As the reaping day drew near, a transformation rippled through the usually vibrant District Seven. The bustling lumberyard, typically echoing with the clamor of machinery and lively lumberjacks, now bore witness to a subdued atmosphere, its workers moving solemnly. Conversations in hushed tones permeated the air, revolving around the demolition of the arena and the promises made by Senator Snow for a new era in Panem. With the looming uncertainty of the arena's demise, the district's inhabitants engaged in fervent speculation, pondering the perplexing future of the Hunger Games.

While laboring throughout the day, Hazel found herself locked in her inner struggle, unable to escape the haunting thoughts of the various scenarios the Capitol could concoct. She envisioned the Capitol authorities 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 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.

By obliterating a symbol of past Hunger Games, Snow had created a captivating spectacle and, in a twisted way, unified the districts in their shock and speculation. Hazel couldn't shake off the thought that perhaps this was precisely what Snow wanted.

Over the next two evenings, as Hazel returned from the hospital, she stepped into an atmosphere heavy with unspoken fears. Linden and Lily, usually vibrant and playful, moved through the house like shadows, their laughter replaced with hushed whispers. 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.

Her mother was a whirlwind of nervous energy, her hands seldom still as she busied herself with endless chores. Whether cleaning, ironing, or rearranging 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 two leftover apple pies. 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, she stepped into the dimly lit interior, the smell of stale liquor greeting her. The shack's interior was still as desolate while also cluttered with clothing, bottles, and trash. Heath, per his usual, lay sprawled on the makeshift bed.

"Hey, Dad," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Heath's eyes flickered open, a glint of recognition passing through them before being clouded once again by his perpetual haze. "Brought you some pie. Mom made too much."

Heath grunted, pushing himself up into a sitting position. "Apple pie, huh? Your mother always did like to bake."

Hazel placed the pie on the small, rickety table, her gaze lingering on her father. "Yeah, she still does."

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

"Yeah," Hazel agreed, her voice tinged with a quiet resignation. "It feels like last year's reaping 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, feeling the weight of her family's anxiety. "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 picking up the various misplaced items around his home. 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," a smug undertone in his voice.

Hazel paused in her tidying, her brow furrowing. "What?" she asked, trying to mask the sudden spike of concern in her voice. 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 not like it's a secret. He's got the Capitol thinking he's rebel adjacent or something," Heath said, a hint of glee in his tone.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Sounds like rumors to me," she said, her voice strained as she gathered her belongings and approached the door, eager to escape the conversation.

Heath's gaze followed her movements, and then he raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, hey, don't leave. There's 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 thought about his words for a few seconds. He offered an almost sincere request: "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. With measured steps, she made her way to what could only be described as a makeshift kitchen, an area with a haphazard collection of mismatched utensils. '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, faded and worn with age. Curiosity overcame her initial mission, and she gingerly plucked it from its hiding place. The image stared back at her, the vivid green eyes that had haunted her for so long, Cedar. In the photograph, her father and Cedar appeared slightly younger than she was now, their smiles 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. 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.

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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 as a coping mechanism. 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, his profanity surprising Hazel, yet it also elicited a faint smile.

"Me too, Dad, me too," she replied softly, her voice carrying the weight of their shared loathing for the annual spectacle of despair that had taken so much from them.

After eating in reverent silence, Hazel finally couldn't take another bite of the apple pie. 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, his gaze fixed on some distant horizon. "God, if I know," he began with a touch of resignation. "Those assholes, 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?"

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

Heath chuckled, his voice tinged with a hint of defiance. "There are 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." 'Just when we were having a halfway decent moment.' "Is that my daughter talking to me or Oren? 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 brainwashing 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, Haze. 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. She swiftly began tidying up, her movements brisk and purposeful, "I've got to go," she announced abruptly, her voice carrying a hint of urgency.

"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 soft thud. The cool evening air enveloped her as she walked home, a solitary journey through the dimly lit streets. A single tear trickled down her cheek. 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.

Hazel gazed up at the starry night sky as she embarked on the long route home and desperately attempted to hold back her tears. The cool evening breeze gently caressed her face, offering a subtle respite as it dried the tears and cooled the flush of redness around her eyes.

Upon reaching her doorstep, Hazel paused momentarily, the wooden planks of the front porch creaking softly beneath her weight. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling as she collected herself. With a shuddering exhale, she wiped away any lingering traces of tears and straightened her posture.

Stealthily, she made her way inside, mindful of every sound her footsteps made on the creaky floorboards. As she stepped into the dimly lit interior, an unusual stillness enveloped the house, casting an air of somberness that seemed to linger in every corner.

Everyone was preparing for the reaping in the morning. In her room, the twins were laying out their best clothes.

Linden had selected a rusted pale 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 gracefully dancing across the sketchbook's pages.

Meanwhile, Lily delicately arranged her deep maroon dress on the lower bunk, the color reminiscent of the ripest pickle berries. It contrasted their caramel skin, chocolate eyes, and warm brown hair. Pickle berries. Hazel had wholly forgotten about buying them a few days prior.

Intruding upon their preparations, Hazel's voice broke the silence, her excitement evident. "Lily," she said, drawing the girl's startled attention. 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.

"Hazel, we didn't even hear you come home," Lily remarked, her surprise mirrored in her brother's curious gaze, still firmly planted on his artistic endeavors.

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 with joy as she reached for the small treasure. Her eyes perked up, and she reached for them.

"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's voice echoed off the top bunk.

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, the warmth of her embrace conveying her gratitude. With that, she resumed her task of laying out her reaping attire.

Hazel turned to her meager closet, the wooden doors creaking softly as she pushed them aside. 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 there 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. The dress had a history—it was one of her mother's old maternity dresses, and she typically cinched it with a thick brown belt to give it some semblance of fitting. 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 attire.

With a tender touch, she gingerly extracted the top, skirt, and trusty brown belt from the closet, her fingers skimming the material. 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 wouldn't sleep again tonight.