Archive of Our Own

Her stomach flips over and over, a storm of butterflies fluttering in circles. Maysilee stands in front of the ornate mirror in her and her twin sister’s shared bedroom. She double checks her outfit again— a soft lilac colored dress, various necklaces adorning her throat, a few more pieces of jewelry on her wrists and fingers, black flats. She looks good, she knows she does.

Maysilee applies a bit of eyeshadow and coats her lips in another layer of lip gloss before grabbing a little pouch and gently placing the woven cord she made for Wyatt.

“Have fun with your boyfriend!” Merrilee teases from her bed in their bedroom, legs kicked up behind her and tangled together.

Maysilee ignores her as she steps out into the hallway before heading down the steps from her family’s apartment above the Sweet Shop and through the Sweet Shop where her Papa works behind the counter while her mother works in the back, probably doing inventory and working on new products to sell.

It’s nearly summer and sweltering already, a heatwave pressing down over District 12 making everyone sweatier and more miserable than they already are, cicadas are already buzzing in the trees, the smell of baked coal dust making her nostrils flare. Maysilee grimaces as she starts the long walk to the meadow, eager to see Wyatt. Her stomach rolls with warmth as each step takes her closer and closer. Her hands are clammy as she walks the familiar path, her feet kicking up some coal dust. Most of it is baked into the ground from decades of mining, but there’s always a fresh layer on top. In a crack of pavement, a tiny yellow wildflower sprouts among weeds. Maysilee steps over it as she makes her way to the opening in the fence.

The scent of vanilla clings to her skin even though she tried to cover it with her lavender perfume. She worked the opening shift at the Sweet Shop and had immediately gone to get ready for her date with Wyatt. Not that he really knew it was a date, but that’s beside the point.

Maysilee’s face lights up when she spots him. He’s leaning against the large oak tree, finding some respite in the shade. She picks up her pace, hurrying through the grass before coming to a stop in front of him. Her eyes take in his outfit— a nice collared shirt, jeans, and his shoes that he doesn’t wear down in the mine. Maysilee chews the inside of her cheek. He dressed up to see her.

“Hi,” she says breathlessly, cheeks flushed from the heat and excitement.

Wyatt looks up. “Hi,” he repeats, his dark eyes scanning her face and softening, the right corner of his lip quirking up.

Maysilee takes a seat beside him, adjusting the skirt of her dress and still clutching the pouch containing her gift for him. Her back curves against the tree, the bark digging into her dress, but she can’t find it in herself to care.

“What’s that?” Wyatt asks softly, eyes focused on the pouch. He rolls his scrip coin between his fingers.

“It’s for you,” Maysilee says. “For your coin.”

She unties the ribbon from the mouth of the pouch and pulls out the necklace she made. Several strands of cord and wire weaved together into a simple chevron pattern, similar to a necklace of hers but while hers has a few trinkets hanging from it, his is just plain. She knows he gets overwhelmed often and hopes that making it like this will make him like it more.

Wyatt stares at it before glancing at her. “A necklace?”

“Yeah,” Maysilee says, her stomach churning with worry. Does he not like it? “I made it so you could put your coin in the loop and pop it out.” She glances at the necklace. “I know your coin helps you think.”

“I like it,” he murmurs, taking it from her gently. His thumb runs over the necklace, tracing the loop. “Thank you.”

The tension eases from her shoulders as a brilliant smile takes place on her face. Maysilee reaches over and takes it from him.

“Let me put it on,” she orders.

Wyatt nods and adjusts his position so it’s easier for Maysilee to fasten the necklace around his neck. The clasp gently clicks before she drops her hands to his shoulders and moves him so she can see how it looks.

“You look handsome,” she murmurs, reaching up and brushing his hair out of his eyes.

She delights in the way a flush creeps up his neck, dusting his cheekbones and burning the tips of his ears pink. Wyatt’s eyes meet hers before he drops his gaze.

“Mays…”

“You do,” she insists, adjusting the collar of his shirt.

“You look really pretty too,” he says softly, eyes darting back up to meet hers again.

Maysilee grins before pulling him in for a quick, sweet kiss. Wyatt freezes for a moment, before melting into it, his hands settling on her waist. She lets herself enjoy the moment before pulling away, grinning at Wyatt. Red dusts the tips of his ears as he avoids her gaze— still embarrassed even though they’ve been dating for several months. But his hands linger a moment longer on her waist than usual, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of her.

“You’re lucky,” he says quietly. “You get to smell like vanilla and lavender all day. I smell like coal dust and sweat.”

She laughs, nudging his shoulder as they settle against the tree. “I hate the smell of vanilla, though.”

Wyatt shakes his head, huffing out a laugh. “Beats the smell of coal dust and sweat.”

“True,” she agrees, plucking wildflowers from the ground. “But even though I hate the smell of coal dust and sweat, I still like you.”

He goes still again before relaxing, letting his shoulder rest against hers. Even though she’s roasting, Maysilee leans into his heat, craving the way it makes her feel safe. She rests her head on his shoulder, twirling the wildflowers in her fingers while Wyatt rolls his coin across his knuckles, lost deep in thought.

Maysilee lets her eyes flutter shut and imagine their future if neither of them gets reaped: dates at the meadow or lake if it’s nice out or at the Hob if it’s chilly, him stopping by the Shop before heading to work, Wyatt wearing more jewelry she’s made, Wyatt bringing home bouquets of wildflowers he plucked along his walk. She can picture it all in her mind.

Wyatt shifts slightly and she pulls herself out of her daydream. Her eyes rest on the cord dangling from his neck, a wave of satisfaction crashes over her. He’s all mine, she thinks smugly.

“I was thinking,” he murmurs, eyes gazing at a point in the distance, “maybe next week we could go to the lake. If it’s not too hot. Or… if you’re not busy.”

“I’m never too busy for you,” she assures. Mentally, she thinks about her work schedule. Open on Monday and Wednesday, take over for Merrilee during the afternoon on Thursday, work morning shift on Friday and Saturday. “I should be free Tuesday or Sunday all day, or Monday and Wednesday afternoon.”

She’d rather work the early shifts because everyone else is grumpy too when they come in and they can’t complain about her attitude if they act the same.

His face flushes. Wyatt pops his scrip coin into the loop of the necklace then plucks up a blade of grass and twists it between his fingers, eyes darting to her before fixing on the horizon again.

“I like being out here,” he says. “With you. It’s the only place where everything feels quiet.”

Warmth floods her veins and stomach. She knows what he means. He’s constantly surrounded by shouting drunk men, the clanging of pickaxes and shouts of other miners. Here, in the meadow, feels like a safe place away from the cacophony that’s always been District 12.

Maysilee shifts closer, her knee brushing his, her fingers itching to hold his hand. “Then we’ll come out here more,” she promises.

Wyatt nods, his paperboy cap slipping down over his brows, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes— worry, maybe. Or fear. It passes quickly, replaced by a small, shy smile.

“I’d like that.”

A breeze rustles the grass, carrying the scent of summer and coal. Maysilee closes her eyes again and lets herself sink into this moment. Beside the boy she loves, into the warmth, into the quiet.

As the sun sets behind the mountains in the distance, painting the evening sky in soft purple and pink, gold and orange, Maysilee finally rises, hands brushing the dirt and dandelion seeds off the skirt of her dress. She ought to be heading back home for dinner and she has a feeling Wyatt’ll be heading to the Hob to help out his family.

Wyatt rises next to her. He adjusts the brim of his cap and Maysilee immediately adjusts it again, pushing it up a bit more and tugging it slightly to the side for it to be perfectly straight. He lets her, by now he’s used to her more domineering qualities when it comes to fashion and beauty— she knows he loves it, though.

“Ready to go?” He asks quietly.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, reaching out and taking his hand. “Are you heading to the Hob?”

He nods. “They’re already wanting odds on upcoming Peacekeeper rotations since...” He trails off, his fingers curling around hers and tightening at the implication of the looming Games.

“Be safe,” she tells him as they stroll out of the meadow, fingers laced together, her thumb brushing along his skin. “Don’t get arrested.”

“I won’t,” he assures, though she knows it's not strictly up to him.

Undoubtedly, his brothers or the gamblers will cause a ruckus that'll send the Peacekeepers over. And when it's this close to the Games? There's not a chance of them accepting any type of bribe from Wyatt's Pa or the gamblers— they'd rather just lock them up and let them stew in jail for a few days before sending them out. The really stupid ones get to rot in the cells for even longer, going days without eating and very little drinking water.

She grins at him, her eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Then, the sound of stomping. Loud and irritating and intrusive. She grits her teeth, eyes narrowing as Wyatt and her watch a group of maybe four Peacekeepers marching past. Maysilee resists the urge to sneer at them or comment on how ugly their uniforms are. Those off-white pants don't even match with their milk-colored helmets. Who the hell is the person that came up with these outfits?

She’s no match for a man armed with a gun, let alone a group of them with the instructions to spill blood if necessary. And she’ll be damned if she gets Wyatt arrested or killed for her impertinence. Her blood turns to ice at the thought of seeing Wyatt lying on the ground, riddled with bullet holes and his dark eyes lifeless, fading away as he slips into the abyss and away from her. Dark red thick blood— nearly black— pulsing through the gaping holes, staining his shirt, seeping onto the pavement riddled with cracks beneath him. The smell of bile fills her senses and she can taste it, creeping up her esophagus threatening to come out.

Although, she shouldn’t be surprised. It’s early June; the Fiftieth Games are next month. Every year, the Capitol forces its soldiers to have a larger presence in the community, ramp up the policing in the districts. In District 12, it means marching around and doing very little while enjoying drinks at the Hob on their days off. It’s been like this since she was born and it’ll be like this after she’s dead, she’s certain.

Wyatt squeezes her hand gently and Maysilee lowers her gaze to the ground, unable— despite her best efforts, it's not like she's trying too hard— to stop glaring at the Peacekeepers. They remain standing, Wyatt holding his breath and hunching his shoulders and Maysilee biting her tongue to keep her snarky comments to herself and eyes focused on the yellow wildflower she saw on her walk to the meadow.

How amazing, she thinks to herself as she stares at it. To be able to grow despite the weeds surrounding it and the poisonous air trying. 

Then she promptly watches as a once-shiny, now dirty and caked in coal dust, boot crushes it underfoot.

The next Sunday arrives with a gentler heat, still there, still lingering from the heatwave but not as oppressive, the kind that warms the skin rather than suffocating it. Maysilee wakes before Merrilee for once— normally, she sleeps in on her days off of working. She slips out of bed with a flutter in her stomach. Her feet lead her to her closet, passing by her jewelry workstation with spilled beads and swaths of fabric and wire everywhere on the workstation, a sharp contrast to how the rest of her side of the room looks. 

She browses through her dresses on hangers, pulling them out before hanging them back up until she finds one that’s summery and pretty. A cotton baby blue sundress that she’s been saving for the perfect day. And today feels like that kind of day.

Her fingers thread through her hair, deftly plaiting her hair loosely, weaving a few tiny wildflowers into the strands and tying it off with a matching lacy ribbon before grabbing a small basket she packed the night before: a few rolls from the bakery, a tiny tin of lavender sugar cookies she made herself (Wyatt’s her favorite taste tester), a few cinnamon cream balls (for his Ma and him to share when he gets home), and a jar of wild berries that Asterid gave her after a trip in the woods for the apothecary.

She hopes Wyatt will like them. She really wants to see that soft smile he only ever gives her, the one that shows that he feels safe.

Then she heads out, down the wooden stairs to the Sweet Shop, tossing a quick farewell over her shoulder to her parents who are in the middle of restocking the taffies and gumdrops as she strolls through the shop.

“Be careful, sweetpea,” her Papa calls as the doors shut lightly behind her.

She strides across the square, mind focused only on getting to the lake, the thought of seeing Wyatt again filling her with the same giddiness that always plagues her ever since they first started dating. The walk is long, but the path is familiar. She’s taken it with Merrilee before and with Asterid, sometimes riding their pink bikes on it when circling the square got too boring.

