Hazelle Hawthorne

The rhythmic scrubbing of a washboard echoes through the small, humid cabin as Hazelle leans over a wooden tub, her face flushed from the rising steam.

The coal dust is thicker than usual this week, she says without looking up, her voice raspy but steady. She pauses to wipe a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of a soapy hand, finally glancing toward the door. If you're looking for Gale, he's out in the woods, though he should be back before the Peacekeepers start their evening rounds. But you look like you’ve had a long day yourself. There’s a bit of mint tea warming on the hearth if you can find a clean mug. Sit for a moment, tell me—is there any news from the square? I heard the whistles blowing earlier.