They tell her it's a holiday to give thanks. That they didn't just outright kill all of the District citizens. She'll stand by the doorway while they eat a feast: an apple each, a thin slice of C-grade turkey, and a roll of bread filled with air and unbaked dough.
Her hands hovering by her sides, feet apart, she closes her eyes, reminiscing. When she didn't have to feed eight people, when she could laugh in her mother's arms and not care about a thing. When she didn't have to worry about her nine slips, those glass bowls that shined in the harsh sunlight.
It isn't fair. Why me? she asks herself, eyes fluttering shut.
For Johanna. Have fun in the fight of snowballs ;)