Her bangs float with the occasional breeze, a reminder of how nice the summer could be if not for the Capitol. Only two more weeks until the Fiftieth Games; Wyatt’s last reaping and Maysilee’s third to last reaping. A creeping unease always settles over her at night, when she’s deep asleep, her blood turning cold at the prospect of her or her friends or Wyatt getting reaped. She always woke, back of her hand pressed against her mouth, stifling the shaky breaths that tumbled out of her, tears beading at the edges of her eyes and slipping down her sharp cheekbones in rivulets.

She'd always slip out of bed and head to the window, staring at the nighttime sky. Her eyes would search for the brightest star. A familiar, comforting memory from her late grandmother would come to mind: "Look at the shiniest light in the sky, my dear, and once you find it, clasp your hands together and wish really, really hard," her grandmother would tell her when she couldn't sleep at night. "If your heart is pure, your wishes will come true."

"But what if it isn't pure?" Maysilee asked, her voice small. "What if it doesn't come true?"

"My dear, you are pure. All children are. It's when you're much older that impure thoughts start to cloud one's mind." Her grandmother wrapped her arms around Maysilee's small frame and pressed a kiss to her granddaughter's hairline. "Any wish you have will come true now."

So, Maysilee wished. She wished that her mother wouldn't despise her so much for trying to pave her own identity, she wished that her family would always be safe and protected. She wished that her grandmother would never disappear from her life.

But, then she did, only a few months after that. Maysilee remembers the burial. Dressed in a matching black dress and headband, icy-blue eyes rimmed with pink, the tip of her nose red from constant crying. And Maysilee learned not to wish for anything because they aren't true. Nothing she's ever wished for has happened— it's been disappointment after disappointment after disappointment.

However, without fail, when she searched for the brightest light in the sky, she'd squeeze her hands together and stare at it, her lips pressed tightly as her mind wished: Don't let Merrilee or Asterid or Wyatt be reaped.

Nevertheless, she'd go to bed with a pit in her gut and worry thrumming underneath her skin.

Maysilee spots him before he sees her. Wyatt stands at the edge of the lake, hands shoved into his jean pockets, his paperboy cap slightly askew. Even from where she is, she can see the necklace she made for him resting against his collarbone, his coin in the loop gleaming under the rays of sun. The sight sends a warm rush through her.

“Wyatt!” She calls, her voice bright.

He startles slightly, before turning, his face softening when he sees her. “Hi,” he says, and it’s the same greeting as always, but there’s something different about it today. She can’t put her finger on it.

“You beat me here,” she says as she walks over, the basket swinging at her side.

“I wanted to make sure I didn’t keep you waiting,” he answers, rubbing the back of his neck, a sheepish look crossing his face, but his eyes bright at the sight of her. “I know you hate that.”

She does, but she loves that he remembers that. It makes her feel slightly more normal about remembering every little thing about him.

Maysilee sets the basket down and takes in the lake. The water glimmers under the morning sun, rippling gently. Dragonflies skim the surface, their wings catching the light. She inhales deeply, the air smelling like damp earth and pine, fresher and certainly cleaner than anything in town.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. For some reason, she doesn’t want her voice to break such a pretty moment.

Wyatt nods. “Ma used to take me here when I was little. Sometimes, she'd bring my brothers, but they never listened and they'd rather follow Pa around, so it became just us.”

Her fingers brush against his as she steps closer. He looks down at their hands, then back up at her.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs.

“I’m glad you asked me,” she replies easily.

They settle on a patch of grass near the water, the shade of a willow tree draping over them like a curtain. Maysilee opens the flap to the basket, arranging the food between them. Wyatt watches her with that usual unreadable expression, though his eyes widen slightly when he spots the familiar bag of cinnamon cream balls.

“Cinnamon cream balls?” He asks quietly, fingering the opening of the red-and-white striped paper bag, running his finger along the paper teeth at the top.

Maysilee nods. “I thought you and your Ma could have them. Since you always buy them for her.”

Wyatt picks up one of the lavender sugar cookies, turning it over in his hand. “Did you make these?”

“Yeah,” she answers, nervous like always whenever she has Wyatt try something out. She knows he’ll never sugarcoat what he thinks and that’s extremely helpful when it comes to making products for the Sweet Shop. “I thought maybe you’d like them.”

He takes a bite. His eyes widen. “Mays, these are really good.”

“Really?” Relief floods her.

“Really,” he says, finishing the cookie in two bites. “You’re amazing.”

A flush creeps up the back of her neck and dances across her face. She tries not to beam too obviously, but she can’t help it.

They eat quietly for a while, sharing rolls and berries, hands brushing each other more often than not. The berries stain their fingers, blue and pink and purple. A bit like nail polish, but more organic. She watches as Wyatt tries to rid the stains by wiping it off on the grass.

“You’re a mess,” she teases.

He freezes, glancing at and studying her face before relaxing. “You like me anyway,” he says, and it’s said so softly she nearly misses it.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “I do.”

Then she leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek. Wyatt stiffens slightly before relaxing. A shy smile graces his mouth.

“What’d you do that for?” He asks, the tips of his ears a shade of pink.

“Because I could,” replies Maysilee, leaning back onto her palms and tossing him a smile. “And you’re very adorable.”

“Mays.”

She throws her head back and lets out a laugh. It's a bright sound and she knows Wyatt likes it— he's told her before. “It’s true, Wyatt.” When she raises her head again, her eyes land on the distant mountains, nothing beyond there grows from what she’s told in school, but she can’t help but wonder if there might be civilization that somehow survived. “Wyatt?”

“Yeah?” He’s rolling his scrip coin between his fingers, lost in deep thought.

“Do you ever think about leaving?”

Wyatt blinks. “District Twelve?”

Maysilee nods. “Sometimes I think about what it would be like to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere where I don’t have to follow rules made by someone who’s never stepped foot in Twelve. Somewhere where I wouldn’t be forced to watch children die in cruel games. A place where Peacekeepers don’t stomp around like they own everything.”

She thinks of the wildflower crushed under a boot. Her stomach tightens.

“I think about it,” he admits. “But I don’t know if it’s possible.”

Her shoulders slump slightly. “Yeah,” she agrees. “I don’t think I’d be able to survive the wilderness.”

“I think your odds of surviving in the wilderness would be higher than you think,” Wyatt says.

“Really?” Her brows lift, confusion floating across her face.

He nods. “You’re good with your hands, light on your feet. I’m not sure how you’d feel about actually killing animals, but you’d be able to set traps and I’d reckon you’d be pretty resourceful in that type of environment.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly. It’s nice to hear something sweet about her from someone other than her family or Asterid. “If it were possible to leave, I’d want to go with you.”

He looks at her, startled. “You would?”

“Of course,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Wyatt doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the lake, expression blank, his fingers rolling the coin. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just didn’t think anyone would want to go anywhere with me.”

“Wyatt Callow,” she says, chest aching. “You are by and far my favorite person in the district. You're the kindest person I know, always so sweet. You’re truly the only option— Mother would complain about ruining her hair and outfit, Merrilee’s not built for that way of life, and Papa couldn’t kill so much as a bug. You’d help me and I’d reckon together our chances would be much better.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she says, reaching out, taking his hand. His fingers curl around hers instinctively.

They sit like that for a long moment, the breeze rustling the willow leaves above them. The lake laps gently at the shore. A bird calls somewhere in the trees. Maysilee spots a mockingjay soaring in the air, wings outstretched as it glides along the breeze and wrinkles her nose. She hates those things— half bird, half mutt, all Capitol.

Wyatt squeezes her hand. “I like being here with you.”

“I like being anywhere with you,” she says softly. “I wish we could spend more time together.” This sentence comes out more solemn, an acknowledgement of a life that can't be changed in the foreseeable future.

“I know,” he mutters. “But the mines…”

“I know,” she responds. “It’s not your fault. I just miss you a lot. Especially—” She abruptly stops. And by the look on his face he knows what she meant: especially with the Games so close, when all you want to do is fill your mind with happy thoughts of loved ones, just in case.

Wyatt changes the subject and Maysilee's grateful for it. She's tired of worrying over the Games and who might get reaped.

“Can I show you something?” He asks, his fingers plucking at her braided bracelets.

Maysilee nods. A thought of making him a matching one growing in her head.

He stands and leads her to the water’s edge. The lake is shallow here, the rocks smooth and flat. Maysilee watches as Wyatt crouches down and picks up a stone, weighing it in his palm.

“Pa taught me how to skip rocks when Ma would bring him along,” he says, rolling the stone over. “I’m not great at it, but…”

He throws the stone. It skips twice before sinking, leaving behind little ripples on the surface of the water, spreading outward. It’s a mesmerizing sight.

“That was good,” Maysilee says, watching the last ripple fade.

An embarrassed look crosses his face. He's still not used to her complimenting him. She'll have to work with him on that. “You try.”

Maysilee picks up a stone, mimicking the way he held it. She throws it. It plops straight into the water without a single skip.

Wyatt bites back a smile. “Maybe try a flatter one.”

She glares playfully, the corners of her mouth turned upward. “I’m trying.”

“Uh… may I?” He asks softly, gesturing behind her. A true gentleman to his core. She loves that about him.

“Always.”

He steps behind her, gently adjusting her grip. His hands are warm against hers. “Like this,” he murmurs. “And flick your wrist a little.”

She tries again. This time the stone skips once, a fat ripple coming from it before it sinks like an anchor in the ocean.

“Better than last time,” she says with a wide grin.

He laughs softly. “I think anything would pretty much be an improvement.”

She turns to him, exhilarated, and without thinking, she throws her arms around him. He stiffens for a moment, before melting into her embrace, his arms wrapping around her waist. She's come to find that he likes hugs, although for some reason never thinks she likes hugging him.

“You’re warm,” she says.

“You’re hugging me,” he replies, sounding dazed.

Maysilee laughs and pulls back slightly, her hands resting on his shoulders. “Well, you are my boyfriend,” she points out, wisps of her hair fluttering in the calm breeze. It caresses the bare skin of her arms, cooling her a little even though there’s fire burning underneath her skin. “Is that okay?”

He nods. “Yeah, that’s– that’s fine.”

“Great. I’m gonna kiss you now,” she informs him. She gives him one moment to register her words, before she’s pulling him down to her and pressing her mouth against his.

This kiss is longer, slower, and tender. Maysilee tangles one hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, while keeping her other hand clutching the front of his shirt. She feels Wyatt's hands settle on her waist before one slides up her back, pressing her closer against him. It's a mesh of teeth and lips and tongue, but Maysilee can't find it in herself to care. All she knows is that right now, she feels safer than she ever has before.

"This isn't a good idea," Merrilee hisses from her bed, comforter drawn up to her chin even though the room was stifling with hot stale air. "What if something happens?"

"I'll be with Wyatt," Maysilee reassures softly, eyes glancing at the clock. "He'll keep me safe, Mer."

"I know, I just worry." Merrilee gnaws on her bottom lip. "What if Papa comes to check on us?"

"Papa's fast asleep and Mother wouldn't bother trying to wake from her beauty sleep," Maysilee points out. "I won't be gone long. At most, a few hours, okay?"

Merrilee watches her, but nods slowly. "If you're not back in three hours, I'm coming to get you."

"If you're not fast asleep," Maysilee teases, but she nods. "Okay. I'll be back."

"Don't let him give you hickeys," Merrilee whispers as Maysilee tiptoes out of their shared bedroom.

Maysilee tosses her a playful glare before shutting the door quietly. She creeps down the hall, dodging the spots that creak loudly under the decorative worn rug. Her boots are in her hand, the cold from the wooden floor seeping through her socks and into her bones. She hardly had time to check herself out in the mirror, the bedroom stuck in pitch black with only the faintest sliver of moonlight managing to poke through the dark clouds.

She runs her fingers through her hair, smoothing down the hair at the crown of head. At the end of the hall, an open window is situated. A nighttime breeze blows in, the curtains billowing and opening enough for Maysilee to catch a glimpse of herself in the pale silver light.

Her hair doesn't look too bad, a bit of frizz but that's to be expected after a series of dreary days and rising temperature, the humidity sticking to her skin like a bee stuck in honey. The chiffon tank top clings to her like a second skin as she adjusts the straps. Maysilee's not too worried about her bottoms— a pair of soft linen pants, comfortable and easy to move in just on the off chance she needs to run back home.

