:born to run: {flint}

[charade]

Some days were better than others.

Every now and then, Katelyn felt something that was almost approaching happiness. It faded when certain things came to mind, but she felt that it was improving. She was grateful for the peace. Having to live with the fame or maybe the infamy of being a victor had gotten better.

After a decade, there were other, newer victors for the Capitolites to slaver over. Home in eleven was even better. It was a community. While there would always be those who looked at her starry-eyed, she had settled into her new normal. She was coming up on two years of being back, and it felt good.

To keep herself occupied, she’d opened a little bakery. A small staff of five, but she handled things for the most part. It was late in the afternoon and the shelves and counters were half-empty. There were a few loaves of fresh bread, cookies, a handful of pies and a single chocolate cake left.

Katelyn was dressed in a simple lavender summer dress, her faded red bandana keeping her hair back. Her arms were bare, and the tattooed names of the dead from her games were plain to see. 

The door jingled and someone entered.

He was thin. She had a good ten years on him at least. It was clear to see that he was a field worker. Her first thought was that he was one of the Izar boys; Lord knew that clan was everywhere.

But after noting that his hands were unnaturally blue, she thought she could guess a bit better. He was a Whateley. Had to be. They grew Indigo. Had for a few generations if she remembered correctly. She thought she’d met one of them a few times when she was a child, perhaps his father, or his grandfather.

Katelyn’s own father had always been busy with deals in her youth. But she hadn’t spoken to him in years, nor visited the family cherry orchards. From what she’d heard, they’d expanded and made a ton of money after her victory; who among district eleven’s small upper crust hadn’t wanted to invest in her family after that?

“Welcome to Persimmon Pies ‘N’ Pastries,” she said softly, a subdued sadness pulling at her lips. “This week prices are half-off for anyone aged eighteen or younger.” She could afford to. It wasn’t like she needed the money. Winning the games had set her for life, the bakery was just something to do.

In a few short days, she’d be headed off to the Capitol again, another doomed pair in tow. Two more children to bury. Two more young souls paying for her sins. She blinked a little, eyes downcast.

For all she knew, the teenager in front of her would be the one standing with her on the stage after the Capitol escort had done their duty with the bowls of names. A small, selfish part of her wished it would be anyone other than another Rhodes. 

Harbinger had lost three brothers to the games since his victory. Kirto had lost a cousin. She supposed she was lucky that she only had one cousin herself. The thought evaporated quickly. They weren't the only ones that had suffered. The Izar;'s had lost plenty. The Taylor's had buried both of their daughters. She swept the thoughts away and then swept a hand over the counter at the array of pastries.

“Can I help you find anything in particular?”

[flint]

This is the first year Umber can start working. He still isn’t big enough to do anything difficult, but even a four year old can separate leaves from stalks. We’ve set out a tarp for the freshly harvested plants to dry out and put little Umber to “work” stomping on the plants and picking out everything but the dried blue-grey leaves. For his first summer in the field, I’m making a game out of it. While I pick plants in the adjacent plot, I sing a song for my brother to dance to over the dried plants. That way, it won’t feel like work. Really, I should say it won’t feel like work to him. I’m doing the hard job, and it is in no way made easier by singing the “Baby Shark” song until I am blue in the face. I may not love singing, but I do love my brother and he seems to be enjoying himself, so I suppose it’s worth it. Umber hasn’t built up the stamina the rest of us have. Even with music, he gets bored quickly and demands to do something else. It’ll take time before he learns to actually be helpful.

He leaves his area to stand behind me as I stoop over a plant and cut its stalk two inches off the ground.“Buuubby,” He whines, “I’ve been working all day long.” He stretches out his arms to show me exactly how long he has been working. “I want to go do something fun now.” I really don’t have time to entertain my brother, but I remind myself that he’s been a trooper and I can’t expect such a young child to be much help. I sigh and think of what we can do quickly to appease Umber and get back to work. I stand up straight and muss Umber’s shaggy blond hair. “Allright buddy. How about we go get you a cookie for all your hard work?” I know that the town bakery does a sale for Reaping week, so giving the kid something sweet won’t break the bank. At the mention of the word “cookie,” Umber loses his mind. His eyes light up and he rapidly shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He lets out a happy squeal. “Yes yes yes yes yes. I want a cookie.” He agrees to go back to work when we get back home, so we head off to the bakery.

