Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

District 1 never rests, not even on reaping day. Father says that routine gives life meaning and purpose and direction. Today, we are expected to behave as though nothing is out of the ordinary, except at two o’clock, when we will go to the Justice Building for the names to be drawn.

For me, that means school, then practice. I have three outfits instead of the usual two laid out on my chaise today: my school uniform, a leotard, and my reaping clothes. I put on the gray button-up blouse, maroon skirt, and tug on white socks. No point in doing anything special with my hair; I’ll have to take it down for practice and change it again for the reaping.

Downstairs, Mother is in the kitchen, already dressed in leggings and a thin top. Her routine consists of a barefoot run every morning followed by a liquid breakfast. She sips a purplish-pink mixture from a glass, staining her lips the same color. As I open the refrigerator, reaching for the tray of chopped fruit and carton of yogurt, she switches on the television. “Oh, not this again,” she mutters, changing the Capitol news channel to one of her workout recordings.

A simple beat choruses through the house. Mother holds one-pound weights as she copies the exercises. This is how she keeps busy. As the wife of diamond manufacturer Barton Trant, she doesn’t need to work. Sometimes, she runs errands for elderly people, insisting on paying for them. Her primary concern, though, is maintaining her looks. I hate to imagine what she’d do to herself if we lived in the Capitol.

I layer yogurt, oats, and berries into a bowl, then slide a thin slice of dark bread into the mixture. To drink, I pour a tall glass of apple juice—mixed with water, of course.

“Don’t forget your supplements,” Mother calls.

The supplements come in thin paper packages. I tear one open and pour the white powder into the juice and swish it to mix. Carrying my breakfast to the dining table, I almost spill the juice. I must be more nervous than I’d like to admit. I shouldn’t be. It’ll be the same routine as always. Go to the square, wait for the names to be called, and return home.

Unless my name is drawn.

My spoon hoovers before my lips. As you get older, your name is entered an additional time. At twelve, you have one slip, two at thirteen, and so on. Since I’m sixteen, my name will be written on five slips of paper. I wonder if my slips have both my parents’ family names written on them, or just my father’s family name. Opal Pierce Trant, or just Opal Trant?

Footsteps thump down the corridor. I know they belong to my brother-in-law, Valor, by the sound of them. Normally, when a couple gets married, the woman goes to live with the man. But Valor has no home. He hails from a group we call the Sharp Clan, who live out in the desert like a pack of wild animals. Some, like Valor, escape and seek jobs in the main town. So, Valor moved into our house when he married my sister Sunny.

Valor is dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and cargo pants. He laces up a pair of scuffed boots and slips his arms into a camouflage-pattern jacket as I finish my breakfast. A large backpack waits by the front door; he pulls it onto his shoulders as I step into my black school shoes.

“Another drill today?” I ask. Already, the desert sun is baking-hot, the dirt road kicking up reddish dust as we walk toward town. The downside of living in a larger house is that we live farther away from the shops and school. My father has a vehicle, but he drives it to work.

Valor adjusts his backpack and puts on a pair of sunglasses. He has a faint tan line around his eyes from them. “We canceled our last one because of the election, so it’s been two months since we’ve practiced. Reaping day means some people get the day off work.”

Valor works in construction. His team assembled the stage on which Mayor Merrill will draw the names. He—and several men he works with—are Preppers. Preppers live in fear of another Dark Days, and run drills for what they’ll if it happens. It mostly involves stockpiling food in random locations in the desert, carrying heavy backpacks full of supplies, and hiding in makeshift bunkers for days at a time. Reaping day means all of District 1’s Peacekeepers will be in town, so the Preppers can practice using rifles without getting in trouble.

He walks me to the school building. Some students are already wearing their reaping clothes, which is permitted but discouraged, because according to the principal, it disrupts the routine. Really, it’s because the sight of reaping clothes leads to extra stress.

No one has any tests or important assignments due today. I stop by my locker to pick up my book for chemistry class. As I click my combination lock closed, a pair of hands clasp over my eyes. “Guess who?”

I’m not in the mood for my cousin’s jokes. “Prosper, get off me.”

Prosper is fourteen. My mom and her dad are half-siblings, and my dad and her mom are full siblings. She comes to our house to practice acrobatics and copies my old homework. She’s one of the kids dressed in reaping clothes, a mint-green dress with puffed sleeves and white shoes battered with red dust. “What are you wearing this afternoon?”

“You’ll see.”

“Why is it such a secret? I’ll find out in five hours anyways.”

I poke her shoulder. “Go to class. I’ll find you at lunch.”

In chemistry, Mr. Wilson keeps us busy with the periodic table. Normally, we’d do something harder. He calls a random student, then asks a question like, “What is the abbreviation for the element of copper?” I guess he doesn’t want a repeat of last year, when three of the boys started betting on who they thought would be reaped.

After chemistry comes home economics. It’s a girls-only class and Prosper is in it. We make a basic, bland meal of boiled potatoes, peeled carrots, and plain chicken. It doubles as our school lunch; apparently, the cook is sick. I sip a tiny carton of milk as Prosper downs a fizzy drink.

Prosper and I walk to my house. An armored vehicle full of Peacekeepers drives the opposite direction. I cough at the dust the tires kick up. Does dust have any nutritional value? I don’t think so. I should ask Valor.

“Oh! There’s my baby sister!” Sunny coos, running toward me with her arms open. Her nails are polished and she’s done her makeup as if she’s the one going to the Capitol. I step into the hug, but only with one arm. At twenty-two, she’s long aged out of the Hunger Games, and enjoys a comfortable life in District 1 as a manufacturing plant assistant. “How are you?”

I stop halfway up the staircase. “The usual.” Then I shut myself in my room and change into my leotard and tie my hair in a bun.

Sunny hates me. She claims I was an accident because of our six-year age gap. Mostly, it’s because my career makes more than hers. I started training as an acrobat when I was three, which she thought was stupid. Yet look at us now. I get paid to perform in the Capitol and she’s married to a Prepper from the Sharp Clan. You’d think Father would find a more suitable husband for her.

Prosper and I have a training room in the house. Blue mats cover the floors. Aerial silks and a hoop hang from the ceiling. We also have bars for swinging, a low tightrope, a trampoline, and a balance beam. As always, we start with stretches. That’s when Holt, our trainer, arrives.

“What are we doing today, ladies?” he asks. He has a lisp, pronouncing ladies as lay-teeth. He’s dressed in shorts and a long-sleeved shirt with a whistle hanging over his chest. He’s built like a twig.

Prosper, sitting in a perfect split, suggests, “Doubles routines?”

Sometimes, the two of us perform as a pair. Because I’m taller with more visible muscle, our routines mostly feature me lifting her in some weird pose. Prosper is tiny and also built like a twig. I stretch my shoulders against the floor. “Just don’t make me throw her.”

Holt has us work on the dance portion of our routine instead. We flip and twirl and jump in synchronization, tossing imaginary ponytails over our shoulders, grinning wide for imaginary audiences. I get dizzy from flipping aerial cartwheels, my ankles stinging from constant impacts. Holt has us add a hoop to the routine, and we toss it to each other while doing tricks in between.

“See you tomorrow,” calls Holt after we finish.

I take a cold shower, scrubbing the chalk off my body. When I’m dry, I cover a new blister on my palm with a plaster. This is where the routine of District 1 gets disrupted. I change into my reaping clothes.

The dress, which is a color Mother calls blood orange, once belonged to my Aunt Laurela. It’s a little loose, but it has a ribbon around the waist, which I pull tight. No stockings; it’s too hot for that. I borrow a bottle of clear nail polish from Sunny and dab a drop onto my toenails. Then I slip on the sandals I only wear to the reaping, which are studded with diamonds my father manufactured.

I sit Prosper at the dining table to style her hair. It’s the same shade of dull blonde as mine, just slightly wavy whereas mine is pin-straight. I give her a high ponytail tied with a bow, and she gives me two braids. Mother finally changes the television channel to Capitol news, where it shows a recap of the some of the eastern districts’ reapings.

District 12 is first. Coal miners. Their mayor draws the names from a burlap sack, wiping his mustache before reading them out. The girl, who wears a gray dress and shoes with holes over the toes, is named Echo. The boy is Chase. Both are frail and shaking and fiddling with their buttons. As they’re led off the stage, the girl starts crying.

“Those poor children,” Sunny comments, watching over Mother’s shoulder.

Yes, they’re definitely poor. Most of 12 are coal miners and I’ve heard starvation runs rampant there. It’s dirty and dangerous and hopeless. The Hunger Games will at least spare Echo and Chase from a lifetime of poverty.

Prosper and I walk back to town to the square outside the Justice Building. We file silently into the middle section for fourteen-to-sixteen-year-olds. From both sides of the family, I have no siblings and seven cousins in the reaping. Four girls and three boys.

No one I know has ever been selected. The tributes tend to be disproportionately from the Lakeside part of town. They receive most of the tesserae in District 1—them and the Sharp Clan. Whereas the Lakeside people come to the reaping without issue, usually dressed in a variety of outfits, the Sharp Clan needs to be wrangled by Peacekeepers.

One of the Lakeside boys is in a wheelchair. Positioned near the back of the boys’ side, I doubt he can see anything. If he is chosen, how will he get onto the stage? Will the mayor carry him onto the tribute train?

That is the dilemma: Do you hope for weak, young, disabled tributes so it’ll be over quickly—or stronger, smarter, older tributes who actually stand a chance of winning? Or maybe one of both, to balance the odds? A lot of success hinges on whether the arena is tailored to your strengths.

Prosper blows an exasperated breath. “It’s five past two o’clock.”

As if on cue, Mayor Merrill steps onto the stage. Taps the microphone with a thick finger. And begins to read the history of the Hunger Games.

Chapter Text

Before the mayor can finish the first sentence, there’s a commotion in the back of the square. Everyone turns and looks. An armored truck with the Capitol seal pulls to a stop, and Peacekeepers open the back door. One by one, children hop out. Girls and boys, many of them barefoot, all dressed in gray or black or some other dull color. The Sharp Clan has arrived.

In prior years, the Peacekeepers didn’t bother bringing the Clan’s kids to the reaping. Until one of them was chosen. Then, it took a full day to track the pack down, and then to find the right kid. The Sharps look frighteningly alike: Blonde hair, blue or green eyes, dirt-smudged faces, sunburnt skin. Most of District 1 looks like that, with the exception of the Lakesiders, who have more variety. For us town folk, though, it’s very easy to pick out a Sharp.

The Peacekeepers herd the Sharps into the roped-off areas. It is then I notice the handcuffs on their wrists and chains around their ankles, clinking as they shuffle into their places. The Sharp Clan doesn’t register their kids’ births with the district office unless Peacekeepers force them, and they often don’t remember the exact dates. So, some of the Sharps in the crowd look younger than twelve, and a few look older than eighteen. Not that anyone really cares.

The patriarch of the Clan, Malachi Sharp, steps out of the armored vehicle last. Stringy tufts of white hair grow from behind his ears. He wears no shirt, only a golden medallion over his sunburnt chest. His dark green pants are patched and torn in multiple places. Say what you want about him, but he’s the only adult present at the reaping. The rest are ignoring it, or watching on television.

A Capitol woman onstage behind the mayor swivels her camera to focus on Malachi. He puts his medallion between his crooked teeth and smiles.

The Sharps make decent tributes. They’re used to surviving in the desert, foraging for food, using rifles to hunt. They make their income from physical labor, mostly construction. And, from what Valor tells me, they are more than capable of murder. We’ve yet to see a Sharp victor, but most survive the Cornucopia bloodbath and at least a few days after.

Finally, Mayor Merrill gets on with it. He reads the history of the Hunger Games, the Dark Days, the Treaty of Treason. It’s all part of the routine. Next, he reads the names of District 1’s past victors. “Charm Gaines, victor of the fourth Hunger Games.” Charm doesn’t step onto the stage. He killed himself a while back. “Wick Willis, victor of the eighth Hunger Games.”

Wick takes his place beside the mayor. Twelve years post-victory, he seemingly hasn’t aged. It must be all those long-distance runs he does to fill his time, and maybe a few procedures during his annual return to the Capitol as a mentor. His dirty-blonde hair has been buzzed short this year, making him look meaner.

“And Embra Barker Willis, victor of the thirteenth Hunger Games.”

Embra wears a flowing white dress that displays her very pregnant belly. If she were to give birth in the Capitol, I wonder, would her child be district? She gives a friendly wave to the cameras.

Now it is time for the most sweat-inducing part of the routine. The mayor announces, “Now, we will select District 1’s tributes for the twentieth Hunger Games, starting with the girls.” As he walks to the glass bowl, I take in the entirety of the square. The Justice Building. The mountains. The red dust roads. The election posters on the walls, still not taken down, saying VOTE SNOW or VOTE CREED.

Mayor Merrill sticks his fat hand into the bowl and grabs a fistful of slips. Then, he releases them, one by one, until only one remains in his fingers. He slowly walks back to the microphone, unfolds the slip, and clears his throat.

“Opal Trant.”

Prosper is shaking my arm. She’s saying something, too, but I don’t understand what it is. My dress sticks to my sweaty back and the camera onstage is now pointed at me. A Peacekeeper takes me by the elbow and leads me to the stage. Climbing the steps is not a part of my routine.

I’ve been on stage hundreds of times, but never like this. No one in the audience is smiling or clapping. A few of the girls look relieved, but none look happy. They’ve been spared for another year and then this’ll happen all over again.

Where do I stand? Beside Embra? That seems like a safe bet. From here, I can see all the way to the back of the crowd, where a line of Peacekeepers stand.

I wonder how my family reacted. Father is at work and never watches the reaping; he learns who the tributes are in the evenings. Mother watches, but might switch the channel halfway through. Valor must be running through the desert somewhere, with his backpack. Oh, and there’s Auron, my older brother—he’s also at work.

Sunny…could she be celebrating? No more perfect little sister?

Then, the mayor tilts the microphone to me. “Opal Trant, how old are you?”

I barely choke out the word. “Sixteen.”

“And will you be leaving a…special person today?”

Sixteen is the minimum age for marriage in District 1, and some families marry off their daughters as soon as possible. Special person is town-speak for spouse. “No,” I respond.

Those are the two standard questions asked of tributes. Tributes. I am now District 1’s girl tribute for the twentieth Hunger Games. This deviation from the routine makes me sweat harder.

Mayor Merrill yanks back the microphone and straightens his suit jacket. “And now, we will select the boy.” He walks to the other side of the stage, draws a bunch of names from the bowl, and drops them one by one until one remains. He opens the slip as he walks back to the microphone and quickly announces, “Jett Hogan.”

Now that is a well-known name in town, but for all the wrong reasons. I, the Capitol’s darling, will be partnered with District 1’s seventeen-year-old womanizer. Maybe that’s why the mayor read his name so fast—he’s excited to rid the district of Jett once and for all.

I find Jett among the boys just as he begins to walk toward the stage. He has dark brown hair, somewhat of a rarity among the town folk, and dark brown eyes. He has a lanky build and pale skin and wears his school uniform. As he makes his way forward, he winks at Embra.

One of the girls is sobbing. Citrin. Jett’s girlfriend. Her arms are empty; she must’ve left six-month-old Mason at home.

“How old are you?” the mayor asks.

“Seventeen.” Jett’s dark hair lifts in the breeze and he flashes a cocky smile to the cameras.

“And will you be leaving a special person today?”

“Nah.”

Jett and Citrin are not married. Legally, he’s telling the truth. Emotionally—well, let’s just say that Citrin sinks to her knees. Her tears are muffled by the mayor’s voice as he reads the Treaty of Treason. Back to the routine.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the mayor announces. “Opal Trant and Jett Hogan, this year’s tributes from District 1!”

The mayor and victors step back to let Jett and I shake hands. We don’t make eye contact as we do.

The anthem plays. Many of the kids start leaving before it finishes and the Peacekeepers don’t stop them. Why bother? Their focus is on rounding up the Sharp Clan, herding them back into the armored vehicle. Malachi Sharp spits in a Peacekeeper’s face and receives a swat in the knees.

Prosper waits until the anthem finishes. A single tear rolls down her cheek. Then Peacekeepers step onto the stage, and Jett and I are taken inside the Justice Building.

Chapter Text

I sit on the couch, my right foot tapping restlessly. The plaster on my palm is beginning to peel off from all the sweat and me constantly picking at the edges. Jett was taken to separate room, and since then, I’ve had no contact with anyone. There is a grandfather clock beside the window; it reads almost three o’clock.

The tribute train may be delayed. That happens. I watch the seconds and minutes tick by on the clock. At exactly three o’clock, it chimes—and the door to my luxurious holding cell opens.

A Peacekeeper escorts Prosper inside. My cousin looks me firmly in the eyes and raises her chin. She doesn’t try to touch me. “If you die, can I still train at your home gym?”

“You’ll have to ask my father. He finishes work at five o’clock and usually returns around six o’clock.” It’s a long drive from the manufacturing plant to our house. “I think he’ll let you have the equipment, at least.”

I expect her to be my only visitor, but Aunt Laurela comes in after Prosper leaves. She only sits down to give me a hug and whispers, “I love you.” I try to convince myself that she’s actually my mother, and place one arm around her shoulders.

In District 1, we all maintain a sort of emotional distance from each other, even family members. It’s easier to move on that way, if someone were to die. We focus on working, sticking to the routine of the day and the week and the lifetime, before we cross into the next existence.

No Auron. No Mother. I’m hoping Sunny will come to sneer at me one more time, so I’m disappointed when she doesn’t. I sit alone, waiting, pacing, chewing on my lower lip. The clock reads three-thirty when a Peacekeeper opens the door and gestures for me to follow.

That’s it, then. The tribute train has arrived. As the Peacekeeper escorts me through the Justice Building halls, there’s a shout, then a familiar voice pleads, “Wait! Wait! My daughter!”

The Peacekeeper stops. I turn just in time, as Father hefts me off the ground in the tightest hug I’ve ever felt. He’s still wearing his slacks and button-up shirt, though his shoes are covered in red dust. His face is red, too, and his underarms are wet. He’s been running.

“One minute,” grunts the Peacekeeper.

If I were a Sharp girl or a Lakesider, this type of delay would’ve never been permitted. But Barton Trant? Yeah, he can disrupt the routine. “I got you something,” he says, panting as he puts me down. It’s a brown paper bag with a grease stain on the side. Food. “Eat it on the train, all right? Keep your energy up.”

I accept the bag and watch as Father exits the Justice building, expecting the Peacekeeper to take the food away. He doesn’t. He simply leads me to a car, where I sit beside Jett, and we are whisked away to the train station.

I’ve been a train before, when I’ve gone to the Capitol to perform. Jett, though, marvels at the guardrail, the metal steps. But we both gasp when we enter our car. The number 1 is painted onto the plates and bowls and tumblers on the table. The train gains speed quickly and within minutes, the town is far in the distance. Because District 1 is the closest to the Capitol, we are the last to be picked up, and our journey will be the shortest.

