A Crown of Gold. A Collar of Thorn. - Chapter 3 - ksquared (2024)

Chapter Text

June 30, 25 ATT — District 11

The silence drew out even longer.

The world had never felt stranger.

Even having expected that to be the answer that came from Anna’s mouth in the end, even with the sense that it made with the way that folks had been acting since…yeah, around the 24^th of the month. It was better, for the moment, that Dahlia said nothing.

“The slimy piece of sh*t is trying to protect his even sh*ttier little daughter,” he practically growled. “And so he decided that you…were the right one to throw into this…mess.” Culler was angry. Angrier than she’d ever seen him.

Stonily, Dahlia remained silent.

She watched as Culler surged to his feet, fists clenched at his side. An angry laugh—closer to a bark, really—came from Culler’s mouth then. “Come on, Doll, where’s the I told you so that I just know that you want to throw at me?” he demanded. “Where’s the I told you that you never should’ve f*cking put your name in? I know it’s coming just f*cking get it over with?” He was shouting by the end of it, his chest heaving with poorly, if at all, contained rage.

It was a strange thing to see from an outside perspective. Normally, their reactions would be reversed. Dahlia would usually be the one near feral with her rage. Culler would typically be the strong, silent one, observing whatever carnage would follow her incandescent anger. But, Dahlia didn’t have much time to sort through her feelings considering she had just been told this. Not really. Clearly, Culler had the news longer. And he was suffering for it.

“You can’t have the majority yet,” Dahlia said, voice clipped but calm. “We just have to tell everyone to…not vote for you.” It was the only thing that made sense. It was the only fighting chance they had that didn’t require them quite literally in a fight to the dead with some 22 other poor souls in the same position as them.

“He does,” Anna interrupted. Ah, Dahlia recalled then, Anna’s here too…right. “Ramsdell made that pretty clear too. He…he…he seemed…a-angry that Culler managed to get so many people to agree to voting him in before he’d gotten an-anyone to agree to vote for you, Dahlia. It’s…it’s too late to stop this. For either of you.”

“He’s mad?” Dahlia asked, voice somehow still flat, despite the spike of feeling that was somehow both amusem*nt and hatred at that information. “Why? Because he’s losing his favorite worker to rake over the coals and abuse?”

There was no answer given to the question that she asked. There didn’t need to be. They all knew it. Of course Davey Ramsdell was mad to be losing his best worker—why wouldn’t he be? Of course it was nothing personal. It never was with Ramsdell.

Unless, you did something—or he even thought you did something to his precious daughter Tilly.

Dahlia had only ever met Tilly a handful of times. She was a good four years or so younger than Dahlia and about as intolerable as trackerjacker venom. Even so, she knew lots about Tilly Ramsdell. She was an idiot for one. Not for being actually stupid, but for not trying in anything she did in life. She rode the coattails of her father’s stolen success like she imagined Capitolite children did. It did not sit well with folks throughout the District.

And most importantly, Dahlia knew that Tilly was not good in school. She damn near never passed her classes on the first try. And after being given the chance to make up for missed work, she was still only passed to get the hissing creature out of the teachers’ classrooms. But, the issue was that her mother was not the type to allow children to fake their success—she never had been.

The essay that Dahlia had so blithely laughed at with her mother and disparagingly stated she could guess the owner of…she most certainly had been correct. It was Tilly Ramsdell’s paper. The girl had not passed her summer classes. Not shocking at all. And now…Dahlia was reaping the consequences of it.

“He…” she tried to say.

There were a host of people would’ve voted Tilly in. Tilly had, at least many whispered, made at least four classmates resort to killing themselves to escape her otherwise inescapable bullying and relentless torment. And the girl did not lose a wink of sleep. It was evident.

For being so young, she was vicious. And more than just that, she reveled in her unkindness. She felt joy every time that she hurt her peers’ feelings. And there were never consequences for her. How could there be? Her father was either your employer or your landlord. The vast majority of where they lived was directly under his thumb. Even the extended parts of the District—the other cities and settlements—fell prey to his power.

Many, many, many folks would’ve happily voted the girl in as a lesson to the girl that she was a monster and not accepted as one of them. Also as a lesson to the father that he was not untouchable. The issue, though, was that…the Ramsdells were untouchable. Clearly.

He couldn’t buy his Tilly out of the Reaping this year.

He could threaten her out of being voted in, though.

They were f*cking untouchable.

Dahlia was not untouchable. Nowhere near. Just as clear to her as ever. She was an easy substitute. A punishment to the District folks for even thinking of harming his precious Tilly. A punishment to Dahlia’s mother for daring to fail his precious failure of a daughter. And a punishment to Dahlia for being beloved by people to the point of disobedience against him. He was not the mayor of the District, but he was something much worse. And now…they would all be reminded of it.

No one had warned her.

No one had told her.

All of the kindness that she’d been being laved in…all of the gentleness being offered her way…Dahlia had presumed it was for the fact that the day her father died crawled closer every day and the anniversary never grew easier on them. But, she was wrong. It was something much less pleasant. It was something much less fair than that. Their kindness was their silent apologies for transgressions she didn’t even know had been done to her yet.

Sorry we voted for you, Dahlia, their weak smiles said.

Sorry we betrayed you like this, their downcast eyes whispered.

Sorry you and Culler are going in together, their slumped posture screamed.

Sorry we had to think of us before you both, their twisting hands mumbled.

Sorry…it’s just business, their minds stated.

It was a simple facts. Logic over emotion. It had to be. But it did not leave them blameless. How could it? Their souls echoed guilt that would not befall their lips. And now, trapped and soulless herself…nothing more than a corpse walking…Dahlia was forced to make her own decisions. Decisions that felt like they’d take years to make. Decisions that she had not even days, at best, to reckon with.

How would she do this? How would she progress? How would she move forward? How would she spend the rest of her time here? Would she rot in anger and fury and sadness and fear? Or would she make herself experience life as it had always meant to be in District 11? Would she let herself be soft and quiet and kind and fun as she so desperately tried to? Or would she succumb to the anger already burning hot in her chest?

Nothing was clear save for one important detail.

She looked up at Anna and Culler, her face as serious as ever. “My mother cannot find out,” she warned. “We make sure that she doesn’t know.”

“Dahlia,” Culler said, eyes narrowed, glaring at her almost warning.

“No, Culler. She doesn’t find out,” Dahlia all but hissed in reply. “If there is one thing I can do…it’s make sure that she doesn’t suffer before she has to with this. We make sure that no one says a f*cking word to her about it. That’s it. End of discussion.”

Anna looked up at Dahlia then. “I didn’t, for the record. Vote for you, I mean,” she said. A seemingly random interjection. “I voted for Tilly. Just to spite her and her f*cking father.”

“You shouldn’t have, Anna. If he finds out—”

“He won’t,” Anna insisted.

“Make sure your folks vote for me too. Just…do it. Please. I…y’all don’ need to get hurt for me,” Dahlia said. “I jus’…please.”

Anna was quiet for a moment before nodding. She looked down at her hands then. Culler remained silent, stonily so, even as he glared at his best friend. Mercifully, Anna changed the topic again.

“Dahlia…your mom’s gon’ find out people have been voting for you,” Anna stated. “And when she does…”

“We’re gon’ lie. We’re gon’ tell her that I have been tellin’ folks to vote for me,” Dahlia interrupted voice harsher than she maybe would’ve otherwise preferred. “We’re gon’ tell her that I’ve been wantin’ to go in. That I’ve been angry ‘bout my dad, and this is my foolish way’a dealin’ with it. Then she’ll think it’s jus’ me being a fool and not something that’s her fault.”

Culler shook her head. “She knows that you wouldn’ be tellin’ n’un to vote you in when I’ve been doin’ it too, Doll,” he pointed out, voice dry as sin.

“She don’t know about all that, Cull,” Dahlia retorted. “She don’t know nothing about the Games this year save what was in them broadcasts. She been avoidin’ it the same she been avoidin’ the summer sun.” She looked between the two Trahant siblings. “Cull…Anna…it has to work. Otherwise what’s the alternative I got? My mama rots with guilt and loses her last piece of family to the Games when I die anyway? Hell no.”

“Don’t say that,” Culler practically hissed, voice clipped.

“What, Cull? That I’m gon’ die?” Dahlia retorted angrily. “I am gon’ die. I’m not coming back from this we all know that!”

“Enough,” Anna shouted over the both of them. She grabbed her brother’s arm and squeezed it pointedly. Then she looked at Dahlia. “We…we’ll tell our folks, Dahlia. Don’t you worry about that.”

Dahlia nodded, the movement almost robotic. She didn’t let herself look over at Culler, her chest burning in pain that she could not find the words to describe. She knew that if she looked over at him in that moment, she’d crack into a million little pieces that she would just never put back together the way that they needed to be. It wasn’t an option. Falling apart wasn’t an option.

“Thank you, Anna,” Dahlia said reflexively, her own eyes lowering. “I’m gon’ go get back to work.”

“Doll,” Culler implored, “wait.”

But she didn’t wait. Instead, Dahlia went inside again, washing her hands furiously at the sink by Duckie’s side. He didn’t even look over at her. He was still staring blankly forward as though the rug had been torn out from underneath him. Part of her hated Culler and Anna for putting Neem and Duckie through this too—for telling them before telling her. She could’ve spared them the same pain that she was trying to spare her mom. But they’d taken that ability away from her.

So, hands freshly cleaned, Dahlia walked back out into the dining room of The Shack. But, she did not settle behind the serving line as she normally would’ve. Instead, she moved and stood atop of a rickety old chair that most patrons didn’t use for fear of it breaking. It was the only empty chair in the building. The only guarantee. Just like her now. And Dahlia, on top of the chair that represented her own life falling apart now, rose her voice so she could be heard over the chaotic din of the room.

“Lemme get y’alls attention,” she shouted.

Eyes slid over to her almost immediately. She felt like a fool for not seeing the guilt ridden expressions before now. For days now she’d been blind to what they’d been silently trying to tell her of their own actions. Maybe this all was her own fault. She didn’t let that thought stop her though. And she didn’t let her voice waver, even under the silent scrutiny of the room.

Truly, suddenly it was like you could hear a pin drop in the room.