She's heading to the Hob to surprise Wyatt. They haven't been able to spend time together since that day at the lake. It was disappointing, but Maysilee knew it wasn't his fault. How can she blame him for the life they were born in?

The sound of movement from her parents' room makes her freeze. Then it quiets (well, except for the soft snores of her father) and she moves even faster than before, but just as silently. When she reaches the door, she strains her ears, another precaution before reaching for the doorknob. The knob is cool against her skin and she twists it, a soft rustle as she pulls the door open wide enough to slip through.

Maysilee squeezes through the gap, boots still in hand and only once the door shuts delicately does she slip her shoes on. Her feet gently thud against the wooden steps as she hurries down the stairs, before heading to the backroom— where all the inventory is, unopened boxes stacked along a wall, opened boxes scattered around, the tape still on the cardboard flaps, curling slightly in on itself— and slipping out the door where they take the deliveries.

The smell of rain lingers in the air. It'd been pouring on and off all day, tiny bits of sunshine peeking out from the clouds before another group of clouds darkened with rain rolled through. She'd been stuck inside all day, working the counter before switching off with Merrilee to work in the back, unpacking boxes and trying to come up with new flavor combinations to lure more customers in.

A gentle breeze is a balm against the sticky sweat coating her skin. Maysilee doesn't wait long, hurrying across the square, swerving around the puddles developed in depressions in the square. Her foot slides and Maysilee curses.

"Fuck!" She hisses, glancing down at her now-ruined boot. Mud is caked onto the tip and splashed along the sides. She'll have to hide it when she gets home and salvage it when her parents are working.

She wobbles as she stands on one leg and shakes off as much mud on her boot as she can before continuing on her way. Mud squelches underneath her feet as she walks the path, gritting her teeth.

Under any normal circumstances she wouldn't have bothered sneaking out to see Wyatt, she'd have simply waited until the next nice day. But tomorrow's the Fiftieth Hunger Games and she really wanted to see him before then, a chasm of unease and nausea catalyzing in her stomach whenever her thoughts dared to drift toward the reaping ceremony. Which, recently, has been happening more often than she'd like. She hopes by ignoring it, it'll go away, but instead, it continues to loom ahead.

Damp earth fills her nostrils as she walks quickly until the orange glow and loud racket of the Hob announces her arrival at her destination. Maysilee wipes the bottoms of her boots on the wet grass before slipping inside the Hob.

There's more people here than she expected. Apparently, most of the adults decided to drink away their fears and worries tonight since tomorrow will be relegated to drowning their sorrows for the children that'd been Reaped. The stage is empty— the Covey must not be playing due to the larger amount of Peacekeepers. Maysilee knows that Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber keep a tighter leash around Lenore Dove after her rebellious displays. She remembers catching Lenore Dove, orange paint staining her fingertips, one time. They never mentioned it, but Maysilee can't lie, she enjoyed having leverage against her.

Men argue loudly at a nearby table, liquor sloshing over the rim of glasses and dripping onto the tabletop marred with water-rings and something that looked suspiciously like dried blood. Some women whisper about the Games.

"I hope my boy doesn't get called," one says, eyes lined in black kohl. "I don't think I'll be able to bear it."

"Me either," a pudgier woman agrees. "My little Annabelle wouldn't last a day in any sort of arena."

"I don't think, Belinda," another woman begins, "that any child would be accustomed to being forced to fight to the death anywhere."

Maysilee moves on quickly, pushing people and squeezing in between gaps, trying to escape the constant chatter of the Games. It fills her with dread, but she tries to remain positive— her, Merrilee, and Asterid are merchant girls, they won't have many slips in compared to the others and Wyatt's never needed to worry about tesserae because of how much his family profits off of gambling. They'll all be safe, she tells herself as her eyes scour the room.

The disgusting scent, a mixture of booze and piss and blood, floods her senses. So many bodies packed together, all radiating heat, press against her. It's suffocating and a swell of panic races up her spine. Dizziness sweeps over her as sweat beads at the corners of her temples and the back of her neck.

She still doesn't spot Wyatt. He's not near the side exit he normally is— his paperboy cap is nowhere in her line of sight. She needs air, her chest heaving as she stumbles past people. A hand grabs her elbow, a sleazy voice whispering in her ear.

"Hey, little lady," is all the drunk manages to get before Maysilee slams her elbow into his nose.

She yanks her arm out of his grasp, moving faster. Her ears only manage to hear "fucking bitch" before his voice fades out. Something warm drips down her elbow but she can't find it in herself to care when she really needs fresh air in her lungs. Bodies and faces blur past her, a mosaic of muted colors.

The side exit flings open and she throws herself out and slams it shut behind her. Her back presses against the door, the wood curving against her back as she sucks in deep gulps of pine-scented air. Her chest heaves, rising and falling rhythmically, as she closes her eyes and tries to calm herself. In and out, in and out, she repeats until her stomach stops churning and the world stops being loud.

Finally, her eyelids flutter. Maysilee's attention is drawn to the rundown shed where the bets and gambling take place. It's parked behind the Hob, partially obscured by the bigger and taller building. Warped boards of wood, stuck together by rusted nails and occasional patches of duct tape. The tin roof rests atop it, awkwardly resting more on one side than the other, rotting cardboard covering up the larger holes in it.

She's never been inside— there hadn't been any need for her to. But she can imagine how it looks. Dilapidated, a long wooden table with janky legs on its deathbed, a board or something to write the bets down and the payouts, maybe one light bulb hanging from the ceiling, flickering every time the gamblers make a racket.

But she needs to see him. Talk to him before tomorrow. She doesn't know if she'll have a chance before the ceremony to see him and even though she knows better, knows that her and Wyatt and her friends have a slim chance of getting called, she wants him to reassure her. Tell her with probabilities and statistics that everyone she loves will be fine.

Her feet lead her to the door at the entrance of the shed. It's slightly tilted off the bottom hinge, like someone yanked it open too hard and then couldn't be bothered to fix it. Warm yellow light pokes out through the thin slats of wood, casting golden streaks on the ground. Another round of muffled laughter filters through the door as Maysilee hesitantly pushes it open.

None of them notice her as she lingers in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, fingernails scratching at the dried blood running from her elbow down to her forearm. Her bright blue eyes scan the room, darting from one back to another back until a man shifts and she spots Wyatt, leaning against the wall, scrip coin rolling between his fingers, glinting in the light.

His eyes meet hers and she gives him a tentative smile. She watches as he starts to move and she steps outside again, not wanting any of the others' attention on her. Gooseflesh prickles her skin and Maysilee is rubbing her arms when Wyatt steps out, eyes landing on her immediately.

"Mays?" He murmurs, moving closer, worried eyes looking over her. "What's wrong? What are you doing here?"

"Nothing's wrong," she replies, stepping closer. "I just wanted to see you before tomorrow. In case we don't have time in the morning." She hesitates. "And I need reassurance."

He frowns. "What for?"

"That you and Merrilee and me and Asterid won't get reaped." Saying the words aloud makes it all feel even more real and her stomach dips suddenly like she's sledding down a tall hill, hurtling toward something in the way.

"All of our odds are low," he promises, pulling her into his arms. She melts immediately, savoring the warmth of him.

Wyatt traces patterns on her shirt as they cling to each other, her face buried in the hollow of his throat. It soothes her some, but the fear lingers, a shadow curling at the edges of every thought, tainting her mind with worry.

He suddenly stiffens under her. "Are you bleeding?"

"What? No," Maysilee says pulling back slightly. She follows his gaze to her elbow. "No, some jackass grabbed me and I elbowed him in the nose,"— here, she grins proudly— "and got the hell out of there."

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't be," she replies. "It's not your fault. I just wanted to spend time with you."

Wyatt cups her face, the pads of his thumbs brushing along her jawline, before one passes over her lips. She bats her eyes, staring up at him and leaning into his touch.

"We can spend time after the reaping," he suggests. "Pa will let me have the day off."

"That sounds nice." Maysilee leans up.

She can feel his warm breath mingling with hers. The smell of smoke makes her nostrils flare as she leans in even further. He finally presses his mouth against hers and she sighs in relief, relaxing into him. He tastes like smoke and berries, an odd but intoxicating combination.

It's a soft kiss and a short one. Because the door to the shed opens and Wyatt's Pa calls out.

"Stop smooching your honey and get your ass in here, Wyatt. You two can lip lock tomorrow."

They both startle, pulling away as Wyatt's Pa shakes his head and disappears back inside. Pale moonlight cast shadows across Wyatt's face, but Maysilee distinguishes a blush on his face from his father's words. She grins before pulling him down again for another kiss, twining her arms around his neck.

"I'll see you tomorrow, lover," she mumbles against his mouth, pressing one final kiss before releasing him.

"Be safe, Maysilee," he whispers, brushing back a piece of hair behind her ear. "I'd walk you home but…"

"I know," she says. "You get home safe too, okay?"

"Okay." He agrees easily.

She takes her leave, glancing back and spotting him standing where they were, watching her go until he's a speck in the distance and she can't see him anymore as she returns home, hope and warmth and something akin to concern coalescing in her stomach.

"And the first gentleman joining the ladies is…" Drusilla Sickle, the District 12 escort, nasally states, "Wyatt Callow!"

Her heart stops. All of the noise around her dims more and more until it fades into nothing. She's frozen in place, a butterfly trapped in resin, her limbs are numb. Forced to watch the man she loves walk slowly down the aisle partitioning the girls from the boys, closer and closer to the stage, his feet leading him toward his almost certain inevitable death.

Small bursts of pain bloom from both her hands as Merrilee and Asterid dig their nails into her skin, a warning and a promise. To not let her go— to prevent her from doing something utterly stupid, but keep her upright.

Wyatt's face remains blank as he takes his place on the stage as far away as possible from that plastic faced devil wearing the outfit of a Peacekeeper and canary mash-up. It's vulgar and when Maysilee first saw it, she wanted to gouge her eyes out. Wished she could raze everything to the ground, keep who she loved safe.

When it finally sinks in, Maysilee nearly crumbles.

"No," she whispers, more to herself than anyone else.

Merrilee wraps an arm around Maysilee's waist, her constant support beam. Maysilee takes a deep breath, knees trembling before she realizes what she's doing. She opens her mouth— to do what, she's not sure; maybe scream his name, maybe offer herself up as a tribute and go into the jaws of the Capitol who would delight in grinding her up and spitting her pearly bones out— but Asterid clamps a hand over her mouth so her muffled pleas fall upon deaf ears.

Her eyes meet Wyatt's. His are dark and blank while hers are pain-filled and angry. He tips his head slightly forward, and Maysilee squirms in the arms of her best friends. Death be damned, she needs to be with him, refuses to let him go alone.

She's so focused on Wyatt, she hasn't been paying any attention until a gunshot ricochets in the air and Woodbine Chance falls to the ground. Merrilee lets out a startled yelp and Asterid yanks both of them down as everyone around them crouches as well and all Maysilee can do is stare at Woodbine's face, his eyes now cloudy and dull as blood inches across the cobblestone pavement, a color that will only fade with time but never disappear completely.

But she's not seeing Woodbine's face; she's seeing Wyatt's. Her mind conjures up Wyatt's face and bile rushes up her throat. She gags as the metallic smell of blood suffuses in the air, invading her senses. Maysilee retches, her stomach churning like a storm in the ocean, waves of nausea flooding over her before ebbing away and coming back ten-fold.

Maysilee's forced back up by orders from the Peacekeepers as another boy— someone who looks closer to Louella McCoy's age— is made to walk the steps of the stage.

She watches as a man in a suit moves, a cameraman trailing behind him. Her eyes quiver rapidly as she watches Wyatt and the other's get dragged away into the Justice Building. A fight starts almost immediately amongst the Booker Boys.

"This is your fault," one man shouts, his right hook hurling through the air, a missile seeking to do some damage.

"You jinxed him," a gravelly voice counters, before it the fight devolves into a brawl. The sounds of torn flesh and broken bones and wounded wails filling the air before Peacekeepers go to stop the scuffle.