Wick immediately directs us to sit. “So, let’s talk about strategy,” he says, reaching for a glass.

I sink into the chair opposite him. For the first time today, I feel cold. I haven’t thought about what my strategy will be. “Where’s Embra?”

“Vomiting into the toilet. Pregnancy and fast travel do not mix.” He presses a button, and the middle of the table splits, and a tray of food and drinks appears. Wick reaches for a pitcher full of water with ice cubes. “That’s something you need to think about, too. There’s plenty of ways to die that don’t involve a sword or a gun.” Ice cubes clink against his glass as he takes a sip. “Dehydration, for one. Infection. Accidents—yes, they happen. Heatstroke. Hypothermia. Eating something you’re allergic to.”

I open the brown bag in my lap. “I don’t have any allergies.”

Jett shakes his head. “Me neither. Just a mild intolerance for—”

“Shh.” Wick raises a finger to his lips. “There’s cameras here. Don’t tell them.”

“Those sound like boring deaths,” I point out. “Capitol citizens don’t want to watch half a dozen of us die from natural causes.”

“That’s true. But if the audience is getting bored, the Gamemakers might toy with the environment to liven things up. Especially if they don’t like you.” He explains, “It’s a show. People will pick their favorite tributes, even subconsciously. If their favorite dies, they no longer have a reason to watch. The Gamemakers will rig the arena to favor those the audience likes.”

That almost sounds like good news. Because of my career, Capitol people are familiar with me. They know my name. They know they like me. I imagine they’ll want to see me live. Wick doesn’t mention this, but I’m sure he knows. Everyone does.

“So,” Jett says, “How do you avoid dehydration?”

Wick puts down his glass. “You two can eat, you know.”

I take out the contents of the brown bag. It’s a sandwich, cut diagonally, on potato buttermilk bread, with soft goat cheese, herbs, slices of tomato, and sprinkled with black pepper. I slowly chew one half as Wick and Jett talk.

“Hydration isn’t just about drinking water,” Wick says to answer Jett’s question. “There’s usually containers of water in the Cornucopia; that’s your safest option. There’s also usually a river or lake that safe to drink from, but it might draw other tributes. If it rains, make sure to catch some.

“Look for berries, fruits, anything you can make juice out of. If you’re sure they’re not poisoned, they’ll be a good source of water. Oh, and don’t eat anything that you know gives you diarrhea.” Jett laughs, but Wick is serious. “Avoid large amounts of spices. Coffee. Some people are sensitive to dairy.”

“There’s also sweating,” I mention.

“Excellent point.” Wick piles himself a plate with wild brown rice, salad, and some kind of meat soaked in a reddish-brown sauce. Pork, I think. “Try to avoid strenuous activities. Constantly moving will tire you out. Build a camp and stay there for a few days, then move, so the other tributes don’t find you.”

Wick’s advice is coming from his experience. During his Hunger Games, the tributes were placed in a dense forest. Not much variation in terms of landmarks. His strategy was to stay healthy and hide, sometimes raiding other tributes’ camps for food. He won without drawing a drop of blood. I don’t think we’ll be that lucky.

“Has anyone ever died of hypothermia?” asks Jett.

“No, but it weakened them, and then another tribute finished them off.” Wick cuts into his meat, smearing a bit of reddish-brown sauce on his chin. “Don’t worry too much about food, though. A human can last a lot longer without food than water. And here’s something else I bet you didn’t think of. Spoilage.”

Wick spears a slice of cucumber from his salad. “This won’t last forever. Especially if it’s warm. It’s better to eat nothing than food that’s gone bad.”

Hearing that, I decide to eat the second half of my sandwich. My teeth bite into something hard and cold, so I bring a napkin to my mouth to spit it out. It’s metal.

“Everything all right, Opal?” asks Wick. “You’re very quiet.”

I lower the napkin, concealing the metal chunk. “Can you pass the bean paste?”

Wick passes me the tiny bowl and a knife. I take a white bread roll and spread the paste on it, watching my mentor watch me. Finally, I break the silence. I say, “I still believe the Capitol won’t allow more than a few of us to starve. They want to see us kill each other. What about weapons?”

“Anything can be a weapon.” Wick wipes the sauce off his chin with his fingers, then licks it. “A rock. A poison leaf. A branch.”

“It would need to be a pretty big rock or branch to do any serious damage,” says Jett.

“A rock can be chiseled into a point. A branch can be broken, sending a tribute tumbling to their death.”

Jett considers this. At school, he’s a long-distance runner. Even without brute strength, he can outlast the others.

I reach for a bowl of chicken legs. Biting into one, I say, “I was thinking about a gun or explosive.”

“What do you know about those?”

“I am top of my chemistry class and my father manufactures diamonds. If the right elements are present, I can put something together. And my brother-in-law is a Prepper. He showed me how to use a hunting rifle.”

“That’s not all,” Jett adds. “She can do flips and straddles and everything.”

“I don’t see how that’ll be much use in the arena.”

“You could probably get onto a tree branch easily. Or hide in a tight space.”

“You could run the circumference of the arena without breaking a sweat,” I tell him. “Once you start moving, they’ll die trying to find and catch you.”

Wick is nodding, smiling. “Those are good skills to have. Now, I suggest the two of you go take a shower, because first impressions are everything. We can talk about weapons and food when we arrive in the Capitol.”

While Jett finishes his meal, I escape to the bathroom. There can’t be cameras in here, right? Isn’t that illegal? Still, I crouch in a corner, and slowly open my palm to reveal…

A ring.

I turn it over, examining it. Tiny diamonds are embedded in the silver band, no doubt from Father’s work. On the inside are three tiny words. Routine. Resilience. Restoration. They’re somewhat of a motto in District 1. Routine—well, the meaning’s obvious. Resilience too.

Restoration has a few layers to it. Ultimately, it refers to restoring District 1 to what it was before the Dark Days. Wealthy. Beautiful. Successful. During the Dark Days, a plague struck the district, decimating the industries and about half the population. The horrors are still fresh in some people’s memories, particularly older Preppers. So, restoration also refers to repopulation—District 1 encourages people to get married and have kids, the more the better.

I take a shower. We have clean water in 1, but Mother keeps a timer in the bathroom to ration it. Here, though? I stand under the water for several minutes, using every shampoo and foam to wash my hair, cover my body in gel and scrub. Utter bliss. I also wash my blood orange dress, then dry it with a powerful hair dryer.

With a towel on my head and the ring hidden in my dress pocket, I go to my room. It has two beds; Embra is curled on one of them with a pillow to support her belly. She’s awake, her blue eyes staring at something in the distance.

“Hi,” I whisper to her.

Embra’s lips move soundlessly.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” I try. “I can’t hear you over the, um, train tracks.”

I hope she doesn’t end up like Charm. Mother says he slowly went mad, losing his grip of reality, before ending his life. The trauma of the Games must’ve stuck with him.

Embra blinks a few times, and her eyes focus on me. “Hi, Opal,” she whispers.

“Do you want to eat something?” No response. “Well, I’m going back to join Jett and Wick for dinner. See you around.”

Wick and Jett are arm-wrestling when I sit at the table. Surprisingly, Jett wins. “I did it at school all the time,” Jett brags, releasing Wick’s palm. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Wick massages his wrist. “Perhaps you are, but it’s not exceptional for a boy your age.”

“Not in District 1,” I mention. “Compared to District 12, he’ll look like a monster.”

Wick opens his mouth to say something. Then the lights flicker and go out. We’re plunged into darkness and I grip the arms of my chair. From the bedroom, Embra screams. “Where are we?” Jett is saying. “What’s happening?”

I can’t see anything, but I can feel the change.

The tribute train has stopped moving.

Chapter Text

I stumble out of my chair to the nearest window. The sun is setting, but it’s not completely dark. Mountains surround the tracks. A Peacekeeper jumps off the train and walks by the window, presumably headed to the locomotive.

“Power outage?” I wonder.

My eyes have adjusted to the new dimness; I can see the silhouettes of Jett and Wick, now standing by the table. Wick is holding his dinner knife. “Yeah, probably,” my mentor says.

There’s a flash of movement to my right. A train door, maybe two cars down, flies open; I briefly glimpse the white 3 painted on the door. A small figure sprints down the steps and into the wilderness, feet disappearing into the high grass. I yelp as gunfire erupts and duck below the window.

When the pandemonium stops, I peek outside again. The Peacekeepers have gathered in a circle, about a hundred yards from the train, nudging a lump—a body—in the middle. Is the runner dead? Alive? I can’t tell from here.

“Opal? What’s happened?” It’s Jett.

“Someone ran from another car. District 3, I think. Then the Peacekeepers—”

“District 3,” says Wick. “Technology. Of course.”

“They did something to the train,” murmurs Jett. “Then tried to escape.”

“Wait, wait.” I squint, trying to see better. “They’re moving. The Peacekeepers are bringing the runner back to the train. They’re definitely dragging him, though, so he’s either injured or dead.”

Minutes later, the lights come back on, though not quite as bright as before. I watch a Peacekeeper put some sort of chain around the door to our train car, and secure it with two heavy locks. He also checks the window, pounding on it with his fist. Wick waves to him.

This is not part of the routine. “Will we be late for anything?” I ask.

“Tomorrow morning, you’ll meet your prep teams and once they’ve prettied you up, you’ll be introduced to the sponsors. And the new president,” Wick responds. “Tell them that you adore them. They might adore you in return.”

“What are they looking for?” asks Jett.

“Confidence. Good looks. A love of the Capitol.” Wick gestures to the bedrooms. “It might be a while before we start moving again. The Capitol’s not far; the only thing you’ll be late for is bedtime.”

I finally replace my blood orange dress with a soft nightgown. My sandals sit at the foot of the bed. Would it be too much to ask the Capitol to return the dress to Father, so he’ll have something left of me? Settling under the covers, I reach for the television remote. It feels oddly light. Testing a theory, I aim it at the black rectangle on the wall. No surprise, it doesn't work, because it has no batteries.

I find a second remote in the dining room and take out its batteries. Returning to the bedroom, I’m able to turn on the television, which only has one channel: Capitol news. It’s running through a recap of all the reaping ceremonies from across Panem.

At the moment, it shows the ceremony from District 10. Livestock. Down south. Their mayor wears a cowboy hat and pulls the names from a leather bag. I bite my fingernail as the first name is read and the cameras pan to a girl with slight build, wavy black hair, and bronze skin. Her name is Billie. According to the host, she is fourteen years old. I’d feel bad for her, except Billie has a smirk on her face as she joins the mayor onstage.

Then, the broadcast skips the boy from 10 entirely, and moves onto District 11. The host reminds us, District 11 are strong contenders for the crown, with their knowledge of nature and access to decent food. Except this year’s picks don’t appear to be the cream of the crop. The girl, Violet, is very overweight and walks with an uneven gait. Is she injured? The boy, who has extremely pale skin and near-white hair, wears a thick pair of glasses and Peacekeepers have to guide him onto the stage.

I’m not ready to write them off yet. Perhaps they are smart, although District 11 isn’t exactly renowned for producing geniuses.

When the replay of 12 comes on, I turn to Embra. She’s awake. “Wick told me about the importance of food and water. What else is important?”

Her answer is quiet, but firm. “Allies.”

“What’s the point of allies if there’s only one victor?”

“Assume that you’re going to die. Ask yourself who you want to win.”

I consider this for a second. “Jett?”

She nods, adjusting her pillow. “That’s a common choice.”

“During your Games, who were your allies? How did you pick them?”

Embra runs a hand over her pale face. Her wedding ring glints on one finger. “I chose the ones I thought had the best chances of winning.”

I think that’s counterintuitive. Doesn’t ‘most likely to win’ also mean ‘most likely to kill you’? But Embra’s alive, and the more I dwell on it, the more I realize she may be right. There have been cases of tributes forming alliances, usually no more than three people.

A memory of the 18th Hunger Games comes to me. Three boys teamed up. One of them was killed by another tribute who wasn’t in the alliance. A second died when a chunk of a building collapsed. The third won—and didn’t need to kill any of his allies, because there’s plenty of other threats.

I prop my pillow against the wall and cross my legs under the covers. The train still isn’t moving and night is falling. The occasional Peacekeeper tromps beside our car. When I hear Embra snoring, I hide the diamond ring under my pillow, then turn off the television. I don’t need a replay of my own reaping.

Randomly remembering what Wick said, I tiptoe back to the dining room and grab a few of those white bread rolls, a stalk of celery, and a pumpkin pastry. As I hold the television remote, the one I took the batteries from, debating whether to replace them, shuffling sounds to my right.

I stop and listen. Embra is asleep, the bathroom light is on, and Jett’s shoes lay in the hallway. It must be coming from the back of the car…

Armed with only a napkin, I cautiously creep toward the sound. The train car ends with a locked door and a small window. I peer through it. It aligns with the window to the next car, presumably District 2’s. Another pair of contenders, from what I’ve heard.

Then, a person appears in 2’s window. Her brown eyes go wide with fright, but quickly shift a curious expression. She’s not wearing a Peacekeeper uniform, so she must be 2’s girl tribute. She has shoulder-length curly hair and light brown skin, and a dimple appears in one cheek when she gives me a smile.

A smile. That makes the hair on my neck stand up. Why is another tribute smiling at me?

The girl holds up a hand to wave at me. I dare wave back. It doesn’t feel natural. Then, she moves to my right, obscuring part of her face. A few seconds later, she holds up a napkin against the window.

HI, reads the writing.

I hold up a finger, as if to say, “One minute, please,” then race to the dining room to find a pen. I scrawl a few circles on my bare arm to get the ink flowing, then carefully write HELLO and hold it up to the window.

The girl from 2 nods when she sees it. She understands. She writes back, SEVERNA with an arrow pointing down. When she presses it to the window, she crouches, so the arrow points to her head. Her name is Severna, she’s trying to say.

I write the first two letters of my name, then stop to think. Should I tell her? I figure there’s no harm in it; tributes’ names are made public knowledge on television. So, I write, OPAL and show it to Severna.

TELEVISION? she writes, and I nod. She points to herself and shakes her head. She doesn’t have television. SCARED? I write back. She shrugs, then writes, OUTAGE?

3 RAN, I respond.

Severna’s brows rise. CAUGHT?

I nod fervently. PUNISHED?

DEFINITELY!!!!

I bite my lip before writing, HOW?

Severna draws a question mark.

DEAD? I write.

It goes on like that for a while. Severna and I compose theories of what happened to the boy from 3, the runner. Would the Capitol kill a tribute before the Games began? Unlikely, we both agree. It’d be a pain to get a replacement. More likely, he’ll be punished somehow in the arena, or his family will suffer for him.

Then, we shift to topics unrelated to the Games. Siblings. I hold up two fingers instead of wasting another napkin. She breathes on her window, creating fog, and draws a circle. Zero siblings for Severna. Food. Boys, which makes her giggle. Age: she turns to be 17, and writes that her birthday was in April. Mine would be in October.

I’ve amassed a mountain of crumpled napkins when the train moves again. Severna waves to me and then disappears. I dispose of the napkins and run back to my bedroom, where Embra is awake.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks.

“Maybe after the sponsor meeting.”

Embra rubs her eyes. “Wick told me you know how to use a rifle.”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Good.” She sits up, swinging her feet over the side of the bed. “We can definitely do something with that.”

“What do you mean?”

Embra leans in, as far as her belly allows. “The sponsors…the Gamemakers…they all know each other. And they know me and Wick. We will…talk to each other. And if they decide they like you…”

“There’ll be a greater chance of finding a rifle in the arena?”

Embra gives the barest nod, almost imperceptible. “No guarantees.”

“I could practice with some other weapons during the training sessions.”

“You won’t master any of them in three days.”

“Something is better than nothing.”

I run my fingers through my hair, which is still damp. “What did you do during training?”

The train, which has been traveling at a high speed, slows down again. No power outage or shouting Peacekeepers, which can only mean one thing.

“Get up,” says Embra. “We’ve arrived at the Capitol.”

Chapter Text

When the tribute train pulls into the station, I stay away from the windows. Wick brings me my sandals. The ring goes back into my dress pocket. Just in time, too. Peacekeepers enter the car and order me to stand up.

I look at the ground as we’re escorted off the train. My blood orange dress actually blends quite well with the bright fashion of the Capitol residents. It’s a blur from there—walking, getting into another car, being placed on a table, white curtains pulled shut. Laying on the table, my feet crossed at the ankles, I hold the ring tightly.

The curtain is yanked to the side. I drop the ring and it bounces off the table and onto the floor. A heeled shoe steps on it to prevent it from rolling away, then a white-gloved hand reaches down to pick it up. “You dropped this,” says an airy voice.

Standing before me is the most ridiculously dressed woman I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying a lot. Her heeled shoes are covered in white feathers that brush the floor when she walks, reminding me of feather dusters. Her twiggy legs are painted white, including over a plaster near her knee. Her silver shorts barely cover her bottom, held up by a diamond-studded belt. A silver jacket covers her top half, complete with puffed shoulders. Oh, and her face—silver lips, skin painted white, white wig, white feather earrings. Even the irises of her eyes are white, possibly contact lenses. Is she allergic to color? Or is this a trend?

She drops the ring into my open hands and grabs my chin. “Oh, gorgeous. You District 1s are a beautiful breed. I know exactly what I’m going to do with you…” She reaches under the table to produce a box full of supplies. Hair gel, makeup, all stuff I’ve seen from acrobatics prep. “Aurelia! Come here!”

Another woman, whose chosen color scheme is lavender and gold, comes to her side. Seeing me, she squeals. “We really did get the most beautiful tribute! There’s so little we need to do. Look, Marcia—her legs and arms are already shaved.” Aurelia leans in and takes a long sniff. “She smells good.”

Marcia waves her white gloved hand. “Full body polish. Trim her split ends.” She opens my palm, the one with the blister. “Oh, and do something about that, she can’t be shaking hands with…open sores like this.” With that, Marcia spins around and marches out of the prep room, muttering something about a waste of potential.

Aurelia starts by asking me to remove all my clothing. When I do, she tosses it into a corner. “You won’t need this anymore,” she says. “Lay on your back for me, darling.”

She starts by removing individual hairs from my body with tweezers. A few plucks from my thighs, my stomach, my upper arms, and my face. Then, Aurelia covers my skin in a pink foam, and while waiting for it to absorb, she examines my hands. She covers them in a clear gel that hardens within seconds and wraps them in plastic. “All right, now sit up for me.” Clip! Clip! Bits of my hair tickle my back as Aurelia trims it. “Ooh, you have some muscle on you!” Finally, she unwraps my hands, and sure enough, my calluses have softened and my blisters look half-healed.