“I jus’ wan’ make somethin’ clear to y’all,” she said. Her voice was smooth and strong—a complete falsehood to the calamity just under the surface. “If y’all haven’t voted yet for the Quarter Quell? I want y’all to vote me in. No one else. Me. I’m gon’ be the female tribute. So y’all best goddamn vote for me if you know what’s good for youse. If someone else goes in? I’m gon’ make sure y’all can’t eat n’un that won’ poison you here for at least a week.”

The words came out of her mouth. She knew that. But it was like someone else was saying them. The confidence of them was misplaced. The disinterest was bizarre.

She stepped off the chair, creaking under her weight, silently glad that it hadn’t collapsed underneath her. Miraculously her and the chair both made it through the worst moment that Dahlia had endured in…maybe the whole of her life. Without wasting another moment, she stepped back behind the serving line, feeling eyes of the patrons of The Shack tracking her the whole way. She practically wrenched the serving spoon from Neem without looking at the woman and only then did she look up, seeing unnerving gazes still locked on her.

“What in the world are y’all staring at now? Don’t y’all know to mind your own business?” Dahlia said loudly, turning her attention back to the food before her eyes could settle into the glare that they wanted to be.

She still felt their eyes.

This was it then. It was the truth. And the worst kind of truth too. They had all really been voting for her. They had all known. And no one had been decent enough to f*cking warn her. This was the kind of betrayal that the Capitol wanted people in the Districts to feel. Obviously. But, Dahlia had been foolish enough to think that she wouldn’t be the one stung by it in the end. Naive of her, apparently. She looked up at them. Her voice was devoid of emotion, save maybe exhaustion. And, for the last time, she spoke to the large room.

“Don’t y’all worry none. This is what I want. Y’all are doin’ me a favor. Vote for me,” she said. Her voice was quieter than before, but still carried across the eerily silent room.

At that, Dahlia turned her attention fully back to serving. The rest of the evening went by in a blur. She was grateful that there wasn’t much left of her shift. She didn’t know if she could’ve made it through if there had been. As it was though, it was easy to hold up for the final hour of The Shack being open. Before Culler and Anna left, she promised Culler that she’d help him check the traps again in a few days and that they’d bring along his siblings to make sure that they knew all of them to check too.

Once the patrons had all been escorted out and The Shack locked down, she didn’t give Neem or Duckie the chance to start talking to her before she went into the back and threw herself into cleaning with vigor. Kindly, they allowed her the silence. But it would not last forever. She knew that. And she was proved correct when they stopped her before she could slip out of the back door when everything had been cleaned entirely.

“Dahlia what the hell was that?” Neem asked, voice sharp but not unkind.

“Jus’ me facin’ facts, Neem. I’m goin’ in the Games,” Dahlia said. “I know that Cull an’ Anna told y’all that Ramsdell’s been tellin’ folks to vote me in. He’s been runnin’ himself around for days now tellin’ folks to vote me in. Ain’t no way to avoid that reality, is there? I’m alrea’y a dead girl walkin’. It is…it is what it is, ain’t it?”

Neem looked at her, her gaze angry. Duckie looked at her, his gaze pleading.

Sometimes, it was easy to forget that they lost a child to the Games.

Dahlia had been maybe…four when it had happened. It had been the tenth Hunger Games. It wasn’t even a blip of memory in Dahlia’s mind. Everyone said that their son had been a good man until the end. Dahlia knew how little comfort that brought his parents. It was, though, why every April 3, The Shack had a more opulent sort of meal. One that Neem and Duckie weren’t even in charge of. It was to honor Reaper’s birthday. To honor him…and to honor his parents, the people who so dedicatedly took care of the people around them, even when they were suffering the most.

Every day that wasn’t April 3, the Ashes made it easy to forget all they’d lost.

“Don’ tell me that the Neem and Reed Ash are gon’ miss lil’ ol’ me,” she said flatly. She’d tried to go for lighthearted, but her voice just wouldn’t work with her.

“Don’t you Reed me, girl,” Duckie warned. “Not when you goin’ about making some foolish decisions. You know what these Games do to people. An’ if everyone has been votin’ in Culler—”

“I know, Duckie,” Dahlia interrupted, eyes pinching closed. She turned away from them for a moment, composing herself, before she turned back to them. Her shoulders slumped then, revealing her absolute exhaustion. “You know that I know. But what am I gon’ do? Ramsdell’s been runnin’ his mouth since before the broadcast came on where we found out what votin’ was even gon’ be like! I stand no chance. An’ we didn’t know ’til now.”

“We know that,” Neem interjected, her anger seeping out.

Duckie grabbed his wife’s arm and gave her a warning look. “We know it’s too late. Culler an’ Anna made that real clear to us,” he said. He didn’t sound particularly happy about it. The opposite really. “We jus’ mean that you don’ have to absolve these folks of their guilt. They should be guilty for what they doin’ to you. They’re throwin’ you to the dogs to save their sorry selves and they should be ashamed of themselves.”

“They are,” Dahlia said quietly. “They are ashamed of themselves. And me bein’ angry at them won’t make it any worse for ‘em. Won’t change nothin’ either. And I don’ wan’ waste none of my time home bein’ angry over things I can’t change. My daddy taught me better than that once upon a time. And if I’m gon’ go the same way that he did? Then I wanna walk the same way that he lived before I go too.”

“Too much like Reaper,” Neem muttered under her breath.

Then, as though denying her presence even being there, Neem turned fully away from Dahlia. She didn’t do it fast enough that Dahlia didn’t catch the tears building in her eyes.

Dahlia felt bad.

She wished she felt worse for it.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Everyone loved him,” Dahlia said.

“And look where that got my boy. Dead. An’ we don’ even get his body back, Dahlia! You wanna end up like him?” Neem shouted, turning back.

Dahlia flinched slightly at her harsh words. Duckie put his hand on Dahlia’s shoulder this time, gently squeezing it. “Feels like losing him all over again. Except we know that we’re gon’ lose you. You don’t…you don’t get it, Dahlia,” he said simply.

“No,” she agreed. “No I don’t. I didn’t lose a child to the Games. Just my dad. And my best friend. And now myself. So I have no idea how you feel. But I do know that I feel pretty damn bad about it right now. And I know that just because I have to feel bad about it? That don’t mean I’m gon’ leave that to lay on my mama’s conscience. So, I’m gon’ walk around tellin’ everyone to vote for me. I’m gon’ take that power away from those scummy Ramsdells and I’m gon’ make sure that my mama thinks that this is me bein’ foolish and not because of her.”

At that, Duckie and Neem both paused. They looked at each other before looking at Dahlia. “You can’t protect your mama from the truth, girl,” Duckie warned.

“I can do my damn best to try,” Dahlia retorted. “And I’m going to. No one is going to stop me from doing it. They can’t. I’m not letting her think that this is her fault. It isn’t her fault. It’s the Ramsdells. But all she needs to know? This is my choice. I’m goin’ in by my choice, not by some decree of some wannabe District tyrant.” She gave Neem a sharp-edged smile. “You think that I’m gon’ give the Ramsdells the satisfaction of seeing me stressin’ ‘bout this? Of seeing me cryin’ to my mama? After everything Davey’s already done to her? Over my dead goddamn body.”

“Not a good choice of words,” Neem said curtly. She sounded less angry though, somehow.

“Not wrong ones, though, Neem, are they?” Dahlia retorted. “We all know that I’m gon’ do everything in my power to get Culler home.”

“Just like how Culler’ll do everything to get you home, girl?” Duckie asked dryly.

Dahlia shrugged. “We both know I have a stronger will than him. And we both know he’s got more responsibilities here. If I gotta go in…then I’m goin’ out the same as my daddy. I ain’t tryin’ to come back. I’m tryin’ to bring Culler home where he belongs. That is the least he deserves.”

“And what about you?” Neem asked.

Dahlia shrugged. The thought hadn’t occurred to her all night. It didn’t matter what she deserved. She didn’t know what she deserved. But she knew that whatever it was, she wasn’t going to be getting it. The least she could do was ensure that Culler did.

“Oh you dumb girl,” Duckie muttered.

Then, he did something unexpected. Something he’d only ever done a handful of times in all the time that he’d known Dahlia. He wrapped his massive arms around her and brought her into a tight hug. Immediately, habitually, Dahlia wrapped her arms around him in return and hugged him back just as tightly. She felt a hand on her hair, gently running through it and she knew that it was Neem’s.

These people loved her.

The relief of that love was tempered by the bitter sting of loss they all felt, though.

“Ain’t no way in this world I’m gon’ vote for you, girl. Not me an’ not Neem, neither,” Duckie said, his voice gruff.

“I know that. An’ I’m not askin’ you too. I ain’t that stupid of a girl, Duckie,” she said, still hugging the man back tightly. “I don’ care who you vote for s’long as you do vote. I can’t live with the thought of y’all getting punished for not doin’ it. Just…just vote. Please.”

“Don’t you worry none about that,” Neem said, her voice taking on a surprisingly soothing tone as she started playing with Dahlia’s hair. “We know exactly who we gon’ vote for, Dahlia. We won’t get hurt. You just…you focus on making sure that District 11 gets their Victor this year. One of y’all best be comin’ home, you hear me?”

“He will,” Dahlia said quietly, almost reverently. More than a prayer, more than a promise. Closer to an oath than anything else. “I’m gon’ make sure of it.”

Above Dahlia’s head, Neem and Duckie exchanged a look.

Dahlia was not their son. She was not Reaper. She was something different.

Her fate felt worse.

Duckie’s arms tightened around the girl.

Neem’s hand methodically stroked the girl’s hair.

They said nothing.

June 31, 25 ATT

Waking up, Dahlia was not surprised at the ache she felt in her eyes. She would be a treacherous liar if she tried to pretend that she did not cry herself to sleep. Her soul felt as if it were being ripped apart and there was nothing that she could do. She was, to put it simply, doomed. She was going to die. Culler might die with her. No matter how desperately hard she would work to ensure that he didn’t? He still might. And the thought of it agonized her.

But, there was nothing to be done.

Reality…it was reality.

Dahlia planned to take advantage of her last precious days she had in her life. If she could count them down so quickly, she wanted to take advantage of each and every moment possible. That meant that she climbed out of bed as the sun rose, as she always did, and went to the bathroom before her mother woke. She spent a good five minutes using cold water to reduce the swelling of her eyes and then set about actually preparing for her day.