Maysilee yanks herself out of her sister and Asterid's grasp, rushing over to Wyatt's family. Wyatt's Ma, Delilah, spots her and embraces Maysilee.

"Oh, my dear," she murmurs softly, stroking her hair. "You can say goodbye to him, okay, sweetheart?"

"Thank you," Maysilee chokes out. Her voice doesn't even sound familiar. She's grateful Delilah knew what she wanted to ask. She needs one moment more with him.

The Booker Boys try to follow the tributes, still a noisy riot, before the Peacekeepers beat them back with batons.

The Justice Building is elaborate and decorative. A towering gray building made of stone and dark concrete about two-stories tall, with HALL OF JUSTICE carved into a rectangular depression above the entrance, wide stairs leading up to it.

Delilah and Maysilee slowly climb the steps while Merrilee and Asterid wait at the bottom. Delilah pats Maysilee's hand before she pulls open the large doors and they step inside. Outside, she can still hear the rest of Wyatt's family arguing. She knows that his Pa and older brothers will come to see him before he's taken to the Capitol, but she can't help but feel selfish for intruding on this.

She waits in the hallway, adorned with various posters of the president and propos playing on an old television mounted to the wall, as Delilah visits her son. Maysilee scuffs the bottom of her heels on the portion of floor not covered by the wide orange rug. Only raises her head when heavy footsteps and breathing appear at the end of the hallway— Jethro Callow and his eldest sons appear at the top of the stairs, faces flushed whether from the heat or anger she's unsure, but they stride toward her, fists clenched.

"His Ma in there with 'im?" Jethro asks, voice a low rumble.

Maysilee nods mutely. His brothers, Kennedy and Beau, sink into the plush seats lined across from the door. Her eyes take in how much they look like Wyatt, but there's something sharper about them. They're both at least a decade older than Wyatt, with more angular faces and more pronounced lines. While she's studying them, the sound of a door opening captures her attention. Maysilee turns her head to look, but the door where Delilah and Wyatt are isn't the one that opens.

It's Louella McCoy's door, farther down the hall. A weeping woman falls to the ground as a man enters, shutting the door behind him, though she can hear Louella's tearful "Pa!" before the door clicks. The woman, Mrs. McCoy she presumes, continues to sob on the floor, surrounded by Louella's siblings. Maysilee spots Ima McCoy— a girl she used to torment— and turns away, her hair a curtain shielding her from being seen.

The handle to Wyatt's door opens and as Delilah steps out, Jethro steps in, shutting the door softly. Delilah drops into one of the armchairs, her eyes subdued but red-rimmed.

"Ma," Kennedy murmurs, getting up from his spot to kneel in front of Delilah.

She doesn't respond, staring blankly at the wall, tears leaking from the corner of her eyes. In the light they look like diamonds trailing down her cheeks and dripping onto her nicest dress.

"Ma." Beau's voice is rougher and it finally shakes Delilah out of her reverie.

"My baby!" she sobs, covering her face.

When Jethro comes out, Kennedy and Beau both go in at the same time. Maysilee waits, fingers fiddling with her necklaces, tracing the outline of various trinkets. Jethro wraps his arms around his wife as Delilah sobs, tears and snot staining his shirt but he doesn't seem to care as he tries to comfort her. Maysilee spots a hint of guilt in his eyes, but she doesn't have time to dwell on it because Kennedy and Beau are leaving the room.

"Your turn," Beau grumbles as he heads toward his parents, Kennedy following.

Maysilee slips inside, shutting the door behind her. Wyatt's standing at the large windows, hands tucked in pockets, eyes exhausted and red. She doesn't even hesitate. She runs to him, throwing her weight into his arms, clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping her alive, the oxygen she needs to continue to survive.

Wyatt hugs her back tightly, burying his face into her hair. She can feel the tears dribbling out of his eyes and wetting the top of her head. Maysilee sobs into his chest, grief overwhelming her frame. Her shoulders shake as Wyatt rubs circles along the small of her back.

"I'm right here," he says quietly, voice thick with terror.

"For now," she replies with a strangled sob. "I don't want you to die."

"I don't want to die," he answers, tightening his hold.

"Promise me," she demands, pulling away slightly, and cupping his jaw with one hand, "that you'll win."

"I can't," he murmurs.

"Promise me!" She snaps. "Please, just try for me. Please." The last please is barely audible, but Wyatt nods like he heard it.

"I'll try," he eventually agrees. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. A tremor shakes his hand as he holds it out to her. "Take this."

"What is it?" Maysilee questions, taking it from him before grasping his hand with her free one.

"A letter," he says. "I wasn't brave enough to give it to you while I could see your reaction. But since…" He trails off before clearing his throat. "You can read it in the safety of your home."

She fingers the edge of the paper. Before she tucks it into the pocket of her dress and undoes a bracelet. It's her favorite one, but she wants him to have it. A small shard of delight pierces her when she spots the necklace hanging around his neck, his scrip coin inside, glinting in the light.

"Wear this," she says, wrapping it around his wrist before clasping it together. "I have one at home that matches this. So we'll always have something connecting us."

Wyatt nods.

"Can I?" He asks quietly, fear seeping through his voice.

"Always," she answers.

He pulls her close, their lips brushing slightly before he pulls away. Maysilee blinks before she yanks him back down for a proper kiss. This one is filled with fear and longing, the smell of sandalwood coating her senses as his fingers tangle in her hair and she clutches the collar of his shirt. It's desperate and she doesn't want to come up for air, would rather die than let him go, but the door opens.

"That's enough!" A gruff voice snaps and she's yanked away by a Peacekeeper.

Maysilee struggles in his grasp as he drags her toward the door.

"I love you!" She shouts at Wyatt. "Don't forget the promise!"

"I love you too," Wyatt calls back, thumb tracing the woven pattern of his new bracelet.

The Peacekeeper throws her out, Maysilee falling to the floor and slamming her knees into the carpeted floor. She's able to catch one glimpse of Wyatt before the door shuts with a resounding thud.

"Dear," Delilah murmurs, kneeling beside Maysilee. "It'll be okay."

Maysilee gives her a nod, but her stomach fills with dread.

She doesn't go home. Her feet lead her toward the meadow, toward their spot under the oak tree. His letter burns a hole in the pocket of her lilac dress. She sent Merrilee and Asterid away, needing a moment to be by herself, to wallow in her guilt and dread, to picture Wyatt the way she saw him last.

The ground is cooler under the tree as Maysilee takes a seat. The rough bark of the tree digs into her back and Maysilee presses against it harder, the sharp pain helping stave off the numbness that's encompassed her since the door closed behind her.

Delilah had offered to stay with her, but Maysilee assured her that she'd be fine— a bold-faced lie, but every time she looked at Delilah, she saw Wyatt. His eyes, his cheekbones, the dimples pressed beside every timid smile. It made her want to scream and bawl like a baby, but she refused to show how affected she is.

Only Wyatt and her family would ever get to see her cry. She dodged lingering cameramen, panning for shots to use in future commercials and propos. Face hardened into an angry mask, but the ache of Wyatt, already on a train to the Capitol, leaving a bruised heart behind.

Trembling fingers unfold the piece of paper and slowly Wyatt's scrawling, almost resembling chicken-scratch but still legible, handwriting appears. Some of the words are shaky; like he was pouring his heart out and his emotions got the better of him.

Maysilee closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Heat presses against the back of her eyes, fighting to get out, but she doesn't want to cry. Doesn't want to splatter this letter with tears that could ruin it, that could erase his heartfelt words.

When she calms herself, she finally starts to read:

Maysilee,

I don't know how to write things like this. I don't know how to say things the way you do— out loud, without hesitation, like the words are always meant to be spoken. I think too much. I overthink everything until my thoughts get tangled, until I convince myself they're wrong, until I decide it's better for me to stay quiet. I don't want to make a fool of myself in front of you.

She takes a deep breath, blinking rapidly to bat away the heat behind her eyes, but she can hardly breathe. It feels like a lump is blocking her throat.

But I want you to know this, even if I never find the courage to say it.

When I'm with you, everything in my head stops hurting. The noise goes away and the numbers that circle my brain go still. The world feels less sharp, less like something that could harm and more like a place that could be filled with love and warmth. I didn't know quiet could feel like safety until you sat beside me in the meadow and leaned your shoulder against mine on our first date.

You help make things make sense.

I've spent my whole life watching people, trying to understand them the way I understand odds and probabilities and patterns. But you're the only person I've ever wanted to understand completely. Your mind fascinates me, how bold you are, how assured you are. I admire that. You're the only person I've ever wanted to be understood by.

When I first heard of you, a few words were repeated: stuck-up, mean, bully. But you're none of those things. You're kind and sweet and brave. You were the first person in my age range to be kind to me, to not look down your nose at me for my affiliation in gambling, for my family.

The day of our first date, I was so nervous. Ma straightened the wrinkles in my clothes over and over and then stiffed them with starch because I wanted to look my best. I even practiced conversing with her, terrified of saying or doing something that disappointed you. And when we talked under the large oak tree as summer faded into autumn, I felt at peace. I didn't know I could feel like that. And I stumbled over my words constantly, but you didn't get mad. You said: "Take your time, I like when you talk." Do you remember that? It made me realize I could want something for once in my life.

Then when we met for our third date and you announced we were dating, I was appalled. Not because I didn't want to date you, but that you wanted to date me after only two meetings. But I was secretly delighted, to finally be like everyone else, to have someone to love and adore and cherish. Even though, I'm not sure I did a good job at that.

Maysilee sniffles. "You did amazing, my love," she whispers, blinking back tears before continuing to read.

You gave me that necklace. Made it for me. Which means you thought about me long enough to weave something with your own hands. Nobody's done that for me before.

I don't know how to say this without sounding foolish, without sounding insane. But I think about you everyday, all the time. When I'm in the mines, digging out stones, whenever I see the canary, when I'm setting the odds. You're a constant presence in my thoughts, something that plagues me when I fall asleep and when I wake up. Sometimes it all feels a bit much, but Ma says that's what love feels like.

I can't say she's right, because what would I know about love? This is my first time experiencing it. I don't know what the odds are of two people like us finding each other in a place like this. I've tried to calculate it, but the numbers don't work. They're too small— too impossible.

But we found each other. And you chose me despite all my irredeemable qualities.

I don't know what will happen this year, whether one of us will get reaped or not. I don't know what the future looks like. But if there's a world where we get to leave District Twelve— even just once— I want to see it with you.

I want to sit beside you in the meadow, go to the lake again, hold your hand and hear you laugh. I want to kiss you until I forget who I am.

I don't know how to say "I love you" without feeling like I'm saying something too heavy, too burdening for you. But I think you already know. You always know things before I say them.

If you're reading this, it means I finally had the courage to give it to you.

And if I didn't— at least I wrote it down. At least the truth exists somewhere, even if you don't know.

— Wyatt

Tears fall from her eyes like a sudden downpour. Snot drips from her nostrils as Maysilee tucks the letter back into her pocket, fingers shaking and shoulders trembling with sorrow. But the sorrow doesn't last.

Instead, it gives way to rage. Hate burns through her entire being, the back of her neck itching as it spreads over her skin. She's furious— at the Capitol, at fate, at herself. Because she should've protected him, should've done something to stop it.

She knew pretty much from the moment she met him that there was something different about him. Wyatt wasn't like the boys she had class with. They were loud and obnoxious and stupid. Wyatt's sweet and gentle and quiet and so, so smart. She was drawn toward him like a moth to a flame.

It didn't take long for her to figure out how his brain works— how he shuts down when he's overwhelmed, rolling his scrip coin to help think, expressionless face when he's trying to understand something. So she knew— no, she knows— that he loves her.

She's certain that she's loved him just as long, if not longer. But she never wanted to burden him with the knowledge, never wanted to overwhelm him and make him hide in his shell, so she never said it aloud. Just insinuated it with her kisses and hugs and gifts.

She hates that the only time she directly told him was the last time she'll ever see him again.

When she gets back home, she heads straight to bed. Crawls under the covers without cleaning off her makeup or changing out of her outfit. Maysilee pulls the collar of her dress up to her nose and takes a deep whiff— it smells like Wyatt, like sandalwood and the coal dust that permeates everything in District 12.

