The Unlikely Guardian
One month before the reaping, the world tilted on its axis. The false summer had given way to a deep warmth, the kind that made you believe, just for a moment, that things might be okay. It was on such an evening that Maysilee Donner found herself walking home alone, far later than she should have been. She had wandered past the edge of the Meadow, captivated by the wildflowers of the season, tiny purple and white blossoms that she knew would press beautifully. She wanted to make a necklace, a small, foolish piece of beauty for herself, a rebellion, and a good luck charm against the sterile desire of her mother to make her even more identical to her already identical sister.
The sun had bled below the horizon, leaving the sky a bruised purple and the path ahead shrouded in twilight. She clutched the small pouch containing her findings, the delicate stems already wilting in her hand. It was then that she heard them. Loud, slurred laughter and the heavy thud of boots on the dirt path. Three figures emerged from the shadows ahead of her, men not much older than Haymitch, but already thickened by drink and a sense of entitlement. They were from the Seam, their clothes grimy and their faces unshaven.
"Well, well, look what we have here," the largest one said, his voice a coarse rumble. "Lost, little rich girl?"
Maysilee's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear. She pulled her "stuck-up" mask on like a suit of armor, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze with a cold stare. "I'm not lost. Get out of my way."
His friends fanned out, blocking the path. "Ooh, she's a feisty one," another sneered, stepping closer. The smell of cheap white liquor washed over her, making her stomach turn. "We like feisty."
"I said, move," she repeated, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.
The leader reached out, his meaty hand grabbing her arm. "Or what? You'll have your daddy arrest us? This is our part of town. Here, we make the rules." His grip was like a vise, his eyes raking over her with an unmistakable hunger that had nothing to do with food. The implication was a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. This wasn't about teasing a merchant girl; this was about something dark and violent, something she had only ever heard whispered about in horrified tones.
Panic, pure and paralyzing, began to set in. She struggled, twisting in his grip, but he was too strong. The other two laughed, closing in. Her mind went blank, all her practiced insults and sharp retorts vanishing, leaving only a terrified, screaming void.
"Get your hand off her."
The voice was quiet, but it cut through the laughter like a shard of glass. It was low, cold, and utterly devoid of fear. Everyone froze. The men turned, and Maysilee followed their gaze.
Wyatt Callow stood a few feet away, silhouetted against the last vestiges of light. He wasn't holding a weapon. He wasn't even in a fighting stance. He was just standing there, his posture relaxed, but his eyes… his eyes were like chips of flint, hard and dangerous. He looked older than his eighteen years, harder. The exhaustion she had seen in him at school was gone, replaced by a chilling stillness.
"The Booker Boy?," the leader scoffed, though his grip on Maysilee's arm loosened slightly. "What are you going to do? bore us to death with your odds knowledge?"
Wyatt took a step forward. "I'm going to say this one more time," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "Let her go. And walk away."
For a moment, it seemed they might call his bluff. They were three to one. But Wyatt didn't flinch. He just stared, his gaze unwavering, and in that moment, he wasn't a boy from the Seam. He was something else, something primal and lethal. He looked like a man who had seen the worst things in the dark and was not afraid to bring them into the light.
The leader looked from Wyatt's cold eyes to Maysilee's terrified face, and then back again. Something in Wyatt's demeanor must have convinced him. He swore, shoving Maysilee away from him. She stumbled, catching herself before she fell. "Fine. She's not worth the trouble anyway," he spat, gesturing to his friends. "Come on."
They retreated, casting venomous glares over their shoulders, but they kept walking until they were swallowed by the darkness.
The silence that followed was deafening. Maysilee stood trembling, her arms wrapped around herself, trying to pull herself together. She hadn't even realized she was shaking until Wyatt was in front of her, his shadow falling over her.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice now soft, all the hardness gone, replaced by a deep, resonant concern.
She could only shake her head, unable to form words.
"Did they…?" he started, his gaze searching hers, his jaw tight with a suppressed fury.
She shook her head again, more forcefully this time. "No. You… you came before they could."
He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, his shoulders slumping in relief. "Good," he murmured. "That's good." He hesitated for a moment, then gently said. "Come on. I'm walking you home."
She didn't argue. She let him guide her, his presence a solid, reassuring anchor in the terrifying darkness. They walked in silence, the only sounds the crunch of their boots on the gravel path and the distant hoot of an owl. He didn't stop until they were at the edge of the Merchant section, where the gas lamps cast a warm, welcoming glow.
"Thank you, Wyatt," she whispered, her voice still shaky.