She was in the kitchen preparing breakfast by the time that her mother, looking exhausted, exited her bedroom. This time of year always took a toll of her mother. She naturally hated the heat and humidity of summers in District 11, but the addition of it being so close to the anniversary of her father’s death really just did something that made her mother inaccessible. Sometimes, she thought it’d be easier to talk to her father again this time of year than it was to even get her mother to focus on a conversation for longer than ten minutes. Still, Charlotte Blackthorn padded over to her daughter and pressed a kiss to her temple before moving to the table to sit, looking exhausted.

“You alright, mama?” Dahlia asked, eyes focused on the skillet on their stove instead of her mother’s face. She thought the guilt might eat her alive if she dared to even look her way. “You seem real tired this mornin’.”

“The bed jus’ ain’t as comfy as it used to be,” her mother replied, almost dismissively. “What’chu cookin’ up for us today, beb?”

Dahlia shrugged. “Nothin’ too special now,” she said. “Jus’ some eggs that Neem gave me on the way ou’ from The Shack las’ night. Added some leftover veg we had lyin’ aroun’ to get rid of it.”

“Good girl,” her mom said before leaning back in her chair, a cup in hand that she was sipping delicately from.

“After we eat though, mama…I gotta talk to you ‘bout somethin’,” Dahlia said quietly.

She didn’t have to turn and look at her mother to know the exact look on her face. Her eyebrows were pulled down, puckered together in the center and her eyes were analytical, staring at her daughter’s back as if it had the answer to her unasked question. Dahlia was shocked that she didn’t ask. She knew that she wanted to. But, he mother was silent for a few minutes as Dahlia turned to get plates for the both of them.

“Whatever you want, beb,” she granted. The suspicion was clear as day in her voice. Dahlia would be lying if she said that it didn’t sicken her.

“You want me to jus’ say it, don’chu?” Dahlia asked, eyes glued to the pan as she cooked. Her mother’s silence was her answer. “I…mama I need you to listen to me. To hear me when I say this. Don’ go interruptin’ me jus’ when you get angry. Please.”

“Well I’m listenin’ Dahlia Celeste,” her mother said. Her voice was pinched. Someone who knew her mother less would assume it to be irritation. This was something worse. Poorly disguised worry.

“I’ve…” Dahlia took a deep breath but refused to look away from the pan. If she was going to rip out her mother’s heart…she was going to allow herself the cowardice to not look in her face as she did it. “It’s gon’ be me…mama. I’ve…I’ve been telling people to vote for me.”

There was a long, stretched silence.

Dahlia had expected that.

“That ain’t funny to joke about, Dahlia,” her mother’s voice rang. It was curt and dismissive.

Dahlia had also expected that.

“It ain’t a joke, mama. I’ve been telling everyone to vote for me,” she said, voice level. “And…and they have been. I know it.”

“Dahlia Celeste turn off that burner and you better look at me,” her mother demanded. Her voice was eerily calm.

Like stepping into the eye of a hurricane knowing damn well that you were doomed, Dahlia did as she was bidden and turned to face her mother. Her reluctance was great, but her need to at least save her mother from the pain of blaming herself for this still remained greater.

“Yes, mama?” Dahlia asked, trying to come off equally calm.

“Now why would you be sayin’ all this t’me?” her mother asked, clipped but calm. “What nonsense are you talkin’ right now t’me?”

Dahlia steeled her heart and her resolve. There was little else that she could do at that point. She met her mother’s eye, refusing to back down. She had to go for a performance of a lifetime here and make her mother believe that this was what she wanted . Unlike in the Games, failure was not going to be an option here. She had to give her mama hope…comfort…understanding…give her something to take with her when Dahlia wasn’t going to be there anymore.

“Ain’t talkin’ no nonsense, mama. I’m jus’ tellin’ you what I should’ve done before. I started tellin’ folks to vote me in as the tribute for the Games. And…mama I know they have been. I need this,” she said. She was almost startled by the conviction in her own voice. Honestly…she almost believed it.

There was a stiff moment of silence. “Why?” her mother asked. She did not sound angry like Dahlia had expected—like she had spent the night preparing for—instead, she sounded distraught. That was a whole different kind of punch to the stomach. “Why would you do that, beb? Go into these nasty…wretched Games? The ones that stole your father from me? From us?” And truly a knife to the chest would be less painful than the tears in her mother’s eyes—hopefully that wouldn’t be too far off for her, then. “That…that Arena killed your father. Stole him from us. Why would you go there, Dahlia? Why? You’re a girl from District 11! You have no chance compared to the inner districts you know that! Why would you…why would you kill yourself like this?” Her mother’s eyes hardened into a glare. “I have given you everything Dahlia, was that not enough?”

“Mama,” Dahlia said, her tone harder than she initially would’ve liked. “Don’t make this about you.”

“Then what’s this about, beb?” her mother demanded. “You tryna prove somethin’ to someone? Well I know you’re strong, cher. The whole damn district knows you’re strong. You ain’t gotta prove it to the whole damn country! You’re gonna lose and die tryin’ and you know it! So tell me then! What’chu thinkin’ about goin’ an’ makin’ all this mess? I know damn well it ain’t somethin’ sensible!”

“I’m thinking about my Dad, mama,” she said, loudly cutting off her mother’s angry speech. “I’m thinking about losing my Dad to these Games and how…how angry I was.” When Dahlia sat in the feelings, the thoughts, that she was referring to…well, maybe she could make this little speech of hers convincing after all. “My daddy put his blood, sweat and tears against his will to help those…those monsters build their little Arena. It was the day before my second Reaping. I thought…I thought my daddy was gon’ be steppin’ off a train from the Capitol. But no. It was some…buttoned up…official offering us an apology and a piss poor chunk o’change to make up for them letting my Daddy die. I wasn’t even thirteen yet and I knew that my life…the life I’d had? It was gone. Done. And we didn’ even get to say goodbye, Mama. They didn’ even bother sendin’ us his body. If anyone in this District wants to go to that Arena? To show the Capitol the monsters they’re makin’ us into? Mama it’s me. My mind was made up. I’m not changin’ it and even if I did it’s too late. They’re votin’ for me, mama. I’m tellin’ you before because I love you. An’ I don’ wan’ you to get caught out not knowing. But I…this ain’t me asking permission, mama. This is me tellin’ you. That’s it.”

“You tellin’ me? Dahlia what makes you think you’re grown enough to make this decision?” she demanded.

“The law says I am, mama,” she spat back. She clenched and unclenched her fists at his side. “We didn’t even get his body back. His body. And if I don’ make it home, mama? Then fine. Let me be the same place he was. Let him come get me and take me home.”

There was a weighted, charged silence at that. Her mother very clearly flinched at the words, not liking her daughter speaking about her own death in such a way. With such clear and obvious acceptance. But Dahlia couldn’t back down. Not now. Not when they were talking about her father. She had to be strong. It was her turn to be strong so her mother could break. Even if it hurt Dahlia. Her mama…her mama needed this. Needed to get the chance to say her piece.

“I have put everything into makin’ sure you was still doin’ good without him here! I didn’ let how tired…how sad it has been stop me for one second. I knew I had to be here for you. I put my all into makin’ sure that you had a chance at your future Dahlia. And now you’re gon’ throw it all away and kill yourself?” her mother practically spat at her, tears welling in her eyes.

Dahlia bit back the wave of nausea she felt, as well as the piercing anger that warred right with it, trying to spill out. “I would’ve been fine seein’ you sad an’ tired, mama,” she said bluntly, “cuz even then I know you wouldn’t give up. Instead I watched you run yourself ragged. I’ve watched you work yourself to the bone for kids like—” She cut herself off, swallowing harshly. “Well, it don’t matter none anymore, does it?” She held her chin high, ready to flee before she started sobbing in front of her mother and admitted the truth to the one person who’d see right through her. “An’ you know damn well mama that I ain’t gon’ kill myself. Someone’ll have to fight damn hard to take me from this world, kickin’ and screamin’ like when I came into it.” Then, she looked down at her feet, shaking her head, sucking at her teeth to keep her big mouth from running off with her. Then, she began moving swiftly to the door, deciding that she’d rather go hungry a while than deal with this right now…than risk breaking her mother more than this already would’ve. “Food’s done, mama. You go ‘head an’ eat before you go to work.”

“And where are you goin’?” her mother asked angrily.

“Checking on the traps,” she said, proud of herself for keeping her voice steady when tears were already streaming down her face. Dahlia left the apartment and saw that one of her neighbors was staring at her, pity on their face, then froze when their eyes locked. Someone who voted for her, she had no doubt. She felt nauseous again all of a sudden. “And what’re you starin’ at, Mister Finch?”

The man looking down, almost like he was ashamed but…but not quite. “We gon’ take care of her Dahlia,” he said after a beat.

Dahlia couldn’t help but scoff as she continued down the hall to the stairs. “Yeah, well make sure that there’s somethin’ to take care of then,” she muttered to herself, plagued by the thought of her mother taking her life if Dahlia herself died…like she knew she would.

She burst out into the already hot air of the summer, thick and hanging around her, practically caressing her skin. She scrubbed the tears of frustration from the corner of her eyes and started off on her journey to the bayou then. She didn’t need to check the traps. She’d done so the day before. But, being out there was the only way that she’d get some damn privacy and moment to quiet her mind and feel her grief without feeling guilty about pouring it out onto someone else.

The young woman felt in some sort of haze as she walked through the heat of the day, feet moving through memory alone as her mind went elsewhere. She walked further and further from home, deeper and deeper into the thicket of trees that surrounded the bayou. She moved carefully even in the haze, her muscle memory helping her avoid all of the areas she knew female alligators would be nesting with the clutches of eggs they’d had or were about to be having. Eventually, her legs began to feel weak under her, not for any physical reason, but rather for the near-tangible weight that settled on her shoulders as reality kicked back in.

Dahlia drew in a haggard breath, her feet dragging her to a dock along the bayou that wasn’t much used. On a good day, a day where she felt her wits about her fully, she’d never go near the dock. It was dilapidated and she didn’t trust that it could support even her body weight. But between that and risking an angry nesting gator coming up on her on the grass? The rotten wood was the clear choice. If a gator was going to eat her, she figured it should at least have the decency to do it via a death roll in the water instead of tearing her to pieces on land. A grim line of thought to be sure, she quickly came to realize.

