:born to run: {flint}

He leaves his area to stand behind me as I stoop over a plant and cut its stalk two inches off the ground.“Buuubby,” He whines, “I’ve been working all day long.” He stretches out his arms to show me exactly how long he has been working. “I want to go do something fun now.” I really don’t have time to entertain my brother, but I remind myself that he’s been a trooper and I can’t expect such a young child to be much help. I sigh and think of what we can do quickly to appease Umber and get back to work. I stand up straight and muss Umber’s shaggy blond hair. “Allright buddy. How about we go get you a cookie for all your hard work?” I know that the town bakery does a sale for Reaping week, so giving the kid something sweet won’t break the bank. At the mention of the word “cookie,” Umber loses his mind. His eyes light up and he rapidly shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He lets out a happy squeal. “Yes yes yes yes yes. I want a cookie.” He agrees to go back to work when we get back home, so we head off to the bakery.

The walk to the bakery isn’t long for me, but for Umber’s little legs, it’s a difficult trek. I start fielding questions about how much longer at about the halfway point. I can tell he’s disappointed when I say we are only halfway to the bakery, so I offer to give him a piggyback ride. He reaches his hands up toward me and grins at me like I am the best brother in the world: One part jukebox, one part confection dispensary, one part pack animal. He clasps his hands over my shoulders and wraps his legs around my torso. He isn’t very heavy and I can feel his little bones on my back. I feel a pang of guilt for letting Umber get so darn skinny, but focus on his giggling behind me instead of beating myself up too much. When we get to town, he waves and blows kisses at other pedestrians on the street. Most of them force a smile and wave back, but I can tell they are worried about tomorrow’s Reaping. I choose to worry about real things: Where’s dinner coming from; is it raining enough; will I ever have a song other than ‘Baby Shark’ playing in my head. The odds of a Whateley getting reaped are slim, so to me, this week is little more than an excuse to buy a discounted cookie.

We smell Persimmon Pies ‘N’ Pastries before we see it. At the first whiff of vanilla, Umber demands to be put down. He jogs alongside me, encouraging me to go faster so we can get cookies. For someone who was too tired to keep working or walk here on his own, Umber is amazingly energetic.

I open the door to the bakery and a bell jingles overhead. The lavender-clad shopkeeper greets me with a somber, “Welcome to Persimmon Pies ‘N’ Pastries.” I recognize the woman behind the counter from the television. I force myself to force myself to separate the flaxen haired woman from the image of her younger self killing children with an axe. Umber latches on to the names of twenty three dead kids tattooed onto her exposed arms. He raises his hand to point and I shoot him a sharp glare and shake my head. He folds his hand and quietly takes a step closer to me. 

I try to empathize with the Victor turned baker. This time of year must be hard for her. She’s lost people, been mentored failed tributes, and gone through the horror of the Games. The odds are never in Katelyn Persimmon’s favor, and I can hear the dread in her voice for the coming Games.'I lift Umber so he can have a good view of the assorted goodies in the display case. He greedily eyes the rows of cookies and pastries. She offers to help us pick a dessert: “Can I help you find anything in particular?” I smile at her from behind my brother. “What do you suggest for this little guy? He’s been working all day and has earned a snack.”