When Hazelle stirs at the sound in the hallway, she's only half-awoken. Sighing, she rolls over and is rewarded the rest of the bed. There's so much room.
While she indulges herself in this luxury, she wishes Rohan was sleeping next to her. He would've loved the extra space. The entire night he would stay completely still on his stomach, accustomed to sleeping in cramped conditions, though his tall frame took up much of their mattress. She misses how there was always a comfortably heavy limb draped over her, how the bed rose and sunk in sync with his breathing. She misses him.
The door to the bedroom creaks open, and Hazelle sits up, looking for whichever child has come. She was expecting at least one of them tonight, on their first night in the house.
Motherly concern, not alarm being her first response worries her. With Gale no longer living with them, there's a need to be fearful of intruders instead of merely her children's nightmares now.
"Momma?" It's Posy.
"I'm awake," answers Hazelle, peeling off the corner of the blanket next to her. "Come here."
"I don't like my new bed," Posy explains as she crosses the room and climbs into Hazelle's bed. "I mean, I like my room but I don't like sleeping in it."
"I understand, baby. You'll get used to it over time." She proved that in District Thirteen.
Hazelle glances at her bedside alarm clock. She'll have to get up in a few hours for work but it's still dark outside. She holds Posy, who presses her face into the curve of Hazelle's neck. In less than ten minutes, her breathing levels out, and then Hazelle relaxes into sleep as well.
In the morning, she hurries to set off the alarm before it wakes Posy. As Hazelle descends the stairs, she pulls her hair back with an elastic band. She sets out breakfast for Rory to finish once everyone else is awake. He should be up soon.
When she leaves, she's met with crisp, morning air and a pastel sunrise. The Village is laid out before her neatly, a light fog suspended over the lawns and the street like smoke. She looks out over the canopy of the woods at the telltale pall in the distance. Its color darker than the fog around her, Hazelle imagines the surrounding area, choked and charred and dead. The shiver surprises her; she was remembering the firebombing.
Walking over to the house across from hers, Hazelle can hear people moving about inside - definitely adults but also a child, she thinks. As she knocks on the front door, she grips the strap of the bag she took with her, having emptied its contents to hopefully make room for anything needing mended.
A middle-aged Seam woman she recognizes as Alice Grant answers the door. "Hazelle! It's great to see you again."
Hazelle smiles. "Likewise, Alice."
After a quick embrace, Alice invites her inside. The house is sparsely furnished with their own possessions, not unlike her own. The smell of fresh bread, eggs, and tea sweeps over Hazelle like a warm breeze. She follows the other woman into the kitchen, where her husband and her sons sit at the table eating breakfast.
The Grant family lived a block or so away from Hazelle and her family in the Seam. She got to know them better in District Thirteen, where their compartments were closer.
Wilbur Grant stands and shakes her hand upon seeing her. "So you did come back! We weren't sure whether you'd stay in Thirteen."
"No, this is our home. I just wanted to wait a bit. The kids practically pulled me onto the train, they were so excited," Hazelle answers. She rejects Alice's offer of tea.
Sipping her own drink, Alice stands with her at the counter. "Our boys were worried about having no friends around," she says. "Hector came home last night saying he saw Rory so we reckoned you returned with your little herd."
Hazelle laughs, then asks Hector, their oldest, "You're working down at the construction site?"
Hector nods. "Yes, ma'am. I'm helping with the bakery. I have to head out in a bit."
"Once that bakery's rebuilt, the Mellark boy's going to be working down there. He's been funding its reconstruction and feeding us the entire spring," Wilbur says. "Here, have some bread."
"No, thank you," says Hazelle. "I'll have to find him today and sign up."
Their youngest third son, who's about nine years old, pipes up, "He was here a little bit ago. He delivers the bread every morning and then goes to the Town. You could catch him before then."
Hazelle smiles at him. "Guess I will. Thank you, Glenn."
Glenn nods and scoops a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
Though she's already been friendly enough to propose her service to them, their breakfast prompts Hazelle to ask, "You have hens?"
Alice affirms, "Thirteen issued them to us, figuring we'd need livestock before District Ten could send more. We supply part of the rations. We've got a little coop out back there, courtesy of my men." She touches Wilbur's shoulder and lifts her mug toward her sons.
Hazelle looks out their kitchen window at the amateurishly made henhouse stooped right outside the house. She sees a pen next to it. "Oh, pigs, too?"