When Aurelia applies a second round of healing gel to my palms, Marcia returns with a clothing bag. “As I’m sure is customary, tributes are introduced to potential sponsors during a special, special ball. You’ll be dressed in something that represents your district, which for you means…” She unzips the clothing bag. “Ta-da!”

My dress is ethereal. It has a multi-layered skirt and a bodice with an open back. The skirt is a sky-blue at the bottom, and slowly changes to yellow, then orange nearest my shoulders. “I look like a living sunset,” I comment when I’m wearing it.

Marcia laces the ribbons around my neck. “Yes, show off those back muscles. We’re going to leave your hair down, just pin it back out of her eyes.” Aurelia quickly puts little orange clips in my hair and gives it a few tugs with a brush. “Perfect! Perfect! No more! Let’s get her to the ball!”

The ball turns out to be in the next building over. Marcia reunites me with Jett, whose wearing a suit that matches my dress, and our mentors. Wick and Embra wear simpler outfits and name badges with their district number. And it is here, in a corridor outside a ballroom, that I get my first glimpse of the other tributes in real life.

District 7 wears dark green. Billie from District 10 struts in a bejeweled leather jacket. There’s no sign of District 3, home of the infamous train runner. Because Jett and I are from 1, we have to go first.

As we’re escorted into the ballroom, an announcer reads our names, and a cheer arises. A red carpet is rolled down the middle of the room, and golden ropes hold back the Capitol crowd on either side. The sponsors gasp and scream at the sight of us. “Go on,” says Marcia, nudging me to the right. “Pick someone and introduce yourself.”

I follow Jett to a pair of men in matching blue suits and enormous hats. They tell us they love our outfits, ask me to twirl for them, and shake our hands. Other people near them shout questions at us, practically jumping over each other to get a better look. There’s a cameraman behind the crowd; Wick spots him, then says to me and Jett, “Pose!”

Us in the middle, Wick and Embra on the sides, Marcia and Jett’s stylist behind us. The crowd loves it. One man calls, “Remember me!” and plucks a white rose from a flower arrangement. I play into this game, and take the rose.

It becomes a routine. Jett and I talk to two or three people at a time, answering their questions, preening for the cameras. A few recognize me from my performances and mention it, looking either very excited or very horrified by the idea.

“There must be a more efficient way to do this,” Jett says. “I’m getting tired, and we’re not even halfway through everyone.”

Directly behind us are Severna and the boy tribute from District 2. Remus, the announcer called him. They’re dressed in sparkly camouflage outfits and have prop guns strapped to their belts. Streaks of gold and hazel have been added to Severna’s dark brown hair. She has a full figure; she must be a weightlifter or wrestler. She’s not very tall, though. Remus, on the other hand, looks like the instructor from Mother’s fitness recordings. He’s definitely the biggest tribute in the room, and responds to most questions with a grunt or nod.

Severna and I make eye contact.

Hi, she mouths.

Hello, I mouth back.

One of the sponsors notices our exchange. “District 1! District 2! Can you pose—no, not the boys, just the girls!” Despite Marcia’s glare, I break away from the group and go stand beside Severna. I place one arm around her shoulders and the other on my hip. She mirrors the pose, and the camera flashes intensify. “Over here! Over here! Yes, perfect!”

Embra and Wick gesture wildly to me, directing me to change poses, smile wider, take a step back, take a step forward. Jett and Remus try to do the same, but most of the cameras remain fixed on me and Severna. The man who gave me the white rose is crying silver tears.

Eventually, the cameras tire of us and move on to District 4, who are wearing revealing outfits made of shiny fishnets. That’s when Embra and Wick stop before a Capitol woman wearing a maroon sweater with a silver pin over the heart and a simple skirt the same color. Like Embra, she’s visibly pregnant, but in an earlier stage. I’ve seen her on television.

The lady shakes my hand first, then Jett’s. “Opal and Jett,” she says in a prominent Capitol accent. “It’s wonderful to meet you both. I’m Livia Cardew Snow.”

Is the first lady of Panem allowed to be a sponsor? When neither Jett nor I have anything to say in return, she turns to Embra and smiles. “Oh, it’s wonderful to see you again. You must bring your entire family to the Capitol next year; little Snow is going to need a playmate or two.”

“Congratulations,” I murmur, but Livia Cardew Snow doesn’t seem to hear me.

“It gets easier after the first time,” Embra is saying. “Once I had my third, I started mixing up kids’ names.”

“Oh, I don’t plan to have any more for a while,” responds Livia. “This one will be sure to keep me busy. What number will this be for you?”

“Number six.”

Livia’s hand jumps to her mouth. “Oh, heavens. You must be very…busy.”

Wick smiles. “It’s not as hard when Uncle Wick lives next door and loves his nieces and nephews.”

Embra is married to Wick’s brother, Jasper Willis. Their brood of five kids is not that unusual for District 1. They’ve been fortunate enough to avoid fertility problems, a rather hush-hush yet common issue, especially in town. It’s believed to be a side effect of the Dark Days’ plague. Embra has mountains of money and can afford to see a doctor for anything that may come up.

“Being a mother was always my dream,” Embra explains. “After I won the Hunger Games, I knew it was the only thing I wanted to do. Do you know if you’re having a boy or a girl?”

“Lanus—my husband thinks it’s a boy. If he’s right, we want to name him Augustus Coriolanus.”

“That’s a lovely name,” Jett says quietly. Once again, Livia Cardew Snow doesn’t seem to hear it.

That’s when the newly elected president of Panem enters through a back door. His head turns from side to side, scanning the crowd—then settling on his wife. He hurries to stand beside her, adjusting his suit jacket, the color matching her sweater. Immediately, Livia stops talking, and Embra stiffens.

President Snow gives me and Jett a speech. Something generic about Panem, history, the Hunger Games, the Dark Days. And he’s got a white rose pinned to his lapel—the same type of rose that I’m holding. He speaks with confidence, only stopping once to cough into his elbow. An attendant carrying a tray of drinks offers him one, but the president declines it.

For such a young man, his hairline is already receding a bit.

“Opal, Jett,” the president says, his tone shifting to curious. “Tell me about yourselves.”

Jett goes first this time. “I’m a long-distance runner and a watchmaker by trade. I have two younger brothers. And I’m happy to be in the Capitol.”

“A watchmaker,” he repeats. “Watches are quite popular in the Capitol. My old classmate, Hilarius, has a fine collection of them.”

The president then turns to me. I say, “My name is Opal Trant. I am sixteen years old. I am from District One. I have a sister and a brother. And I’m an acrobatics performer.”

“Trant,” President Snow repeats. “Where have I heard that name? I’ll remember in a day or two. And…acrobatics.” He coughs again, and Livia passes him a white handkerchief. It comes away spotted with red. Blood? “Difficult discipline. Short-lived career.”

That much is true. Most acrobats don’t perform beyond their twenties. Mine will end in a matter of weeks, at sixteen. Unless the improbable happens.

As the next pair come to him and his wife, President Snow gives them the same speech he gave us. Another routine. The stylists and mentors take us out of the ballroom, onto a terrace, where Jett asks, “What happens to the districts that don’t have a victor?”

Embra and Wick at him in confusion. But it is Marcia who answers flippantly, “They’re assigned one from the University. Although our new president has suggested that it gives certain districts an unfair advantage, being mentored by actual victors over university students just trying to gain some extra credit, so he’s proposed lending victors to less successful districts.”

Another attendant comes by with more drinks. “Go ahead, take some,” says Embra, reaching for the tray. “There’s no alcohol in it.”

Standing on the terrace, beneath the Capitol’s night sky, I think back the beginning of summer. Mother’s daily workout was interrupted by an emergency broadcast announcing that the president was dead and that there’d be a rapid election. The top two candidates, Coriolanus Snow and Secunda Creed, campaigned for only two weeks before Panem went to the voting booth. District 1’s was held at the school.

I was not old enough to vote, but I was allowed to accompany my family members who were. We all went into one booth; families can do that. No one in mine takes politics seriously; they view it as another routine, where nothing really changes no matter who’s in charge. Valor voted for Creed. So did Sunny, copying her husband. Auron voted for Snow. Mother didn’t vote. And Father? Father scribbled a third line underneath the candidates’ names and wrote MALACHI SHARP on it, then drew a box beside it and ticked it.

That same night, the results were announced. President Coriolanus Snow won our district’s vote by a small margin. Mother yawned. Sunny was preoccupied filing her fingernails. Valor looked a little disappointed. Auron was at work. And Father turned off the television before I could see how the other districts and the Capitol voted.

Chapter Text

When we reach the tribute tower, our home for the next three days, Marcia gives me back the ring. “I held onto it during the sponsor’s ball,” she says. “You were marvelous. They loved you. You’ll have sponsors lining up around the block.”

“You took the rest of my clothes,” I say. “Why not the ring?”

“You can wear one item from your district in the arena. It has to be something small and it can’t be a weapon.” She lowers her voice. “They’re called tokens. They can also be used to identify a body if multiple tributes die in one place.”

I slide the ring onto my finger and hold it up for her to examine. “This is excellent craftsmanship,” she comments. “If you don’t make it out of the arena, can I keep it? As a memory of such a gracious tribute?”

I imagine Father might want the ring back. “You can buy an identical one from Barton Trant, District One.”

Marcia’s lips flatten into a line, but she gets in the elevator with me. We ride up to the first floor to a palatial space with a beautiful view of the Capitol. If I really wanted to, I could jump out the window and get away with just a few bruises. Jett and Wick are already sitting at the dining table, tucking napkins into their shirts. Embra lays on the couch, wearing a robe over a nightgown, a glass of ice water on the ground.

Jett’s stylist, Iovita, is also present. They wear a black suit jacket over a long, flowing black skirt. Tiny silver stars adorn both their clothes and deep brown skin. “I have a lot of questions, is that all right?” they ask as I sit down. “So, first of all, how are the two of you so…” They pause midsentence, lifting their empty wineglass for an Avox to refill. Taking a sip, they finish, “How are the two of you so relaxed?”

“I’ve seen tributes cry or even try to kill themselves,” comments Marcia.

I tell them the truth. “In District 1, we believe that life never truly begins or ends; we simply move from one existence to the next. It’s a routine that never ends. Before we were born, we lived in a different existence, and after we die, we will move onto the next. It’s inevitable. Everyone dies eventually.”

“That’s so…poetic,” Marcia says.

“But there’s many different potential existences we could enter next,” Jett explains. “That depends on how you lived in this one.”

Iovita places a hand over their heart. “Can my next existence be full of adorable cats?”

Jett laughs. “Sure.”

“Wonderful!” Iovita claps. “Oh, I’ll have to tell my grandmother that. She loves folk beliefs and myths and beautiful tales.”

I reach across the table for a platter of potatoes covered in creamy sauce and chopped vegetables. “District 1 has lots of stories, though we don’t really get a chance to share them. When we tell children about the concept of the next existence, we ask them to draw or write down what they want it to look like and what they want to do in it.”

“Okay, I have another question, is that all right?” asks Iovita. “It’s more like two questions in one, but bear with me, okay? I understand that not everyone in District 1 is like this and that some of it is exaggerated, but people around here say…” They trail off. “They say that District 1 people marry their cousins and have, like, fourteen children.”

“I would imagine we’re a little more inbred than other districts,” I say, and Marcia’s eyes widen. “Mainly because of the plague during the Dark Days; we were left with less people. But I’ve never heard of anyone marrying their cousin. We have a special office that keeps track of lineages, and before two people can marry, they must check to make sure they’re not too closely related.”

“You’re thinking of the Sharp Clan,” says Jett. “They’re this weird bunch that live in caves in the desert and hunt rattlesnakes for dinner.” Iovita’s eyebrows rise. “They’ve got this leader, Malachi—”

“Is he the president?” asks Marcia.

I swallow the salad leaf in my mouth. “We call him their patriarch because he’s rumored to be the father of at least half the kids in the Clan. They don’t bother to register their kids’ births, let alone check who’s related to who. There’s maybe a few hundred Sharps total, and they tend to marry each other, so, after a few generations, everyone becomes cousins.”

I expect Iovita and Marcia to be disgusted, but they’ve stopped eating and are staring at me with curious looks.

“That is…something,” Iovita says at last, dabbing a napkin to the corners of their mouth. “I was under the impression that District 1 is this perfect, shiny, happy place full of money and beautiful people. I suppose every diamond has its scratches.”

It’s odd to think that my normalcy is fascinating to these people. If that makes me more likeable, more intriguing—why not keep going? “They’re more than weird,” I say. “I’m convinced that they’re evil.”

“Yeah, their idea of fun is kidnapping a Lakeside child knowing the Peacekeepers don’t care.” Jett spears a piece of meat with his fork, and I kick him under the table. Doesn’t he know better than to speak poorly of Peacekeepers? “I mean, Peacekeepers have other things to worry about, right? Most of the time, they return the children unharmed. We always celebrate when a Sharp gets reaped.”

“These Sharp people sound like interesting tributes,” says Iovita.

“They’re impossible to coach,” says Wick. “They have their own dialect and sayings and I can’t understand them half the time. My brother hired a group of them to do renovations on his house. Embra, you remember that, right? Most of their workers are kids because few of them actually survive to adulthood. They don’t believe in medicine, they don’t live by any rules, and they only wear shades of gray and brown.”

Iovita and Marcia gasp hearing the last item.

“They take a lot of tesserae,” Jett says. “It’s their most reliable source of food.”

“They’re very stubborn,” I say. “Despite all their hardships, they’re still around.”

Iovita shudders. “I could never live like that. Two days without a shower and my skin starts feeling like it’s crawling with bugs. Honestly, I would rather be speared through the throat than live without my moisturizer.”

Wick changes the subject. “Training starts tomorrow at nine. The Gamemakers will be watching. Don’t get into fights with other tributes. Stay away from anything that could result in a fall; we don’t want you getting injured before the Games begin. Pay attention to what’s being taught because it could be a clue to what the arena will look like.”

“I hope there’s a variety,” Marcia sniffs. “The Games are best when they’re unpredictable and full of surprises. Not like that one time the tributes were dumped in a desert with only axes.”

“It’ll probably be a smaller arena,” Iovita predicts. They cut themselves a tiny slice of vanilla sponge cake. “The Capitol spent, like, a ridiculous amount of money on the election and double-checking the ballots. President Snow himself was a Gamemaker, but he had to step down after winning, and they had to find someone to replace him—it was chaos.”

“Will the president be at training?” I ask.

Wick raises an eyebrow. “Possibly. As president, though, he must remain impartial. He cannot sponsor a tribute directly, place bets on a winner, or show preference for a particular district.”

“But everyone loves the two of you,” Iovita assures us. “Most of us own something manufactured in District 1. Opal, my cousin watched you perform a couple years ago. They’ll be fighting to keep you alive, or at least make it into the top six.”

Wick accepts a glass of wine from an Avox server. “On the third day, you’ll each have a private session with the Gamemakers. You’ll have a few minutes to show them a skill of your choice, and they’ll use that to determine your score.”

Jett pales a little. “What if I don’t have any skills?”

“Lift some weights or throw a weapon,” suggests Marcia. “Strength and courage are what they’re really looking for. Make them remember you.”

Iovita eats a tiny piece of their vanilla cake. “But don’t worry if you don’t do as well as you’d like. No one really cares about the low scores. There’s a lot of other factors in the arena that can skew the odds in favor of a tribute with a lower score.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for one, you’re not going to actually kill anyone in training. There’ve been tributes who can hit a target every time with a spear, but can’t seem to strike another person.”

I twist the ring around my finger. This is going to become a habit, I can already tell. “Jett can run a mile in less than six minutes.”

“Opal can do six backflips in a row,” Jett shoots back.

“What use is that in the arena?”

“The audience would love it,” Marcia says. “You’ll definitely pull a few sponsors if you do something entertaining. Many people get bored of watching after a few days because it’s just footage of tributes walking through the woods.”

Now I have a choice. Acrobatics or rifle? Acrobatics will make me unique in the Gamemakers’ minds. A few good shots with a rifle will make me deadlier. But a rifle is only of use if there’s someone to shoot, and acrobatics can be entertaining any time. It’ll be acrobatics.

“What about…allies?” I ask.

Wick nods. “Training will be a good time to scope out the other tributes and see if there’s anyone you like.”

“The sponsors loved you and the girl from 2,” says Marcia.

It feels wrong to choose an ally from another district over Jett. Who says alliances can’t be more than two people? I’d like the boy from 2, Remus, on my side as well. The four of us together…one of us will win.

“Who else is there?” wonders Iovita. “Embra, would you mind turning on the television so we can watch the replay of the sponsors’ ball?”

And there we are on screen. Me and Severna, posing for the cameras. Jett and Remus only receive sprinkles of screentime. District 4 make a good splash as well; someone hands the girl, Levee, a sparkly green pen, and she uses it to sign her name on people’s arms and backs. When she blows kisses to the crowd, green lipstick smudges her palm.

“District 4, their industry is fishing,” says Iovita. “If there’s a river or lake in the arena, which there likely will be, they’ll probably use it as a source of food. They’re also excellent swimmers, so don’t try to kill them by pushing them into water.”

Jett blows a kiss at Levee on the television screen. The cameras show other tributes, but never for as long as they did me and Severna. Once they reach District 8, there’s more focus on the sponsors themselves; the cameras pan to various people in the crowd, their names appearing on the bottom of the screen.

“So, Mr. Fling,” an interviewer in a polka-dot suit asks a sponsor, “Have you decided which tribute you’re going to back?”

“I’ve narrowed it down to two, maybe three. I’ll make my final decision once training scores are posted.”

Jett gets himself a slice of that vanilla cake. “Are they only allowed to choose one?”

“Technically, yes, but they’re also allowed to talk to each other,” explains Wick. “Mr. Fling here might sponsor Opal, then ask his best friend to sponsor Jett. The sponsors and mentors of tributes who team up also team up, as part of their strategy.”

When Violet and Ambrose from District 11 appear onscreen, Marcia pulls a face. “Oh, dear. Even I couldn’t work with that.”

The Hunger Games are no beauty contest, but good-looking tributes tend to pull more sponsors. Last year, a commentator described the boy from 2 as handsome, and the cameras tended to focus on him, before and during the Games. He got a lot of gifts, too.

But Marcia is right. Ambrose at least smiles and shakes people’s hands, and some pause to admire him. Violet…Violet would need a plastic surgeon to transform her into anything worth looking at. Up close, I can see she has crooked teeth and ears that stick out. Her eyes bulge like they’re going to pop out of her skull.

“Can you believe she’s only fourteen?” asks Iovita. “I thought she was sixteen at least.”

Wick examines the girl onscreen closely. “Some people might think she looks scary, and decide to sponsor her because of that.”

“I’ll try talking to her during training,” I say. “Let’s hope her inside doesn’t match her outside.” Violet could very well be smart, fierce, and help me navigate unfamiliar plants. I don’t think the Gamemakers would allow such a…strange-looking victor.

