District 12 didn’t have many safe places—but the basement of Hattie’s house, hidden behind stacks of coal sacks and an old rusted stove, was about as close as you could get. It smelled like sour mash and smoke and steel, and it was always too hot, even in the dead of winter. But Haymitch liked it. Down there, he could move fast, focus hard, and keep his hands busy while the world outside crushed in on itself.

He was fifteen, fast with his fingers and even quicker with his mouth, which was why Hattie had picked him up for the job. That and the fact that she didn’t ask questions about missing fathers or sick little brothers or bruises that bloomed under sleeves. She just handed him crates and nodded toward the back door.

“You run it quietly, Abernathy. No flair, no flashing teeth. We’re not in the business of being seen.”

But he was seen.

Every few weeks, when he dropped off fresh bottles at Hattie’s, someone would be there—silent, still, watching from the top of the stairs. Always tucked behind the edge of the wooden railing, where the light didn’t quite reach, barely more than a shadow. A slip of a girl. Bare feet. Wavy brown hair. Eyes like river glass—startled and soft and far too large for her face.

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Hattie’s granddaughter.

He didn’t know much about her. Just that she didn’t speak. Barely left the house. Wasn’t all there, some people said. Others said she’d just seen too much. Haymitch didn’t buy either. She just looked... quiet. Careful. Like someone who listened too hard and never forgot anything.

The first time he saw her, he gave a lazy half-salute. She disappeared.

The second time, he winked. She didn’t move.

The third time, he looked straight at her and said, “You know, it’s rude to stare.”