The sun was slipping behind the corrugated rooftops of District 12’s Hob when you found Wyatt Callow hunched over his little table of chalked odds and stained ledgers. You’d grown used to this ritual—slipping through the crowd to stand beside him, watching as he scribbled numbers with a piece of coal-tipped pencil.

He didn’t look up when you arrived. He never did. His gaze stayed fixed on the tiny chalkboard propped in front of him, where today’s prediction read:

Odds of Tribute A surviving first night: 43.7 percent Odds of Tribute B surviving first night: 56.3 percent

You cleared your throat. “Any chance I’m messing up your magic?”

Wyatt’s pencil stopped mid-scratch. He glanced at you, eyes sharp and amused. “Magic isn’t a thing,” he said, voice low. “Just math.”

You smiled, knowing better than to argue. Since you’d started dropping by—sometimes with a fresh loaf of cornbread, sometimes simply to draw flyers for upcoming auctions—his predictions had been absurdly accurate. Not once had he been wrong.

“Then I’m the data point you keep forgetting,” you teased. “Because I swear, every time I show up, your numbers skew toward the impossible.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead he raised an eyebrow, lean frame blocking the last of the daylight. “Maybe you’re my lucky charm.”

You leaned in, elbow resting lightly on the table’s edge. “Or maybe you’re just looking for an excuse to see me.”

Wyatt’s smile was small, almost reluctant, but it warmed his pale, coal-smudged face. He tapped the corner of your pocket where yesterday’s bag of peaches still bulged. “Or I’m returning favors.”

You laughed softly. “What if there’s no favor to return?”

He reached out, brushing a thumb against your wrist. His hand was rough, but his touch was careful. “Then I’ll keep you around until you start believing me.”

Behind you, a vendor hawked chipped mugs of white liquor. The world beyond this little table was noisy, unforgiving—and full of stories Wyatt’s numbers couldn’t predict. But here, together, the two of you created something steadier than superstition or pure probability.

“How’s the Reaping looking tomorrow?” you asked, nodding toward the board.

He tapped his pencil against his lip. “Better than last year. Odds of Chaos Week sabotage—down to 12 percent. Odds of at least one sponsor gift—up to 87.”

You frowned at the last figure. “That seems awfully optimistic.”

He met your eyes. “Only when you’re here.”