“The girl from 6, Rayle, is this year’s youngest tribute at thirteen years old,” Embra says randomly.

There’s never been a victor under fifteen. At the end of the recap, simple headshots of the tributes, along with a few basic facts, are displayed. As the girl from District 1, I come up first, my picture definitely taken at the ball. Opal. Age: 16. Female. In total, there’s only four tributes fourteen or under, and seven tributes fifteen and under. Opposite to Violet, there’s also a few who look younger than they actually are.

“If you win this year’s Hunger Games,” says Marcia, “What will you do with your winnings?”

Jett grins. “Become irresistible.”

I haven’t thought about that because I didn’t believe I’d win, maybe survive a few days at best. But someone has to win. Why not me? I’ll have sponsors and the favor of the Capitol at my back. “If I win,” I say, “I’d write a book about the experience, so everyone can feel like a victor.”

“You like to read?” asks Iovita.

“Yes, it’s very common in District 1.”

“Crafting luxury goods takes brains,” adds Wick. “Obviously, not everyone can become a victor. Those that don’t—they need to do something, don’t they?”

“I never thought about it that way,” muses Marcia, accepting another drink from an Avox.

I stretch before bed. It’s part of a routine that I can’t disrupt. Because it’s been such a long day, with the reaping and the broken train and the sponsor ball, I don’t bother even changing into a nightgown. Diamond ring on my finger, wearing only my underwear and half a face of makeup, I fall into the bed. I’m asleep moments after my head hits the pillow.

Chapter Text

Jett and I arrive at the training center before most of the instructors. We’re each given a package containing clothes, and directed to the appropriate changing rooms. As I tug on the plain black shirt, more girl tributes start to trickle inside. Levee from 4. Thirteen-year-old Rayle from 6. Severna. Billie from 10.

            A full list of the tributes’ names and ages are displayed on a scoreboard.

            District 1: Opal, 16; Jett, 17.

            District 2: Severna, 17; Remus, 18.

            District 3: Alloy, 18; Ductor 14.

            District 4: Levee, 15; Harbor, 18.

            District 5: Spark, 16; Cord, 16.

            District 6: Rayle, 13; Turner, 15.

            District 7: Sylvia, 16; Oak, 15.

            District 8: Paisley, 16; Loom, 17.

            District 9: Lemma, 17; Anther, 18.

            District 10: Billie, 14; Col, 16.

            District 11: Violet, 14; Ambrose, 16.

            District 12: Echo, 17; Chase, 17.

It is here, without costumers or makeup, that I finally see how malnourished some of my competition is. Only Levee and Severna appear to have any sort of proper muscle. Violet has plenty of pounds to spare, but slips on a piece of loose toilet paper and almost falls over. Billie is quick and agile, changing her clothes at lightning speed and pulling her black hair into a ponytail. “What are you looking at?” she snaps at Alloy, the eighteen-year-old from 3. “Have you never seen a girl undressed before?”

We rejoin our male counterparts and the lead trainer, a man named Julius, explains the rules and schedule. We’ll have three days of training. No fighting. Try to learn something new. It’s almost a word-for-word repeat of the advice Wick gave me and Jett. When we’re given permission to start, I make eye contact with Jett, and he joins me at the edge of the mat.

“All right,” he says. “What’s the plan?”

I survey the room. “Wick said there might be clues to the arena in the training centre.” Many of the stations are what I expected. Knife throwing. Spear throwing. Archery. Weightlifting. Sword fighting. There’s also things like making traps, identifying edible plants, and making fires. “But I don’t see anything too unusual.”

Jett nods to the far end of the training centre. “Monkey bars. Think there’ll be trees?”

“Trees are practically a guarantee.”

“How about rock climbing?”

“Wick said not to do anything that risks a fall.”

Jett nods to the wrestling mats. “How about we start there?”

Why not? After listening to the trainers explain the basics, I step off the mat and Jett wrestles with one of the assistants. When she pins him to the mat, he grins and asks to go again. As Jett wipes sweat off his forehead and squats into a starting position, I watch the other tributes.

Severna and Remus from 2 are at the station beside us, throwing spears. They’re strong, able to throw the spears from far distances, but not so great at aim. Levee from 4 is jumping rope. The pair from 12 try to scale the rock-climbing wall, with little success. Violet does okay with weightlifting. And Billie…Billie is at the rope-tying station.

“Your turn,” Jett says to me.

Puddles of sweat cover the mat and the assistant has a mad glint in her eye. I forget everything I’ve just learned and try to throw her to the ground—after all, there will be no rules in the arena. The assistant’s teeth grit and she has to strain and struggle, but ultimately pins me to the mat. Not bad.

“Can…I try?”

It’s Severna. She pulls her dark brown curls into a bun before stepping onto the mat. She quickly overpowers the assistant and Remus cheers. Jett has the humility to look at little scared. When Remus wrestles, he’s even more aggressive, his face going red and saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth.

Severna follows me to the weightlifting station. Of course, she’s able to lift more than me. The trainer is pleased that we take his advice about technique, complimenting both of us. “At least you won’t be injured before you enter the arena,” he says.

Violet, who does crooked squats while holding a ten-pound weight, scowls.

Severna also follows me to the break station, where I fill a small plastic cup with ice-cold water. Remus pours his water over his head and shakes his hair like a dog getting out of the ocean. Jett offers his cup to Violet, whose bulging eyes somehow widen. “Here,” Jett says. “Drink it.”

Violet just stares at him in response, her mouth hanging slightly open.

“Does she talk?” I ask.

Severna waves her hand in front of Violet’s face. Watching Violet’s eyes track the motion—I can’t help it, it makes me giggle. Remus claps his hands, making Violet blink. “Give her some time,” Jett says, still dangling the cup in front of Violet. “It’s her first time encountering a physical marvel.”

Finally, Violet takes the cup from Jett. When she drinks, a few drops dribble down her chin and shirt. “Oh, we better find her a bottle,” I suggest, which makes Severna snort.

“She can drink out of the stream in the arena,” says Remus.

“If there is one,” adds Severna.

“She’s from 11,” I remind them. “She can probably climb a tree and drink rainwater.”

I’m torn between wanting Violet to die quickly in the arena, and trying to recruit her into the tentative alliance that’s forming between Districts 1 and 2. Sure, Remus can throw a spear and decapitate a dummy with a sword, Severna can wrestle and takes a liking to those throwing knives, Jett can run, and I’m not half-bad at archery…but our skills are only useful if there’s someone nearby to kill. Violet knows her way around plants and animals, which’ll make her last longer.

Watching Remus throw punches at a bag suspended from the ceiling, I ask Severna, “Is there anything he can’t do?”

She bites her lip. “He…he has a secret weapon.”

“Is it finding food?”

Severna shakes her head.

That leaves Levee and Harbor from 4. During lunch, when all of us tributes are taken to a dining hall beside the gymnasium, I take my tray to the table beside the pair from the fishing district. Each table has six seats. Severna sits across from me, Jett beside me, Remus beside Severna. That leaves two open seats for the 4s to join us.

Remus dips a piece of fluffy white bread—Capitol stuff—in a tiny container of sauce. Points it at me. “Can you cook?”

I can spread butter on toast, blend fruits and vegetables into a smoothie, and toss a basic salad if all the ingredients are in the fridge. I’ve also boiled noodles on the stove. Sunny is the unofficial chef of the Trant family. “Not really,” I admit.

Severna nibbles on a thin cracker studded with grain. “I thought District 1 girls stayed at home.”

“Some do,” says Jett. “But Opal’s not like that. She has her acrobatics training and by the time she’d retire, she’d be too old to get married.”

Marriage is a part of the routine of life, and certain steps must be hit on certain beats. District 1 girls almost always marry between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two, while it’s easiest for us to have children. If we miss that window of opportunity, our only chance for a relationship is to find a widower.

“What exactly do you want to cook in the arena?” I ask. “It’s not like there’ll be skillets and ovens waiting for us. We’ll be roasting meat over a campfire on sticks. If there’s any food in the Cornucopia, it’ll be basic, like apples or bread. Oh, and sponsors could also send stuff.”

Severna curls a lock of hair that’s come loose from her bun around her finger. “After lunch, we should learn how to start a fire.”

“There’s always matches in the Cornucopia,” says Jett.

“And probably an axe.” I bite into my sandwich. “We can chop down a tree or collect some branches for firewood.”

“I learned how to make a fire in basic training,” Remus says. “Only I don’t remember much of it. I barely passed. I should’ve paid attention.”

Most of the other tributes eat with their district partners, except Alloy, the girl from 3, who’s joined the pair from 6. Looking around the dining hall, I can’t find the boy from 3, the train runner. Perhaps this is how they’re punishing him: By forbidding him from participating in training. Or he’s dead and they’re scrambling to ship a replacement on the next train.

“Maybe we should talk to 7,” I suggest. “Lumber. They’ll know how to start a fire.”

Jett mixes beef and wild rice on his tray. “Or 11. If they want to talk.”

Violet and Ambrose sit a few tables down, hunched over their trays, but sharing their food. Ambrose polishes his glasses on his shirt. Violet wears her usual confuddled expression, using a spoon to slowly scoop soup into her mouth.

Severna gestures to another table with her fork. “What about her?”

She’s referring to Billie, who’s sipping broth from a bowl. When I make eye contact with her, Billie puts down her bowl and sticks out her tongue. “She’s feisty,” I comment. “10 is livestock. She might know something about what animals are safe to eat.”

Remus snorts. “As if there’ll be a farm in the arena.”

“She’ll know what parts are edible,” counters Jett.

We launch into a debate, arguing over which tributes would make the best allies. District 4 will know how to fish—but there’s no guarantee there’ll be lakes or rivers. The same can be said for 7 about lumber. 5, 6, 7, and 8 seem pretty unexceptional and they’ll all thin and some shiver. The boy from 9 eats in a far corner and glares at anyone who comes near. Of course, we’ll need to talk to 11 first, and District 12… We all agree 12 will be a liability, not an asset.

Finally, I say, “How about we forget about the rest? Four is on the larger side for an alliance already. The more people we bring in, the more likely the group will fragment.”

Jett nods. “Like Malachi Sharp’s brother?”

The Sharp Clan has an offshoot led by Morgan Sharp. That is, assuming any of them are still alive. Valor told me about them; even growing up with Malachi, he never met a single kid raised by Morgan. They’re that isolated. “Kind of,” I say. “Malachi and Morgan aren’t trying to kill each other.”

“Really? Because I heard the reason there’s none of Morgan’s left is because Malachi’s group hunted them down. There’s a rumor that Malachi’s necklace has one of Morgan’s teeth in it.”

Severna listens intently. Then, she says, “We have a lot of groups back in 2. And subgroups within those groups. We get along for the most part, because we have to learn to tolerate each other. We’re all expected to learn the same things in school, but everyone’s families want something different.”

“Some of them are really strict,” says Remus. “They want their kids getting perfect grades and don’t let them visit their friends’ houses.”

“Our reaping bowls are the biggest in Panem,” says Severna. “Because we have so many people.”

“We have the Covey, remember?” Remus scratches his nose. “They used to be traveling musicians or something like that. After the Dark Days, they got split up between the districts. We have a whole troupe of them in 2.”

“Didn’t a Covey girl win the Hunger Games once?” asks Jett. “I think I saw it on television, but I couldn’t find any recordings of it.”

Severna opens her cup of vanilla pudding. “My mother was Covey.”

“Why’d she leave the group?” I ask.

“She didn’t. She died.” Severna dips a piece of bread in her pudding. “Apparently, she was exposed to some sort of toxins or bomb residue during the Dark Days, and it made her sick. She got better for a few years, then got sick again, and died.”

“We had a plague,” says Jett.

Remus stretches his arms above his head. “We get outbreaks every few years.”

I think of my family for the first time today. Mother, whose only concern will be losing the income from my performances, if that. Sunny, who’s probably forgotten about me already. Auron, who’s drowning himself in work, and Father… Honestly, I am not sure what Father is doing or thinking. But if anyone in my family will watch the Games to witness my last moments or try to keep me alive, it’ll be Barton Trant.

After lunch, the four of us head to the fire-starting station. The instructor shows us a few different ways to make a fire, and we practice. Severna and Remus prove to be naturals at it. We try camouflage, which is easier for me because I’ve painted on my body before, for shows. The instructor has me experiment with various patterns and colors, which attracts the attention of the Gamemakers, who are watching from an elevated platform.

On the second day of training, there’s a notable addition to the Gamemakers’ platform. Wearing a black suit with a white rose pinned to the lapel is President Snow. From a distance, he looks young enough to be a tribute. Julius makes a surprise announcement: President Snow wants to meet with each of the tributes, one by one, to give a few ‘words of encouragement.’

“Isn’t that our mentors’ job?” I ask Severna once Julius finishes.

Harbor, the boy from 4, overhears. He answers, “Not every district has a winner. Mags, one of ours, is mentoring the pair from 12.”

“My stylist, Marcia, said it was President Snow’s idea,” I say.

Harbor shrugs and sulks away to join Levee at the rock-climbing wall. Severna and I stop by a new station that’s been set up: first aid. We bandage and stitch dummies smeared in fake blood, learn how to fill a syringe and give each other shots of saline. “Ow,” Severna mutters as I pull the syringe out of her arm.

I press a tiny plaster over the injection site. “There. You’re saved.”

Remus and Jett, meanwhile, are learning how to box. They punch bags of sand and training dummies. At one point, Remus tears his shirt off and tackles a dummy against the ropes of the boxing ring.

A pair of Peacekeepers approach tributes, one by one, and escort them out of the gymnasium to meet with President Snow. The girl from 12, Echo, goes first. Several minutes pass before the Peacekeepers bring her back, and her gray eyes are wide with fear. The boy from 12, though, returns almost immediately after leaving. Then it’s Violet’s turn; she too returns quickly. Then Ambrose, then Billie…

Eventually, the Peacekeepers come for Severna. I throw knives at dummies until she’s back. “How was it?” I whisper, as the Peacekeepers tell Remus to get out of the boxing ring. “You were in there longer than most people.”

Severna waits for the doors to slam behind Remus and the Peacekeepers. Then she grips my arm and whispers, so fast that I can hardly understand her. “He asked about District 2, my mother, what I’d do if I won.”

“And what’d you tell him?”

“He asked if I knew how to sing, since my mother was Covey. I said no, because she didn’t live long enough to teach me, and I was raised by my father. He asked me about some random traditions in District 2, if I knew some rich family—the Pinks or something—it was weird. Oh, and he gave me food, and a sweet thing that tasted like syrup.”

As we practice throwing knives together, the Peacekeepers bring Remus back to the gymnasium, and I know what comes next. I put down the knives as the Peacekeepers approach. I tighten my ponytail and square my shoulders as I’m marched to the dining hall.

Sitting at one of the tables is President Snow. The room suddenly feels cold and smells stale as I reach for the chair across from him. The chair legs screech when I drag them against the floor.

When I sit, President Snow looks at me. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he looks like he could be from District 1. There’s a tiny red mark on his lower lip, like a cold sore, or perhaps a cut. “Opal Trant,” he says. “I remember where I heard your name now.”

The smile that spreads across my face is the one I practice in front of a mirror, before performances. “Where?”

“I bought my wife a diamond necklace as an anniversary present. The box it came in had a little label, in gold. Trant. Of course. Barton Trant, manufacturer of diamonds, mined and lab grown.”

I shift in my chair and lift my chin. Showing weakness in front of the president is a luxury I cannot afford. “My father often compared me to diamonds,” I say. “I’m the most brilliant under pressure.”

President Snow nods and scratches the red mark on his lip. “Opal, if you win this year’s Hunger Games, what will you do?”

“Once I go back to District 1? Probably…hug my father.”

I regret the words the second they leave my mouth. Now, if I do anything the Capitol doesn’t like, Father will become a target. Or will President Snow spare his wife’s jewelry maker?

“Hug your father,” President Snow repeats, slowly. “You know, I lost mine when I was quite young. How will you do that?”

I wrap my arms around an imaginary person. “Like this.”

“Show me.”

My blood runs cold, but I do as I’m told. I take three quick steps around the table, bend my knees a little, and place my arms around President Snow’s shoulders. Lightly, carefully. Up close, I can smell the white rose. To my surprise, he hugs me back, but there’s no emotion in the gesture. As he releases me, I feel something flutter down my shirt.

“So, Opal,” he says when I sit down again, “You mentioned you’re an acrobat.”

I shrug. “Yes.” Whatever President Snow slipped down my shirt is now tickling my lower back. I imagine it’s a scrap of paper.

“After you win, will you continue your career as a performer?”

“I’d like to, yes. It’s an honor,” I say, placing emphasis on the word honor, “to perform for the Capitol of Panem.”

“Now, wouldn’t that be something? An acrobat and Hunger Games victor? I imagine you’d be very…popular.”

“I already am.” I cross my ankles under the table. “My mentors say I have sponsors lining up to support me.”

An Avox brings forth a tray of food and sets it in the middle of the table. For me and him to share. “Go ahead, help yourself,” President Snow says, gesturing to the tray. “I’ve had plenty.”

On a delicate plate is a small, round vanilla cake, with tiny sugar crystals sprinkled on the white frosting. There’s a knife, too, which I use to cut the cake roughly in half. President Snow takes the other piece, and the Avox brings a pitcher of milk and two glasses.

The president breaks off a sliver of cake, but doesn’t eat it. “What’s your favorite acrobatics trick?”

I stick my fork into my frosting and lick it. It’s not as sweet as I expect. “A handstand,” I say, purposely selecting he’ll know. “People love when I walk down the stairs on my hands.”

President Snow eats a bite of his own cake. Takes a sip of milk. “Only a certain kind of tribute can become a victor,” he says.

I’d like to argue we’ve had a variety of victors, but surely, they all have something in common? “They’re…smart. Cunning. Bold. Deadly. Lucky.”

“When you perform, do you ever sing?”

I shake my head and force a laugh. “I have no musical abilities, Mr. President. My mother once said I have a voice like cat being dragged by a vehicle.”

To fill the silence, I take a swig from my glass of milk. When the liquid fills my mouth, I know immediately something is wrong. Has this milk gone rancid? It’s bitter and burns the back of my throat when I swallow it. I recover by eating several bites of cake.

President Snow reaches into the tray for a tiny bottle of what looks like red nail polish. Opening it, a sweet smell hits my nostrils. Like syrup. He pours a little onto his cake, making it look as though the slice is bleeding. “It’s a new delicacy,” he says, reaching over to pour some onto mine.

The syrup tastes like strawberries. It’s really good and seems to leech the burning sensation out of my throat. “Thank you,” I say.

He pulls out a handkerchief and dabs his mouth. “I miss being a Gamemaker. Do you know why we have the Hunger Games?”

