Timber

Chapter Five: Shadows of the Past

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.