Then she drifts off. Or tries to, anyway. All she sees when her eyes close is Wyatt dying over and over, whether by blade or starvation or poison. Muffled murmurs outside the door keep her awake too. Her family talking about her. She knows they are.

"Let her be, baby," her Papa's voice murmurs. "You can sleep in the guest room tonight."

"But, Papa, shouldn't we be there for her?" Merrilee's voice questions.

"She needs space, Merrilee," her Papa answers. "I know how she feels. I felt the same when my mother passed. At some point, she'll come out of her shell and we'll be there for her."

Merrilee sounds doubtful as she replies, "Okay, Papa."

Gratefulness crashes over Maysilee as the footsteps fade away from the door. Now she can cry her eyes out without an audience. She loves Merrilee dearly, but it's nice to be able to wallow in her misery and not have to make Merrilee cry too. One of those twin things, she supposes, where if one cries the other cries.

It doesn't take long before her body is wracked with sobs. Painful ones that leave her gasping for air around the lump in her throat. Her body shakes harshly, leaving her clenching her sheets in an attempt to anchor herself. Even as exhaustion takes hold of her, tears continue to spill down her cheeks in waves, a never-ending flood from heartbreak.

At some point she dozes off, only to jerk awake at anything that reminds her of Wyatt— the mines, the meadow, the lake, the Hob, dark eyes, accepting scrip. Everything reminds her of him.

Blood running in rivulets down his torso, a nasty gash slashed diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hipbone. A metallic tang fills the air and she can taste the blood. The slow motion falling as he crumples to the ground, shock registering on his face. She wrenches herself out of the nightmare that popped up out of nowhere, throwing herself out of bed.

The floorboards are cool under her palms and kneecaps as she heaves. She gags, the tang of hallucinated-blood thick on her tongue.

A soft knock at the bedroom door.

"Maysilee, baby?" Her Papa's voice calls out. "Do you need help?"

She doesn't reply, just crawls across the floor and ensures that the door is locked, before rolling over and pressing her back against the door. The air is hot in the bedroom, the windows pulled shut and latched, but she's cold.

Gooseflesh pebbles along her arms and legs as she wraps her arms around herself, tucking her legs between her chest and arms. She presses her face against her knees. Desperation clawing at her as she tries to force her mind to focus on good thoughts— their date at the lake, their first kiss, anything other than the nightmare.

"Baby, please say something."

"Leave me alone, please, Papa," she finally says after a moment of silence.

He sighs, but she hears him walk away. Her spine curves against the door, the coolness of the wood seeping through her thin nightgown. She doesn't even remember putting it on; it must've happened when she was lucid between jolts of sleep. Blue eyes stray toward the clock and it's just a bit past midnight. She'd finally passed out at some point before the nightmare crept in.

Maysilee glances toward the window, lip quivering as she pushes herself up. She shuffles across the floor, closer and closer until her face is nearly pressed against the window. Her eyes stare at her reflection— blank face, eyes rimmed with red, tip of her nose pink, hair a mess.

She's so pale, she looks like a ghost in her white nightgown with her blonde hair. The only thing giving her away that she's still alive is the color on her nose and eyes.

Maysilee glances up at the inky blackness that's enveloped the sky since she woke up. Stars freckle the skyline; she searches for the brightest one possible. When she finds it, she clasps her hands together. She feels little again, younger than before.

"Please," she murmurs, "please, work this time." Her voice cracks.

Let Wyatt be safe— let him come home to me.

She remains there, staring at the star and repeating her wish again and again. Her hand reaches out to touch the glass, it's chilly but she relishes in the feeling. It reminds her that she's still alive and that— for now— Wyatt's still alive.

But he's even more alone than she is.

Asterid squeezes her hand tightly, to the point Maysilee doubts there's any blood circulating. Merrilee clings to her arm tightly, pressed against her like a cinder block weighing her down. The three are seated on the couch in the Donner's living room, the small television playing the national anthem of Panem.

Maysilee doesn't want to watch, but she has to. She needs to see Wyatt, even if he's on a small screen. It feels like he's already slipping out of her grasp. She's taken to sketching him, drawing the planes of his face, and his cupids bow and his shy smile. Maysilee doesn't think she's done anything but sketch as soon as she felt the first hint of fuzziness around a memory of them.

Dozens of sheets filled with images of him are plastered along her bedroom wall, a stack of half-finished ones on her nightstand. Merrilee hadn't said a word, just rubbed her back while she laid on her bed staring at the ceiling and wondering if it'd be better to die. But what if Wyatt wins? A tiny voice echoes in her mind.

So, she keeps fighting. And now here she is, watching the reaping play out for each district. Her eyes narrow when Wyatt's name is called out and then it transitions into Drusilla calling out for Alecs Gaunt seamlessly.

"That's not what happened," Maysilee mutters. "They've sanitized it all."

Merrilee and Asterid say nothing, but squeeze her tighter.

Then, Caesar Flickerman appears. His hair a ridiculous dark green that made his white face paint look even more garish than normal. And he's still wearing his midnight blue suit, dotted with twinkling bulbs. Ugh, she thinks, does he ever wash his clothes? That blue totally clashes with his hair.

"Hello, everyone!" He cheerfully screeches into the fat microphone in hand.

Maysilee flinches slightly. How can he live with himself? She wonders. Knowing that he's promoting the death of children?

"It's Caesar Flickerman here," he continues, a wide grin spreading across his face, and some of the white makeup cracks. "And we're now watching the tributes arrive!" District 1 appears, wearing snot green. Maysilee blanches at the color. "District 1! Yes, they look magnificent!"

She's still reeling over their outfits as the other districts appear on chariots. Two, Three, Four… it goes on and on and Maysilee holds her breath as Eleven appears on the screen. All of them look bored and dull.

She leans forward on the couch as Caesar announces District 12. She spots him immediately— he's taller than the other tributes. When the camera zooms in, she notes the ugly miner costumes with flickering bulbs in the plastic hardhats. She could've done a better job at designing them, something that would make them unique and standout. Something that would guarantee more of a chance of sponsors.

They're crammed into one chariot: Wyatt and Alecs behind the girls, Louella and Colbie. Maysilee remembers Colbie, a girl a year younger than herself with hair that constantly stuck-up no matter the weather.

She memorizes Wyatt, the way his knuckles clench around the silver guardrail on the chariot, dark eyes blank, face impassive. Then she watches as it goes haywire.

A firecracker explodes in front of Wyatt's chariot and her heart is in her throat as the horses take off. Everyone tries to hold on as the chariot hits something and then Maysilee watches as two people go flying into the air.

"Oh my gosh!" Merrilee shrieks in horror, releasing Maysilee's arm to tucking her face into her hands.

Asterid eyes are wide, her free hand covering her mouth.

Dizziness spills over Maysilee. It all happened so fast; she doesn't know if it's Wyatt who went flying or not. Then the feed cuts out.

"No!" She shouts, leaping to her feet. "Fuck!" She drops in front of the television as a commercial plays the history of Panem.

"Was it Wyatt?" Asterid whispers. "Did either of you notice?"

"No," sniffles Merrilee. "I couldn't tell. It's just so awful."

Maysilee stares at the television, willing it with her everything in her to return to the broadcast.

"Please," she whimpers. Tears prick the back of her eyes, but she refuses to cry in front of anyone. "Let Wyatt be alive."

It's selfish of her, she knows, to want him to be alive over the others. But she still holds out hope.

After several more minutes the broadcast appears again. Caesar Flickerman pops up, pearly white teeth as he grins.

"Well, wasn't that a spectacle?" He crows with a laugh.

Hatred fills Maysilee's veins as she stares. If she ever gets reaped, she'll try to take him out before she goes.

"Here are the fantastic tributes of the Fiftieth Hunger Games!" He turns, left arm outstretched, right hand clutching his microphone, and the screen behind him changes.

A splice of shots materialize on the screen: One, Two, Three… all the way to Twelve. She can see Wyatt, beaten and bruised but ultimately alive.

"There's only three," Maysilee says after a moment of staring at Wyatt.

"What?" Merrilee lifts her face from her hands and frowns at the silver screen.

Asterid leans forward. "Yeah, three. Huh, maybe one of them got hurt?"

"Then wouldn't both of the two that went flying be attended to?" Maysilee asks, unable to keep the bite back from her voice. "And like the Capitol cares about the tributes."

"Mays, I'm not the enemy," Asterid reminds her.

Maysilee's shoulders sag. "I know. I'm sorry," she mumbles. "I just…"

"I know," Asterid soothes. "But Wyatt's alive. That's good news after a nasty crash like that."

"Yeah," echoes Maysilee hollowly. "Good."

But a feeling of apprehension still lingers.

The Sweet Shop smells wrong. It still smells like warm caramel and sugar and vanilla, but today the scents cling to her skin like something rotten. Maysilee stands behind the counter, red and white striped apron tied around her waist with a neat bow, scooping gumdrops into matching paper bags, her movements stiff and mechanical. Her mother's voice floats from the back room, sharp and irritated, but Maysilee barely hears it. Everything is muffled, like she's underwater.

She certainly feels like she is— drowning in an invisible ocean no one can save her from.

"How's it going?" Haymitch Abernathy asks, disrupting her train of thought.

"Why do you care?" retorts Maysilee with a sneer.

Haymitch holds up his hands. "Just making conversation."

"Well, don't." She stuffs the last of the gumdrops into the bag. "Two forty."

He glares at her while he hands over the money. "You need to work on your customer service skills."

"Beat it," she replies, handing him his change.

Haymitch grumbles under his breath as he stalks out, clutching the bag of gumdrops.

More customers come and go. Children tug at their parents' sleeves. How anyone could subject children to a world like this is beyond her. But little images of a child Wyatt dart around her skull. Now that the reaping's over, everyone relaxes a little— people laugh, complain about the heat, ask for items that remind her of Wyatt.

But at this point what doesn't? Almost everything in District 12 is tainted with a memory of him. They'd only been dating for nearly a year, but he'd left his impression on everything.

When someone asks for cinnamon cream balls, she freezes, her stomach twisting into a knot.

She hands over the bag, a forced smile that feels brittle, like spun sugar about to snap. The customer doesn't even notice. But why would they care? It's not like it's any of their loved ones who will be forced to die or kill.

Her fingers brush against the counter, and she can't help but imagine Wyatt's hands instead. Warm, gentle, always a little shaky during their exchanges. She loved to see him blush, the dusting of pink that coated his cheekbones like two rosy circles. How he'd roll his scrip coin easily, remembering the first time he tried to teach her.

"Watch carefully," he murmured, giving her a look.

"I am," she protested with a laugh. "Look, I'm watching now."

Wyatt shook his head, before showing her the mechanics of it. Maysilee watched attentively, but her eyes would wander until they landed on his face. She mapped all the planes of it— his cheekbones, his jawline, his brows. Observed how long his eyelashes were, how dark his eyes were.

"Mays," he said quietly.

"What?" She snapped out of her daze. "I'm paying attention."

"No, you weren't," he replied, curiosity burning behind his eyeballs. "What were you thinking about?"

"I wasn't thinking about anything," she admits. "I was memorizing your face."

"Why?" He frowns.

"Because you're handsome and I like your face."

Wyatt pauses, uncertainty flickering across his face before he relaxes.

"Is that so?"

"Mmm. Now, I'll be attentive. Show me again," she demanded.

She's torn out of her memory by the bell above the shop jingling. Another customer enters to browse and she feels her throat tighten. She shouldn't be here. She should be with him, be able to see him and hold him and kiss him.

But she's here, surrounded by jars of candy and bright colors and unreasonably cheerful customers, while he's somewhere in the Capitol, alone. Well, not technically, but she knows it's hard for him to make friends so he might as well be.

Her Papa steps out of the back, wiping his calloused hands on his apron. "Sweetpea," he says softly, "you're putting licorice in the wrong bin."

She blinks down at her hands. Black licorice pieces sit in the gumdrop jar, staining the bright colors like soot.

"Oh," she murmurs. "Sorry."

Her father's brow furrows. He reaches out, touching her shoulder gently. "You can take a break if you need."