"Just be more careful, Maysilee," he said, his voice gruff. "This world… it's not kind."
"I know," she said, looking up at him. In the lamplight, she could see the exhaustion back in his face, but there was something else, too. A quiet strength she had never noticed before. "I'm sorry I was always so…"
"You don't have to be sorry for anything," he interrupted gently. "Just get home safe."
He watched until she was safely inside her family's well-lit house before turning and disappearing back into the night. Maysilee leaned against the door, her heart still racing, but for an entirely different reason now.
A week later, Maysilee found herself lingering near the path from the mines as the shift ended. She had spent the week thinking about Wyatt, about his quiet strength and the way he had looked at her. She had finished her necklace, the delicate purple and white flowers now dried and fragile, strung on a thin thread. It was a foolish impulse, a crazy, reckless thing to do, but she couldn't stop herself.
She saw him emerge from the crowd of weary miners, his face a mask of dust and fatigue. He was walking alone, his shoulders slumped. She took a deep breath and stepped out from the shadows.
"Wyatt," she called out.
He stopped, looking up, and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw her. "Maysilee? What are you doing here?"
"I, uh…" she stammered, all her courage suddenly deserting her. She held up the necklace. "I made this. For you. To say thank you."
He stared at the delicate circlet of flowers, then at her, his expression one of complete disbelief. No one from the Merchant class, least of all Maysilee Donner, ever gave gifts to Seam miners. It was an unbreakable rule.
"I… I don't understand," he said, his voice confused.
"Just take it," she insisted, stepping closer and pressing it into his calloused, dust-covered hand. Their fingers brushed, and that same jolt she'd felt before shot through her. On pure, unthinking impulse, she leaned in and pressed a soft, quick kiss to his cheek.
It was a feather-light touch, but it might as well have been a lightning strike. Wyatt flinched back, his eyes wide with shock. Maysilee froze, horrified by her own audacity. What had she just done?
"I… I have to go," she blurted out, and without another word, she turned and fled, running back toward the town center as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.
Wyatt stood frozen on the path, the dried flower necklace clutched in one hand and his other hand rising to touch the spot on his cheek where her lips had been. He could still feel the phantom warmth of her kiss. He looked down at the fragile gift in his palm, a thing of impossible beauty in his grimy world. A slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face, a genuine, unguarded expression of pure, unadulterated joy.
He had spent his entire life calculating odds, of weighing probabilities, of seeing the world in terms of cold, hard numbers. But as he stood there, the ghost of her kiss on his skin, he couldn't help but wonder. What were the real odds of a girl like Maysilee Donner ever giving a second glance to a boy like him? For the first time in his life, he decided he didn't care. He was going to make his own luck.
Unbeknownst to either of them, the entire exchange had been witnessed. Lenore Dove was on her way to the old smithy, a small, hidden workshop run by her uncle, Tam Amber. She was carrying a carefully wrapped package—the finished Covey-made flint striker she had commissioned for Haymitch's upcoming sixteenth birthday. The striker was a masterpiece, designed to look like a battling snake and songbird intertwined, a symbol of survival she knew he would understand.
She had rounded the bend just in time to see Maysilee kiss Wyatt Callow's cheek. She stopped dead, hiding behind a cluster of scraggly bushes. Her first instinct was a surge of bitter contempt. Maysilee Donner, the arrogant town girl, slumming it with a Seam boy. It was probably a game to her, a way to feel rebellious without any real risk.
But then she had seen Maysilee's face as she ran away. It wasn't the face of a girl playing a game. It was the face of someone terrified and overwhelmed by her own emotions. And she had seen Wyatt's reaction—the pure, unadulterated shock and wonder on his face. It was… real.
Lenore's dislike for Maysilee was deep-seated and complicated. It stemmed from a tense encounter months ago when she had stumbled upon Maysilee near the old Justice Building, staring at the fresh, orange-painted anti-Capitol graffiti Lenore herself had just painted. Lenore had been terrified, convinced the merchant girl would turn her in. But Maysilee had just looked at the graffiti, then at Lenore, with a strange, unreadable expression, before walking away without a word. She had never said anything, but Lenore had lived with the knowledge ever since, feeling like she was at Maysilee's mercy. She despised her for that power, for the way she could so easily destroy Lenore's family with a single word.
But seeing this… this unexpected glimpse of kindness, of vulnerability… it didn't erase her dislike, but it complicated it. It made her wonder if there was truly more to Maysilee Donner than the mean-girl facade she presented to the world. It was a deeply unsettling thought.