The walk to the bakery isn’t long for me, but for Umber’s little legs, it’s a difficult trek. I start fielding questions about how much longer at about the halfway point. I can tell he’s disappointed when I say we are only halfway to the bakery, so I offer to give him a piggyback ride. He reaches his hands up toward me and grins at me like I am the best brother in the world: One part jukebox, one part confection dispensary, one part pack animal. He clasps his hands over my shoulders and wraps his legs around my torso. He isn’t very heavy and I can feel his little bones on my back. I feel a pang of guilt for letting Umber get so darn skinny, but focus on his giggling behind me instead of beating myself up too much. When we get to town, he waves and blows kisses at other pedestrians on the street. Most of them force a smile and wave back, but I can tell they are worried about tomorrow’s Reaping. I choose to worry about real things: Where’s dinner coming from; is it raining enough; will I ever have a song other than ‘Baby Shark’ playing in my head. The odds of a Whateley getting reaped are slim, so to me, this week is little more than an excuse to buy a discounted cookie.

We smell Persimmon Pies ‘N’ Pastries before we see it. At the first whiff of vanilla, Umber demands to be put down. He jogs alongside me, encouraging me to go faster so we can get cookies. For someone who was too tired to keep working or walk here on his own, Umber is amazingly energetic.

I open the door to the bakery and a bell jingles overhead. The lavender-clad shopkeeper greets me with a somber, “Welcome to Persimmon Pies ‘N’ Pastries.” I recognize the woman behind the counter from the television. I force myself to force myself to separate the flaxen haired woman from the image of her younger self killing children with an axe. Umber latches on to the names of twenty three dead kids tattooed onto her exposed arms. He raises his hand to point and I shoot him a sharp glare and shake my head. He folds his hand and quietly takes a step closer to me. 

I try to empathize with the Victor turned baker. This time of year must be hard for her. She’s lost people, been mentored failed tributes, and gone through the horror of the Games. The odds are never in Katelyn Persimmon’s favor, and I can hear the dread in her voice for the coming Games.'I lift Umber so he can have a good view of the assorted goodies in the display case. He greedily eyes the rows of cookies and pastries. She offers to help us pick a dessert: “Can I help you find anything in particular?” I smile at her from behind my brother. “What do you suggest for this little guy? He’s been working all day and has earned a snack.”

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[charade]

When the teenager had warned his little brother not to gawk, an amused, if somber smile had crawled along her face. Hopefully the small one was still too young to understand the games, to understand the one day out of the year that the entire district was gathered in the square.

Innocence was something that was lost too soon far too often. She’d lost hers when she’d brought her ice pick down on Dillon Hartman and ended the girl’s life.

“You’re Whateleys, aren’t you?” she mused, opening one of the glass displays and selecting a chocolate chip cookie. “I’m Katelyn, but then, you probably knew that.” While the young man in front of her had likely been only a few years older than his brother when she won, the Capitol delighted in playing old games in the weeks leading up to the reaping.

It was something they’d never let any of the victors forget. Or anyone else for that matter. But the reaping was on the morrow, and she could put off thinking about that for a few hours.

Katelyn tousled the younger boy’s hair and handed him the treat. “Well as far as suggestions go, he can start with this free sample, can’t he?” she said with a chuckle. Katelyn straightened up and idly drummed her fingers on the counter.

This was the hard part.

Overtime she’d found herself getting worse at small talk. It was difficult not to frame every conversation in the context of the games. It was difficult to talk to people who weren’t victors or tributes. Who weren’t officials or peacekeepers. Hell, it was hard enough trying to talk to Harbinger’s siblings when she was certain that any one of them could be next.

After a moment, she opted to try.

“How’s the Indigo business?” It was simple enough, a safe topic. Something unrelated to coffins and dead kids. Katelyn examined the small child again and noted just how thin he was, suddenly regretting asking about their business. Maybe it wasn't doing that well. 

Or maybe it was.

For the district responsible for supplying Panem with a large percentage of its food, there seemed to rarely be enough to go around in Eleven.