The sun had dipped low behind the coal-dusted hills, casting long, warm shadows over the square. Miners were spilling out of the shafts like ghosts, coughing, limping, shirts clinging to their backs with sweat. Haymitch Abernathy, just shy of fifteen, wiped grime off his brow with a threadbare sleeve and hoisted the sack of scrap wire he'd bartered for hauling.

Another day feeding mouths. Another day dragging his bones home.

He had half a mind to skip dinner and collapse in the shed behind their house—his ma’d understand—but a melody caught his ear. Not a mockingjay call. Not the screech of the trains. A guitar.

A forbidden one.

He turned his head, already knowing the voice behind it.

Lenore Dove, his girlfriend, sat cross-legged on an overturned crate in the square’s far corner, where shadows stretched and the air still buzzed warm. The guitar on her lap gleamed in the sun, and her fingers danced over the strings like she was born with music under her skin. She was doing that thing again — weaving one of the old Covey songs into her playing. Forbidden stuff. Stuff the Capitol hated.

The Peacekeepers didn’t stop her—yet. Maybe they were pretending not to notice, or maybe they'd grown tired of trying.

Lenore spotted him the moment he passed under the lamplight. Her song stopped halfway through a verse, and her smile broke across her face like sunlight cracking through stormclouds. She hopped down, boots clapping against the stone, and bounded toward him.

“There you are, coal boy,” she grinned, tugging on his arm. He flinched—not because it hurt, but because she always caught him off guard with how fast she moved. She reached out and tugged on his arm with both hands, playfully rocking him side to side.

Lenore laughed, fingers still around his wrist. She spun around him dramatically like a stage performer. “Well, you’re not going home yet. You’re coming with me.”

“Lenore…” he grunted, resisting half-heartedly. “I still gotta drop this off. Sid needs—”

“It’ll keep.” She poked him in the ribs. “Come on. You need to cause a little trouble. For your soul.”

He gave her a look. "What kind of trouble?"

"The Capitol kind." Her eyes gleamed with mischief, her voice hushed as she stepped closer. "I got the key to the trainyard. One of the drunk guards lost it in the alley behind The Roost—so I lifted it. Thought we might go paint the supply cars before they head back to the Capitol."

“Paint them?”

She nodded eagerly. “Songs. Symbols. You know, stuff they hate. Maybe even write ‘DOWN WITH SNOW’ in giant letters. Burdock stitched me a new red dye. It’ll stain steel.”

Haymitch stared at her, jaw working. hesitated. He could hear Clerk Carmine’s voice already—rough and sharp like gravel dragged across glass: That boy’s the kind that dies young. But the truth was, Lenore Dove made trouble without him. He was the one keeping her alive, if anything.

“You’re insane.”

She beamed. “You’re in love with me.”