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SEVENTEEN YEARS PRIOR . . .
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The man walks quickly through the grimy streets, snow crunching mercilessly beneath his boots. A cool gust of wind blows through. He shivers, wrapping his jacket tighter around him.
This is the coldest winter District Eight has faced in years.
It does not help that the man is out at the coldest time of the day. The pink and orange hues of dawn are just starting to show through the slits in between rows of tenement buildings. A mechanical hum fills the air as the factories start up the machines for the day, and soon the streets will be crowded with people making the commute to work.
The man's pace quickens as he turns the street corner. His head is hung low but his eyes are restless, darting in all directions for signs of trouble. Although there are few people out at this time of day, especially in colder periods like these, he finds he is unable to be at ease. He has been on edge for all twenty-one years of his life and it has only worsened these past few months after his wife became pregnant.
Another cool breeze rushes through, and a flurry of snow picks up from off the ground. His hand hovers over a lump in his jacket, close to his heart, keeping whatever is underneath warm and sheltered from the harsh cool air.
As the man walks down the street, he nears a familiar building and walks toward it. There is an elderly woman standing behind the front door when he opens it. No doubt she is on her way to work in one of the textile factories—the citizens of District Eight are rarely able to afford living arrangements without working, even in old age. Her eyes are sunken, worn out by the routine of life. He recognises her as living a few floors below him, and holds the door open for her.