I recite what I’ve been taught in school. “As punishment for the uprising.”

“And why else?”

I stab my fork into the cake and shakily break off a bit to stall. Is there a second answer? Or is it a rhetorical question? I shove the fork into my mouth, smearing red syrup on my chin. “For a chance to become rich and visit the Capitol every year.”

President Snow puts down his handkerchief. A fat drop of blood has welled on the red mark on his lip, dangerously close to trickling. He adjusts the white rose on his lapel. “Thank you, Opal,” he says. “You may go.”

Chapter Text

Once Jett is summoned for his meeting with the president, I tell Severna and Remus, “I need to use the toilet.”

Inside the girls’ changing room, there’s only one stall with a functioning toilet. I lock myself inside it and reach into the bottom of my shirt to retrieve the slip of paper. It’s been folded several times into a neat rectangle; I have to pick at the edges with my nails to open it.

The message is simple. SHOWTIME.

Huh? What does that mean? Is it in reference to the Games being a show? That must be it. President Snow wants me to give the audience a good show. No problem. I can do that. As I turn the slip over and hold it up to the blinking lights to check for additional clues, a fist hammers on the outside of the stall.

“Hurry up!” It’s definitely Billie, her feet shuffling on the tiled floor. “I need to poop!”

I shove the slip into the waistband of my pants and unlock the stall. As Billie does her business, I tear the slip into shreds and send it down the sink drain while washing my hands. It’s a simple enough message to remember. Showtime.

During lunch, the sole topic of discussion is President Snow’s individual meetings. “He asked me if I could whistle,” Remus says, scratching his head. “It was so strange. Do you think it’s a clue? Will we need to whistle in the arena?”

I gesture to Severna. “He asked us both if we knew how to sing.”

“Perhaps this year’s arena will be an orchestra pit full of fiddles and accordions and mandolins,” says Jett. “Or there’ll be music playing somewhere.”

“How does he know about the Covey?” wonders Severna.

I wave a hand. “He’s the president; he knows everything. The Covey are everywhere. Maybe he was just trying to be nice. He…” Now I realize how odd our exchange really was. “He asked me to hug him.”

Jett bursts out laughing. “He asked me what I’d do if I went home to District 1, and I said I’d kiss my girlfriend. He looked like I’d just grown a second head.”

Remus sniffs his lunch before taking a bite. “The milk he gave me tasted weird, but he seemed to like it.”

“Who knew?” I say. “The president of Panem likes rancid milk.”

Severna wrinkles her nose. “I knew it smelled weird. I pretended to drink it, but it barely touched my mouth.”

“He’s going to have one hell of a stomach-ache,” says Jett. “My father once left a carton of milk in the watchmaking shop overnight. Forgot to put it in the fridge. One of my sisters drank it and vomited.”

I run my tongue over my teeth. The burning sensation prickles my throat every now and then, reminding me of the conversation for the rest of the afternoon.

Severna and I practice using swords. Remus gets his hands on an axe and hacks dummies to ribbons. Jett goes to one of the new stations and puts together some kind of mechanical device, but it breaks when he tries to demonstrate how it works. The springs and coils explode onto the mats, and the instructor has to collect them. In the end, I never find out what he was trying to make.

Marcia and Iovita join us for dinner in the tribute tower. “How was training?” they ask, almost in sync.

“We’ve formed an alliance with District 2,” I say. “We tried to talk to 4 and 11, but 4 seem a little standoffish, and the girl from 11 is completely clueless. Like she doesn’t understand what we’re trying to say to her.”

“That’s good,” breathes Embra. “It’s much harder to kill someone that you care about.”

Jett piles his plate with a little bit of everything on the table. “President Snow came to talk to us. He asked weird questions, like if we knew how to sing.”

Iovita laughs. “I didn’t know the president liked music.”

Marcia tucks a strand of white-blonde hair behind her ear. “He used to be a Gamemaker,” she reminds us. “Habits are hard to break.”

“Have the two of you decided on what skill you’re going to show the Gamemakers during your private sessions tomorrow?” asks Wick.

Jett crunches a stick of celery. “I’m going to throw a few spears and run with a heavy weight.”

Wick nods. “That should do. Make sure you hit the targets, even if that means you need to stand a little closer to them. Opal?”

I take a chicken drumstick coated in a spicy peanut sauce. “I still want to do acrobatics. There aren’t any rifles in the training centre and I’m not taking the risk with archery. Maybe I’ll do a flip while holding a knife or something.”

That night, I lay awake, twisting the ring Father gave me around my finger, and thinking about President Snow’s message. SHOWTIME. Though the message is harmless, he isn’t supposed to show favoritism towards any of the tributes. When I finally do fall asleep, I wake up soaked in sweat.

Morning training goes by quickly. The instructors look a little sad to see us go.

As the male tribute from District 1, Jett goes first. He winks at me, Severna, and Remus as he files out of the dining hall. After about fifteen minutes, my name is called.

Thankfully, President Snow isn’t among the Gamemakers. I wish I had aerial silks or at least a hoop, but there’s plenty I can do on just a mat. I start by showing off my flexibility: splits, straddle, backbend, scorpion, Y-stand. Then, I jog to the far end of a mat, and launch into a tumbling run. Roundoff, back handspring, back tuck with a full twist. I tumble forwards, too, doing front handsprings and front tucks before landing in a split. That earns me a gasp from one of the Gamemakers.

I dare to add weapons into the performance. I do front and back walkovers on one hand, holding a knife in the other, then throwing it into the outer rings of a target. I take one of the arrows from the archery station, toss it into the air, do an aerial cartwheel, and catch the arrow.

I hold a handstand for thirty seconds. I shoot an arrow midway through a split leap. I keep coming up with new combinations and tricks and spins until one of the Gamemakers clears his throat.

“Thank you, Opal of District 1,” he calls. “Your time is up.”

There is no afternoon training session; I’m to return to District 1’s floor. I twiddle with the diamond ring, stretch on the floor, and think about President Snow’s secret message. Showtime doesn’t begin with the arena; technically, it begins at the reaping. And oh, have I put on a show already. The next steps in the routine are training scores and interviews.

Marcia, Iovita, Embra, Wick, Jett, and I gather around one television set. Jett eats beef stew from a bowl, slurping as the Head Gamemaker appears on screen. “The Twentieth Hunger Games will feature tributes with a range of skills,” the Gamemaker says. “For now, only their scores can be publicized. Starting with Jett from District 1…”

A simple headshot of Jett appears onscreen. “A score of…seven.” The number 7 flashes in gold underneath Jett’s picture. Iovita squeals in delight; apparently, anything above six is considered a serious contender. No one has ever gotten above a ten, which are rare, and they’re not sure why eleven and twelve are even options.

My picture appears. “Opal from District 1, with a score of…eight.”

Remus scores a nine. Severna, an eight. All my allies are serious contenders. I learn the boy from 3 is named Ductor, and he receives a score of five. The girl, Alloy, gets a three.

Harbor and Levee from 4 both get sevens. Rayle, the thirteen-year-old from 6, gets a four, which Marcia says is surprisingly high. The next several tributes score in the two to five range, until Anther, the boy from 9, receives a ten.

Jett sits up straighter. “What did he do?”

“Should we talk to him?” I ask.

“When? During the interviews?”

Billie scores a five. I hold my breath when Ambrose’s picture comes onscreen, and exhale when a score of six appears. And Violet? Violet gets a three. That finalizes my decision to abandon them as potential allies. It’ll be Levee and Harbor, if anyone.

That night, Embra gives me a pill to help me sleep. It knocks me out like a baby. In the morning, Marcia greets me with a white clothing bag and a makeup kit. “I’ve been thinking about it, and talking with Wick,” she says, “and I’m not going to put you in another dress.”

Inside the clothing bag is a golden unitard. It covers me from the ankles to the wrists, hugging my body tightly. Marcia says she’ll add makeup later. “And no shoes,” she adds. “In case Lucky asks you to do a flip or something.”

I rehearse how I’ll make my entry. As the girl from 1, I’ll be the very first tribute to be interviewed. That’s good and bad. Good, because the audience will be more attentive and Lucky Flickerman, the host, will have more energy. Bad, because I might quickly be forgotten, and because I have no one to look at as an example.

Embra wants me to walk on my tiptoes and twirl right before sitting down. I practice the motions onto a couch. “Pretend I’m Lucky,” she says, pulling over a plush chair. “Now, do that again.”

I prance onto the ‘stage’ and twirl, then sit, crossing one leg over my knee, toes pointed. Embra shows me how to wave to the audience, how to speak clearer, and has me toss my hair between questions. “If there’s ever an opportunity to showcase some acrobatics on that stage,” she says, “Do it. Show the audience why you got that eight.” That is angle, she advises. It makes me memorable and lovable.

The Capitol changes up the interviews every year because they can’t quite decide on the best seating arrangements or timing. Marcia adds gold dust and black eyeliner to my face and assures me that the audience will adore me. Iovita has outfitted Jett in a white suit with gold trim, and combed gold powder into his dark brown hair.

An attendant herds me and Jett into the wings of the stage, since we’re the first to go. Onstage, Lucky Flickerman, the host, checks his reflection in a hand mirror. His suit is plain black, but his hair is dyed lavender, and his makeup is a similar shade. Behind him, projected onto the background of what’ll be the television screen, are the tributes’ headshots.

The anthem plays. A cameraman gives Flickerman a thumbs-up. Lucky begins with a few jokes I don’t understand, but the audience laughs. A couple other tributes linger in the wings with me and Jett; I’m the only one without shoes, and the only girl not in a dress.

“Starting with District 1!” Lucky says. “Please welcome…Opal!”

I walk on my toes, as Embra instructed. The mentors and stylists are seated in the front row; I see Wick raises a glass as if toasting, Embra lifts her hands above her head to clap, and Marcia blows me a kiss. The Capitol audience behind them shrieks when I wave to them.

I take my seat in a plush chair beside Lucky. He hands me a microphone. I realize I forgot to twirl, but there might be an opportunity for that later.

“So, Opal,” Lucky says, “Welcome to the Capitol. What’s the biggest difference between here and District 1?”

I flash Lucky my best smile. Onstage is my natural habitat. “Definitely the…creativity of the citizens,” I respond. “Everyone here is so memorable and unique in their own way. In District 1, we…we already look alike, so we try to behave alike as well.”

Lucky raises his eyebrows. Intrigued. The audience has gone quiet, and a few people are leaning forward, listening. “There’s comfort in conformity. Opal, what does that mean for you? If you were to go home to District 1, how would you be expected be?”

This is oddly similar to the question President Snow asked me. I get the sense that the audience won’t care about Father, so I give a different answer. “I’d be expected to return to my life as it was before the Hunger Games. So, I’d definitely put on a few more shows.” I give a hearty laugh. “Perhaps even a special one when I return to the Capitol next year, as a mentor.”

The audience loves that. Someone throws a pink scarf onto the stage, and I pick it up with my toes. Then, I lift my leg so it touches my ear, knee straightened. I hold the pose until Lucky says, “Well, now my son will be begging me to sign him up for acrobatics lessons. Tell me, Opal, if you had a child, would you want them to pursue the same career as you?”

I place the pink scarf around my shoulders. “In District 1, having children is an expectation. The more, the better. But I’d let them choose their careers. Perhaps they’ll want to open their own businesses or make jewelry. Perhaps they’ll want to be tributes!”

Lucky laughs with the audience. Marcia is laughing the hardest of all. “So, Opal,” he says, “Let’s talk about training. We know it’s technically a secret, but I have a guess as to what you showed the Gamemakers.” He then tries to wrap his leg around his head, and his face goes red when he tries to stand up. The audience cheers louder than at any of my acrobatics performances. “Was it something like that?” he asks, sitting normally.

“Yes, but better,” I answer, flipping my hair. Lucky places a hand on his chest, feigning offense. “Don’t worry. You can practice with your son.”

“I’ll make sure to hire you as his trainer,” he jokes.

“I’ll be very busy, then,” I say. “Performing and training the next generation.”

Lucky nods. “Talented, charming, beautiful…Opal, tell me, is there a special someone back in District 1 eagerly awaiting your return?”

Sometimes, the Capitol interviews the friends and family of favorite tributes. It’ll be easy for them to verify the truth. “No,” I admit. “But if I win, there is someone I’d like to get to know better.”

I mentally run through a list of the boys in my school and settle on one. Aurion Barker. He’s two years older than me and will age out of the reaping later this year. He’s the son of one of Embra’s cousins, I think. I picture him in my head: Blonde hair, blue-gray eyes, freckles. Yes, Aurion will be my fake secret sweetheart.

“Oh?” says Lucky.

“But of course,” I add hastily, “My heart forever belongs to Panem.”

The buzzer sounds, indicating that my time is up. The audience cheers as I step off the stage, remembering to twirl before sitting down beside Marcia. She hugs me and whispers, “You were incredible, darling. Marvelous.”

I wipe the sweat off my palms using the pink scarf. This is the last performance I will put on before entering the arena. “Thank you,” I whisper back.

Chapter Text

Next up is Jett. He openly flirts with a few women in the audience, who adore it. Lucky asks him a lot of the same questions he asked me. Jett says the biggest difference between the Capitol and District 1 is the selection of drinks. “In District 1, we mainly drink water,” he says. “Or juice. Or fizzy drinks.” When Lucky asks Jett is he too has a ‘career,’ like me, Jett says, “No, not really. If I return to District 1, I’ll become a watchmaker, like my father.”

Lucky says watches are important. Jett agrees. My male counterpart thrives during the portion of the interview when they talk about family and love. There’s more flirting, winking, blowing kisses. Despite this, Jett never mentions Citrin, or their son. He knows it’ll be a bad look. If Citrin is watching—which I hope she isn’t—this is when I imagine she turns off the television and goes to cry.

Lucky uses the remaining time to crack some jokes and allow Jett to talk about training and the Games. “Honestly,” Jett says, “I’m very durable.” He makes a muscle, drawing more audience cheers. “I can run a long time. I can run away from you, or I can chase you down. Your choice.”

Severna’s interview goes well. She has a quiet voice, but speaks clearly and confidently. She tells Lucky about her training as a Peacekeeper, and how she’ll want to return to that life if she wins the Games. What she loves most about the Capitol is the beautiful landscape. Her answers are quite short, giving her an air of mystery. While her interview isn’t as engaging as mine or Jett’s, it’s certainly better than Remus’s.

Remus plays the role of the brute. He emphasizes his strength, his height, and his skills with various weapons. He offers to arm-wrestle Lucky, who declines, but selects a man from the audience who’s eager to give it a try. After the audience member loses spectacularly, Lucky asks Remus what he’ll do if there’s no weapons in the arena.

Remus just laughs. There’s something unsettling about it. “Well, Lucky,” he answers, crossing an ankle over a knee, “If I can get close enough, I’ll snap their necks. That’s if I’m in a good mood. If I’m in a bad mood…I have a secret weapon.”

Secret weapon. Severna mentioned it in training. What could it be? An extra set of teeth?

The girl from 3, Alloy, is shy but clever. The boy from her district is skipped entirely, Lucky calls Levee to the stage next. I pay close attention. Levee is flippant, tossing her hair like I did, and talks about her ability to swim, catch fish, and use a trident or spear or net. I like her. I could use her as an ally. Harbor goes for the mysterious angle, answering Lucky’s questions with few words, and making intense eye contact with the audience. He too mentions his abilities to swim and fish.

Districts 5, 6, 7, and 8 don’t seem exceptional. I sit up again when the boy from 9, Anther, is invited onstage. He’s tall, with long limbs. Of course, Lucky wants to talk about his training score and what he did to earn it. Anther says, “I believe training is meant to be confidential.” The audience groans, but he doesn’t budge. Lucky tries to coax the secret out of him for the rest of the interview, but he too fails. We are left to wonder.

I must doze off during 10’s interviews, because next thing I know, Lucky is saying, “Please welcome, from District 11, Violet!”

Violet shuffles onstage with her awkward gait, tripping into her seat. I stifle a giggle. “Well, someone’s excited!” says Lucky, and the audience claps. “Violet, I understand it’s a long way from District 11 to the Capitol. Tell me, what is the biggest difference between here and District 11?”

Violet responds the same way she did to me in the training centre: with slack-jawed, wide-eyed silence.

“Take a moment to think about it,” encourages Lucky. “There’s a lot to choose from.”

Finally, Violet says, “I…I like the key lime pie. We don’t have that in 11.”

So she can speak. Wonderful.

“You can always bring the recipe back to 11, if you win,” says Lucky. “I’m sure that’ll bring a lot of joy to your district.”

Violet shakes her head. “We’re only allowed to eat what we grow ourselves.” The audience makes a noise of sympathy. “Maybe in the Capitol.”

“Yes, you grow a lot of things in your district. I imagine you know plenty about trees and animals and fruits. That’ll be an asset in the arena, don’t you agree?”

Violet perks up. Her crooked teeth shine when she smiles. “Absolutely. The food from the Cornucopia won’t last forever. I can survive much longer than those who’ll be relying on it and their sponsors’ gifts.”

I imagine a camera panning to me, to capture my reaction at this subtle insult. She assumes the food will run out before someone kills her. Well, Miss Violet of District 11, we’ll see who’s laughing when Remus smashes your skull against a rock. I maintain my composure, though, resisting the urge to cross my arms.

Ambrose’s interview goes better. He’s calm and humble, managing to talk about his knowledge of nature without bad-mouthing the other tributes. “Every plant is unique,” he says. “Not only to the eye, but to the smell, and to the touch.” He also mentions that he’s good at running, he’s strong from climbing trees as part of his job in 11, and he’s used to hot and cold temperatures.

The pair from 12, I don’t even pay attention to them. When I return to District 1’s floor in the tribute tower, I peel off the gold unitard and rinse my face with cold water. I take a shower too, hair included, hoping to absorb as much of the Capitol’s goodies into my skin before I enter the arena tomorrow. I long for my blood orange dress. I eat dinner in bed, my throat tight.

The Hunger Games are just another performance, I tell myself. I have a role to play and a show to put on. If I follow the routine, everything will be fine. Remus and Severna and Jett and I will rush the Cornucopia and…and then what? Slaughter the other tributes, that’s what. The first five minutes will be the deadliest.

Oh, what does it matter? Everyone dies eventually.

My family will hurt, but only temporarily. There’s a routine to funerals in District 1, and tears are not a part of it. The loved ones of the deceased talk about them, focusing on positive details like their intelligence or hobbies or accomplishments. Once the person is buried, there’s a meal during which no one speaks. The silence is what carries the person to the next existence.

That calms me. Knowing that tomorrow, I might move to an existence with no Hunger Games. I’ll need to wait for my family, but until then, I’ll do backflips into lakes and hold handstands on fallen logs. I’ll eat potato buttermilk bread with goat cheese and sliced tomatoes. It won’t be so bad.