Sitting heavily against the dock, she didn’t even flinch when she heard the creak or felt the subtle buckle of the drenched wood. It had rained the night before and that combined with the old wood, Dahlia wouldn’t be shocked if this old thing finally went down this summer. She just knew she wouldn’t be there to see it. She rested her hands on the old structure, older than she was…older than she’d ever get to be. And she thought of her mother. And she thought of her father. And she thought of her home.

Looking around, it was a beautiful day, even with the obvious monsoon of rain that was going to be coming down on them sooner rather than later. The animals hadn’t skittered off to hide away during the storm just yet. She watched as, on the other side of the bayou, a few cranes lazily walked, inspecting the ground as they went. Her eyes trailed over their movement, feeling a pang in her chest, and then she looked away, eyes catching a young looking nutria hurrying along. She’d even miss those stupid f*cking overgrown rats. Her hand curled, nails digging into the half rotted wood beneath her hands and she tried to ground herself here and now.

Desperately, perhaps, Dahlia tried to memorize the smallest detail of every last thing around her. She started with just how saturated the colors around her were. Everything was bright. The greens were lush. The blues were bright. She wouldn’t let herself forget what the real world looked like. She’d hold onto it until her last breath. The sounds too. The gentle lapping of the water in the bayou as it lazily moved along and lapped against the base of the dock. The chirping and cawing of the bugs and birds around her. Even the sounds of the flies as they buzzed around. All of it, together, it made…it made the place home. It made the place alive. She was alive. When she was here? She was alive.

She was alive.

But…

Not for long.

An ache lanced through her chest and cracked her heart open. Dahlia physically put her hand up to her chest, touching her skin as though she were expecting to find an actual injury there…as if her heart had been pierced by some spectral spear that she couldn’t see. But there was no injury there. The smooth expanse of her skin alone. Her hand, suddenly feeling both heavier and non-existent, fell from her chest, landing on the deck once more. A swell of nausea had her swallowing back the urge to vomit as she looked over the water, chest feeling hard to keep upright.

Dahlia leaned forward, unable to help it, bracing her arms on her legs as she breathed heavily trying to steady herself. Normally, she’d at least try to tell herself and say that it was okay, try and recenter. But, she couldn’t even summon up lies to tell herself. It was not going to be okay. It was very easily and demonstratively not going to be okay. She had two more days to soak in her home. Two days before she’d be officially marked for death. There was no getting out of this one. And no matter how much she prayed to her family—her grandparents, her father, and anyone that came before them—she knew that there was nothing in this world that could bring her comfort but the assurance that Culler wouldn’t die too. And that? Not even that was a promise she could make to herself. She would do everything to ensure that he got home and she was too aware that it could fully end up not being enough to actually get him back with his family where he belonged.

I splinter of wood came off the dock from her hard squeezing, and in a moment of grief-driven rage, she hurled it across the bayou, watching as it hit water. Immediately, Dahlia felt relief when the water didn’t stir. The anger gave way to guilt immediately. She didn’t want to hurt a creature. She didn’t want to let her anger get the better of her. She didn’t want to hurt someone…the thought of intentionally injuring someone made her sick…the thought of anything worse…she could not linger on.

The anger had given out, revealing a layer of guilt she did not think the strongest of men could lift from her shoulders. And the guilt now was melting away, revealing the raw, pulsating grief underneath that she thought might just choke the life out of her before the Hunger Games themselves could do the job. Dahlia felt torn for it too. She would not wish being voted into these wretched Games on her worst enemy. Not even the insipid little girl whose father had bullied everyone into voting for her. This was a cruelty so unique and unfathomable that she feared even on her last breath she wouldn’t begin to understand the full scope of betrayal of.

A noise rang out across the bayou.

It startled her and the other animals.

For a few long moments, Dahlia had not realized that the sound had come from her. A few beats later still to realize that her chest was heaving with painful sobs and tears were rolling down her face. The sound that had first come from her chest, the scream as it was, was nothing like she’d ever heard before. She’d heard mothers wailing over the bodies of their children. She’d heard children wailing over the bodies of their father. Nothing sounded like that. She once had been the one wailing over losing her father. Now her mother would soon be wailing over her. And she knew, not even that would be close. This was a wail of grief and anger so closely entwined and so entirely useless that she had to excise it from herself so she’d be able to stand on her own two feet and go home. So she’d be able to go through the motions for the next few days and keep her mother none the wiser for her pain.

It was a wail that held the souls and grief of the 576 children that had died in the Games before her.

It was a cry that held the pain of all those that would come after.

This suffering…it would be hers and hers alone. Not even Culler could help her carry it. Not this time. He would try. She loved him endlessly for it. His stubborn, forceful nosiness had kept her in check since they were young. It had kept her going once. There’s life yet to live, Doll, he had told her years earlier, just after her father. He sounded stupid then, too wise for a boy his age, too casual in his delivery. But that wasn’t the case anymore. It would be her turn to say as much to him. She could only hope that he was near to her when the time came and she was dying. She would return the favor and words to him. She could all but see it in her head. Her lying on the ground, bleeding out from some egregious wound, and her clutching at Culler’s hand as she grew paler and paler like her mother as her blood left her body. She’d pull him closer, just enough to whisper to him. There’s life yet to live, Cull…get yourself home, now. And then, she’d be gone.

Dahlia laid back against the rotted dock, not caring about how gross it was anymore. She laid down as she continued to cry, her hands resting over her chest again as though expecting an injury to blossom out of nowhere. But no. All that was there was still just smooth, unmarred skin. No cuts or bruises. No spears through her heart, even if it felt that way. Dahlia was healthy. Dahlia was whole. Physically speaking.

For now.

She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying her breath, trying to stop the flow of tears. It proved unsuccessful. And as Dahlia opened her eyes, she heard from the tree above her the call of a mourning dove.

A broken little laugh escaped her lips and she moved her hands to cover her face.

She never wanted to leave this place.

July 1, 25 ATT — The Capitol

A group of men sat around a table, all of them with their hands folded, resting on the table. It was an active discussion. Engaged even. And the one thing that Snow knew, was that the conversation was utterly f*cking pointless. Stupid beyond comprehension, in all actuality. But, he couldn’t let that show on his face. Heavens, no. These elitist fools could never know the distaste that he truly held for them. Especially the moronic president that just kept droning on.

“And what of you, Snow?” the moronic president in question posed, finally bringing him into the conversation. “What do you have to say of the violence that is raising from this little voting system of yours, hmm?”

Snow gave him a flat look. It was a wonder that he was ever able to be given this role with how little he was apparently capable of rational thought. Then, his face melted into something more pleasant and he leaned back in his chair comfortably, folding his hands not on the table but instead resting them on his leg. Unlike the rest of the tense men in the room, Coriolanus Snow was the picture of cool ease. He worked hard to make it so, after all.

“Well, Nero, I’d be happy to provide you with this,” Snow said, handing him a crisp black folder. The president took it, looking rather disgruntled. He plopped it on the table, rather undignified and loud, and then opened it. He looked at it for only a few seconds before looking up at Snow, his brow furrowed. “A problem?”

“What the hell is this, Snow?” the president demanded.

Snow offered what he hoped came across as an appeasing smile. “What with the rising tension that’s existed around the Games anyhow, I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to have a contingency plan built in. So, here’s some advanced security measures that I recommend that we put in place at the first sign of real issue,” he said. He shrugged, then gave a lazy sort of grin, the most at-ease he’d maybe ever looked around these brainless, foolish men. “Though, I’d perhaps wait until the votes are closed and the Reaping is done to implement any…serious measures. After all, in a few days? I do believe that folks in the District are going to start tearing into each other instead of attempting to tear into us. Me and my Game Makers? We’ll make sure of it.”

“And how is that gonna happen?” a Lieutenant General in the room asked.

Snow couldn’t help but chuckle at that one. “Well, I’m afraid that not even you all can have me spoil the run I have planned for our Reaping,” Snow said. “Patience. You’ll see in good time that I have this well in hand.”

July 2, 25 ATT — District 11

The apartment was quiet.

The tension was clear.

Still, Dahlia tried. She dropped a plate of some simple toast in front of her mother, made with bread she’d made the day prior after she’d returned out of an unyielding need to use her hands. She stood there for a moment as her mother went over the tattered old book in her hands, ignoring her daughter’s presence.

“Mama, don’t forget to vote today. It closes in a few hours. I don’t wan’chu to get in trouble,” Dahlia reminded her mother, keeping her voice steady and strong even when she wanted to be the complete opposite.

Then she waited. Her mother remained silent, eyes on the book. Her plate unacknowledged and untouched. With nothing else to do, she nodded and dipped her head, pursing her lips. Then, she walked away, going back to her bedroom. Heart numb, she pulled on a fresh set of clothes, deciding that she’d just go to The Shack early today.

Dahlia and her mother hadn’t spoken since telling her about going into the Games.

She exited her room after pulling her shoes on, offering her mother a final look. “Be careful if you go out, mama. Gon’ be a storm startin’ soon. I’ll be at The Shack. Home…later tonight,” she said slowly.

Still no reply.

Dahlia would not be surprised if she never spoke to her mother again.

In a haze of sadness she wouldn’t let herself reflect on, she walked to The Shack and entered through the back, surprised to see that Neem and Duckie were already there, both of them doing prep work. The three exchanged surprised glances with each other, none of them having expected to see the others.

“What’chu doin’ here so early today, girl?” Neem asked, raising her eyebrow.

“Mama still ain’t talkin’ to me, and I don’ wan’ sit ‘round and be sad all day. I got no time for all that, do I?” she posed, reaching out and roughly pulling an apron off a hook, wrapping it around herself quickly, tying it rather roughly.

“Girl if you don’ stop yankin’ at the damn hooks in our walls, I done told you a million times now,” Duckie scolded.

“Won’t have to worry about that anymore, will we?” Dahlia bitterly muttered, the words flowing out before she could even catch them on her tongue. She froze in place. The energy in the room had gone tense. She turned to look at them, genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry…I shouldn’t…I didn’t mean…” She couldn’t finish the sentence for the life of her.

