Timber

Chapter Eight: Reaping's Eve

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.