Timber

Chapter Eight: Reaping's Eve

As reaping day drew near, a transformation rippled through the normally vibrant District 7. The bustling lumberyard, typically echoing with the clamor of machinery and lively lumberjacks, now bore witness to a subdued atmosphere, its workers moving with a solemn efficiency. Conversations in hushed tones permeated the air, revolving around the demolition of the arena and the promises made by Senator Snow for a new era in Panem. With the looming uncertainty of the arena's demise, the district's inhabitants engaged in fervent speculation, pondering the perplexing future of the Hunger Games.

While laboring throughout the day, Hazel found herself locked in her own personal inner struggle, unable to escape the haunting thoughts of the various scenarios that could be concocted by the Capitol. She envisioned the Capitol authorities 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 for the insatiable, bloodthirsty amusement of the Capitol. No matter how many times she tried to redirect her thoughts she failed, her mind always drifting to trying to answer the question 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 the grip of this 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.

By obliterating a symbol of past Hunger Games, Snow had not only created a captivating spectacle but also, in a twisted way, unified the districts in their shock and speculation. Hazel couldn't shake off the thought that perhaps this was exactly what Snow wanted.

Over the next two evenings, as Hazel returned from the hospital, she stepped into an atmosphere heavy with unspoken fears. Linden and Lily, usually vibrant and playful, moved through the house like shadows, their laughter replaced with hushed whispers. Rowan, typically the stoic one, 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.

Her mother was a whirlwind of nervous energy, her hands seldom still as she busied herself with endless chores. Whether cleaning, ironing, or rearranging furniture, her actions seemed more an attempt to distract herself than any real 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 sake of the family. Hazel could see through his facade; the worry in his eyes was unmistakable, a mirror to her own 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, with Silus faithfully waking her, his gentle nudges pulling her from the depths of her insomnia-induced lethargy.

As the sun was setting on the eve of the reaping, Hazel found herself standing 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 two leftover apple pies. She took a deep breath, enjoying the clean air outside she knew she would miss once she motivated herself to go in. Finally pushing the door open, she stepped into the dimly lit interior, the smell of stale liquor greeting her. The shack's interior was still as desolate, while also cluttered with clothing, bottles and trash. Heath, per his usual, lay sprawled on the makeshift bed.