“Wash your hands, Dahlia,” Neem said, “if you’re gon’ be here, we’re gon’ put you to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dahlia agreed, nodding robotically. She walked over to the sink and began scrubbing her hands as she was requested.

Needless to say, though, coming into The Shack as she did, truly set the tone for the whole of this last shift of hers. People were being kind and accommodating with her, gentle and patient. And she f*cking hated every single second of it. It made her skin crawl that people were being so accepting of her near frosty detachment as she struggled to even stay mentally present throughout the whole of her shift. Their unending kindness, even in the face of her being less than reciprocal truly told her how f*cked she was. They had done it. Truly. All of them had voted her in. There was no question about it. The reality sinking in was enough to make her hands shake even as she served food, going from snappish in responses to silent.

With all she was, Dahlia wished that she could not be angry. She understood these people. She knew they’d been threatened. Of course they’d voted her in as requested. What would they have done otherwise? Put themselves and their families at risk? And have to come up with a different sucker to vote to their death? She got it. She did. But, it turned out that understanding didn’t make it less painful.

Nothing did, in fact.

After the night was said and done and The Shack had been closed for business, Dahlia found herself sitting on the stoop in the backdoor that led outside. She sat and just stared out into the storming night, listening to the thunder and watching as lightning passed through the sky, bright and bold in the dark. Somehow, not even one tear had slipped down her face. Perhaps they’d all dried up in the days prior. She didn’t shift when she felt someone sit next to her, didn’t even look.

“I feel dumb, you know,” she said, voice flat as she looked out at the rain. She stared with an intensity that made it seem like she was trying to scry, looking for information to free her from this terrible hand she’d gotten.

“Well, you been actin’ a fool all day, so I’m hardly surprised,” Duckie said, patting her knee, “but you ain’t no fool for it.”

“No,” Dahlia dismissed, still not looking at him, “I said to you an’ Neem when I found out. I didn’ wan’ waste my time bein’ angry or sad. And yet...that feels like all I’ve done. An’ there ain’t nothin’ I can do to change it. I can’t turn back no clock. I can’t…I can’t do anything, can I?”

Duckie grunted, resting his hands over his own knees, rubbing them together. “Nah, you can’t,” he agreed. “Nothin’ in this world can change it. But even so…I still don’ blame you for it, girl. I can’t imagine how you must be feelin’ right now. Don’t beat yourself up for bein’ human. We all got our moments.”

“You don’t,” Dahlia immediately countered. “You’re always calm. I’ve been angry and sad and…and rude. An’ I hate it. I meant it when I said that my daddy raised me better than that before. An’ I just…I’m lettin’ him down every step of the way with this. An’ I’ll end up lettin’ my mama down too. Ain’t even an outlet for it all. So I jus’ gotta…live with it. An’ I know life ain’t fair an’ all that. But I just…” She shook her head and looked down, eyes closing. “I hate knowin’ that I’m gon’ have to give up…who I am in that Arena. That Arena killed my daddy. That Arena is gon’ take my humanity and then my life too. I just…” She let out a harsh laugh. “I don’ get how to do this.”

For a few minutes, Duckie was silent. But, apparently he had something to add because eventually, he did speak. “Reaper never did lose who he was. Not even in the end,” he said. His words were slow, methodical. “Even when I wished he would’ve. He could’ve come home. But he wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t gon’ kill nobody in that Arena. He cared…he cared more about preserving the dignity of those kids than the Capitol ever could’ve. It…he should’ve won. He should be here.”

“He was strong. And a good man,” Dahlia said. She didn’t know him, but even so, the words felt not just right to say, but they felt true. “An’ he didn’ wan’ give the Capitol the satisfaction of seein’ him crack.”

“I am…proud of the man my son was. More than you could know. More than he could’ve known. But I…that don’t mean I’m not angry with him for not coming back home. That don’ mean that I wish he hadn’t killed that…little District 12 girl,” Duckie said seriously. “Lots of songbirds exist in this world. A nice voice is a dime a dozen. But a truly good man? One who cared about the people he was supposed to be killin’? Who cared for…who honored their bodies when they would’ve gone to a pile an’ jus’…rot? My boy was rare. An’ he deserved to live. An’ he knew that. So…yes, Dahlia. You may think I’m calm day in an’ day out. That I don’ get angry. But you’re wrong. I love my boy. But that don’ mean I ain’t mad. And that don’ mean I never show it. I show it plenty. Anger is…anger is part of love.”

Dahlia’s nose wrinkled. “Yeah, I’on think I ever heard that before,” she said, wringing her hands in her lap.

“Doubt you would, cher,” Duckie said, clapping her shoulder, “but it’s the truth. You ain’t wrong, girl. You lost your pa to the Arena. Then you found out ‘bout Culler goin’ in. Then…you find out you’re goin’ in. I think you’d be insane if you weren’ at least a little bit angry now. You get to be angry at your pa for goin’ and getting himself killed, even if he didn’ wan’to. You get to be mad at Culler for putting his stupid neck on the line. You get to be mad at all’em for votin’ you in and for the assholes who put your name out in the firs’ place.” He squeezed her shoulder then. Firm but kind. “You get to be mad at your mama too, Dahlia. For her gettin’ you in this spot with bein’ voted in. For you havin’ to lie to her to protect her from it. For her wastin’ the last o’ your time together bein’ all angry and quiet. You get to be mad, Dahlia. It ain’t cuz you don’t love ‘em. It’s cuz you love ‘em and you don’t got nowhere to drop that love anymore. Or, well…at least you’re telling yourself you won’t soon. Your love makes you angry and that’s okay.”

“It don’t feel okay,” she muttered.

Duckie let out a humorless laugh. “Now when did I say it’d feel okay? Girl, it won’t feel any kind of okay. But that don’t mean it ain’t,” he said, serious as ever. “An’ you know what? You love bein’ alive. You have since you was young, girl. An’ you seem to think you won’ be soon. So you have a right to be mad at that too. Another thing being stolen from you. The biggest, some would say.”

“Still feels selfish as anything,” she said, hands wringing in her lap again.

Duckie clucked, disapproving. “Your mama is too damn soft-hearted sometimes,” he said, muttering the words under his breath. “Listen here, cher. Not every selfish thing in this world is a bad thing. Sometimes? We all gotta be selfish. Helps keep our head on straight. Don’ beat yourself up for that neither.”

“Too late,” she said. She sunk into a heavy, pained silence, her eyes closed.

While she stayed in her contemplative misery, Duckie looked down at his wrist and made a decision, untwining something there. “I got one more thing to say to you, girl,” he declared. “An’ I need you t’a look at me for it.”

Slowly, Dahlia looked at him, expectant. “Is Reed Ash gon’ give lil’ ol’ me advice now?” she asked, voice as close to joking as it had come in days now.

“I am,” he confirmed. “But first, I’m gon’ give you this.” Then he grabbed her wrist wrapping a black bracelet of braided leather onto it. It wrapped four times around fully, and then he began to tie it in an intricate knot, securing it in place. “That…once upon a time…Reaper took up the idea he was gon’ get into makin’ leather. Bring us in some extra money to get by. It was before The Shack became what it is today.” He let out a laugh, affectionate humor and nostalgia wrapped in this one. “I don’ know how he was as bad at it as he was. But, God love him, he could not get it right. Except once. And not on all the batch he was tryin’ t’a make. Just a bit. Me and his ma couldn’t help but laugh and tease him. He took it off the chin. He was a good boy, he always did.” His voice was far away and it made Dahlia’s heart clench. He cleared his throat and then tapped on her wrist where he’d just secured the bracelet. “I made this from some of that leather. And whenever I feel like something is impossible? I look at this and remind myself that…if Reaper could figure out how to tan some leather? Then, hell, pigs could fly if they tried hard enough.”

All at once, Dahlia felt something loosen in her chest. Not completely, but enough that she couldn’t resist the giggling that started. She looked down at the bracelet after a few minutes chuckling alongside the older man. “I can’t take this from you, Duckie. Not when I know I won’t be able to give it back to you,” she denied, ready to take it off.

Duckie stopped her by grabbing her head. “Don’ worry. I got more, girl. You ain’t takin’ all I got left of my son, don’t be dramatic now. But I think you need it. To remind yourself to hope. At least a little bit. Even if you don’ come back, like you said, you gon’ give it your all to make sure that Culler gets to come on home. An’ stranger things have happened.” He squeezed her hand with both of his, as though trying to pass on some sort of blessing through the touch alone—no words necessary. “An’ you know what else, Dahlia? Let it be a reminder to you that you ain’t a bad person for fightin’ in this Arena. It ain’t gon’ change the way that the people who care about you look at you. And it certainly ain’t gon’ change the way we love you.”

The looser feeling in her chest certainly made it easier for his words to crack her heart right back open. She couldn’t even feign surprise at the way tears started to fall then. She didn’t even bother trying to hide them. “Even when it changes me?” she posed, voice horrifically vulnerable, even though she hated the feeling of it.

“Even then,” he confirmed easily, squeezing her hand tighter still, giving her an assuring nod. “You always gon’ be just Dahlia to us. Ain’t no two ways about it.”

She looked at the bracelet and then let out a shaky breath, wiping away her tears. “An’ what advice you gon’ give me, then?” she posed.

“If death gon’ come for all of us? Then you best make sure that you soak up as much of life as long as you got it. Don’t start your mourning too early,” he said, his voice solemn. “It ain’t gon’ make reality come faster. And it ain’t gon’ make anything hurt less. Enjoy…what you can while you got it, girl. If you got one day left with your ma? Then you go home an’ you spend it smilin’. Jus’ for tonight, Dahlia? Do yourself the favor. Stow the anger and the sadness. If you gon’ wallow in it anyway later on? Then give yourself one more good night to look back on before you go.”

“One more good night,” she murmured under her breath. She nodded, wiping more tears from her eyes. “Right.”

“Easier said than done with two stubborn damn women, I know, but you gotta try,” Duckie teased.

Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Oh hush up,” she said. She sighed, arms wrapped around her leg and finally looked over at the older man. “Thank you. For the bracelet. And the advice. And…for…for everything.”

“You don’t owe me any thanks,” he dismissed. “You been easy, girl. Havin’ you aroun’ makes our lives better.”

“I am gon’ miss you. Both of you,” she said, sincere.

“What I say about not mourning early?” he said gruffly in reply. “It’s just another day.”