"I'm fine," she says automatically. Her voice sounds flat, wrong. But she needs to work, because if she doesn't she'll unravel. Worrying about how Wyatt's doing, what she could've done differently, if it'd be better if she had volunteered.

She moves to the shelves, restocking taffy. Her hands shake. She drops a piece, watching blankly as it bounces off the floor before rolling under a display case. Maysilee grabs handfuls stuffing the pieces into the jar. It does little to soothe her anger and nerves.

Her Papa disappeared at some point, she suspects back into the inventory room. Maysilee returns to the counter, polished fingernails digging into the wood. She bites her lip hard enough to taste blood, the sharp jolt of pain of skin tearing a welcoming pain.

Her mother's voice snaps from the back room. "Maysilee! Customers are waiting!"

"Then you deal with it!" She snarls before storming out.

"Maysilee!" Her mother calls after her, but Maysilee runs.

She runs until her calves are sore and aching, finding her in the one place she didn't expect.

The Callow home is a small wooden one-story, much like every other one in the Seam. Maysilee stops, standing on the dirt pathway leading up to the rickety wooden steps. Her chest aches, lungs trying to suck in as much oxygen as possible as Maysilee slides her feet backward.

She shouldn't be here. She should be at the meadow. But the front door opens before Maysilee can take off again.

"Maysilee?" Delilah's voice calls out, concern lacing her tone.

"Sorry," Maysilee apologizes. "I just… ended up here."

"Don't apologize, dear," Delilah states. "Would you like to come in?"

Maysilee hesitates, but she can see the loneliness in Delilah's face. The lines of her face have deepened, her eyes somber, she looks paler than before.

"Yes," Maysilee says, willing her feet to move forward.

When she enters the house, she takes in the decor. It's sparse— a tattered couch on its last legs, a small stand with a television set atop it, a circular dining table with five mismatched chairs. Pictures of young children hang on the wall and Maysilee searches for one of Wyatt.

Maysilee's breath catches when she sees it. He's young in it, likely around five or seven, a solemn expression on his face, though he's outside playing.

"He was six when I took that," Delilah says over her shoulder. "Kennedy and Beau locked him outside when he tried to join them for something. Told him to be a real kid because it wouldn't last." Delilah's voice cracks. "He's always been different from his brothers. More sensitive, but he's my favorite. Never gave me trouble unlike his Pa and brothers."

"He's the sweetest person I know," Maysilee agrees, tears welling up.

"When his Pa figured out how his brain works, how easily math came to him, I was terrified. I prayed every night that my little boy would come home safe and sound. I prayed that he wouldn't like helping, but he did. He'd come home and study over and over until he had everything figured out. Until there weren't any more patterns he didn't know." Delilah sighs sadly. "He adored his Pa, but Jethro didn't give him the time of day until he realized how Wyatt could help him profit." Bitterness coats her tone. "I hope he's happy with himself."

"I know how much Wyatt loves you," Maysilee murmurs. "You're his favorite."

Delilah smiles sadly. "He'll always be my baby boy. And I'm happy he found someone who loves him just as much as— if not more than— me."

Maysilee nods, swallowing thickly. "He's my favorite person."

"His room's down the hall, last door on the left," Delilah says, heading to the kitchen. "You're more than welcome to go in there."

She hesitates, eyes glancing down the hall before padding down. The walls of the hallway are bare. Wyatt's door is shut. Maysilee takes a deep breath before turning the knob and pushing it open.

His room is small and bare and clean. A bed pressed against the back wall, a window with two gray curtains framing it. A desk sits against the opposite wall, the chair slightly moved back like he just got up and walked away for a moment, with the plan to return to it later. Innocence eaten by the jaws of the Capitol.

Maysilee walks to his dresser. She doesn't want to snoop per se, more like find something of his that she can keep until he comes home (alive, she foolishly hopes). She pulls out a black shirt, it's bigger than her, but it smells like him. Sandalwood and traces of pine. She hugs it against her chest.

Then continues her perusal of his room. She flips through his bookshelf filled with ancient mathematic journals and probability textbooks. She's in the middle of one before Delilah intrudes.

"Here," Delilah says, holding something out. "I want you to have this."

Maysilee frowns as she takes them. Her eyes water as soon as she realizes they're pictures of Wyatt. One from when he was young, a shy smile on his face and newsboy cap resting on his head. Another when he's a preteen, looking off and in the middle of rolling the coin in between his fingers. And the last one, the most recent one, looks like it was taken a few weeks ago. Wyatt's sitting on the porch, face turned toward the sun, a serene expression on his face.

"Thank you," she chokes out. "Seriously, Delilah."

Delilah doesn't reply, she just nods and leaves the room. The smell of ham hock and bean soup fills the air. Maysilee rolls her shoulders and clutches the shirt and pictures. As she's leaving the room, her eyes rest on something.

A flacon rests upon the top of his bookshelf. She reaches over and spritzes it, the smell of sandalwood filling the air. She doesn't even give herself a second to mull over it before she's setting his shirt and pictures down and unscrewing the top of the fragrance bottle. Maysilee pulls out her heart-shaped vial, empty for now, from under her shirt and fills it with the sandalwood cologne.

Then she leaves with his shirt, pictures, and her vial filled with the scent of him.

"Welcome back, everyone!" Caesar Flickerman caws happily. "It's time to announce the tributes' training scores!"

Nausea rolls around her gut. Maysilee sits curled into her father's side, his arm wrapped around her, Merrilee pressed against her other side.

Caesar starts off with District 1. Then Two and so on. Maysilee's pulse thrums in her ears as he announces District 12's tribute scores.

"From District Twelve— Wyatt scores a 6!" He states. "Louella scores a 3, Alecs scores a 4, and Colbie scores a 4 as well!" Caesar grins at the camera. His teeth still obnoxiously white even though his face is painted in white. "I'll see you again soon for the interviews!"

Then the screen fades to black.

"That's good," Merrilee says, squeezing Maysilee's hand. "He's in the average range."

"Yeah," Maysilee agrees, but she keeps thinking about the Careers.

"Don't worry, sweetpea," her Papa murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Wyatt's smart, he'll be fine."

Maysilee can only hope he will.

The next night, she finds herself seated on the couch again. Picking at her cuticles while her mother glares at her from the old, bruised purple armchair. Her and her mother have hardly spoken since her blowup at the Sweet Shop. Things have always been strained between them, but Wyatt getting reaped has made it worse. Maysilee sometimes feels like she's lost at sea, drifting farther and farther away from the shore where her family and friends are.

Her Papa plops down beside her on the sofa, giving her hand a soft squeeze before leaning back. Merrilee sits beside her, hands folded in her lap like she's a member of the audience.

"You don't have to watch this," whispers Merrilee in her ear.

"I know," Maysilee murmurs back, "but I need to see him."

Merrilee nods, but her face is tight.

Caesar Flickerman appears on the screen, midnight blue suit on and hairstyle the exact same as before, descending from the ceiling sitting on a moon. How much hairspray do they use to keep it that shape? Maysilee wonders. Then she spots his lips— dark green matching his hair.

"He looks ghastly!" Maysilee states. "Like a decomposing body."

"What a bad choice," agrees Merrilee. "He looks like a zombie from those picture books."

When he disembarks from the moon, he grins and opens his arms. "Hello, Panem! Shall we get this party started?"

The roar of the audience assaults Maysilee's ears. How can they be so happy to listen to children talk before sending them to slaughter? Then Caesar launches into a spiel about the other forty-nine Games, briefly touching on the Tenth Games where District 12 had a victor before going to the First Quarter Quell, where the districts chose their own tributes. Maysilee wonders if she had been alive then, if she'd be chosen for the First Quarter Quell because of how everyone thinks of her. It makes her sick. Finally, it's time for the interviews.

It starts with District 1— where the first tribute, a tall blonde girl walks out in a peridot dress, with a fifteen foot snot-green train trailing behind. The girl brags about her axe skills, her size, her strength, and her score of a ten.

Next is the first male tribute from District 1. He swaggers out, stopping three times to pose and flex for the audience. Maysilee rolls her eyes each time. She watches as he patronizes Caesar who just flips it back onto him, hating the way he somehow manages to insult all of the districts. Then it becomes an endless cycle of the other tributes and Maysilee's zoned out until the first tribute from 3 speaks up about an alliance.

Her head snaps up as the tribute lays out everything about the Newcomer alliance. Hope rises in her chest. If there's another alliance then hopefully Wyatt is a member of it, he'll be protected. Her Papa squeezes her shoulder as they watch the interviews continue with occasional breaks for the Capitolites.

Then it's finally time for District 12. Maysilee can tell Caesar's over the alliance talk because after confirming they're a part of it, he moves on. Colbie's up first. She's shy but answers questions softly and often gazes at the audience with contempt written across her face. Wyatt walks on next.

Maysilee pulls the sketchpad closer, immediately drawing. How his suit fits over his broad shoulders, the dark velvet catching in the stage lights, him looking just like when she last saw him in person.

Wyatt spouts off odds as a Gamemaker with a calculator confirms them. He correctly figures the amount of sponsor dollars it would take to send a tribute a stuffed pheasant two weeks into the Games, given rising inflation of thirty-eight percent a day. Pride rises in Maysilee's chest— her boyfriend is super smart and it's a boon to his sponsor deals, she just knows it.

Caesar's amazed. "I wasn't so hot in arithmetic either!" He exclaims. "I don't know if the odds are in your favor in the arena, Wyatt, but if you win, you and me are heading to the casino!"

Then the bell dings and Wyatt's leaving the stage, glancing back at the camera like he's hoping she's watching. I'm right here, she assures him, hoping he knows. I hope you win, my love.

Louella's up next, a snake curled around her frame. She bares her teeth at the audience and wields the snake like a weapon. She states her name and district but then devolves into hissing whenever Caesar asks a question.

"What the hell?" Her mother says with a frown.

"Maybe she's sick," Merrilee suggests. "She wasn't like that last time she came to the Sweet Shop."

Something on Louella's expression makes Maysilee's stomach drop. There's something seriously wrong with her, her expression is too blank and she's so much skinnier than she was before. Immediately, Maysilee knows the Capitol had something to do with it. Maybe she got hurt in the crash and they're drugging her so her pain's not as noticeable or maybe a more sinister thing is going on, but Maysilee doesn't have time to dwell on it because Caesar asks Louella a question.

And the little girl on screen growls. "You'll murder us. You'll murder us."

She repeats it, voice getting higher and higher sending chills down Maysilee's spine. She knows with certainty that this is not Louella McCoy, this is some little girl who resembles her remarkedly, but while Louella McCoy may be spitfire, she's no idiot— she'd know better than to taunt the Capitol. And Maysilee doubts the little girl that's on the stage is an idiot, probably a poor soul who's trapped by the Capitol and drugged with something that she can't control her words or actions.

Caesar tries to calm her and she trails off before her eyes roll into her head and she collapses onto the floor. Maysilee watches as Wyatt returns to carry her off the stage, she can see him murmuring softly to the girl as he leaves before Alecs comes on.

"Her poor family," Maysilee's mother tuts. "She'll be coming home in a coffin."

Her Papa clears his throat, giving his wife a look. "I'm sure she'll have people looking out for her."

Maysilee's lost in her thoughts, ignoring her mother's comments. She thinks of the future she pictured before— but now, a little girl appears in it. One who looks like Wyatt and her. Maysilee heads to the bedroom and kneels at the window, resting her chin on her hands as she stares at the night sky.

Her eyes find the brightest star. Please, let Wyatt come home to me.

Maysilee wakes with her nerves already frayed. Today, is the beginning of the actual Games. Where Wyatt will have to survive and fight to come home to his family, to her. Her Papa doesn't make her work today, something that doesn't sit well with her mother, but she stays silent although Maysilee can feel her simmering in annoyance and anger.

So she draws. Pictures of the exterior of a cottage, a little kitten. Her eyes drift toward the pictures of Wyatt, carefully situated upright on her vanity and jewelry-making station. So whenever she's getting ready or working on necklaces, he'll be there.

When it's time for the Games to start, Maysilee sits at the television that she dragged into the bedroom. She doesn't want to watch, but she has to. Needs to make sure Wyatt survives the bloodbath.