I fall asleep, because Embra has to shake me awake. She and Wick take me and Jett to the roof of the tribute tower, where a hovercraft with the Capitol logo is waiting. My feet clang against the metal steps, the wind battering my face.

Inside the hovercraft, I count twenty-four seats, each marked with a number between 1 and 12. I sit one of the seats marked 1, and a restraint drops over my shoulders. An attendant buckles it and gives it a shake to ensure it’s secure. “Hold out your arm,” he says. When I comply, he injects me just below the elbow with something that seriously stings. “It’s your tracker. If you try to remove it, you’ll bleed out.”

More tributes enter the hovercraft. Severna plops into the seat beside me, and I give her hand a reassuring squeeze once she’s injected with her tracker. The boy from 3, Ductor, is handcuffed once he’s in his seat. Tiny Rayle from 6 is shaking with fright. Ambrose starts to cry when the hovercraft takes to the sky.

The windows are blacked out, so we have no clue where we’re going. The journey doesn’t take long, though. I’m the first tribute escorted out by a pair of Peacekeepers who are waiting on the landing pad. I’m led down a set of stairs and into a launch room.

The launch room smells of cleaning solution. It is perfectly polished and silver. I will be the first and last tribute to use it. Marcia is here already, yawning when the door closes. “Come on, darling,” she says. “We need to get you dressed.”

Every year, the tributes wear something different in the arena. I’m given a beige undergarments, an olive-green shirt with short sleeves, and black cargo pants with lots of pockets. Marcia loops a belt through the pants and secures the silver buckle. “There,” she says. “Almost done.”

From her makeup kit, Marcia produces a tiny velvet pouch. Inside is the ring Father gave me. “I found it under your pillow,” she says. “You can wear it in the arena, remember?”

I slide the ring onto my middle finger. The diamonds gleam. Routine. Resilience. Restoration. At least I’ll die with District 1 close to me. “Marcia,” I say, “Do you have any scissors inside that kit?”

“Yes, why?”

“Can you cut my hair?”

Marcia gasps. “But your hair is so beautiful! I was hoping to braid it—”

“To my shoulders,” I say firmly, turning my back to her. “Keep a piece for yourself, something to remember me by. Give the rest to my family, so they’ll have a piece of me from this existence. You can braid the rest if you want.”

Marcia makes a sad face, but opens the kit. Seconds later, I hear the snipping of scissors, and feel the weight drop from my head. Marcia places the blonde ponytail in a plastic bag, then trims my ends. “Can’t have you looking all ragged in the arena,” she says. “Now, I think we have enough time to braid…”

My stylist drags a comb down the centre of my scalp, parting my hair in half. She swiftly braids from the top of my forehead down to my neck, adding pieces of hair as she goes. She secures the end of each braid with blue ribbons, which brush my shoulders when I turn my head.

“All done,” she announces quietly. “You’re ready, darling.”

As I walk toward the metal plate that’ll lift me into the arena, I stop. “What about my shoes?”

Marcia shakes her head, closing the makeup kit. “You’re wearing everything that was provided. It seems you’ll be barefoot.”

An automated voice says, “Sixty seconds until launch.”

My stylist rushes forward to give me a quick peck on the forehead. “Good luck, Opal.” She holds up the makeup kit, a corner of the plastic bag sticking out. “I’ll do what I can about the hair. No guarantees. But I’ll try.”

This is it, then. The twentieth annual Hunger Games are about to begin. I step onto the metal plate, and a glass tube drops from the ceiling to encase me. I press my palm against the glass. I’ve heard Capitol citizens tour old arenas; when they tour this one, perhaps someone will admire the handprint and fingermarks of Opal Trant, the girl tribute from District 1.

I fidget with the ring, wishing I’d done a cartwheel before entering the tube. A final performance, just for Marcia, and for myself. Now it’ll never happen, because there’s a hiss of air, and the metal plate moves.

I close my eyes as the metal plate rises. Marcia disappears from sight, still holding her makeup kit. Sunlight hits my skin, and I lift my arm to shield myself as the plate stops moving, and I’m in the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” booms an announcer’s voice. “Let the twentieth annual Hunger Games begin!”

Chapter Text

I must stand on the plate for sixty seconds before the gong sounds. My eyes adjust to the light, and I take in my surroundings.

Directly ahead of me is the Cornucopia. The horn is several feet tall and its open mouth is bursting with supplies. I see the gleam of swords and knives and spears. Surrounding the Cornucopia, from the supplies to the metal plates, is a circle of white sand.

I shudder to imagine what horrors might lurk under that sand. Or it could be completely normal sand; why would the Gamemakers kill us all so quickly? That’s more plausible.

Beyond the circle of sand, behind me and to all sides, is lush forest. Pine trees. Leafy trees. I don’t see any animals, but I hear birds chirping.

I bring my focus back to the Cornucopia. I know Severna and Remus and Jett won’t kill me, but another tribute might. What I need to do is get my hands on a weapon before that happens. Or should I run into the forest? I could do that. I could run and hide and return during the night. I could climb a tree—

The idea comes to me exactly as the gong sounds.

I leap off the plate and sprint for the Cornucopia, as fast as I can in this sand. It’s searing hot, and a few other tributes hop back onto their plates, or flail in place. I lunge to pick up a silver knife gleaming in the sand and hurdle over a black backpack. A heavy box sits to the side of the Cornucopia, and I use it as a step to throw myself onto the roof of the horn.

A knife stabs the horn, an inch from where my palm was. One of the male tributes yanks the knife out, his eyes fixed on me. I raise my own knife, prepared to drive it into his arm, when the boy collapses. His blade falls to the sand and he sinks to his knees as Remus pulls his spear out of the boy’s body.

I’m starting to regret climbing the Cornucopia. It’s sizzling hot. I lay on my stomach, my shirt offering some protection against the metal, but otherwise trapped. I watch the chaos unfold: Harbor stabs the boy from 3. Jett uses a sword to impale another tribute. Ambrose’s white hair disappears into the forest, scythe in hand. Two of the girls that lay dead outside the Cornucopia have knives in their backs.

An arrow whizzes beside my head, the tip tearing my shoulder. Seconds later, Remus wraps his hands around the girl’s neck—and breaks it.

Several tributes grab an item or two and bolt for the woods. Levee and the girl from 9 get in a wrestling match over a backpack. Anther, the boy from 9, snatches supplies from the sand at random, avoiding all the fighting. Severna throws a knife at the girl from 9, grazing her side. Levee is the last person to flee the Cornucopia. To my dismay, I don’t see Violet among the dead.

Just like that, it’s over. I can breathe again.

“Quickly,” Jett says to Remus. “Collect their clothing before the hovercrafts come.”

I slide off the Cornucopia, landing beside the girl who shot the arrow. I think she’s from 7. I lift her arms, then wrestle her shirt off her body. Her pants are a little harder, but I manage to pull them down just as the hovercrafts appear.

The dead tributes are collected. “How many are there?” I ask.

“I got two,” Remus says, breathing hard. Severna holds up two fingers. Jett points to the boy he stabbed. That makes at least five. Plus injuries… We’ll find out in the sky tonight.

The Cornucopia is secured. And it’s ours!

Once the hovercrafts are gone, I say, “Let’s start with the supplies and see what we have to work with. Collect anything that’s in the sand and bring it to the horn. Then we’ll have lunch.”

Jett and Remus set about collecting the supplies surrounding the Cornucopia, while Severna follows me into the horn. It’s blissfully cool inside, and the sun provides enough light for us to see. I pop open the first crate I find. “Bread,” I announce, shutting the lid.

As I sort through the Cornucopia, I’m relieved to find some of everything. Food. Containers of water. Medical supplies. My heart skips a beat when my fingers wrap around a smooth black case in a familiar shape. “No way,” I say aloud.

I have a hunting rifle.

My excitement fades a few seconds later, when I discover there’s no ammunition in the case. I keep an eye out for it as I continue sorting the supplies, but find nothing. I unearth a few strange items as well, of little or no obvious use. A book full of blank pages. A bottle of perfume. A pocket watch that doesn’t work.

I’m examining the watch when Severna shrieks. In such a tight space, her voice echoes even louder. In a flash, my knife is drawn.

A tiny figure emerges from behind a stack of crates. “Put your weapons down or I’ll throw my grenade at you.”

“If you do that, Remus and Jett will kill you,” Severna challenges.

“I can help you.” Billie’s voice turns pleading in an instant. “Please. I know things about people. I can skin an animal and cook it over a fire.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like how the boy from 9 got a ten in training.”

Severna and I look at each other. She shrugs. I nod. “Fine,” I say. “You can stay here. Now, tell me how—”

“Traps.” Billie steps into the light, and I can see she’s not holding anything. She never had a grenade. “He ran off with a few different types of rope and wire. Guaranteed he’ll be setting them for other tributes.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“I watched him during training. The pair from 4 are good at fishing, so they’re probably searching for a lake or something. And the boy from 8 ran into the woods with absolutely nothing, so he’ll be an easy target.”

Her strategy is genius. While everyone else was fighting, she hid in the Cornucopia and waited for it to be safe. Keeping her alive is the right call.

Remus grunts as he sets down a heavy pack. “That’s the last of the stuff from outside,” he calls. “Lunch?”

I put the broken watch into one of my pants pockets. “In a bit.” Now that the adrenaline has worn off, I notice the warm trickle on my shoulder. “Let’s get everyone patched up first.”

Remus nods at Billie. “We have a stowaway?”

“A welcome surprise,” I correct him.

I open one of the first aid kits for thread and a needle. Severna sterilizes the needle as I peel my shirt off to expose my shoulder. Reminiscent to training, she stitches my cut closed and wipes the blood off my skin. “They got me in the leg,” she says, revealing a hole in her pants.

Stitching a person is not the same as in the training centre. My hands shake. I tense when Severna flinches. Remus and Jett and Billie watch. I get a gnawing feeling that a spear will fly through the mouth of the Cornucopia and kill us all. It never does, and I manage to stitch Severna’s cut.

“Okay,” says Billie. “What are we going to do with those bloody needles?”

Remus rubs his jaw. “I could tie them to a stick and stab someone in the eye.”

Jett takes a napkin out from one of the bread baskets. “Here. Wrap them in this.” Then, he digs a tiny dip in the sand, near the back of the Cornucopia, and places the wrapped needles in it.

Because she hid, Billie has no injuries at all. Jett has a few scratches and fresh bruises, but nothing that needs serious attention. Still, I dab hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton pad and clean them. Remus took a hit to the jaw and has a bloody lip, but shakes his head when Severna offers him help. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “Nothing I haven’t felt before.”

Jett nods to the hydrogen peroxide bottle in my hand. “That needs to be kept cold.”

“Should I bury it in the sand?”

Severna looks around. “As long as we keep it inside the Cornucopia, it should be good.” She runs her hands through the air. “I believe this might be the coolest spot in the arena. It’s boiling outside.”

The farther I go into the Cornucopia, the colder it gets. Severna is right. I put the peroxide bottle in a corner, goosebumps already erupting on my skin. “Let’s sort the food,” I say. “Anything perishable—fruit, vegetables, eggs—goes in the back.”

That takes longer than I anticipated. I’m pleased with the enormous variety. We dig a hole in the back and place the largest container of water in it. The cartons of eggs go on top of the piles. Billie puts apples into burlap bags. Severna squeals with delight when she finds a packet of powdered milk. Jett wraps a wheel of cheese in plastic. When we’re finished, we’ve made a sort of path in the Cornucopia, leading from the front to the back, with more supplies along the sides. My rifle is nestled safely in the middle, to the right.

Remus wipes sweat off his forehead. “What time is it?” he asks, squinting at the sky.

“Judging by the high sun,” Severna says, “Around midday?”

The Games started at ten o’clock. Two hours have passed. It feels like two seconds and two days at once. Now that we’ve cleaned our wounds and sorted the food…now what? Do we sit here and wait for other tributes?

I take the pocket watch out and tap it with my fingertip. The hands refuse to budge. “If only this thing worked,” I mutter.

“Can I see it?” Jett steps out of the Cornucopia and holds the watch up to the sun. “This is quite old-fashioned.” With a delicate click, he pops open the back. “Well, that explains it. There’s no batteries in it.”

Billie crosses her arms. “Why’d they give us a watch if it doesn’t work?”

“What if it’s not a watch?” suggests Severna.

“What else could it be?” asks Jett.

Remus scratches his neck. “A weapon? I could strangle someone with that chain.”

I take the pocket watch back from Jett. “There might be batteries somewhere in the Cornucopia. Whatever. We don’t really need to know the time anyways.”

Billie fans herself with her hand. “I’m thirsty.”

With the temperature at its high point, we duck into the Cornucopia and open a container of water. The five of us barely fit in our makeshift passageway. Remus picks a dark green canteen with a strap. Jett carefully fills a floppy waterskin. Severna and I opt for regular water bottles, mine black, hers blue.

“What is this?” Billie takes out a clear bottle full of dark brown liquid. “It looks like diarrhea mixed with farts.”

Severna’s face lights up when she sees it. “It’s a fizzy drink! Those are a delicacy in District 2; we only get them on birthdays.”

Remus sips from his canteen. “If you shake it, it might explode in your face. Trust me. I learned the hard way.”

“Is there a tarp or blanket or something in here?” Jett asks. “I’ve got sand in my underwear.”

I unearth a black tarp from the depths of the supplies. Spreading it on the ground, we curl the edges up to keep the sand out. We make a rule, too: No feet on the tarp, only butts. That proves a problem, because the tarp covers the width of the passage, so those in the back can’t get to the front. Eventually, we give up, shake the sand out of the tarp, and resort to squatting. Billie, the smallest of our group, uses an empty basket as a chair.

A cannon fires.

Because there’s so many deaths during the initial bloodbaths, the Gamemakers wait an hour or two to fire them. I silently count the booms. One…two…three…

“Seven,” Jett quietly.

“Is that a lot?” asks Remus.

I twist my ring around my finger. “Seven out of twenty-four is just under one-third. That means there’s another seventeen tributes left, including the five of us.”

“Five versus twelve,” murmurs Billie.

“In a way,” says Severna. “I doubt they’ve all teamed up. And some might be hurt.”

Oh, how I wish for a box of bullets! If I could load that rifle, I’d stomp into those woods and start picking them off, all twelve of them. “Let’s keep track of the deaths,” I say. “Did anyone happen to find a pencil in here?”

It turns out a knife cuts beautifully into the walls of the Cornucopia. I scratch seven vertical lines into the metal. My stomach rumbles as I do.

“Someone’s hungry,” Severna giggles.

I can go a long time without food. In District 1, we have shortages in the winter, but we manage. Some of the Lakesiders know how to hunt, the Preppers always have a stockpile somewhere, and the Sharp Clan are willing to eat all sorts of weird things. As for me? Prosper and I sometimes restrict our food intake to shed a few pounds. A rumbling stomach is a familiar sound.

This are the Hunger Games. The food in the Cornucopia may be some of the last I ever eat. What point is there in restricting it? If I’m going to die, I may as well gorge myself on chocolate and sugar cubes and fizzy drinks.

I shove my knife into my belt. “All right. Let’s eat lunch.”

Billie leaps to her feet. “I’m going to gather some berries.”

“Bring back a few of those big leaves.” I point to a nearby tree. “For plates.”

We make ourselves a feast. Severna cuts up four pears with her knives. I slice two bread rolls in half; they’re big, so each of us get a half. When Billie returns with a basket full of berries and two big leaves, I mash the berries with the heel of my knife, and we spread them on our rolls. Jett breaks pieces off a wheel of hard yellow cheese, saving the largest for himself. We pass around a pack of dried beef strips.

For dessert, Severna opens the bottle of fizzy drink. It doesn’t explode, thankfully. Billie scrunches her nose and shakes her head. Jett takes a sniff and sticks out his tongue. I pour a few drops onto the corner of my bread roll. “Too sweet.” The bubbles tickle my nose, too.

Severna lifts the bottle to her lips. “More for me.” She and Remus split the fizzy drink between themselves. Remus belches.

“We need to be careful,” I say. “This food isn’t going to last forever. Once it runs out, what will we eat?”

“That’s why we have sponsors,” says Jett.

“I hope they send me a box of ammo for that rifle.”

Remus belches again. “The others will show themselves. When they do, I’ll ram them with my sword and we can eat their brains—”

“Remus!” cries Severna. “That’s disgusting!”

“Since when are the Hunger Games a morality competition?” I ask.

Jett runs a hand through his dark hair. “Opal Trant, I’m going to be honest: I can’t imagine you eating a browned banana.”

Seated on her basket, Billie shrugs. “If you guys hunt something, I’ll skin it and cook it.”

“We’ll eat again at sunset,” I say. “We can always collect more berries and set some traps for rabbits or squirrels. Until then, we’ll stay here. Preserve our energy.” I tug on one of my short braids. “And see if we get any gifts.”

Chapter Text

There’s not much to do in the Cornucopia. I trace random patterns in the sand, careful not to disrupt the stitches in my shoulder. Severna polishes her throwing knives on the edge of her shirt. Jett borrows the broken pocket watch and swings it rhythmically in front of Remus’s face. “It’s called hypnosis,” he says. “My cousin told me about it.”

“I don’t feel any different,” says Remus.

“Relax your mind. Follow the watch with just your eyes. Just…your…eyes…” Jett swings the pocket watch faster. “Do…you…feel…sleepy?”

“No.”

“Are…you…certain?”

“How much longer will this take? I’m bored.”

“You…are…sleepy.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” says Remus.

Jett stops swinging the pocket watch. “You’re not actually going to sleep. You’re going to enter a sleepy state called a trance. It is necessary to induce hypnosis—”

“I hypnotized a chicken once,” says Billie. “It’s easy. You just put the chicken on the ground and draw two lines directly in front of its eyes. We do it to calm them, so we can give them medicine.”

“You live on a farm?” asks Remus.

Billie takes a deep breath. “District 10 is essentially one big farm. There’s designated pastures and barns for specific animals. Chickens, cows, pigs, goats. It’s designed to produce as much as possible.” She digs her toes into the sand. “We don’t own the animals, of course. They’re all branded with the Capitol seal. That’s also how the Peacekeepers punish people who try to steal or commit other crimes.”

“With the same brand they use on cows?” asks Severna.

“No, it’s a different design.” Billie bends forward to draw it in the sand. “It’s shaped like an eye, with the number 10 in the middle. It means you’re someone who needs to be watched.” She toys with her shirt sleeve. “There’s a prison in 10, too. It’s a barn, except instead of cows, it’s full of people. They sleep on bales of hay and are fed scraps.”

Remus looks confused. “Why send them to prison? Why not kill them?”

“Because you don’t have to pay prisoners.” Billie says this as if it’s obvious. “The Peacekeepers decided it’s better to keep criminals alive and working. It saves the district a lot of money.”

