Carrying a steaming pot of stew and a small bag full of bread and a can of beans all the way from the market back to my home is a task in itself. I managed to cool off while I was trading in my ticket, but by the time I approach the back door, I'm sweating buckets again. I hope we have enough spare water for me to rinse off with. I feel disgusting.
Annie and Clementine, our two beautiful black and white cows that my father bought when he was still in charge of the granary, raise their heads as I draw near. They don't have the largest or most luxurious pen, but we gave them as much room as they needed. Besides, they're not very fussy, and they absolutely adore Sam. Maybe he can make his living off milking cows instead of liquefying under the sun in the wheat fields. He already sells some of their milk in the market, but we do end up keeping most of it for ourselves. We need it right now.
"Hey, Annie," I greet as the smaller of the two cows ambles over to the edge of the pen. She sticks her nose over the fence to sniff at the steaming pot, but I hold it away from her. "No lamb stew for you, girl. I don't think you'd like the taste of it."
As if she understood my words, Annie snorts and steps back further into the pen, joining Clementine at the trough that needs to be refilled. Maybe Sam will want to do that job today.
I barely have a chance to open the door and drop off the food in the dim kitchen before I hear a frantic pitter pattering of footsteps across the creaky old floors. I turn around just in time for my little brother's tiny arms to fling themselves around my stomach.
"Dean! You're back!" Sam exclaims, his voice muffled by my damp shirt. He doesn't seem to mind, though.
I can't help but laugh at his deathlike grip. He's strong when he wants to be. "I am," I say with a smile as I tousle his disheveled hair, "and I brought back some goodies. Wanna see?"
The eagerness that shines in his wide eyes is brighter than the scorching sun outside, and it only increases when he sees the pot of lamb stew. It's been a while since we've had hot, fresh stew; the smell of it alone is enough to make my mouth water.
I watch carefully as he offers to cut up the loaves of bread and get them ready for supper. He doesn't seem too distraught about tomorrow, at least not that I can tell on the outside. He's smiling, laughing, asking me how I managed to get so much extra food, acting like tomorrow isn't even going affect us at all. Either he's doing an excellent job of hiding it, or he genuinely isn't afraid of the possibility of something going horribly wrong at the reaping.
Whatever the case, I can't complain. I was concerned he was going to be worried sick, which he may still be, but I'll take what I can get right now. If we can eat a peaceful supper without fretting too much about tomorrow's events, I'll be happy enough.
My mother wanders into the kitchen next, closely followed by my father whose cane threatens to put a hole in the floorboards with every heavy, lopsided step he takes. They seem pleased with what I've brought home and thank me for my efforts, but I know the looks on their faces. They're just as afraid and paranoid as I am.
I can't even imagine what it must be like to have children in this world, where every year for seven years they're practically waiting in line like livestock to a slaughterhouse. Safe most years, but there's always a chance for their name to get called, and then it's over, just like that. How do my parents and all the other parents across Panem do it? I don't understand.
"Dean," my mother says. The rigid tone in her voice and the expression on her face is as clear as day, and it's with an aching chest that I realize my father is mirroring her guise. I know what that means.
They want to talk. Alone.
I hope Sam can't hear the feverish pounding of my heart as I crouch down so I'm level with him. "Hey, why don't you go feed Annie and Clementine?" I really hope he can't see past my forced smile. "I can take care of the rest of the food."
Much to my relief, Sam agrees with a chirp to his voice and another gleeful grin. I give him a pat on the shoulder before he scampers off toward the back door and disappears outside.
With him out of the room, the air is so much more suffocating. The full weight of the situation collapses down on me like a burning building. I struggle to take in full breaths, fight to keep my hands steady as I rifle around in our dusty cabinets to look for bowls. I'm well aware of my parents' eyes on the back of my head, but I can't bring myself to look at them. I might lose what little composure I have left.
"Dean," my mother says again, more gently this time. "Are you okay?"
I deliberately clatter the bowls together to mask my trembling inhale. When I turn back around, I see nothing but their worried faces. Worried about me and my crumbling poise.
"Fine," I manage to say. All three of us know it's a lie. "How's Sam?"
"He cried when you left this morning," my father says, "but he calmed down when he knew it was about time for you to come home."
Clattering the bowls together again would be too obvious. I can't hide my distressed breaths this time.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" my mother asks as I set the four bowls on the table, almost laughing at her proposal.
"What's there to talk about?" I doubt they're falling for my poor attempt at a nonchalant reaction, but it's worth a shot. "There's nothing we can do about it."
Both of them fall silent then, and the only sound we're left with is the monotonous humming of the lightbulb that hangs above the table. It's driving me insane. I want to scream. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, "No, I'm not okay! I'm terrified! My life is in the hands of whoever draws the pieces of paper out of those glass balls! Sam's life is in their hands, too! He's only twelve, for God's sake! And the worst part is that we can't do anything to stop it! All because the sick and twisted people in the Capitol equate children murdering each other with entertainment!"
But I say nothing, because I know if I open my mouth, the tears I've been holding back since I returned home will shortly follow.