“Not mourning. Just statin’ facts,” she denied. She rose to her feet. “I guess it’s time for me to go on back home then. Get to memory makin’ or whatever.” She let out a slow breath. “It’s just another day.”

“Guess you best be on your way then,” he said, rising as well. He turned his head, watching as his wife came in the kitchen as well. “Come say goodbye, Neem. Girl’s headed home for the night. An’ I think she got the day off tomorrow too.”

“Then I gotta say my bye if I ain’t gon’ see her face brightening up our dingy old place tomorrow,” Neem said, voice level as she walked over, dropping dishes as she went. The woman came over and enveloped Dahlia in a tight hug and pressed a kiss to her temple. “You be safe. Storm tonight’s gon’ be brutal.” Another squeeze of the hug. “An’ enjoy your day off, girl. You work too hard for someone so young. But we expect you back bright an’ early on the fifth. It’ll be jus’ another day.”

“Just another day,” Dahlia agreed softly, feeling tears burning her eyes. Neem wiped them away. “Yes ma’am, I’ll get myself here at the crack of dawn. Start dustin’ the rafters an’all.”

Neem scoffed. “Oh, you hear that, Duckie? This one’s got jokes,” she said. Her eyes landed on the bracelet around her wrist and Dahlia saw tears rise in her eyes then too. She cleared her throat, tapping it. “Well, you go on an’ get. Your mama’ll be madder than hell if you don’ get home soon with this weather.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dahlia said. She sniffled. Something about the light-hearted attempt at making it seem like just another day simultaneously made the process easier and harder on her. She wrapped her arms around both of the Ashes and hugged them as tight as she could manage. “I love you both. I’m gon’ miss y’all runnin’ me around like I’m your pack mule.”

“We love you,” Neem said warmly.

“And we’re gon’ miss our pack mule too,” Duckie added, his tone dry. He pulled back from the embrace and held the back of her head, staring at her as though memorizing her face. He smiled, though she could see the pained crease at the corner of his eye. “You look jus’ like your parents. The both of ‘em. And your pa would be proud of how strong you are, girl. Just like I know your ma is.” He cleared his throat and dropped his hand, reaching out his arm, winding it around his wife’s waist. “Now go an’ get. We got cleanin’ to do, get outta our hair.”

Dahlia covered her chest as though wounded, gasping. “See an’ I ain’t even know you had hair to get into, Duckie, with how bald that head of yours is,” she said.

Duckie shook his head and looked at his wife. “See this one always gotta try and get the las’ word in!” he exclaimed.

“And I always will,” Dahlia said, offering the pair a final quiet grin, taking in their countenances, memorizing their faces, before stepping out in the hot, rainy night.

Dahlia moved quickly through the downpour back home. She paused a moment on her route, staring at her childhood home and the warm light she could see inside. It called to her, beckoning her in like a moth to a flame. But she knew the truth of it. Peacekeepers were all she’d find inside. There was nothing left of the home she’d once held so closely and lovingly as she grew up. That was long gone now. So she continued the rest of the way and made her way back to the apartment, ringing the water out of her clothes on the porch some before finally going inside and hustling up to her apartment to change.

The door to her mother’s bedroom was closed, but all of the lights were on. She moved quickly to her own room, gathering fresh clothes and then went to the bathroom to bathe and change into something that felt better than soaked-rat chic. The new leather bracelet she had stayed on her wrist the whole time. When she exited, happy to feel clean and cool, she found her mother sitting in their living room, a box on her lap. When she saw her daughter, she rose to her feet and silently offered the box to Dahlia.

Slowly, Dahlia’s hand reached out, eyes on the box and brought it towards her. She looked up at her mother, confused, and her mother nodded twice, indicating that she should take the top of the box off. Dahlia did so, brow knit together in confusion as she slid the top of the box off, looking at the tissue paper that sat on top of the box. She glanced up at her mother again, her chest tightening, and then moved to sit on the edge of their couch, having the feeling that she would need it. Then, she moved the tissue paper, revealing what was underneath.

She was greeted with an expanse of seafoam that matched her eyes. Her hands moved, grasping the contents of the box, tracing them. The texture felt so smooth, almost creamy under her hand. Her fingers moved away and she glanced up at her mother, but she was focused fully on the contents of the box, lips turned down in the smallest frown Dahlia had ever seen in her life. She did the same, attention shifting back to the box. Her hands moved slowly, methodically, taking the content of the box out, letting the box fall from her lap to the ground. Neither of the women moved to pick it up. Carefully, she held up the object, watching as it unfurled from its neatly folded square out into the dress that it was.

The dress was…perfect.

Beautiful.

The seafoam green material had been cut with clear expertise. Different to the homemade clothes that they usually wore. The material would be light and comfortable even now as it got to the hottest time of year. It was sleeveless and off-shoulder. It would hang just below her knee. The style was simple and classic. She could dress it up or dress it down. But that wasn’t the part that had Dahlia pausing, staring blankly at the dress as her heart clenched so hard she thought it would burst.

That was the flowers.

There were flowers painstakingly embroidered along the neckline of the dress and over the shoulders. The pattern continued all the way around from front to back. And the same, with flowers of all shapes, sizes and varieties, encircled the entire skirt, building into a beautiful garden scene. There were wild blue phlox, coneflowers and begonias. Geraniums, marigolds and hydrangeas too. Butterfly milkweed and frogfruit sprinkled throughout. Carnations, sage and irises were plentiful too. A few cleverly placed magnolias were so well done it was breathtaking. Then there were the dahlias. At least five different types. All each as perfectly clean as the magnolias were. The seafoam of the dress was the perfect accent to the multitude of colors used for the embroidered blooms. This was the kind of thing that would live in Dahlia’s wardrobe forever. She knew the time that this would’ve taken to make, not only for the dress but for the embroidery all over it. Especially with how detailed it all was. And with the level of detail she couldn’t even imagine just how expensive this thing was.

An eternal blue sky for flowers that would never wilt or die.

A perfect reminder of the beauty of her home.

A beautiful gift being wasted on a girl who wouldn’t be here any longer.

Dahlia looked up at her mother, heart feeling utterly ripped open. “What is this?” she asked, voice more quiet and vulnerable than she would’ve preferred it to be.

There was a long, long moment of extended silence. For a moment, Dahlia feared that she was right and that she truly would never hear her mother’s voice again. Perhaps that fear showed on her face though, because after another moment of weighted silence, she heard her mother let out a quiet sigh. Then, she moved, sitting on the couch next to Dahlia, her eyes on the dress instead of her daughter.

“I…” her mother began, but her voice trailed off. She reached out, gently taking the dress from her daughter and neatly folded it, resting it in her lap as her fingers traced the outline of one of the dahlias along the neckline. “This…this was gon’ be for your birthday, beb.” Her mom’s voice was weak as she admitted that, the words clearly paining her. “Miss Carol down by the mayor an’em…she been workin’ on this for me…oh…’bout three months now. I had to get her to rush on it. I had to give it t’you now.”

Dahlia blew out a breath. “This is too much, mama,” she said softly, staring down at her hands, unable to bring herself to look at her mother. “Too expensive. Too nice. Wasting it on me.”

“Been savin’ up for it for the past year or so,” her mother said, lips pulled into a full frown. “Last year I saw you lookin’ at one o’ those rich girls from town. At her dress. Saw the way you lit up seein’ how pretty it was. I knew you’d never ask. Didn’ wan’ you to have to ask me, cher.” She sighed, eyes closing. “An’ you deserved better than that girl had. I was gon’ make sure of it. So…I started savin’. I knew it’d be expensive, sure. But I know you, beb. I know you’d cherish this the rest of your life. Jus’ the way you are.”

“I’m sorry you wasted so much on it,” Dahlia murmured, the words like ash in her mouth.

“Didn’ waste a thing on it,” her mother said.

“Mama—” Dahlia sighed.

“No,” he mother interrupted, shaking her head, “I told Miss Carol I had to pick it up by today. She agreed to get it done. An’ when I went, ready to pay her…she wouldn’t take anything from me. Nothin’. That…that’s how I knew. You…you really got people to vote for you. An’ now…they gon’ look at me like I’m a ghost. Even when I’m righ’ in front of ‘em. Tha’s what she did. Looked…right through me. Pity in her damn eyes an’ all. So…I didn’ waste nothin’ on this. Didn’t lose nothin’. Except you, beb.”

The words were a well-placed blow, making her throat close up. And at that point, she didn’t think her mother was even trying to be malicious or make her feel bad. She was just being honest. Reality sinking into her bones just as clear as they’d sunk into Dahlia’s. Dahlia’s hands tightened around each other, wringing in her lap uselessly. She didn’t have anything she could say to that. She watched as her mother delicately picked up the box that had fallen and carefully arranged the dress in it, placing it on the table in front of them where they both stared at it.

“It was a project she was doin’ in her free time. That’s why it was takin’ so long. I just…I only asked her to do the top. Small flowers. Nothing big, nothing fancy…knew you wouldn’t use it if it felt like too much. But…when I went to get it today, she showed me the whole thing. Whole bottom was done too. Beautiful. She even put magnolias and dahlias. I think she thought I was gon’ cry. But I just thanked her and took it home. And the funny thing is I’on even feel bad about doin’ that. No thank you to her…nothin’. I jus’…left.”

“That’s okay, mama. She knows you’d love it. Miss Carol ain’t no fool,” Dahlia said, leaning heavily back against the couch as her eyes remained on the dress, a foreboding sense of doom tightening in her chest.

Her mother let out a humorless laugh. “I know she ain’t no damn fool, cher,” she said plainly. “That don’ mean nothin’, though, do it?”

Dahlia sighed. “Guess it doesn’t,” she granted, glum. She looked down at her wrist, fingers tracing the tightly braided leather that was wound around her like a bracelet. “Duckie gave me this. Said that it’s somethin’ tha’ Reaper helped make once upon a time.”

“Reaper was a good boy and a better man,” Dahlia’s mom said, her voice sullen. Her eyes trailed from the dress over to her daughter’s wrist. “He did good on that for a boy who wasn’t no rancher by no means.” She hunched forward then, as though staying upright was too much, too painful, for her. “Guess you gettin’ all your birthday gifts early, then, huh?”

“Guess so, mama,” she echoed. It was one of those moments where she could hear how similar her voice was to her mother’s. “He also said I looked like you. And like daddy.”

