Chapter Text
I wake before the sun rises. The sky is slate gray outside my window, that pre-dawn light I know so well. I haven’t really slept in past dawn since my father died; there’s just so much to do, and sometimes, in that half-light, I can take a glorious moment to forget everything that’s happened since I was 14. Except Katniss. I never forget her.
I swing my socked feet over the side of the bed and set my weight gently on the wood floor, which always creaks if I’m not careful. I’m careful today, though, and Rory, Vick, and Posy stay asleep. We all share the main room with the fireplace, and my mother sleeps in the kitchen, which is also her washroom. This morning, her washtub stands empty, the kitchen counter blessedly clear of clients’ clothes. Sometimes she washes so many rounds of laundry in a day that her hands crack and she has to wrap them so they don’t bleed on someone’s clean sheets, but she won’t do that today. Today is Reaping day, and she can sleep all she wants until 2.
If I had it my way, her hands would never bleed again, Reaping day or no Reaping day. If I had it my way, there would be no Reaping day at all. But there are so few things I have my way. The pre-dawn light is one of them. The structure of society is not.
I close the door to our tiny bathroom and click on the light. We have electricity today, again because it’s the Reaping. I think the Capitol wants us to like Reaping day, or they pretend they want us to like it, or something. I splash freezing water from the faucet onto my face to wake myself up the rest of the way, then lock eyes with myself in the mirror, running my hands over the faint stubble on my cheeks. It’s finally coming in, which makes me smile just a little. I look like my dad in his wedding pictures: the same strong chin, messy black hair, dark skin, grey eyes. He wore his hair long, like many of the men in the Seam. I used to until the baker’s eldest son called me a girl for it in the sixth grade. He wasn’t talking shit after I punched him in the teeth, but I’ve worn my hair short ever since.
I gather my coat and boots, though I don’t put them on until I’m out on the front stoop, watching the sky turn from grey to pink. Rory wakes up sometimes if I fumble around putting clothes on in there, and I don’t want to have to put him back to bed. I want this morning to be mine for as long as it can be, and then mine and Katniss’s once I meet her in the woods. My hands itch to hold a bow or fishing rod, to scrape on rough rock and tree branches, but I have an errand to run first.
Once I’ve stomped my feet back to warmth after putting them in my cold boots, I head for the back of the house and pull the squirrel off the hook by the back door. It can be risky business to leave kills in plain sight overnight, but Peacekeepers like to sleep in on Reaping day, too. Anyway, most in the Seam turn a blind eye. Funny how a desire for fresh meat can win out over the law.
As the sun starts to peek over the hills to the east, I take a second to look, then I turn my back to it and head west into town. The Seam is quiet today, the mines empty. My breath wisps in front of me in the cool morning air, and alone on the street, I almost feel free. I pass Katniss’s house on the way into town, and I smile when I think about seeing her later today. I’ll let her sleep, though, and meet her in the woods later. One rule we have is that we don’t make social calls at each other’s houses. Besides, this errand is for her, and I want to see her face when I reveal the surprise. She always smiles wider in the woods.
As I continue down our dusty streets, crumbling three-room shacks give way to sturdier houses. A few are even two stories tall, which seems a waste to me. Two families could live there with room to spare; it’s perverse to have that much space when some of us have so little. These are some of the same people who smiled in my starving face when I was bringing them grouse at 15 and asked me if I could please lower the price a bit, as though we were friends. I content myself with spitting on the pavement. There’s a lot to be mad about all the time, and if I think about any one thing for too long, it takes me over.
The baker’s house is two stories, but this one I can almost forgive, because the downstairs is filled with the whole of their kitchen, which makes the chimneys smoke all day long no matter the season. I’m happy to find the chimneys smoking this morning. I’d been pretty sure the baker would be up, because he’s a sad man, and sad men rise early on Reaping day. I would know.
I adjust the squirrel hanging over my shoulder so I can lift my arm to use the doorknocker. I knock twice short and quick, and wait before knocking a final third time. This is our signal with the baker, Katniss and me, and we sometimes knock it to each other when we’re hungry as a little joke. Over the years, she and I have made up a lot of little jokes like that. It’s sort of become our own language.
I hear the telltale sounds of someone fumbling to put down a pan before rushing to the door, and I step back to make room for the door to swing outwards. I expect to see the baker with his sad smile and tired eyes, but instead, one of his sons is standing there. It’s the youngest one, in Katniss’s grade. I haven’t ever bothered to learn their names, and the eldest’s behavior in school didn’t make me feel particularly bad about that, but it’s awkward now. His face shows a mixture of confusion and disappointment when he recognizes me, but he wipes that away quickly. I get the feeling he had hoped I was a girlfriend of his, or something.
“Is your father awake?” I ask. I don’t want to chitchat with this kid.
“Um, no,” the kid responds. His eyes are very blue, like his father’s, and they also look pretty tired. “You’re Gale, right? With the meat?”
So he knows my name. I definitely feel awkward now.
“Yeah, that’s me. Look, if your dad’s not awake –“
“I can take the squirrel off your hands,” he says, pushing the front door open all the way. I can see now that he’s not really a kid anymore. He’s shorter than me but broad, well-built. Here’s someone who’s never known hunger. “What do you want for it?”
Well, he may be burly, but he’s a bad businessman. Never let the seller make the first offer. I pretend to think it over, then say, “Two fresh loaves of that herb bread.” Two loaves is one loaf too many for a squirrel.
Clearly he knows this too, and he gives me a sharp, wry smile that’s at odds with the roundness of his face. “I’ll make you a deal. Two loaves burned or one loaf fresh. Your choice.”
I guess I misjudged him -- he’s not too bad a businessman. Two loaves burned would be a great trade for me if I was starving, and it would cost him nothing because he’d have to throw those loaves away anyway. But I’m not starving today. This is special.
I sigh grudgingly. “One loaf fresh for the squirrel.”
“Deal.” He nods seriously, but his eyes are still smiling. I just got put in my place for being an asshole, but he acts like we were both in on the joke all along. It’s hard not to smile back when he brings out a steaming, perfect herb loaf and hands it to me. I pass off the squirrel to him and thank him.
“May the odds be in your favor today,” he says, and the smile falls off my face. The truth rears its ugly head in that silent moment: the odds aren’t in my favor today, but they are in his. He who has never been hungry, has never had to exchange his safety for grain to feed his family. Taking it out on him won’t solve anything, but I fire at him anyway: “Yeah, I need it. They’re already in yours.” I turn around just as his eyes widen. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but I’m already heading away at a brisk walk towards the forest. Fuck that kid. Katniss is waiting for me.