"And two goats," adds Aiden, a friend and classmate of Vick's. "Her name is Nala and his name's Gillie."
"You'll have milk, then." Hazelle remembers Prim's goat Lady with a touch of remorse. She absently touches the bag at her hip and jolts herself back into a work mindset. "Well, anyway, I'm here to see if you needed anything mended."
Wilbur and Alice's immediate response is affirmative, much to their sons' chagrin. Ripped sleeves and worn pants must be quite common. After agreeing to barter for some eggs and goat milk and collecting clothes from them, Hazelle walks to the door with Alice.
"Well, I'm off to find any other takers before I head over to Haymitch's."
"You're his housekeeper again?" asks Alice.
Nodding, Hazelle tells her, "This is just for security. I don't like putting all my eggs in one basket." Back before the rebellion, she'd had multiple incomes with her laundry service and Gale's trade of poaching and his job in the mines. While she could retire and live off Gale's appropriations now, she doesn't want to depend on her son like that. She doesn't want to completely depend on Haymitch, either, like she did last year when she was desperate.
"Hard not to," Alice jokes, but something in her mood has dimmed. Away from the others, she crosses her arms, frowning as she says, "You know, the people on television are always saying that this is the chance to start over since we won the war. Those mines are worthless now, and so are miners like Wilbur and I. The boys grew up learning how to be miners, then in Thirteen to be some other kind of manual workers or soldiers. We've had to adapt."
Hazelle furrows her brow, confused. "What-"
"You could be anything, and you're going to be his maid again, Hazelle?" She shakes her head in disappointment.
The bag of clothes anchors Hazelle to the floor. She snaps, "I plan to do whatever I can to keep my children fed and safe. That's the Seam way, ain't it?" Before Alice Grant can say anything else, Hazelle pulls the front door open, predicts in a measured tone that she'll have the clothes back by Tuesday, and leaves, careful not to slam the door shut.
She deposits the clothes in a pile at the house, reminds Vick to play with his sister, then crosses the street again to a house diagonal to hers, neighboring the Grants. Hector is already down the road when a man answers the door. He introduces himself as Nathaniel Carter. She doesn't quite remember him from work or school but she thinks he was a cousin of Artie Everdeen.
"So what can I do for you?" Nathaniel asks, casually blocking her from entering the doorway. Smart man, obviously Seam with his sharp gray eyes, dark waves, and olive skin. He looks to be in his thirties.
"Anything you need darned in exchange for..." Hazelle trails off, allowing him to fill the blank himself.
Nathaniel scratches his chin. "I've got access to ration cards that we can bargain. Having sewn clothes while we're always working would be nice. You collecting now?" She lifts her bag a little in response. "Hold on just a minute."
He returns with a larger bundle of clothes than the Grants'. She looks at it questioningly, and he must read her face well because he explains, "This is a residence for the workers. Nearly all of our clothes need mended."
Hazelle hides her frown, thinking of how torn their clothes must be. "Why ain't you down there?"
"Sick. I've almost recovered, just didn't want to risk spreading the flu to the others. They should all be fine without me unless we suddenly have a change of plans."
"Why's that?" Hazelle asks idly, stuffing the clothes into her bag as best she can.
"Well, I've been the overseer since we started up. I used to be a captain, and we all figured that was as much qualification as any."
Nodding, Hazelle extends a hand with newfound respect for the man. He hesitates until she tells him she's practically immune due to her kids. She bids him good health, leaves to find Peeta if she can, and then to Haymitch's.
"So you're like the mayor now?" Peeta asks, regarding the mess of papers amid the bottles on Haymitch's desk.
"Yeah, because I'm clearly qualified." Haymitch rolls his eyes good-naturedly, leaning back in his chair with a bottle. "I'm just helping us become an actual district again. Think of me more as… an unofficial district coordinator for the time being."
The temporary job suited him. He suspects Plutarch wants him to fall in love with public works and commit full-time, to then transition into politics and lend that mind of his or whatever the man had said over the phone. Haymitch has no desire to lead the district, though. Working in the background until Twelve is able to stand on its own again and then fading back into a quiet life is much more attractive. He's not like Plutarch, who had a plan for after the war - he just knew their current government was shit and needed to go. He does want to help but he can't imagine staying after stabilizing basic reconstruction. In a way, he's only finishing something he helped start.
