Exiting into the brisk evening, Hazel quickened her steps. A twinge of guilt nagged at her. She promised Silus she'd head straight home, but she pushed it aside, telling herself she'd be quick.

The market, a collection of stalls and small shops clustered in the town center, was still open, though several vendors were beginning to pack up. 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 stalls, each filled with wares. She passed by crates of freshly cut timber, the scent of wood shavings mingling with the fragrances of the market. The vivid colors of fruits and vegetables, the few items considered a luxury, caught her eye.

She deliberately steered clear of the apple stand, shaking her head at the thought of seeing any more apples.

At one stall, she selected a medley of root vegetables – potatoes, carrots, and turnips – their earthy scents mingling as she gathered them into a woven basket. The bread she chose was still warm, its crust crackling under her touch. It emitted a comforting aroma of freshly baked grains and yeast.

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.

Her fingers brushed over a flat of pickle berries, their vibrant red hue catching her eye. She added a couple of them to her growing collection, knowing they were Lily's favorite treat. The pickle berries' sweet and tangy flavor would undoubtedly make her younger sister smile.

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, her steps quickened.

As Hazel moved further from the town center, the houses became fewer and the structures more sparse. She could see the faint glow of lanterns and candles flickering in the windows of the shacks, casting a warm, if not melancholy, light in the growing darkness. The outskirts of District 7's main town center were markedly different from its bustling heart. Here, the houses gave way to simpler, poorer dwellings. She passed by several handmade wooden shacks crafted with plywood. These rudimentary structures, resembling single-room boxes, were cobbled together from spare lumber and essential tools.

Some residents had even set up tents in the woods, though this 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 7, had been severely curtailed.

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

In the midst of this landscape stood a modest and solitary shack. It was constructed from weather-beaten planks that had endured years of harsh conditions.

Approaching the humble shack, nestled just beyond the fringes of the town's tree line, Hazel's steps grew hesitant. Her heart pounded erratically. A heavy silence enveloped her, amplifying the rush of thoughts in her mind. Gathering her resolve, she murmured a quiet pep talk under her breath before extending her trembling hand to grasp the door handle.

With a determined push, the door protested with a long, creaking complaint, revealing the shack's sparse and dimly lit interior. A palpable heaviness hung in the air, thick with the pungent odor of stale gin that clung to every surface. It was a scent that had become a familiar part of Hazel's visits to this place.

The shack itself was a study in simplicity. A small dining table, its surface worn and uneven, was accompanied by a couple of wooden chairs that had seen better days. A handmade platform in one corner of the room served as a makeshift bed piled high with a jumble of threadbare blankets. Atop this pile of coverings lay a human shape, its presence betrayed only by the subtle rise and fall of breath.

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 practiced hands, she began to unpack the items she had brought—the chestnut bread, still radiating a faint heat, and one of the flats of vibrant pickle 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 7'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.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The figure, shrouded in blankets like a hibernating bear, lay cocooned in the corner of the shack. The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of stale gin, a smell that clung stubbornly to the walls and floor.

"Hey," Hazel called out softly to the muffled figure beneath the blankets. "I can't stay long, but I brought you some food."

The pile of blankets stirred and emitted a groan reminiscent of creaking floorboards. Slowly, as if resisting the intrusion of the world outside, a hand emerged from the tangled covers, pulling the blankets down to reveal the face of the man beneath. His auburn hair, sharing the same fiery hue as Hazel's, was a tangled mess, mirroring the disarray of his life. Once-vivid green eyes, now dulled by years of hardship, met hers. A coarse beard covered his chin, adding to his disheveled appearance. His words, when he spoke, were slurred and heavy.

His voice emerged, gruff and tired. "Did you bring anything else?" he asked, "Nothing fun?"

"No, I didn't have time," she replied, her voice tinged with exhaustion. Setting a couple of coins beside the food, she continued, "You can use these to buy something else if that's what you want." Her fingers unconsciously picked at the callouses formed from her work with the axe.

A bitter smile twisted the man's lips as he slowly extracted himself from the tangle of quilts. His movements were languid. The rickety chair creaked beneath his weight as he reached the table and sat down. His hands fumbled with the coins briefly, discontent flickering in his eyes before he pocketed them.

Without acknowledging Hazel or uttering a word of gratitude, he seized the warm chestnut bread and began nibbling at the edges. The silence between them was heavy, punctuated only by the sound of his chewing and the distant night sounds of District 7.

Hazel lingered for a few minutes, tidying up the cramped space. She picked up scattered clothing from the floor, folding them with a practiced hand, and methodically rinsed a few bottles and cups in the small, grimy kitchen sink. The only sounds in the shack were the rhythmic chewing and the soft clink of dishes as she washed them. It was a routine that had become all too familiar.

Glancing at her watch, Hazel realized it was nearing 6:30 p.m. She turned to the man, still sitting and nibbling at the bread. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across the room, making him appear even more haggard.

"I've got to go," Hazel said, her voice carrying a hint of exhaustion. There's the Capitol's announcement and the early curfew tonight." 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 world. She quickly briefed him on the announcement and the imposed curfew; her voice tinged with a hint of resigned patience.

"I'll try to come by and see you in a couple of days," she said, moving towards the door.

"That was a quick visit," he remarked, his voice carrying a critical edge. His eyes bore into her, "Didn't even ask how I was doing today."

Guilt pressed her heart, and she hesitated, her shoulders sagged. "Sorry, how are you doing?" she asked, her voice softening.

"Living the dream, Haze, living the dream," he replied, his words dripping with sarcasm. "All thanks to your mother and her bastard of a husband." His bitterness oozed like poison, a toxic reminder of his eternal victimhood.

Hazel should have known better than to take the bait. Deciding she was not up for this conversation at that particular moment, she said, "I know that's how you feel. I just don't have time for this right now," her voice strained. "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, his tone laced with bitterness and resignation. "And it's not how I feel; it's the truth. People don't like hearing the truth."

Without responding, Hazel stepped out of the shack and closed the door behind her. As she walked away, she couldn't help but think, 'I'm doing fine myself. Thanks for asking, Dad.'

Hazel's steps quickened, her heart racing as she glanced at her watch again. It read 6:32 PM. A whispered curse escaped her lips, a mixture of frustration and dread filling her as she realized that time was slipping through her fingers like sand. She knew 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. She broke into a jog with a deep breath, her fiery red hair bouncing with each step.

The streets of District 7, typically alive with the relentless bustle of the lumber industry, were shrouded in eerie and oppressive silence as 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, foreboding passages. She noticed the increased presence of Peacekeepers, their light gray uniforms and polished helmets making them stand out like vigilant wardens. They were beginning their patrols, strolling with an air of authority.

Fear gripped her heart like a vice, tightening every step she took. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she quickened, each footfall resonating with the anxiety of being late or caught by the Capitol's ever-watchful enforcers. She knew that her family's cabin was tantalizingly close, just around the corner.

Hazel's heart raced with each step, her breath growing heavier as she covered the near-empty streets. Her racing mind played out the steps to make it home in her head: turn left at the next corner, walk down the familiar path, and she'd be at her family's log cabin. The inviting glow of the porch light beckoned in the distance, a beacon of safety drawing her nearer.

As Hazel turned the corner, the last stretch of road to her house in sight, a commanding voice shattered the quiet. "Halt. Citizen." Hazel's heart skipped a beat. She turned, finding herself under the scrutinizing gaze of a Peacekeeper.