Merrilee declines to watch with her. "Maysilee, it's grisly! You've already lost weight, your pallor is awful, you're like a zombie!"

"You could've just said no," Maysilee snaps, turning away.

"It's not healthy," Merrilee continues, seemingly not caring about the dangerous look on Maysilee's face. "Mays, you're killing yourself with worry."

"I don't care!" Maysilee retorts. "Go away if you're not gonna watch."

Merrilee glares at her before leaving the room, flouncing away down the stairs to the shop below. Maysilee pulls out her compact and observes herself. I look fine, she thinks. I look the same.

But she ignores the way her clothes hang from her frame, her nails bitten to the quick, her loss of appetite because if she even so much as smells food she feels sick. She closes the compact and focuses on the silver screen, searching the tributes for Wyatt. She relaxes when she sees Wyatt.

A voice rings out from the television: "Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Fiftieth Hunger Games begin!"

Maysilee watches as everyone jumps into action. Tributes race to the center of the Cornucopia in a wild effort to get supplies and weapons. Maysilee finds Wyatt running, but he's not running away from the fighting. He's running toward little Louella.

Her stomach sinks as dread creeps into her heart. He throws himself in front of her as Panache from District 1 swings his sword down, the blade gleaming in the artificial sunlight. Maysilee watches as Wyatt crumples and Louella flees like a terrified deer.

A sharp inhale as he drops to the ground. Her nails dig into her skin, until blood beads underneath them and race down her arms in rivulets. She stares blankly as heat scorches the backs of her eyes. She doesn't scream— her voice dies in her throat. Her body freezes, goes rigid.

She presses her hands against her mouth, ignoring the blood under her nails, shoulders shaking violently. A soft, strangled noise escapes. A wounded exhale.

Her tears turn everything blurry, spilling over her cheeks silent and hot, but when it cuts to a wide shot above the cornucopia, pointing downward, Maysilee can still see the outline of Wyatt, lying unmoving on the ground.

"No…" She whispers, a pounding migraine pulsing along her temples. She just sits there silent as her world ends quietly.

When she wakes, the world looks wrong.

Not darker, just flatter. Like someone drained the pigment from everything while she slept. Her bedroom, normally bursting with vibrant colors from swaths of fabric folded neatly and ribbons and beads, looks washed out, as if she's seeing it through fogged glass.

The television set is gone. Her Papa must've moved it out while she slept with the hope that she'd never wake again.

She sits up slowly. Her body feels heavy, but her mind feels light, floating somewhere above her, disconnected. Her hands rest on her lap, limp and useless. She stares at them for a long moment, waiting for them to move on their own. They don't.

Her throat aches, her eyes burn, but she's certain she's cried all the liquid out of her.

Maysilee moves through the house like she's underwater. Each step feels delayed and hard to lift. The floorboards creak under her feet, but it's distant, muffled. Her mother snaps at her from the kitchen, but Maysilee doesn't respond. She lets the words slide past her like water on glass.

She goes down to the Sweet Shop. The colors of the jars— gumdrops, taffy, licorice— all look wrong. They're too pale, too dull.

Her Papa watches her with worried eyes. She doesn't meet them.

Instead, she pulls on the apron and settles behind the counter, staring at nothing.

"You don't have to work," her Papa says quietly.

Maysilee doesn't even respond, just digs her nails into her arms again. Pain blooms along the wounds, but Maysilee doesn't even register it. She needs to take her mind off of everything.

Customers come and go, she hears their voices, but they sound far away, echoes in a cavern. Someone asks for a lavender cookie. Her fingers twitch as she hands the bag over without speaking. The customer thanks her, but she doesn't hear it.

Her gaze drifts to the windows. The Panem flag hangs from it and the sudden urge to yank it down and burn it overcomes her. But something else captures her attention— the sky is gray, the buildings outside too. Well, grayer than before.

She knows that it's not true, it's just her perception now that Wyatt's gone. Merrilee takes over for her only minutes later and Maysilee trudges back upstairs to her bedroom. The pictures of Wyatt on her vanity draw her gaze. She walks over, trembling fingers reaching out to brush one photo.

She sits on her bed, body folding in on itself. She drops onto her back before rolling onto her side, clutching her pillow close to her chest. She stares at the wall. Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Maysilee can't tell.

Her mind replays his death over and over, an endless loop that she can't get out of. But each time it feels more distant, like she's watching someone else's nightmare.

"Wyatt," she whispers. Her voice feels like it belongs to someone else.

Exhaustion hits her in waves and Maysilee's eyelids flutter close.

And her world stays gray.

It's drizzling when he arrives home. In person, but not. Four wooden coffin, varying sizes: one large, two small, the fourth a mid sized one. The large one is Wyatt's. Inscription plaques nailed in them. Maysilee remembers tracing Wyatt's name and getting hit with the final realization that he'll never be coming back.

The next day, it's still raining as Maysilee follows the small procession heading up the hill to the family plots. She's dressed in a black dress with a lace neckline. Didn't even bother with a jacket. She doubts she'll feel the rain anyway, it seems she's become permanently numb.

No one cries loudly. No one speaks. The only noise is mud squelching underfoot and rain dripping from leaves. Fat raindrops splatter against her bare arms, cold and sharp, but she barely feels it.

The grass on the hill is thin. The stones marking old graves lean at odd angles, some cracked, some half-sunken into the earth. Wyatt's family stands near a freshly dug hole— Delilah's frame shaking, Kennedy and Beau pale and stiff.

Maysilee joins them. "Where's his Pa?" Maysilee asks Delilah softly.

She only whimpers, shoulders hunching even more. It's Beau who answers her.

"He hung himself yesterday when Wyatt came home. Couldn't bear the shame." His voice is gruff and cracks on the last word.

The mayor arrives to speak over the departed. Once he's done speaking, the coffins are lowered with a rope that's frayed in places. It thuds softly when it hits the ground. Maysilee flinches.

She watches as men shovel dirt atop Wyatt, her eyes unfocused. The world around her is flat— everything washed in gray: the people, the sky, the mud, the stones. Even her own dress looks dull like the color bled out overnight.

She tries to imagine Wyatt lying in the coffin. She can't. Her mind refuses to. It's much easier to imagine him at the lake, skipping stones, blushing when she kissed him. It's easier to imagine him alive.

Her fingers tighten around the vial at the hollow of her throat, still filled with his cologne. It hasn't left her throat since the day she filled it. More and more dirt covers the coffin until the lid is completely submerged and soon it's being patted down.

Some kind soul lays wildflower wreaths on top of each grave. Lenore Dove sings quietly but Maysilee doesn't hear it. She's staring at Wyatt's grave, buried beside his Pa.

When Lenore Dove quiets, Maysilee presses the three middle fingers of her left hand to her lips and then extend it toward Wyatt's grave. Her final goodbye to him. Others follow suit and then they're all departing.

Beau leads Delilah away, her sobs echoing around the area. Kennedy follows behind after clapping a hand on Maysilee's shoulder. But she stays. She remains, even as the rain drenches her from head to toe. Even as her lips turn blue. Her hair sticks to her face and the back of her neck. Her shoes sink into the mud, her dress clings to her skin.

She stands there, a ghost in a black dress, staring at the place where the boy she loves now lies.

She sits under the willow tree. The lake shimmers underneath the bright sunlight. The sky is a clear blue, a few stark white clouds drifting along.

"Maysilee!" A voice calls out.

Maysilee raises her head, eyes widening, her lips pulling back to reveal her teeth.

The figure gets closer and closer to her and Maysilee pushes herself up, brushing all the dirt off her dress.

"Hi," she says, tears stinging the corner of her eyes.

"Hi," greets Wyatt.

"You're alive," she murmurs, reaching up to brush his cheek. His skin is warm beneath her hand. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too," Wyatt replies. "I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner."

"Say what?" Confusion crosses her face.

"That I love you," he replies.

"Don't apologize. You're back. Now you can tell me all the time." Maysilee looks up at him, adoration in her eyes.

"No, I can't," he replies.

"What? Why not?" Maysilee frowns. "I'll stop by everyday so you can say it."

A harsh breeze rushes through, whipping her hair around her face. The sky darkens, the sound of thunder rolls in. The water thrashes in the lake. The willow tree's branches sway in the wind.

"A storm's coming in," she says. "Isn't that weird? It was just sunny." Her stomach fills with dread.

Wyatt doesn't respond, just stares at her. Thunder cracks overhead as a downpour starts, the rain lashing her face and arms. A flash of lightning sends her scrambling backward. But Wyatt remains where he is, sadness filling his face.

But it's not him. The Wyatt in front of her is too pale. She watches as a blood blossoms across his chest, a jagged slash from his left shoulder to his right hip.

"Wyatt." Her voice is a whisper, barely audible.

But he hears her.

"I love you, Maysilee. Try to survive, okay? I don't want to see you until you're old and wrinkled."

He gives her one last smile before a crack of thunder rolls overhead and lightning flashes and then he's gone and she's jolting awake, sitting in her bed, hand pressed to her heaving chest, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Maysilee sobs loudly, shoulders shaking. Merrilee wakes next to her and climbs into bed, wrapping her arms around her sister. Maysilee leans into her sister's arms and lets herself finally breakdown.

"It'll get better," Merrilee soothes.

"What if it doesn't?"

Merrilee doesn't respond, she just clings tighter.

"Maysilee," her Papa's voice gently calls.

She's curled in bed, knees pulled to her chest, room shrouded in darkness. Maysilee doesn't respond, just keeps her eyes squeezed shut. Trying to dream of Wyatt again, trying to bring him back. A ghost lingering in the deep recesses of her mind. She sees him everywhere she goes.

"Sweetpea, Mrs. Callow is here to see you," her Papa says, sitting on the edge of her bed and placing a hand on her blanket covered leg. "She has something for you."

Maysilee still doesn't say anything, doesn't even acknowledge his words. He gently peels the covers back and pulls her up by her arm. Maysilee's wearing Wyatt's shirt— it still smells like him, like sandalwood and pine, she notes— and linen pants as her father leads her out of the bedroom.

She stumbles on the rug after catching a glimpse of herself; dark circles under her eyes almost bruise-like, pale skin, hair knotty, hollow cheekbones. Her Papa keeps her moving until they enter the living room where Delilah waits.

Delilah's face is gaunt, the weight of losing her favorite child and her husband clearly affecting her. In her trembling grasp is a wooden box with flowers engraved on it, painted in several colors, but they all look the same. Dull, worn, gray.

"How are you, dear?" Delilah asks after Maysilee sinks into the couch.

"Awful," Maysilee replies flatly.

Delilah gives her a short smile before handing the box over. "I found this in his room when I went in there. I—" She clears her throat. "I thought you should have it."

Then she leaves, disappearing out the door and down the steps.

Maysilee remains seated, staring at the box, her fingers tracing the flowers embossed around the outside. She slowly opens the lid and reveals various pieces of papers folded up. A tremor runs through her fingers as she pulls one out. Wyatt's handwriting appears as Maysilee unfolds it. Instead of a letter, it's a poem.

Your hair catches light even when there isn't any

Your eyes make the sky look dull beside them

You wear your necklaces like armor and speak like you're unafraid

I think you're braver than anyone I've ever known

A tear splatters on the edge of the paper. Maysilee sniffles as she sets it aside and pulls out another paper. It's another poem.

You speak like you're certain, even when you're scared,

You'd fight for the helpless if no one else dared,

Your words are sharp like armor, your kindness is a flame,

You carry your pride like it's a title, never ashamed

I've never known courage that looked quite like you,

Loud when you're stubborn, but soft when you're true

Another sob escapes her as she places the poem down, fingers greedily grasping for another paper. She wonders how many there are, how many thoughts he wrote down, how often he must've spent thinking about her.

Slowly she unfolds the note.

Maysilee,

I don't know if today counted as a real date, but it felt like one to me. I keep replaying it in my head— how pretty you looked in that apple red dress with a ribbon tied in your braid, the way you stared at me like I'm worth something, you holding my hand when I walked you home. I don't think anyone's ever wanted to hold my hand before.