Peeta uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his seat that he pushed up to the desk. "What are all these papers?"
"Contacts from over the years."
"Capitol sponsors?" Katniss asks from her own seat, the farthest from the desk. She's curled up, tired and proud after a long morning of hunting. Still thin from the winter, she's had to pace herself, quitting midway through her snare line when she's feeling unwell. While the heat's been no help with controlling her stamina, the warmer weather has had a regenerative effect on her spirit.
Haymitch shakes his head, sweeping an analytical look across the stacks. "No, rebels: district officials, Capitol defectors, military personnel, and the like. I've been deciphering them in the margins since they don't need to be in code anymore."
As Haymitch takes a long pull from his bottle, the boy reads over a paper. Together, they've listed what's been built, what's being built, and what needs to be built by winter. The latter third is bitterly longer than the first two. "If you want, we could help you sort these, figure out who can do what." Peeta's expression remains earnest even after Katniss groans.
Haymitch replies, "As much as I know you both want to do that, it ain't something I need help with. I just have to decode, call, find out whether they're alive and willing to associate with the public, and beg for their help." He smirks at the girl. "Not unlike dealing with sponsors."
Peeta rises from his chair. "Well, the bread won't deliver itself. I still have a few orders left. The crew will be on break by the time I get down there."
"You've got some new business now that the Hawthornes are back, too."
"Yeah, I guess so," says Peeta, his eyes flickering toward Katniss.
As the boy bids them a good day, he hovers by Katniss uncertainly, leaving when she doesn't permit a physical valediction. The girl glances at Haymitch, who has already turned back to his work and his liquor, after the front door closes. When she sees there's no smirk or retort to their awkward little goodbye, she looks away, lost in thought.
"I didn't know they came back." Her voice is suddenly very frail, and Haymitch snaps his head up. She's gone pale. He curses himself for not realizing sooner.
"It's just Hazelle and the kids. He's still in Two - or at least not here with them." Haymitch has no idea if that's true as he only saw Hazelle yesterday and exchanged roughly five sentences with her, none of which pertaining to her oldest son. But he doubts Gale would return, even with his own district struggling to recuperate. Thinking of Plutarch's phone call, Haymitch figures Gale could have learned about Twelve's condition through his family. The kid better have the brains to stay away from here; Katniss does not need to worry more than she already has to when she's stuck in this district full of bad memories for the foreseeable future.
The girl shakes her head, on the verge of tears or something worse. "That might be worse, seeing all them after-" Her hands almost hide the way her mouth contorts but Haymitch detects it nonetheless and crosses the room before she starts sobbing.
Gale Hawthorne has been a sore topic rarely touched the past few months - for good reason, too. Not even Haymitch, who doesn't pry into Katniss and Peeta's lives anymore now that neither is trying to kill the other, could help but notice the shift in Katniss' behavior whenever something related to her late sister or her childhood best friend reached their broken, separate world. After she made some headway in Primrose's passage in the memory book, Katniss escaped into the forest for the entire day, and upon returning to news of the reestablishment of Two's Justice Building, she left again. The connection was obvious.
While he's patting her back, Haymitch can't help but chuckle mirthlessly. "Was that honestly your first clue they were back? The cleaner house wasn't any indication?"
Katniss huffs a scathing laugh. "It ain't that clean - just not as foul."
"Well, she's trying."
Shaking her head, the girl tells him, "Kind of hoped you were starting to put yourself together, what with working for Plutarch and all." That's when he notices the disappointment pinching her face instead of distress.
He keeps rubbing between her shoulders but looks away. She can smell the alcohol on his breath, anyway. "Still drinking," he mumbles.
After a moment, the girl pushes him away and sits up in the chair straighter. She's eighteen years old and Haymitch can't tell whether she looks younger or older. Where her scrawny body isn't violently scarred it's baby pink, yet her eyes - it seems as if every pair of Seam eyes he's come across has aged a hundred years.
He remembers when Peeta's eyes were always clouded and angrily confused in Thirteen. They've since returned to their normal, hopeful bright blue but the ones in his nightmares haven't.
"That's an understatement." Katniss considers the carpet dejectedly. "What should I do? I can't ignore them when they'll be around the district now. The kids will want to see me, and Hazelle will want to catch up."
"Maybe they don't know."