“So, where does everyone else live?” I ask.

Billie is chewing on a strand of her black hair. “It depends if you’re a farmer or merchant. Farmers—like my family—live in these big farmhouses that are scattered throughout the district. Usually, there’s two or three families in each farmhouse. It can get really loud.” She smiles, hair between her teeth. “We throw celebrations at the end of the work week. The Peacekeepers forgive us if we give them a plate.”

Severna raises a warning finger. “They can hear us, you know?”

“Oh, I know.” Billie smirks. “They also filter out anything they don’t want the Capitol to see. Right now, they cameras are probably following that boy from 9, Anther, setting traps for bears or alligators. Anyways, where was I?”

“Farmers and merchants,” Remus says.

“Right. The merchants own the shops. They sell food or repair clothes and there’s a few doctors among them. They typically have more money because they’re allowed to keep the profits from their businesses. Us farmers? Everything we produce goes to the Capitol or the other districts. We get paid if we meet our quotas.”

“I heard there was a…disagreement between the merchants and the farmers,” says Severna. “A few years ago. Do you know anything about that?”

Billie’s dark eyes light up. “Yes! Basically, the Peacekeepers suspected that some of the farmers were purposely underproducing or reporting less than their actual yield. The farmers thought that the merchants had ratted us out and, well, yeah, there were some fights and some people went to prison.” She takes her hair out of her mouth. “The wildest part was figuring out who actually snitched to the Peacekeepers. It was one of the farmers! He did it to get a little more money. We were ready to beat his butt, then the mayor sent him to work at one of the merchant shops. We don’t talk to him anymore.”

“Clever man,” says Remus.

Billie throws a pinch of sand at him. “He nearly got us all imprisoned!”

“We don’t have a prison in District 1,” I say. “If someone commits a serious crime, like murder, the Peacekeepers execute them. Generally, though, we don’t have much crime. Everyone is too busy working.”

“Not where you live,” says Jett. “There’s plenty of petty theft in town. Especially down by the Lakeside. If someone gets caught, they can erase the charge by signing up themselves or one of their kids for tesserae.”

“How many do each of you have?” asks Severna. “I had to take two. One for myself and one for my father. Multiplied by six, plus the required six…eighteen slips total.”

Remus, Jett, and I have none. “My cousin had to take one,” says Jett. “As punishment for peeping through windows.”

“That’s nothing,” says Billie. “I took eighteen. One for me, three siblings, seven cousins, two parents, two uncles, two aunts, and one grandparent. Multiply that by three, plus the required three…”

“Fifty-seven,” finishes Severna.

“Are all your cousins and siblings younger than you?” asks Jett. “Or older?”

“I’m right in the middle. Number six out of eleven.”

“Your family must really hate you, then,” says Remus, taking a sip from his canteen.

Billie stands up and lifts her shirt out of her pants, exposing her bare stomach and beige bra. “Do you see this, you rich nitwits?” A white circular device is glued to her skin, right above where her heart is. A tiny red light flashes in the middle of the device. “I was born with a condition that doesn’t even have a name. This pump administers the medicine that keeps me alive. Once it runs out, I have maybe eight hours left.”

She tucks her shirt back into her pants. “The doctor in District 10 told my parents I wouldn’t live past the age of five. Every day beyond that is borrowed time. I took the tesserae to give my siblings and cousins a chance that I don’t have.”

I glance around the supplies. “Is your medicine in the Cornucopia—”

“No. I already searched the first-aid kits. Opal, I was never meant to leave this arena alive,” Billie says. “But I’m going to spend that time trying to make sure one of you nitwits does. When my pump runs out, give me one of those painkillers and a blanket.”

“We will,” I say. I mean it. “I promise.”

Remus sticks his hand out of the Cornucopia. The sunlight hits his skin. “I don’t know about the rest of you,” he says, standing and dusting the sand off his cargo pants, “but I need to pee.”

I watch him stalk across the circle of sand, past the metal plates, and into the edge of the woods. He disappears behind a tree. A few moments later, he reappears, and returns to the Cornucopia. “There’s lots of leaves on the ground,” he says. “Use those to wipe.”

I wrap the pocket watch’s chain around my wrist, leaving a red line. “What about if we need to go poop?”

“Not in the sand,” says Jett. “What are we? Cats?”

“We could pitch one of those tents,” says Severna. “It’ll cover us from the sides and top. We dig a hole in the ground, do what we need to do, and cover it with a layer of sand to hide the smell. That’s what we do in Peacekeeper training.”

I feel queasy imagining myself squatting over a hole in the ground. Still, that’s leagues better than what the other tributes have. “Okay, but we need a boys’ one and a girls’ one. They’re already starting to stink.”

Remus lifts his arm and takes a long whiff. “I do not stink.”

“Sure, and I’m the president of Panem,” says Billie. “Come on. I know I saw a shovel in here somewhere.”

We get to work digging ourselves two outhouses on the edges of the sand circle. Severna and I dig the holes; she uses the shovel, and I use a spade. Remus and Jett jab metal rods into the sand and throw tarps over them to make roofs. Billie runs into the forest and returns with handfuls of various berries, feeding us whenever we get tired. It takes some time and a few attempts, but we figure it out.

“Who wants to go first?” I ask.

“Let’s collect some leaves,” suggests Billie. “Keep a stash in each.”

I’d love to see the looks on the Gamemakers’ faces as they watch us dig our own toilets and collect natural toilet paper. It’s possible they broadcasted it to the Capitol audience, unless there’s a fight going on somewhere else in the arena. Severna and I return to the sand circle at the same time, and I suggest, “Should we pose?”

Like we did at the sponsors’ ball, Severna and I blow kisses and strike poses for the cameras. “Hi Wick! Hi Embra!” I call. “Hi Marcia! Think you could send us some shoes?” I hold up the sole of my foot, which is dirty and nicked from walking on the forest floor. The nicks sting, too; I’ll need to rinse them with peroxide. One of my toenails is broken. “This is a fashion crime.”

Severna laughs at my terrible humor, then points to the outhouse. “I’m going to use it.”

“To poop?”

“No—to pee. Wait here.” She slips inside the tent, and a moment later, I hear a belt unbuckling. When she emerges, she’s red-faced and grinning. “I almost fell in! The hole—I put my feet too close and I nearly—” She cuts herself off with a laugh. “I threw the leaf in as well and covered it with sand.”

I find our toilet relatively easy to use, just a little harsh on the knees. The boys love theirs as well, and we high-five and congratulate each other on a job well done as we hike back to the Cornucopia.  

When I reach for my black water bottle, I find only a dip in the sand. Confused, I search the nearby supplies. No water bottle. What’s stranger still, Billie’s basket is tipped over and one of the handles is bent.

This isn’t the work of a gust of wind. No, it could only be one thing. “Someone was here,” I say, as Remus can’t find his canteen and Severna seems to have misplaced one of her knives. “They took our stuff.”

“Look for footprints,” says Jett. “Unless they somehow grew wings, whoever did it left a trail.”

Distinguishing the intruder’s footprints from our own proves impossible. We’ve been wandering and crossing the circle all afternoon, going back and forth with shovels and water and berries and tents. “Whoever did it must’ve been quick,” says Severna once we’ve sulked back to the Cornucopia. “And quiet, because I didn’t hear anything.”

I scan the treeline. “It’s also possible they’ve been watching us and waiting for the right moment. Billie, can you keep an eye out for any movement?”

Billie raises her palm to her forehead in a mock salute. “On it, Captain.”

Remus growls. “When I find whoever took my water, I’m going to tear them limb from limb and dump the body in the toilet.”

I pass him the fizzy drink, which calms him a little. Then I say, “There’s seventeen of us alive. Five are here. That leaves twelve potential suspects. Who do you think it was?”

“Not District 11,” says Jett. “The boy is partly blind and the girl is a slow runner.”

“If it was District 4, they would’ve tracked water everywhere,” says Severna.

“What about sand?” I stand up and point at the ground. “We’re barefoot. That means whoever took the canteen and the bottle got sand on their feet and possibly their pants. If we can find sandy footprints in the forest…”

“They could be ours,” says Jett.

“Yeah, but ours come back,” says Remus. He grabs a sword off the wall of the Cornucopia. “Come on, while it’s not dark. The Capitol is going to enjoy this.”

“Whoever did it might come back,” warns Billie. “I’m going hide again and keep watch. I won’t fight them, but I’ll be able to tell you who you’re looking for and where they went.”

Jett grabs his spear. “I’ll stay with Billie, in case our thief becomes a little more daring.”

Severna pushes him toward the mouth of the Cornucopia. “No, I’ll stay. You can run, can’t you? You’ll chase them down, and Remus, you…do what you need to do.”

“No way!” Jett protests. “I’m not going out there!”

I pick up my knife and take a swig of fizzy drink. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Remus and I get ready for a search. We strap body armor around our chests and thighs, protecting our vital organs and major arteries, but not so much that it’ll weigh us down. I strap additional knives to my belt and slip a tiny explosive, into my pocket. At least, Severna says it’s an explosive; it looks like a marble. It’s the only one. Remus finds two pairs of night-vision glasses, and we head out.

At the treeline, I scan the ground for footprints or crumbs of food or anything to indicate the direction the thief went. Venturing a few steps deeper, a leaf sticks to my bare foot. When I peel it off, I find blood.

It’s not my blood, I can tell right away. Remus confirms it isn’t his either, examining the leaf through his night-vision glasses. “It could be from an animal,” he says. “But I don’t see any tracks.” A second later, he finds more blood—a drop on the ground. “Come on.”

While Remus follows the blood trail, I keep watch, knife at the ready. The only flickers of movement among the trees are birds and squirrels. I’ve never wandered terrain like this; District 1 is all red desert and valleys and rocks. I drag my knife across tree trunks, marking our path so we can find our way back. I wish we’d brought water or eaten, but I tell myself that’s the reward for tracking the thief.

Suddenly, Remus stops walking. I instinctively freeze in place. He slowly lifts his arm and points to his left.

I follow his finger. There’s more blood on the leaves, the grass, coming splashes instead of droplets. And up ahead, curled against the trunk of a tree, is a female tribute. She has a hastily wrapped bandage around her thigh, stark white against the black fabric of her pants. A green backpack lays beside her arm. Her eyes are half shut.

I nudge Remus. He understands what I mean immediately. He stalks forward, not bothering to hide his approach, and raises his sword above the tribute’s head. “Hi,” he says, and drives the blade through her throat.

A cannon fires, and I jam my fingers into my ears.

Remus waves me over. Blood pours from the tribute’s neck, down her shirt. The life is already gone from her eyes. Judging by the size of the bloodstain on her bandage, she didn’t have much time left anyways. This was a mercy kill.

Remus passes me the girl’s backpack, and I sling it around one shoulder. We’ll go through it later. As I lead him back to the Cornucopia, following the slash marks in the trees, I say, “Who was that?”

“Back there?” Remus spits on his sword and grabs a leaf to wipe the blood. “I don’t know. 3, maybe?”

“No, that wasn’t Alloy.” She’s very tall and thin, not like that girl. “Not Violet, either.”

“We’ll see it in the sky tonight.”

As we walk, I swear I hear a third pair of footsteps. I whip my head from side to side, trying to track the movement. “There!” shouts Remus, and points with his sword.

A small figure darts through the trees. A tribute, no doubt, one of the boys. Without thinking, I take off after him. It’s getting dark and I don’t have time to slash trees during a chase. He’s too far away to throw the knife. I reach down, open my pants pocket, and wrap my fingers around the marble.

I watch it sail after the boy, as if in slow motion. It explodes on impact, the boy’s body swallowed by the flames.

I lift my arm to shield myself from the wave of heat that radiates from the blast. Remus catches up to me a moment later, asking “Did you get him? Did you get him?” Smoke rises from a crater in the ground, the impact point. A second later, another cannon fires the answer.

The boy’s body is too badly burned to recover any of his supplies. Remus and I hike back to the Cornucopia in silence, the evening growing silent. When we emerge from the treeline, Severna whoops in the mouth of the horn. Billie has laid out a tarp on the sand, and Jett carefully places large leaves on it.

“All right,” says Jett, seeing the backpack I’ve brought, “What’s for dinner?”

I do the honors, spreading the girl’s supplies on the tarp in a circle. A roll of thick bandages, partly used. Six potatoes. A bunch of carrots. A loaf of Capitol bread. The final item inside the pack is a small water bottle that’s definitely not mine, or Remus’s canteen. The disappointment is palpable. She wasn’t the thief after all.

Remus gathers a few fallen branches and we make a small fire. I cut the potatoes in half and push them onto a thin branch, then hold them over the fire. “You know,” Billie says, “We could plant one of them and grow a bunch more.”

“Where?” asks Severna.

“Somewhere else.”

For dinner, we eat the girl’s potatoes, bread, and carrots, as well as some olives, unsalted crackers, dried beef strips, and apples from the Cornucopia. Billie gathers more berries. We finish the bottle of the fizzy drink. Still, my stomach doesn’t feel full. As a distraction, I talk about the hunt. Recall what Remus and I did, as the other three listen intently.

“Did the thief return?” Remus asks hopefully.

Severna shakes her head. “If they’re watching us, they saw just the two of you go.”

“We didn’t see anyone right outside the sand circle,” I say. “They’re gone. I have a feeling they might come back at night, when we’re supposed to be asleep.”

“I volunteer to keep watch first,” says Billie.

“You two sleep first,” says Jett, gesturing with his bread to me and Remus. “You had—”

The Capitol seal appears in the sky, gold against the darkness. One by one, the dead tributes appear, a simple headshot with their district number underneath.

The first to appear is the boy from 3. The runner. Both tributes from 5 and 7. That means tiny Rayle is alive. Then come the girls from 8 and from 9. “That’s her,” I say to Remus. “The girl was from 9.”

Billie whimpers when the boy from 10 appears. Severna rubs her back. The final face in the sky is the girl from 12. Then the anthem plays, the Capitol seal re-appears, and it’s over.

“Did anyone count?” asks Remus.

“Nine,” says Severna. “Fifteen people left.”

We begin the process of settling down for the night. Billie will keep watch from the roof of the Cornucopia and Jett, from the mouth. We shake sand off the tarp and move it inside the horn. Laying side-by-side, Severna, Remus, and I barely fit. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but good for warmth. As we’re figuring out three blankets and what to use for pillows, Billie’s voice squeals from above.

“Parachutes!” she says.

The three of us practically trip over each other to stand up and run outside. Sure enough, a whole flotilla of silver parachutes descend from the sky, each landing gently in the sand. Billie leans over the edge of the Cornucopia to see what’s inside as the rest of us gather the gifts.

“Six parachutes,” says Remus. “We are spoiled.”

Each holds a package. I tear open the smallest one first, and laugh when a flowery fragrance hits my nose. “Soap.” Four bars of mint-green soap with the Capitol seal. “Should we build a shower beside the outhouses?”

Severna’s parachute has a metal box. Inside the box is a tiny glass vial and two big plasters. Billie’s eyes go wide when she sees it. “It’s my medicine!” She reaches over the edge, and Severna stands up to pass it to her. “And they sent me anti-bacterial protective coverings!”

Jett opens the third package. “Binoculars,” he says, holding them up to his eyes. “Nice.”

Remus sucks in a deep breath when he opens the fourth. It contains what looks like a cord. I gulp when I realize what it is. “A garrote,” Remus says, handling it like a newborn baby. “Awesome.”

The fifth package is oddly light and soft. “What do we need a scarf for?” I ask, unfolding the material. “It’s hot out here.”

“It’s for me!” Severna cradles the material against her chest. “It’s for my hair, when I sleep.” She quickly wraps it around her head, tucking all her curls underneath. “See?”

“And I think these are for him.” Remus reveals the contents of the final package. Running shoes. “They’re too small for me.”

Billie laughs. “There’s something for each of us! The shoes for Jett, the scarf for Severna, the medicine for me, and I assume the garrote is for Remus—”

“There’s six parachutes, though,” says Severna. “Who’s the sixth person?”

Jett grabs his spear and points it at the trees. Nothing happens. We sit in silence for a moment, waiting, then I say, “Maybe the soap and the binoculars are to share.”

I’m initially bummed that everyone got something except me. Then I feel angry, because if our sponsors and mentors can send Remus a weapon, shoes for Jett, and medicine that must cost a fortune for Billie, how hard could it have been for them to send me some ammunition for that rifle?

I break a chunk off one of the soap bars and take a container of water to the girls’ outhouse. I wash the top half of my body, then the lower, trying to use as little water as possible. We’ll need to find a river or lake and refill from that.

Nestled between Severna and Remus, all of us smelling fresh, sleep comes fast.

Chapter Text

When I wake up, I can see only darkness, and I am shivering. When my eyes adjust, I see that Remus has stolen my blanket and is happily snoring. The space beside me is empty. “Severna?” I whisper, prodding the sand.

A figure approaches from the mouth of the Cornucopia. Jett, holding his spear. “She says she couldn’t sleep. She’s on the roof with Billie.”

I take a running start to climb onto the Cornucopia. The metal is shockingly cold at night and I ask Jett to toss me a blanket. After spreading it out, Severna, Billie, and I sit on it, our legs dangling over the mouth of the Cornucopia.

“How long has it been?” I ask, rubbing my bare arms.

“If I had to guess, around three in the morning,” says Billie.

Severna nudges the younger girl’s shoulder. “Go. Get some sleep, if you can.”

“All right, if you say so.” Billie slides off the Cornucopia, landing softly in the sand. Jett follows her inside the horn. I hear blankets rustling and mouths yawning. Then, silence.

“What did I miss?” I ask.

Severna stretches and rubs her eyes. The binoculars hang around her neck. “Not much. No one tried to rob us, so that’s good. We took turns watching the woods. I saw a person, but I couldn't tell who it was. I think it was a girl.”

“Can…I try?”

Severna passes me the binoculars. It’s a really nice pair, something the Preppers would adore. They even come with a night-vision mode. Holding them up to my eyes, I’m able to zoom in and out, focusing on spots in the far distance. “You think we can use these to find water?”

“Oh, definitely. We just need to wait until morning. Then we’ll see what those can do.”

I survey the trees. No movement. Despite the stillness, I can’t bring myself to put the binoculars down. “I was thinking about Remus,” I say. “What is his secret weapon?”

“I don’t actually know. He never told me. It’s possible he doesn’t actually have one and just says that to scare people.” Severna pulls her knees to her chest. “He doesn’t need one, really. He can turn anything into a weapon.”

“He doesn’t seem like the kind of person to keep secrets,” I observe. “What do you know about him?”

Severna levels me a look. “Everyone has secrets, Opal. I’m sure there’s plenty of things you haven’t told me. Likewise, there’s plenty of things I haven’t told you.”