You make everything feel right. The noise stops being so loud, the looks from others doesn't bother me as much when you're beside me. I didn't know that was possible. When you talk, the noise in my head slows down enough that I can think straight. I didn't tell you at the Hob because it sounded strange in my mind, but it's true.

I like being with you. I like it more than anything I can remember.

I hope we can have another date soon. I don't care where. Anywhere with you is fine.

— Wyatt

Maysilee holds it to her chest, shoulders shaking. Her heart aches and she feels hot, like the heat of a thousand suns is pinning her down. Maybe she's dying, from a broken heart no less. But that'd be a nice way to go.

When she calms herself enough, she pulls out the rest of the papers. They're all poems or letters he wrote. One for each week since they had their first date. Thirty-nine letters in total. Maysilee devours each one fanatically, clinging to the memories from his point of view, finally seeing how he perceived her. Like she was a goddess sent from above, like she was his salvation when he had no one else. Maysilee finds herself laughing through the tears at some point, some of the messages she could hear him saying.

And when she goes to sleep that night, she holds the box to her chest, every note and poem and letter close to her heart and she falls asleep to Wyatt's gentle words wrapping around her brain, like he's a ghost talking to her.

The next morning, the house feels too quiet. Maysilee wakes before everyone else, Merrilee snoring softly in her own bed, hair fanned around her face. She gets up quietly, slowly. She sets the wooden box on her vanity as she gets dressed. It's her turn to open the Sweet Shop, but she grabs a couple of the papers from the box and folds them neatly before tucking them securely in her pocket.

She moves down the stairs slowly, her limbs still heavy, her mind still foggy. She starts her opening tasks, restocking, counting the cash box, sweeping, cleaning the windows. When she passes the Sweet Shop windows to grab a box, she freezes. For a moment, she swears she sees someone standing outside. A tall figure. Shoulders hunched, hands shoved into pockets.

Her heart pounds faster. She blinks. The figure is gone.

Maysilee steps outside anyway, the bell above the door chiming weakly. The street is empty, not a single soul walking around the square at this hour. Just coal dust drifting in the breeze and the distant clatter of miners heading to work.

For a fleeting moment she thinks about following the miners, the hopes of seeing him again flickering before being extinguished like a flame.

But she still feels it— a weight behind her, a warmth at her back, a soft breath caressing the nape of her neck, like someone is standing close enough to touch her shoulder.

She doesn't turn around. She knows it isn't real, knows that he's gone, knows that she's imagining things. But she doesn't care, Maysilee turns and locks the doors, her opening tasks already done before her feet lead her toward the familiar path to the meadow.

She's avoided it since he came back. Can't bear the thoughts and memories that flood her. It's always too much, too painful, hits her too fast.

The early morning air is cold, the sky almost a permanent gray at this point. The wildflower that once grew in the crack of the pavement is gone, crushed weeks ago, but she still steps over the spot out of habit.

When she reaches the fence opening, she pauses.

The meadow is empty. But she feels him. Not like a ghost or a spirit or even a disembodied presence, but like a memory so strong it presses against her skin.

She sits beneath the oak tree, the same place they had their first date, the same place he blushed, where he kissed her, where he told her the meadow made everything quiet. The place that she was always excited to go to because that meant spending time with him, where she could complain about her mother and offer a listening ear to his gripes.

The wind shifts. And, for a brief moment, she smells sandalwood and pine. A lump forms in her throat, but she closes her eyes. The world feels less sharp, less gray. But still empty.

"Wyatt?" She whispers, not expecting an answer.

The breeze rustles the grass, brushing across her cheek like a hand.

She doesn't open her blue eyes, she lets herself pretend, just for a moment.

On her next day off, a few days after her impromptu trip to the meadow, Maysilee goes to the lake. In her pocket is the love letter he gave her the last time she saw him, the day he was ripped from her arms, nothing more than a puppet controlled by the president and the Capitol.

She's read it every night since she received it, to the point she has it memorized and when she gets lonely she closes her eyes and reads it mentally, can practically hear it in his voice. She fears how long it will be until she can't remember his voice, she hopes it'll only fade when she's much older.

The lake looks different now. The sun still shines, the water still glistens, but it's all still dull. She can't help but wonder if this is how everything will look for the rest of her time on earth— everything muted. It's a small price to pay to continue living though.

It looks older. Like the grass remembers what happened, like the wind carries the echo of a boy who once sat beneath the willow tree, rolling his coin across his knuckles and sharing rolls with her.

Maysilee sits in the same spot, knees drawn up, fingers curled around the folded love letter in her pocket. She knows it all by heart, has memorized most of his poems too.

The sky is pale blue, the air still reeks of summertime. Dragonflies skim the surface of the lake, their wings catching the light in the way his scrip coin once did.

She presses her palm to the ground next to her. It's warm and she lets herself imagine him sitting there— quiet, thoughtful, shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Can practically feel the touch of his fingers brushing the hair from her face, can hear him saying her name the way only he ever did.

Mays.

Her throat tightens.

She pulls the letter from her pocket, unfolding it carefully. The paper is worn at the edges, softened by the number of times she's held it. She reads the first line, then the second, then stops. Her eyes burn.

"I'm glad you're here," she whispers, repeating the words he said at the lake.

The wind stirs, gentle and warm, caressing her cheek— a ghost of a touch.

Maysilee closes her eyes. "I'll survive," she promises softly. "I'll try. I promise."

The lake is quiet. But it feels like someone heard her. She folds the letter again, presses it against her heart, and lets the breeze carry the last of her tears away.

The first thing she remembers is the darkness. Darkness that lasted for several minutes, then flashes of angry light— red, orange, and yellow. Then the smells and sounds hit. Loud explosions, burning flesh, screams of terror, windows shattering, stone walls cracking and falling. She remembers pain pounding against her head, starbursts of white appearing in her eyes, blood trickling down the side of her face. She remembers stumbling to Merrilee's room and finding her and Madge huddled in the corner, sobbing. Remembers dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around them, trying to pull them up and get out of the house before a whistling noise echoed in the air, getting louder and louder, closer and closer, until the room turned into an inferno.

Then it all faded to black and when she woke, she was standing at the opening of the fence, the meadow spread in front of her.

It's different from the last time she went, with Merrilee and Madge. The grass doesn't sway, the air doesn't move. The sky is a soft, endless blue. It feels like the world is holding its breath.

Maysilee looks around, wondering where her sister and niece are. They were right with her when everything happened. Or maybe it was a dream? She's had those before, dreaming about something bad happening and waking up in a new place.

Her fingers touch her pocket, the familiar weight of the love letter tucked safely in her pocket. She presses her hand over it, feeling the worn paper through the fabric. It's the only thing she keeps on her, the only thing she's ever needed.

She steps forward.

The oak tree is there, exactly as she remembers it— tall, steady, familiar. Her steps are light as she crosses the grass to the tree, the sun is high in the sky but no heat beats down on her, there's no warmth but it's not cold either.

When she gets closer, she comes to a sudden halt.

Someone is already sitting beneath it.

Her breath catches.

Wyatt rises slowly, like he's been waiting for her. His paperboy cap is pushed back the way she always adjusted it. His necklace— her necklace— rests against his collarbone, his coin glints softly in the loop. Her bracelet is still wrapped around his wrist.

He looks exactly as he did the day she kissed him at the lake.

"Mays," he says, voice warm, steady, real.

Her knees nearly buckle. She crosses the distance between them without a second thought. Her hands reach for him, afraid he'll vanish like he did in her dreams, but he doesn't. He's solid. Real.

"You're here," she whispers.

"I've been waiting," he says simply.

She presses her forehead to his chest, breathing in sandalwood and pine. The scent is perfect, untouched.

"I tried," she murmurs. "I tried so hard even when I didn't want to."

"I know." His arms wrap around her, hesitant and gentle. "You survived. Just like I asked."

She pulls back enough to look at him. His eyes are soft, dark, familiar. A sight she remembered every night she went to sleep.

"Where are we?"

He smiles. "The sweet Old Hereafter."

The words settle over her. She died, and likely so did her sister and her niece. She wonders where they are. If they're nearby or if they're somewhere else together.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the letter— the one he gave her at the Justice Building, the one she carried through every day of mourning. She unfolds it carefully.

"I kept it," she says. "I read it every day."

Wyatt smiles again. This time it's the small, shy smile she loves more than anything. "I hoped you would."

She takes his hand.

The meadow stretches out before them, endless and quiet. No Peacekeepers, no fences, no Capitol. No Games.

Just the two of them.

"Your Pa…" Maysilee whispers.

"I know," Wyatt states. "I saw him earlier."

"So everyone's here?"

"Just the people you love the most," Wyatt replies. "I think that's how it works, I've been here for twenty-five years and still haven't figured it out."

"My grandmother should be here," Maysilee murmurs. "I want you to meet her."

Wyatt freezes, a flush creeping up his face. "Will she like me?"

"If I like you, she will," Maysilee assures, dragging him toward the fence.

Wyatt lets himself be dragged along by her. She suddenly stops and he nearly topples over after crashing into her.

"I cried for days after you passed," she tells him. "Your Ma gave me a box."

"I know," he murmurs.

"Kiss me," she orders.

His eyes widen. "Mays."

"I mean it. I haven't kissed you in over two decades." Haven't kissed anyone is left unsaid.

He cups her jaw, fingers brushing her cheek and she's reminded of the wind from when she was sixteen and visiting the meadow by herself. Then he finally kisses her. Maysilee pulls him close, his body melting against hers, one arm encircling her waist while the other remains holding her jaw. They kiss until they're breathless and pull away slightly for air. Maysilee grins before pulling him down again for another kiss.

She hums in contentment against his mouth, the intoxicating scent of sandalwood flooding her senses, and she can feel him smile into the kiss. Her face is flushed when they pull away, but her eyes are bright. And Wyatt looks the same, the tips of his ears burning red.

"Let's go," she says.

They walk together, hand in hand, toward the merchant square. Maysilee squeezing his fingers constantly, a bid to make sure he's real and by her side. They pass the Sweet Shop and continue until they come to a small house at the edge of the square.

Laughter filters out of the house and Maysilee freezes.

"You okay?" Wyatt asks softly.

"I will be," she replies before leading him up the cobblestone path and climbing the set of stairs before opening the door.

"Look who decided to join us," Merrilee calls, a wide smile on her face. "And she even brought someone!"

Maysilee yanks Wyatt in before shutting the door. Merrilee's sitting on their late grandmother's sofa, Madge curled into her side. So they did die, she realizes.

"Where's Grandmother?" Maysilee asks.

"In the kitchen," her Papa replies standing. He walks over and envelops her in a hug. Maysilee hugs him back.

When he died about a decade after Wyatt, she thought she wouldn't make it. She descended in a deep depression, but Wyatt's letters were the only things keeping her head above water.

"I missed you, Papa," she whispers.

"I missed you too, sweet girl," he replies before releasing her and clapping Wyatt on the shoulder. "How have you been, son?"

"I've been good, Mr. Donner," Wyatt answers.

Before her father can interrogate Wyatt any further, Maysilee grasps his hand and leads him to the kitchen.

Standing at the sink, looking out the window framed by white lace curtains at the garden, is her grandmother. The woman she admired the most, someone who let Maysilee be herself when she was a little girl— loud, opinionated, a leader.

"I've been waiting," she says quietly. "You grew up so well, Maysilee."

Tears sting Maysilee's eyes. "I missed you."

"I know." Her grandmother turns. Her eyes land on Maysilee's necklace. "You kept it."

"It's the only thing I had left of yours," Maysilee says.

"I'm glad you did." Her attention turns to Wyatt. "And who's this?"

"My boyfriend," Maysilee states, "Wyatt Callow."

"Nice to meet you, Wyatt." Maysilee's grandmother holds out a hand and Maysilee nudges Wyatt. He gives it a quick shake.

"It's nice to meet you as well," he replies. "Maysilee talked about you a lot. How she wanted to grow old like you and have age line her face with wrinkles. She adored you."

Maysilee elbows him in the side as her grandmother laughs. But a smile is on her face and she has a feeling that this is where she was meant to be, where she was meant to end up— with Wyatt beside her, her grandmother in front of her, and her family in the room next to her.