Without another word, my mother glides across the kitchen and tenderly wraps her arms around me, holding me close against her warm body. I didn't realize how tense I'd been until I relax into her comforting embrace, listening to her heart beating against my ear and feeling her fingers massaging the stressed muscles between my shoulder blades. Here, I feel safe, like I'm a little kid again constantly hounding her for love and attention. I feel like her arms block out the dangers of the world. I feel like nothing can get me when she's holding me tightly.
"Everything's gonna be okay, baby," she soothes, cradling my head and gently stroking my matted hair. "Everything's gonna be okay."
I don't bother to stop the first tear that rolls down my cheek.
I'm not sure how long I stand there, melted into my mother's arms, noiselessly crying into her shirt, before my father hobbles over and clasps my shoulder. His grip is strong, like an old harvester's, and he doesn't say a word, but his presence is consoling. It only makes the tears flow out faster.
Who knows what could happen out there tomorrow?
When both of them finally release me, my face is flushed and stained with tears. I can't stop trembling. My stomach churns and my head spins just thinking about it all. Not even the warmth and softness of my mother's hands as she reaches up to wipe the tears from my skin can ease my distress now.
"Why don't you go get washed up?" she says, a kind smile adorning her face. "Then we can eat this delicious supper you worked so hard to get."
She doesn't need to tell me twice. I've been itching to scrub this grime and sweat off me for hours, and with enough luck, it'll conceal the traces of tears, too. I don't want Sam to worry about me. I'm the one who should be worrying about him.
By the time I finish washing off my filthy skin, rinsing the sweat out of my hair, and making sure my face is no longer red and blotchy, it's time to eat. I can smell the lamb stew from the back room where we clean ourselves, and it smells heavenly. I throw on a fresh set of clothes and, with a deep breath, I return to the kitchen to take my seat at the table. I'm starving.
It's difficult to eat, though, when all of my concerns about tomorrow keep resurfacing, no matter how hard I try to lock them away. I can't look at Sam's smiling, chubby face without thinking about his name being called, without thinking about watching him running for his life in the arena where twenty-two other boys will be trying to kill him. I can't look at my parents, fighting to keep their expressions free of turmoil, without thinking about how scared they must be for their two sons. How afraid they must be for our lives. I can't look down at our plates and bowls of food without thinking, with a heavy heart, that this could be the last time we eat together as a family if one of us gets reaped. I can't eat my serving of bread without thinking about Charlie and how she so desperately wanted to help me, but she can't. Tomorrow, we will have to surrender to fate and whoever is coming to the district to pick the tributes, and that terrifies me to my very core.
It comes as no surprise that when night finally falls, I can't even bear to close my eyes. I toss and turn under my scratchy blanket, trying with every bit of strength I have left to rid my mind of those awful thoughts, but it's almost impossible. Terrible scenarios of all sorts play out in my head, and they won't leave me alone. I don't think I've ever been more awake and alert in my life.
I'm not sure what time it is when I hear soft footsteps padding across the floor. Probably the dead of night if the loud crickets outside my window and the full moon shining through the glass are anything to go on. There's a gentle prod in my side, and when I roll over, I see Sam's wide-eyed, frightened face illuminated in the moonlight, a tattered stuffed bear clutched in his arms.
"Dean?" His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him, even in the silence of the room.
"Hey, Sammy." I have a feeling I know why he's here, but I don't want to make him feel bad about it. "What's going on?"
"I couldn't sleep. I had a bad dream," comes his faint response. He hugs his bear closer to his chest and swallows hard. "Can I stay with you?"
So I scoot over and pat the empty spot next to me, and without hesitation, he climbs right in and snuggles under the covers. When he curls up next to my side, I can feel he's trembling.
It's just like when we were younger. Sam always seemed to have horrible nightmares, and on nights like those, he would wake me up and ask if he could sleep in my bed until he calmed back down. Usually he ended up staying until the next morning, but I didn't mind. As long as being in close proximity to me was enough to soothe his anxious mind, that was all that mattered.
It's been forever since he last had a nightmare, and I was beginning to think he'd outgrown them for good. Something as dreadful and terrifying as your first reaping, though, I'm sure was more than enough to spark another terrible dream.
"What was your bad dream about?" I decide to ask. Hopefully talking about it will ease some of his violent trembling.
Sam sniffles, heaves a shaky sigh, reaches out to grab my arm with his clammy hand. "It was you," he murmurs, his voice breaking more and more with every word.
A weight drops to the pit of my stomach. My heartbeat spikes, but I don't show any of it. Sam's the one who needs comforting. Not me.
"It won't be," I reassure him, but he's not an idiot. He knows it's out of our control, and it very well could be me who gets selected for certain death tomorrow. It won't do either of us any good to fall victim to paralyzing fear, though. The best we can do is try to think positively.
"You don't know that," Sam says. I feel a hot tear hitting my arm.
"You're right. I don't. But there are a lot of other boys in District Nine, Sam. I'll be okay, and you will be, too. I promise. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."
A bout of heavy silence falls over us before Sam breaks it with another sniffle. "I love you, Dean."
He snuggles down into my shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut, as if he's willing himself to fall asleep. In the moonlight, I see his cheeks are slick with tears. He's too small, too sweet to be roped into something as horrible as the Hunger Games. I stand by my promise, and nothing will stop me from keeping it.
"Love you too, kiddo."
Somehow, with the songs of the crickets and the comforting weight of my little brother curled up next to me, I manage to fall asleep.