"But I do." She brushes some stray hairs off her forehead and exhales. "Well?"
Haymitch shrugs. "I don't know what to tell you, sweetheart. I'm in the same boat as you on dealing with that kind of shit." Honestly, his metaphorical boat has long ago tipped over, and he's drowned in alcohol since. Considering they're both thinking of Hazelle, in a way, he's even more useless.
The scowl returns to Katniss' face but her eyes are still wet and red. "Somehow I knew you'd say that. I'm going to feed Buttercup." It's enough of a goodbye, and she leaves.
Without any more distractions, Haymitch returns to his desk. He takes a steady drink, skimming the list again. They need telephones down the road. Racking his brain for names, only one fits the job - sort of. He dials the number without a reference.
Beetee picks up on the third call. "Yes? Who is this?" the familiar, short-accented voice asks on the other end of the line.
"Easy, just Haymitch."
"Oh. I should have recognized the area code."
Haymitch opts for a considerate approach. "You must have a lot going on right now, I'm sure. How have you been?"
"I'm well enough," says Beetee. "Busy, but I rather enjoy what I'm working on now." Haymitch silently acknowledges that that doesn't even skim the surface about his previous projects during the war. He imagines Gale and Beetee bent over blueprints that would be taken advantage of without their consent. In Gale's case, it must be true, and Haymitch doesn't really want to know the extent of Beetee's involvement in the parachute bombings. It's his same attitude toward Plutarch's contribution, with the live coverage – as if he knew it would happen. There's a pause that's probably thoughtful for Beetee but awkward for Haymitch. Finally, Beetee asks, "May I ask why you're calling?"
"We need telephones here in Twelve. The construction site's down the road and only the Village and the train station have telecommunication."
"Haymitch, I'm an inventor, not an electrician."
Taking a page out of Plutarch's book of flattery, Haymitch retorts, "Well, if you can loop the bug system and break into Capitol broadcasts, I'm sure telephones shouldn't be too much of a hassle. Besides, I just figured you knew more people suited for the job than I would. Our old district electrician was incinerated, and any apprentice of hers was, too."
Beetee sighs. "Fine, fine. I don't appreciate the graphic imagery, you know. I'll give you the mayor's phone number so you can ask about getting a group of tradespeople. You need more than telephones, right?"
"Yes. We sort of need anything available." Scanning the list, Haymitch notes that they have electricity, albeit not entirely reliable, though District Five is working on that. They also have plumbing but a competent plumber wouldn't be unwelcome. While Peeta and Katniss had filled him in on almost everything else on the list, Haymitch was at least aware of those.
"Your train station," asks Beetee, "it's been restored already?" When Haymitch confirms, a little confused, Beetee muses aloud that the railroader guild has been very efficient. According to the older man, one of the first decrees of President Paylor was repairing the railroads across Panem so supplies and workers can be transported without hovercraft, whose limited space yet high-speed travel are used for emergency shipments.
Haymitch replies that Twelve received some of those in early spring, with equipment to clean up and to begin building. "What they forgot to send were skilled workers," he adds dryly.
"District Three has been functioning well with all of the guilds. It's even created volunteer opportunities for the other districts. I'm shocked there's no one in Twelve yet."
"Plutarch just ordered some, or however it works. But as of now, what workers we have – amateur former miners, mind you - need to be able to communicate on a moment's notice."
"I understand. Talk with the mayor about that." Beetee recites the phone number as Haymitch jots it down in the margin of his list.
"Thanks, Volts."
"Good luck," replies the older victor, adding in a slightly awkward, teasing manner, "Hayseed."
Haymitch chuckles. "I'm hanging up now." He does just that, and before he calls the District Three mayor, he realizes how far he is into his bottle. After a quick self-assessment, he can tell he'll be more than buzzed if he drinks anymore. He'll have to monitor himself so the next few conversations today are relatively coherent, then. There's enough in his system that he can last until late afternoon, maybe early evening - plenty of time to start establishing reconnections. He has the rest of the night to drink, anyway.
Setting the bottle on the floor beside his desk, Haymtich tells himself this temporary job is just like the geese, something to do when he's not drinking - except he's not short on any liquor right now, and getting the district back on track is a bit more important than feeding geese.
The rest of the night, he reassures himself with a deep breath.
AN: Thanks again to my wonderful beta, Estoma, and to everyone who's reviewed, followed, and favorited!
