imagine she’s searching for her son among them. I can’t remember the last time I brought her strawberries. We haven’t spoken in so long.
I’m scanning the crowd when I feel a hand press gently against my back. I know immediately who it is. I lean into his chest, steadied by the warmth of him, and feel his lips brush the top of my head.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the plaza with you. I had to talk to Rory,” he murmurs near my ear, his warm breath making me shiver. I turn and wrap my arms around him. He smells like coal dust, but beneath it is something unmistakably his.
“I know. Don’t worry. Were you able to rest at all?”
“Yes,” he replies, and I feel the vibration of his voice against my cheek. “We’d better stand with the children. They’ll start soon.” He holds me a second longer than usual, as if reluctant to let go. We both know how fragile this moment is.
We walk toward our children, who are speaking with friends. We hug them tightly and tell them we’ll see them after the Harvest. They check in and take their places among the fifteen-year-olds. We stand behind the barrier, fingers intertwined, praying for time to move faster.
When the clock strikes two, Madge steps forward and begins her annual introduction in a flat, rehearsed voice while the entire district tries not to listen too closely. Then she hands the microphone to Effie, whose exaggerated enthusiasm grates against my nerves like sandpaper.
“Welcome, and happy 99th Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever—ever—in your favor! Ladies first!”
My breath catches as Effie slips her long manicured nails into the glass bowl and pulls out a folded slip of paper. I remind myself that my children have only a few entries, that statistically they are safe, put the odds have never been on my side and when those black-painted lips form my daughter’s name, the world tilts violently beneath my feet, and everything inside me begins to fall apart.