Our Hearts From Iron // [Shore Blitz]

Etta Shore has seen her sister die. She has also seen her sister live. When her brother declares that he is taking his turn at the Hunger Games, she does not flinch. Her rosebud lips do not tremble; her brow does not furrow in confusion. She simply stares up at the stage with her eyes wide and unblinking, unsure if his words - "I volunteer!" - are a death sentence or a promise. Argonite is taller and stronger than she; as the smallest child in an ever-expanding family, the girl often feels insignificant and invisible. Luckily, this is how she prefers it to be. Fading backward into the crowd, she makes sure not to step on the cracks in the pavement. (Is this suicide or a lifeline?)

She arrives at the Justice Building a little later than she ought to. It took nearly an hour for the people to subside, to return home and count their blessings. Etta watched them, hiding her disgust. Surely, they should be ashamed of themselves - to return home and drink fine wine and stay up late into the night as though their having been saved is a reason for celebration. For every child that dies, the District offers another. They are foolish to believe in safety. Etta Shore is no fool.

By her wrist she is lead, the shadow of a faceless Peacekeeper. "Your brother is in here," the man says in a rough voice, and Etta wonders if he knows that she shares no blood with Argonite. The only similarities they share are their surname and the parents who raised them. (Their Mama and Papa will be proud of him, Etta is sure. She can't decide if this is admirable or despicable, so she ceases to let the question occupy her mind.) 

"Took you long enough," says the boy. "Anyone bring me a hat?" The youngest shore tilts her head back, looking up at her brother, and smiles apologetically. She has not brought him a hat. Her hands dig into her pockets, searching for anything she could present to Argonite. She was eager to please as always, aching to follow an instruction that nobody seemed to want to give her. Not this morning. In her pocket she found a button, a paperclip, an unwrapped sweet, and the glossy wrapper it had been separated from. None of these things was acceptable fair for the occasion - nothing in the depths of little Etta's coat was a high enough price to exchange for her brother.

She shook her head and frowned. "You didn't volunteer to die, did you? You volunteered to be like Opal and come home." Her words are soft and firm, sweet and measured. "Make sure you come home." It is her version of a goodbye and it says don't let me down in the way only a child can.