The morning dew clings to the window as I stir from another sleepless night. Sleep never comes easy. My hand brushes the cold glass, tracing patterns as the hazy purple of dawn fades into blue. The cattle stir outside, their low calls blending with the silence. The sheets are warm, but I can’t linger—there’s work to do, mouths to feed.

I pull on my worn clothes, boots too tight and jacket ready for District 11’s biting air. The kitchen offers little: a stale roll, some seeds, and a peach I leave for Delilah. I climb the creaking stairs to her room, pausing at the drawing she made at three—our family, or the scribbled version of it. She’s nestled in her bed, peaceful, and it aches knowing I can’t give her more. “Rise and shine, ladybird,” I whisper. She groans, bargaining for five more minutes, and I chuckle, hoisting her up. Her laughter fills the room—a small victory I work hard to protect.

The fields are quiet as I shovel manure, my thoughts drifting to Nyisha. My best friend, now distant, was once my escape. Her father, Deshaun, always disapproved of me, a District boy. I can’t blame her for leaving, but the void she left lingers. There’s no time to dwell—Delilah, Ma, and this life need me more.

Back home, Delilah’s screech greets me. “Jud, clean your boots!” she scolds, making me grin. I hand her the peach, teasing her about being “grown” at nine years old. Her laughter reminds me why I keep going. Together, we wait by the gravel road for Mr. Teupike’s tractor. He offers his usual kindness, but I decline; we’re all struggling. Delilah dozes off against my shoulder as the tractor bumps along.

The fields blur into the horizon, mockingjays singing overhead. The weight of the day looms, but for now, I hold onto the light that Delilah brings. She’s my reason to keep going—for her, for Ma, for hope.