Maple [The 72nd Hunger Games]

Chapter 3

DISTRICT 10

The skies became dark as the reaping approached, raining down on everyone's moods as the stakes were raised. Storms were brewing, not only among the crowd but the unease of District 10.

The Peacekeepers were cracking down. Even the minor instances of looking at one wrong when they were in a mild mood could get you to put on the post to be whipped. Two had already been shot in the head. Wisely, Oak had ceased hunting, but that puts more weight on Cedar and me to bring home food from out jobs, relying on the kindness of our employers after staying long into the night.

I've been cutting more days of school to begin a new task of plucking the chickens of feathers, gutting them, then cutting them up myself. Mr. Gray watched on, emotionless but I could tell he was impressed by my handiwork. Being a butcher was never my career goal, but it was better than sitting in gutters trying to find little metal rings taken off dead bodies.

I came home tired almost every day. Oak and Cedar had it worse—being able to carry more than me, therefore being put into more tough instances of labor. Oak had to live large cows with other men into pens and their bags of feed all across acres of farmland. Cedar lugs bags of flour that weighed more than my entire body.

When Oak wasn't looking, I'd add a fraction of my food to the younger kids' plates. Oak would do it himself, but that wasn't always enough. Most nights, my stomach screamed at me to eat more, but there was just nothing left. Any food that we saved up was disappearing fast. This always happened during the reaping—panic would spread and the resources would disappear exponentially. After a rough winter, it was lethal.

Not to mention soon we'd have to send a girl and boy off to fight for their deaths—and they'd probably never return. That put a damper on the usually bright and cheery mood as we all starved to death.

Oak's words still bounced around in my head, and every time I looked at him, it was as if I was watching a dead man walking. I shake away the thoughts. Oak survived six reapings already—this would be his last one. Even with tesserae, the chances were slim.

But not impossible—and possibilities are tricky to calculate.

"Are you doing anything tonight?" I ask, purposefully keeping my eyes on the chicken flesh beneath my blade.

I hear Fox shift on the wall behind me. A few of days ago, Fox had plans for another prank on me, involving a garbage can of bull testicles, alas, his father ended up walking through the door instead of me. Let's just say, there was a lot of yelling and I didn't see Fox for almost three days.

My anxiety had grown to the point I would dare demand answers from Mr. Gray, and even was about to walk up to him when Fox appeared from the side room, perfectly fine except for a swollen eye and angry lines across his knuckles from a belt.

Even now, Fox's eye was still red and puffy, but at least the swelling had gone down enough for him to open it.

But his true punishment was more than cruel. Fox didn't like the blood and the guts—that's why I was usually the one struggling to get it out of my hair. Mr. Gray had forced Fox into the room with me while I pried apart rib cages and drained blood. Fox didn't have to help, nor did I ask him, but he did have to watch until I was done. The first day, Fox had to clean his own vomit off the floor.

I had positioned myself so he wouldn't see the brunt of it when I worked with smaller animals, but on cows and horses, it was much harder to avoid. At least Fox managed to keep it in his stomach for the rest of the days.

Fox had been abnormally silent since the beginning of his punishment. Usually, his silence meant he was planning something and for me to be on the lookout, but I doubted that was the case now.