Even before she hears the knock she knows what they have come to tell her. The part of her that reads these things had been shuddering since morning, churning thick and gray like the promise of a storm.

Setting down the third turnip out of five meant for tonight's supper, she dries her hands quickly with an old washcloth and makes her way to the front door, through which she can see two tall, broad-shouldered shadows, one with its arm raised as though meaning to knock again, the other just standing beside its partner. The rusted hinges squeal as they part from the frame, as though they, along with her, don't truly want to hear what is coming.

"Nessa." Markham speaks to her first, one of the miners she had become acquainted with after she helped cast a broken foot from some years ago. With the same wary slant of face typical of Seam residents made even more severe with age, she has never seen him look truly happy, or even content; she has never seen him smile. Something sour rises in the back of her throat at the sight of him now, even more downcast than she could have ever imagined him to be.

"Markham."

"Mrs. Everdeen-" The other man is not someone she has seen before. A bit taller, straighter, dressed in the clean white tunic and trousers of a Peacekeeper, his face is much younger, less lined. Boyish. "There's been an accident."

He reaches into a pocket and hands her a folded slip of paper. She takes it wordlessly, feeling the warmth of it, knowing it must have been printed only minutes prior to its delivery here. Her hands unfold it and her eyes scan the black text with grim efficiency.

It is so hard to think, to speak. Even so, when she reads the name of her husband printed darkly against that sterile, burning white, she believes that she is relieved. That the nameless thing building up inside of her has burst and spilled itself throughout her body, a relentless strange tide that washes away the form of her naivete, turning it blank and without meaning. It is naivete, not hope - hope only naivete clothed in a sweeter name. She believes that she is happy he is dead, that she is dead with him.

"Mrs. Everdeen?"

The Peacekeeper (the boy) is speaking again, attempting to placate her with the guarantee that she will be duly compensated for her husband's untimely departure - a week's worth of rations, some amount of money she hears but forgets the exact number of, and a certificate. "He served well during his time. Panem will grieve for her lost child, taken too soon," says the boy, reciting lines no doubt only rehearsed in a civilian management building until now. Now he can act - poorly, but she is not there, clutching her husband's name, to judge the quality of his acting. He played his part justly, and she cannot begrudge him for this. She cannot begrudge him for anything, because he didn't kill her husband. It was the fire.

She wonders how much of that is true, or if she has just clothed it by some other name to make it more palatable.

Mute, she nods and shakes his hand uncomfortably - his grip is surprisingly weak - watching him give a stiff bow before leaving. Only old Markham, then, is left, and he hugs her roughly and tells her, "I'm sorry." He leaves soon after, trotting off unhappily while stealing glances in the direction of her house. The door has closed by the time he is gone.

Rations and a note. As if that would be enough. As if a life could be put on display like a ham, assigned a price, and paid for.

There is nothing left in her to be angry, to hold her bitter torch against the Peacekeeper to came with the letter, against the explosion. Only a deafening silence that threatens to drive her out into the mad light of the world that would buy a man for such a small number. And she can't stand it.

Only after the roar of the cave comes the stillness. Nessa takes it, and retreats.

a/n: caesar's palace monthly challenge - july '15 winner