“That you do, darlin’,” her mother said immediately. “The best o’ the both of us. The most beautiful girl I ever did see.”

Dahlia, normally, would’ve laughed at that. She didn’t have the energy to, though. Instead, she sighed and leaned her head back against the couch, looking at her mother before she spoke, letting silence stretch as she thought of the best way to do it. Thinking that way was just lying to herself, though. There was no good way to do this. She just had to do it. To say it.

“I don’ want to do this, mama,” she said softly. Her mother’s head turned half-way towards her, not looking at her, but clearly listening at least. “I don’ want to die. I don’ want anything to do with these Games. But I gotta. I hate that I gotta, mama, but I do. I have to go. I have to do this. Ain’t no one else it was gon’ be but me. I just…I hate that me doin’ this…doin’ what I have to…that it…that it hurts you.”

She watched her mother purse her lips, tears gathering in her eyes. “Ain’t no world where a mother should have to bury her child,” she said eventually.

Dahlia shook her head. “No, mama, there isn’t,” she agreed. “But we live in a place that is…that is f*ckin’ evil and cruel an’ they don’t care none about us or ‘bout our families. They never have. So…lots do.” Her breath caught and she closed her eyes, steadying herself. “I’m sorry if that’s gon’ be you too.”

“You could come home,” her mother said sharply, “you’re a smart girl. Stronger than you know. You could survive in whatever Arena they put you in. You…you just gotta out…just gotta last longer than the rest of ‘em.”

In another reality where Culler wasn’t going into the Games with her, she might’ve agreed with her mother. But, she lived in a world where Culler had his parents and all his siblings who needed him. She lived in a world that she knew would rally around her mother and her best friend—once she got him home, of course—to keep them going in her absence. She lived in a world where she fundamentally refused to agree.

“But if I don’t, mama,” she said softly, “if I go with daddy an’em…then I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this all…that this…that it happened the way it did.”

Slowly, she reached out, taking her mother’s hand. She wasn’t surprised when her mother grasped it desperately with both of hers, clearly scared that her daughter would disappear from where she sat beside her. Which…soon enough, she would. That nausea welled up in Dahlia’s chest once more but she swallowed it down, breathing deep.

“You’ll wear it for the Reaping…or getting to the Capitol…whatever they’re doin’…right, cher?” her mother asked, voice watery with tears that were just on the verge of falling down her cheeks now. Dahlia, throat still closed from overwhelming and painful emotion, just nodded in confirmation, squeezing her mother’s hand a bit tighter.

“I’ll wear it, mama,” she confirmed quietly. “Promise.” She sighed quietly herself. “Thank you, mama. It’s beautiful. Like somethin’ from a dream.”

“Jus’ like I said, beb,” her mother said, pulling her close so she could wrap her arm around her daughter, tucking her into her side like when she was still small, “you deserve all the beautiful things in this world.”

“I love you, mama,” Dahlia said after a few minutes of silence, her head tucked against her mother’s shoulder still. “I hope you know that. No matter what. I always love you.”

“I—” her mother began. She went quiet when her voice broke. “I love you too, darlin’.” She pressed a kiss to her daughter’s temple. “You’re always gon’ be the best thing that ever happened to me, Dahlia Celeste. From the moment I knew I was gon’ have you. An’ then again when I saw your face the first time.” Dahlia could not see the smile on her mother’s face, but could hear it as she spoke. “When we saw you the first time, that was when your daddy finally gave up on tryin’ to make your first name Celeste. Finally realized you were gon’ be Dahlia all along.”

“You knew,” Dahlia all but whispered in reply, sadness threatening to overcome her even as she batted down the pain threatening to overcome her. “You always did.”

Eventually though, after stroking the leather around her wrist and laying her head on her mother for a few minutes as the woman hummed a song in a language that Dahlia only sort of understood, she felt herself begin to calm. Well, at the very least she began to feel herself settle. Duckie had been right. Reality could wait just a bit longer. And even if it couldn’t? Dahlia was going to make it.

“Don’t worry, mama,” she said faintly, “it’s just another day.”

She was going to enjoy the rest of her time with her mother.

There wasn’t much of it left, after all.

July 3, 25 ATT

After they woke that morning, for the first time since…maybe since her father died, Dahlia’s mother was the one cooking breakfast. She insisted on it, in fact. And as she buzzed around the kitchen making up something simple for them to share, she prattled on about nothing, and Dahlia let herself soak in the feeling of normalcy, knowing that it would not last for long. The morning was quiet and simple. Even the weather outside had changed. The storm let up and the birds came back, chirping in the early morning light as sunbeams danced through the windows.

What comes after me?

The question slapped Dahlia in the face and she retaliated by shoving it down and refusing to even consider the words that flitted so callously through her head. She went along with it as her mother made a point of helping her pick out a pair of shoes that she could wear with the dress, landing on a pair of her boots. One that her mother’s students had once upon a time about a year earlier squirreled away from her for about a week. When they were returned to her by kids that looked almost comically smug, they were not only shined as if they were new, but had tiny floral buds painstakingly stitched along all the seams of the shoes. They were certainly not perfect, but they were utterly f*cking precious.

The kids had sheepishly explained that her and her mother had helped the youngest get a handle on reading after it had been so difficult for him for so long. She’d of course, graciously taken the shoes back. They held significance to her that would match the dress’s. An obvious choice, really.

After settling that, her mother looked at her and Dahlia could feel exactly what was coming next. “I know that this year’s different,” she began hesitantly.

Five years.

Five years ago today.

“No. It’s not, mama. It’s just another day. When do you wanna do it?” she interrupted.

The it in question was a little remembrance ceremony they’d been doing the past five years on the anniversary of her father’s death. They lit candles and said old prayers from books he had that he’d once loved. Then, they’d make some tea, bake a small honey cake, split it into three, and place his share in front of a small picture of him that they had set out. The routine was simple. Like clockwork. Nothing would stop Dahlia from being able to remember and honor her father for the last time before she got to join him.

“I think we should start now,” her mother said after a few beats of silence.

“I agree. I’ll start on the cake.”

She moved into the kitchen, tying an apron around her waist and bustled around, preparing the cake to be baked. Her mother joined her just as she put the cake in and started to get some water heating for their tea. Dahlia moved then to the window, letting it open so the warm summer air could filter into the house, bringing the sweet scent of magnolias and honeysuckle with it. If she didn’t think too hard about it? On a day so cruelly beautiful like this? She could almost forget that her father was gone. She could almost believe that he was just in the other room and she could hear him humming a song or giggling away with her mother like they were nothing more than teenagers again.

Almost.

The cake came out of the oven not long after and was iced as it always was, then topped with a bit of delicious fresh honeycomb they’d splurge on each year for the occasion. Dahlia handed her mother a knife—her mother was the one to cut the cake, always—and then began to pour three cups of the sweet hibiscus and lemon black tea made from Dahlia’s own little blend she made. They brought the hot tea and fresh cake over to their table. The picture of her father had been set up in the seat closest to the window, letting the rays of light stream down over it. It was surrounded on each side by two tall candles and a short candle sat in front of it as well. Dahlia lit them quickly and then took her seat on the left side as her mother sat on the right.

The women joined hands, praying over the picture and the little meal and over their dearly departed…and themselves. The length of the prayers always differed, and the year before, Dahlia realized that her mother stopped rattling off prayers when the air in the apartment got sweeter from a warm breeze that came to the table. Every year without fail. Again, it was like…she could at least pretend that her father really was right there, sitting beside them. She could practically see him looking at her mother and saying something like alright Lulu, that’s enough, can we get to eatin’ now, darlin’, I’m hungry something fierce. She could all but hear her mother’s laughter and see her roll her eyes, swatting fondly at his hands and retort with something like there ain’t nothin’ wrong with prayer, Trail, in fact you could stand to do it a bit more, while he laughed the whole time.

But, no. There was nothing substantive of her father there. Just a breeze. That was it. All that was left of him. The sting of that recollection didn’t get any better over time. Not even now, five years later. Though, perhaps she meant especially not now, on the anniversary of losing him.

Dahlia released her mother’s hand once the prayers stopped and picked up her tea, prepared to take her first sip. But then, there was a knock on the door. Not altogether strange for the neighbors tended to help each other when possible. But decidedly strange today, what with everyone and their mother knowing that this was the anniversary of Trail Blackthorn’s death. Dahlia felt a pit sink in her stomach, something akin to nausea settling over her. But, for whatever reason, her mother seemed less suspicious as she picked up her own tea cup.

“Come on in, door ain’t locked, y’all know that now,” her mother near hollered so her words would be heard on the other side of the wood door.

In the space of quite literally the blink of an eye, Dahlia felt like she’d been gutted. Her hands loosened and then tightened around the mug she held. Her breath felt hollow. Her mother, it seemed, was experiencing the opposite effect. The mug, full of still-warm tea fell from her hands, hitting the table. Miraculously, none of it fell on her mom and the mug itself didn’t break. The table would be easy enough to clean up, Dahlia rationalized, but that was a fruitless attempt to distract herself. Utterly pointless, in the end. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to erase the sound of the gasp her mom let out in that moment. It sounded wet, almost like a gurgle in a way that Dahlia wouldn’t let herself think about.

Four Peacekeepers stood there, staring at them.

Suppose there was one thing that could stop her from honoring her father one more time, after all.

Two in the doorway.

Two inside now.

The two standing outside looked new. Their faces blank. Frankly, they looked like Capitol boys, bored and uninterested and turned into feral little soldiers that followed orders they didn’t even care to think about before obeying. They didn’t matter to her. And, well, she guessed that they never would. That was okay with her.

The other two? She knew.

The older of the two was a weathered man in his late fifties. Mister Mountain, they all called him in passing. Martin Stone was his actual name.She forgot his rank, he never really cared about it being thrown around. He was born in District 2 and became a Peacekeeper to help feed his family. And once he found out he was good at what he was doing? Once he started making more money? He kept doing his job, kept feeding his family. He was always a good man. Kind. Had caught Dahlia hauling all types of critters many a time before. Warned her to be careful every time, but he’d look the other way. She liked him. He was kind. He understood.

The younger was a man in his early 30s with a chip on his shoulders and a seemingly eternal sneer on his face. Blake Chord was his name. Dahlia was too polite to ever repeat what most people called him. From District 5 if she recalled. Joined, at least according to what she’d ever heard, to get away from his rich family. He hated he got stuck in an outlying district, but orders were orders. Still, he’d take it out on the citizens when he got a little too cantankerous to keep it in. Usually just during the summer when it got too hot for his delicate sensibilities. She’d made the man a plate at The Shack many a time. She doubted he even remembered her name. She didn’t hate him. If anything, she felt bad for him. But if he was going to be one of the last people she saw in the District? Not even getting to say goodbye to Culler’s family? Maybe she did hate him a little bit.

“Charlotte, Dahlia,” Stone greeted them slowly, his tone displaying that he was apologetic, even if his face did not. “I’m here with…news.”

Dahlia glanced over at her mother, unable to help it, even as she felt a shower of cold acceptance wash over. Her mother was…not faring as well as she was, to put it lightly. Charlotte Blackthorn’s rested her hands on top of the very surface she just spilled hot tea onto, evidently not caring if it burnt her palms. Her hands were trembling. There was a look on her face that Dahlia could recall seeing only once before. The day they’d received the news that her father died. The similarity did not sit well in her stomach.

“No,” her mother said. The tone of her voice was grave, but the word was delivered as though it were the simplest thing in the world. An unimpeachable reality, really. “No, you don’t.”

Denial was, admittedly, far more intoxicating than the truth.

Chord, in a less than stellar mood as summer really sunk its teeth into the district, scoffed. “You can deny it all you want ma’am, but we’re here,” he said curtly.

Rage lit up her mom’s face like a beacon of holiness and, for the briefest moment, Dahlia was almost scared of her mother. She raised her hand slowly, one shaking finger pointing at Blake. “You…you come into my home on the anniversary of my husband’s death…interrupting our…our remembrance of him. You come into my house today talking about news?” she asked, voice quiet. It didn’t need to be loud to convey the torrent of emotions she was feeling. It didn’t need to be.

Dahlia closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair, and she set the cup of tea—untouched—down.

“Charlotte,” Stone said again, somewhere between warning and imploring. “You need to be reasonable with us. You know this isn’t what we want. We’re just doing our jobs.”

“This ain’t what you want?” her mother demanded, louder then.

Chord, even more irritated now after being scolded by her mother, scoffed once more, far more derisive this time. “You’re gonna be angry with us? We’re not the ones who—” he began.

Dahlia abruptly rose to her feet. “This news is about me, ain’t it?” she cut in loudly, glaring at Chord like she never had before. “What’s the news?” She could see the pity clear as day on Stone’s face. Hell, she could even see echoes of it on Chord’s if she looked for it. It made her skin itchy. “Let’s not beat around the bush. Jus’ get on with it. Tell me.”

Stone looked resigned. He brought a piece of paper from his pocket, opening it. As he spoke, his voice was gruff. “Dahlia Celeste Blackthorn, you are one of three females in District 11 with the highest percentages of votes for the 25^th Hunger Games, the First Quarter Quell. The six people with the highest percentages of votes throughout the district are being called to the District Center for the Reaping ceremony tomorrow, which will be televised for all to see. You are advised to take whatever effects you may wish to have with you for your journey to the District Center and, in the event of having the highest percentage of votes, then to the Capitol. Pack light, most necessities will be provided.” Then he folded the paper and placed it back in his pocket. There was a heavy silence for a few seconds, her feet feeling weak beneath her, though she didn’t let it show. Stone was the first to crack, surprisingly. “Dahlia…I’m sorry. The orders are clear. We…have to take you. Now.”

Dahlia could hear her heart beating in her ears. And thank goodness she could because it drowned out the way that her mother started arguing with the Peacekeepers, rising to her own feet, cursing like she almost never did. But Dahlia sucked in a deep breath, prepared herself to soothe her mother’s aches one last time and interrupted her before she got in a real roll with her yelling.

“Mama,” she said, sharp and loud, cutting through the noise to make sure her mother could hear her. Her mother fell silent and met her eyes. There were tears. They cut through her so painfully she inhaled sharply. She steadied herself and then offered a small smile and nod of the head.

“Dahlia, no—” her mother tried to argue.

“Mama, ain’t no sense in gettin’ in trouble over all this,” Dahlia said. She stepped closer to her mother then, rounding the table, and took her hands. “It don’t matter none anyhow. Jus’ another day, ain’t it?” She wrapped her arms tightly around her mother, squeezing her tightly in a hug. She then released her mother and looked at the Peacekeepers who were all looking at her with lukewarm, muted pity. “I jus’ gotta get somethin’ then.”

“Understood,” Stone said before one of the other ones could make a snide remark and make the room grow more tense.

Dahlia moved swiftly, going to her room and picked up the box her mother had lovingly packed for her earlier in the day. The dress and the boots. Her favorite hairbrush. A pair of ribbons that matched her eyes.That was it. She looked to her bedside table, considered for a moment, and then threw one of her favorite old books from her father on top. The rest, she realized as she looked around the room? The rest…she could do without. She returned to the room and was shocked to see Stone helping her mother, trembling now, sit back down in her chair at the table, soothing her. As much as he could at least. She moved back to her mother’s side, kneeling down in front of her, taking both her hands.

“I love you, mama,” she said, voice fierce. “An’ you don’ ever get to forget that. No matter what happens…no matter what you see…no matter what you hear? I love you. Do you hear me?”

Her mother’s bottom lip trembled and she took one of her hands back, reaching up to stroke Dahlia’s cheek. “I know that, Dahlia. Course I know. I love you,” she said, her voice choked and sorrowful.

“You always told me that when you were gone, you’d always live in my heart,” Dahlia said seriously. “That’s still true, ain’t it, mama?” Her mother nodded. “Good. Then you’re with me anyhow. Jus’ like how I’m always with you.” She saw grief crumple her mother’s face and she had to press on, lest she broke down too. “You drink up my tea for me, mama. An’ you make sure that you eat the cake. Daddy’s waitin’ on it.” Her mother now had tears rolling down her face. “You won’ see them take me, mama. You won’t see me cry. Not for a second. Not for them. I promise you. I’m gon’ be strong. Just like you raised me to be. Until the end. I promise you.”

Dahlia felt her mother’s arms wrap around her and pull her into a tight, almost painfully so, embrace that she returned. She felt the silent weeping of her mother’s body as she clenched her eyes shut and did everything she could to avoid thinking about how simple things were when she was little. This time, she pressed a kiss to her mother’s temple in comfort.

“What was it daddy always said?” she posed. “Smile for me before I go or else my heart might get lost on the way home?” Almost immediately, her mother’s lips quirked up into a smile at that. Not a happy one. A habitual one, if anything. But a smile nonetheless.

She’d take it.

She had to.

“You’re my girl, Dahlia,” her mother said, her voice shaking.

“Always gon’ be,” she confirmed. “But it’s time f’you to let your little girl go, mama. You know it is.” Slowly at that point, she extracted herself from her mother’s embrace and stared at her face, memorizing every last piece of her. “Got a train or somethin’ waitin’ on me after all.” She rose to her feet, gripping the box she’d put down in favor of embracing her mother one last time. She offered her mother a smile. Not a false, bright one. One that she was pretty sure her father himself had to be working onto her face. “Jus’ another day, mama. Jus’ another day. That’s all.”

Her heart beat so painfully fast she feared she was going to pass out, but her mother didn’t need to know that. She looked over at Stone and nodded to him. He put a hand on her back, steering her towards the door. She could hear her mother’s crying become audible, soft weeping. Dahlia felt sick. She didn’t let herself turn as she spoke a final time.

“When you feel the sun, mama? That’s me givin’ you a hug. Tellin’ you I love you. Forever,” Dahlia said, her voice hoarse.

Unable to resist the siren call, Dahlia looked back a final time as she rounded the door, leaving the apartment for…the last time. Her mother had lowered her head to the table and was sobbing. Her legs shook and she was pretty sure that if it weren’t for Chord grabbing her upper arm, she’d have fallen to her knees. They hurried her out of the building the rest of the way then.

Her mother’s cries grew louder.

As they walked through the streets, one Peacekeeper on each side of hers, eyes followed them everywhere. It was silent. Not even the critters, it seemed, saw fit to chirp or caw as they went. And the silence carried as they made their way to the train station, until she was ushered into a small, cramped and fairly uncomfortable bench in a train car. She waited there, two Peacekeepers remaining onboard with her. She stared forward, blank and unseeing. Eventually, the small car shifted slightly and her eyes shot up.

Culler.

Dahlia felt her lungs inflate for what felt like the first time in forever as she saw his face. He was frowning, no sign of tears in his eyes just as she knew there would be no sign in her own. Still, he saw her and shook his head. She moved silently down the cramped car rows and plopped onto the bench next to her, throwing his arm around her, pulling her close and tight to his side. She laid her head on his shoulder, hand gripping his knee as the train started abruptly moving, the rickety nature of it making her feel nauseous. Her father had always said that intra-district travel was far less luxurious than inter-district travel, but she didn’t think it’d be this bad. Her mistake.

“What’chu bring with you?” Culler asked, eyes staring forward just as hers were.

“Mama got me a dress for my birthday,” she replied after a few seconds of silence.

“Bet it’s real pretty,” he said without feeling.

“Oh…it is,” she agreed, toneless. She paused. “We were in the middle of stuff for…for my dad. My…my ma didn’t take it too well.”

“I thought Heather or Thatch would take it worst. Surprisingly…it was Anna. And my dad,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Cull,” she said, not letting a tear fall even then.

“Not as sorry as I am,” he said dryly. “But we’re here now. Ain’t no sense in crying over it, is there?”

She shook her head minutely. “Already tol’ my ma. They aren’t gon’ get one tear from me. Don’ care what happens. I refuse,” she said, almost vicious in her conviction at the end.

He sighed, resting his head on top of hers. “Ain’t this some sh*t we’re in, Doll?” he posed, voice dripping in sarcasm.

“I’on know what’chu mean,” she denied. “Jus’ another day out here. Nice ’n normal.”

Culler let out a dry chuckle at that. “At least I’m with you, I guess,” he mused.

“At least we got that,” she confirmed, wrapping her own arm around his waist as they sat there. “I’m always gon’ take that as a win.”