“I’ll tell you a secret if you tell me one,” I offer. If the Cornucopia is bugged with microphones, they’re straining to hear this. Without waiting for her answer, I say, “I lied during my interview. There’s no one in District 1 I’d like to get to know better and I don’t want to have children. If I become a victor, I’ll be too busy with my victory tour and return to acrobatics to get married or have kids.”

“You can always wait,” Severna says. “My mother was thirty-eight when she had me.”

“Is that your secret?”

Severna twists a curl around her finger. “I…I need to go to the bathroom.”

“I’ll keep watch.”

“Would you mind coming closer? So you can get a better angle?”

We both slide off the Cornucopia and tromp across the sand circle to our makeshift bathrooms. As Severna ducks inside, she says in a hushed voice, “Take the batteries out of the binoculars.”

“What? Why?”

“Do it!”

“Fine, fine.” I pop the batteries out of the binoculars and put them in my pants pocket, next to the broken watch. “Okay, I did it.”

There’s a moment of pause. “Want to hear my secret?”

The outhouse barely has room for the two of us. We crouch on either side of the hole we dug, sprinkling in an additional layer of sand to block the smell. “Okay, but why here?”

Severna’s voice is barely audible. “I had to you take the batteries out because there could be a hidden camera or microphone in them. I know the Hunger Games are televised, but there’s no way they’d broadcast someone using the bathroom.”

“That’s your secret?”

“No, my secret is that…” Severna glances from side to side. “The Hunger Games can only have one victor, but that doesn’t necessarily mean all of us must die.”

“How is that possible? Is there, like, a secret exit out of the arena?” I want to clap my hands over my mouth, fully aware that this could qualify as treason or worse. Oh, well. My chances of surviving are low anyways. “Or is it the hovercrafts?”

“I don’t know how. Maybe there’s multiple ways.” She breathes into her hands, warming them. “Last year, the boy from 4, Conch, was one of the favorites to win. I had already started my training as a Peacekeeper and we were allowed to watch the Games. He died on the fifth day, but his death wasn’t televised. We thought that was a little strange because the deaths are what everyone wants to watch.

“We figured his death was particularly gruesome, or perhaps he died in a really boring way. But I wondered…what if he didn’t die at all? Because the very next day,” Severna says, “We got a new trainee. We were told his name was Romulus and that he was from the Capitol. He was very quiet and it was obvious he’d had some kind of surgeries on his face, but I noticed he had a scar on his shoulder. I distinctly remember Conch getting cut on the shoulder during the Cornucopia bloodbath.”

“Did you ask Romulus about it?”

She nods. “I tried. He just…looked at me. He never spoke unless he needed to, and when he did, it was just a yes or no. He was a good trainee, though. Right around the time of the Victory Tour, he was assigned to District 9 and I never saw him again.”

“If Romulus really was Conch,” I say, “Why did the Capitol spare him?”

“I have a theory that the Games aren’t just to kill tributes. They’re to scout and recruit potential spies, Peacekeepers, soldiers, and the like. If the Capitol decides you could be useful to them in some way, they fake your death in the Games, surgically alter you so you’re unrecognizable, and give you a new identity.”

It sounds a little far-fetched, but not impossible. There’s a lot the Capitol controls about the Games: What’s in the Cornucopia, the gifts, the arena itself, any mutts… “What if the fate of every tribute is pre-determined before we step foot in the arena?” I whisper. “What if the victor has already been selected?”

“I don’t they go that far,” Severna says. “Because there’s a lot in the arena that they can’t control. Namely, us. But they definitely have favorites. They’d prefer the victor be one of them. So, if you want to live, show the Capitol that you could be useful, and they might just find a way to spare you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Good.” Severna brushes sand off her pants. “I’m done using the bathroom.”

At the Cornucopia, I put the batteries back in the binoculars. Sitting on top of the horn, the metal is warmer as the sun creeps up. To pass the time, I lift the binoculars to my eyes and survey the trees. Leaves. Branches. A white bird. Slivers of blue sky. The barest flicker of movement.

At first glance, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It’s large and has black fur and beady eyes and claws. It moves slowly, dragging claws on the forest floor, clumsy and round. Its teeth are crooked, but sharp. “Severna,” I say. “I think I see a bear.”

“A bear?”

“Think you can kill it with a knife?”

“Just leave it alone. There’s a chance it won’t find us and if it does, we have more of those explosives. It could eat the other tributes.”

There’s something else unusual about the bear. “I think it’s a mutt,” I say, zooming in on what I think is a collar tied around the bear’s thick neck. “And there’s something around its neck. A rope or…”

A bag.

“There’s a brown bag tied around its neck, with a symbol… It could be the Capitol seal, but I’m not sure. Its fur looks really weird, like it’s wearing a coat.” I pass Severna the binoculars and angle them in the right direction. “Do you see it?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Definitely a mutt.” Severna yawns and gives me back the binoculars. “Let’s just leave it alone.”

We sit on the horn in silence, fiddling with our fingernails and picking our lips to pass the time as the sun rises. It is officially the second day of the twentieth annual Hunger Games. Yet less than twenty-four hours have passed. It boggles my mind. How much longer will this take? The initial bloodbath is when the most tributes die. At this rate, with fifteen remaining, one or two of us picked off a day… Seven days. I just need to survive seven days.

Severna falls asleep, her head on my knee. Her peace lasts mere minutes.

It happens quickly. A flash of motion zips between the trees. A figure sprints across the sand, toward the Cornucopia, faster than I can react. I feel as though my limbs are encased in honey as I watch the tiny tribute race toward our stash.

Rayle. Thirteen-year-old Rayle.

“Hey!” I shout.

Severna wakes with a start, groggy and disoriented. I slide off the horn, knife in hand, my bare feet hitting the hot sand. Rayle stops, then turns, then scrambles back towards the woods. The end of her messy braid brushes my fingertips when I lunge for her. My chest slams into the forest floor. As I regain my footing, Rayle hops over a log, and disappears.

I’m glad I didn’t waste my knife on her.

The commotion has woken the rest of the crew. Remus runs a hand through his hair, murmuring, “What’s going on? What time is it?” Jett covers his ears and groans. When Billie rushes toward me, I expect her to yell at me for letting Rayle get away, but she throws her arms around my shoulders. When I lift her off the ground, I’m stunned by how light she is.

“I think we could all use a little bit of this.” Jett holds up the bottle of perfume. “We smell like animals.”

I decide against it because I don’t like its fragrance. It’s too sweet and flowery. But Billie squeals and practically douses herself in it. Remus and Jett use one spritz each. We let Severna sleep in the Cornucopia as we arrange breakfast.

We mix powdered milk into a half-full container of water to drink. Billie’s stash of berries turns into more jam to spread on bread. Jett splits another wheel of cheese amongst the four of us. We finally give in to temptation and tear open a pack of dried apple slices, nuts, and seeds.

“I was thinking,” says Jett, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “There’s plenty of rabbits and squirrels. What if we set a few traps this morning and caught ourselves dinner?”

Remus, it turns out, slept with his sponsored present. He holds up the garrote, a grin spreading over his face. “Catching rabbits won’t get us out of here; it’ll only delay the suffering. As the Games go on, things will get harder. While we’re still healthy and fed, we need to focus on taking out as many tributes as possible.”

I point at the trees. “Rayle is somewhere nearby. I caught her trying to steal.”

Billie shakes her head. “Not her. If she’s picking from our stash, that means she’s low on supplies. She’ll either return, or starve on her own. Who’s the biggest threat?”

Embra advised me to team up with whoever was likeliest to survive, not kill them. “District 11,” I say. “I saw the boy run off with a scythe.”

“11?” Remus swallows a bite of bread. “The little fat girl and the blind boy? I was thinking 4.”

“The boy from 9,” Billie says. “Anther. The trapper.”

“Why not let Anther take out a few others before we go after him?” I suggest.

We argue back and forth for the remainder of breakfast. Every weaker tribute gets passed over because we assume hunger or another person will kill them. The stronger tributes might eliminate some of the competition. In the end, I say, “How about we leave the Cornucopia today and search the arena and decide who the next target is?”

I dig through the supplies to find the book full of blank pages. A short pencil is hidden in the spine. I draw an X in the middle. “We’re here.” I draw a rough circle around the X, marking the sand. “The trees start here. We know which directions are east and west because of where the sun rises and sets.” I draw a compass in the corner. “I want to see if we can find anything notable, like a river or a lake or a particularly tall tree.”

If we want to kill the other tributes, we’ll have to find them first.

“I’ll go south,” offers Billie.

“That’s where Severna and I saw a bear.” I take a sip of milk. “Let’s leave that portion of the arena alone for now. Actually, before we go searching, we need to secure the food. Put it in the trees to make sure the bear doesn’t get it.”

Jett empties supplies out of burlap sacks and light boxes and weaves rope through the handles. Billie fills them up with our most precious cargo, carefully splitting up the items so that if one of the packs gets ruined, we’ll have more left. Remus and I select four trees: two right outside the sand circle, and two a little deeper into the woods.

“How high should we put it?” I ask.

“As high as you can reach.”

Jett brings over the first burlap sack. It is heavier than I expect. I give it to Remus, then jump to hang from a thick branch. It’s like a bar, but gnarly and rough. This would be a lot easier and less painful if my prep team hadn’t removed my calluses. I stay close to the tree trunk, climbing until Remus and Jett are barely visible through the branches. Then I tie the burlap sack to a branch, securing the knot twice. There. That should hold.

“Any sign of that bear?” I call as I descend.

Remus and Jett shake their heads. We repeat the process for the second and third sacks. We cross paths with a swarm of mosquitos, two rabbits, zero bears, and zero other tributes. No cannons fire, either.

As I reach up to climb the fourth and final tree, sweat erupts on my forehead. I’m not the only one; Remus and Jett start panting and fanning themselves. It must be a Gamemaker trick, something to spice things up. “Let’s get something to drink,” I say. “We can always come back here in the evening.”

Can we, though? Is this meant to push us back to the Cornucopia, into the jaws of the bear? Or is it meant to dehydrate us? We take our chances and head back, squeezing into the very back of the horn, the coldest part.

I drink the last of the milk from breakfast and munch on a shriveled cucumber. Jett dares venture back out into the woods to set a quick trap, returning with a curious look on his face. “It’s not hot everywhere,” he says. “Just in certain…patches.”

I take out the notebook and we make a rough map of the hot places in the immediate vicinity. He’s right. Trekking through the woods, some parts are manageable, and others are scorching. You can immediately tell when the hot patches begin. “It’s organized like a grid,” Remus notes. “Or a chessboard.”

Our efforts aren’t for naught, at least. Billie holds up a silver parachute, which contains a single tube of sunscreen. “This won’t last long,” I say, squeezing a glob onto my finger. “We’ll need to ration it.”

“I think the sand is part of the grid,” Remus says. “It’s not as boiling here. As long as we stay near the Cornucopia, we’re safe.”

I apply the sunscreen to my face, spreading it over my forehead, nose, and cheeks. “Yeah, but that means we can’t hunt.”

“We can hunt at night,” Jett suggests. “What if we took the rest of the day off to sleep and eat, then woke up when night falls?”

Billie flicks his ear. “Some of us will stay here, and some of you go hunt. Any volunteers?”

Remus holds up his garrote in response. Jett picks up his spear and gives me a tight-lipped smile.

“Remember,” I say as I walk them to the edge of the sand circle. “Figure out where people are first, and what supplies they have. Then decide who you’re going to hunt. And avoid that bear.”

With the boys gone and Severna still asleep, Billie and I set about restoring a little order to the Cornucopia. We dispose of food scraps into the outhouses and relieve ourselves. I scrub grime from under my nails and take off my shirt and cargo pants to wash. Billie organizes the weapons, hiding the rifle in the back of the horn. Blankets are folded, food is sorted, plans are discussed.

“What if we used one of the metal plates as a table?” I wonder. We haven’t touched them since the Games began.

Billie produces a length of thin cord and scoffs, “Help me make a clothesline.”

We tie the cord around one of the plates and the other end to the Cornucopia’s tail. I hang my shirt and pants on it to dry them faster. Billie, now also in her underclothes, hangs hers next to mine and lightly kicks a metal plate. “It’s hot,” she notes.

“We can use it to cook!” I blurt.

We check if Jett’s traps have caught anything. They haven’t. The outermost ring of the plate is made from a different kind of metal and isn’t hot. I grip the cold part, and then, without really thinking, I kick up into a handstand.

“Wow!” shrieks Billie. “Can you show me how to do that?”

Sand is ideal for learning new tricks. It provides a soft landing and forces you to get stronger. I repeat the handstand in the sand, my hands sinking a little. Then, Billie tries to copy the motion, and I hold her ankles in the air to keep her steady. When I put her down, her face is red, but she’s grinning.

She turns out to be quite bendy. She can do almost a full split in the sand. I try showing her how to point her toes, raise her arms above her head, and do a few simple dance moves. Knowing the cameras are watching, I perform one of my old routines, doing walkovers and aerials in the sand. Then I bow dramatically, as if the opening of the Cornucopia is my audience.

“Showtime,” I say.

I can almost hear the cheer of the crowd, despite the arena being mostly silent. If I am to die in the next seven days, I’m glad I got to dance and flip one last time. I step onto one of the metal plates and do a backflip off it. The heat combined with the exertion sends me and Billie scampering back into the Cornucopia after a while.

We retrieve our clothes from the makeshift clothesline right as the trees rustle. Billie reaches for a knife, but puts it down when Remus and Jett emerge into the sand circle. They’re sweating and dirty, scratched and bloody, and looking less triumphant than I’d hoped.

A cannon fires.

“Who was that?” I ask.

“The boy from 8. At least, that’s who I think it was.” Remus wipes blood off his forehead. “He was unarmed. We pushed him in the river. Guess he finally drowned.”

“And what else?” demands Billie. “You already messed up the plan. Did you at least find Districts 4 and 11?”

“What about 11?” Severna calls from the Cornucopia. She rubs her eyes and stretches as we settle inside the horn. I take out the pen and book. Remus and Jett help themselves to water, Billie’s collection of berries, and pears. Severna scratches three marks into the wall of the Cornucopia, marking a total of ten dead tributes. Fourteen left.

Jett wipes his mouth on his bare arm. “Sit down and listen.”

Chapter Text

“The boy from District 3 is dead,” Jett reports. “The girl—she’s the tall, skinny one, right? She’s teamed up with District 4. So has the girl from 6. The four of them are down south. There’s a river that leads to a lake, and they’ve set up a camp at the mouth. They have some supplies, but it looks like they’re mostly relying on the fish in the river for food.”

“Do they have weapons?” asks Severna.

“Yeah, the boy has a harpoon, and he uses it to spear fish. The girls from 3 and 6 don’t have weapons. The girl from 4, we didn’t see much of her. She stayed under a canopy and didn’t move.” Jett scratches his neck. “I think she might be injured, but not seriously. Or sick.”

Remus grunts. “I could’ve strangled the girl from 6, but he didn’t let me.”

“We also located Anther,” Jett says. “He’s a bit west of 4’s camp, by the river, in an area will lots of caves. We didn’t see him, but we found footprints, and a rabbit caught in a trap, so he must be nearby.”

I add these details to my map in the book. “He’s alone, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s only a matter of time before he catches a person in one of those traps,” says Jett.

Billie shrugs. “What about 11?”

“We couldn’t find them.”

“I want to start with the pack by the river,” says Remus. “Five against four. The sooner, the better. They’ve got more supplies than whatever roadkill Anther has in his traps.”

“Speaking of traps,” I say, shutting the book. “How about we check on ours?”

Severna and I go into the woods to check. Lucky us, our first trap has caught a wild rabbit. Billie skins and guts the animal, marveling at how large it is, while Remus gathers branches to make a fire. Right as he reaches for a match, I swat his arm. “We can cook it on the metal plates,” I say. “While they’re still hot.”

It’s similar to using a frying pan. I use a stick to poke and turn the rabbit until it turns a nice, crispy brown. Severna uses her knife to cut it into pieces, and Jett splits them up evenly between the five of us. Honestly, it’s not a lot. I get maybe a few mouthfuls.

We take advantage of the heat to do another round of laundry and dry the clothes quickly. My palms and the soles of my feet are covered in miniscule scratches and cuts, some scabbed, some still red. I also count seventeen pink welts on my limbs, stomach, and neck. They itch like baby cacti and ooze blood when I scratch them. The mosquitos in the forest must’ve been mutts.

Remus too is covered in bug bites. Billie has a few on her back. We apply a few different creams we find the first-aid kits, but nothing seems to help. I scrub my body with one of the soap bars we received from sponsors. The least I can do is keep it clean.

The problem? Every move makes me itchy. By late afternoon, Remus and I are in no condition to go hunting other tributes or fending off bear mutts. Billie spends a lot of time in the outhouse and murmurs that she has diarrhea. Must’ve been something she ate. Bug bites appear on Jett’s skin as well, including one right under his nose that clogs his whole nostril.

My scalp is gritty and dry to the touch. Sand collects under my nails when I scratch it, ripping loose hairs out of my two braids. Marcia’s blue ribbons are stained and torn at the edges. I don’t need a mirror to know I look terrible. A small comfort is finding a tiny bottle labeled SHAMPOO in one of the first-aid kits.

“I’ll get you some water from the river,” Billie offers.

My instinct is to refuse. She stands no chance against Harbor or Levee, if she could across them. But I am too itchy and dry and dirty to wait. I’m glad I had the idea to cut my hair before entering the arena. “Go,” I say. “Quickly.”

Billie grabs a metal bucket and scampers across the sand. I hold my breath while she’s gone, my brain tormenting me with memories of cannon booms. It occurs to me that if should win, I’ll need to hear the cannon fire for each of my four allies. Twenty-three shots in total. But Billie comes back, carrying the bucket, water sloshing over the sides.

I haul the bucket to the outhouse and kneel over the hole. The stench almost makes me vomit. I hold my nose with one hand and undo my hairstyle with the other, carefully holding Marcia’s blue ribbons between my teeth. Then I massage shampoo into my hair, and wash it out with water from the bucket. Jett and Remus wash their hair as well, and the three of us stand outside the Cornucopia, waiting for it to dry.

A droplet plips against my forehead.

“Oh, come on!” groans Remus.

The droplets turn into a drizzle, which turns into a downpour, which sends us scrambling back into the Cornucopia. Rain thuds against the metal, pouring in a waterfall over the mouth. It gets inside, too. Severna throws tarps on the ground and we pile as many supplies as we can onto them, but the five of us are nothing against an engineered rainstorm.

“Get the canteens!” shouts Billie. “We can collect rainwater to drink!”

I step outside to hold two open containers. The water rises fast, up to my ankles, and I have to put them down to roll up my pants. One of them washes away in the current, and I shriek in frustration.

The sand circle is flooding.

“Get on top of the horn!” shouts Severna.

We throw ourselves at it, but the metal is too slick, and water gets in my eyes. “To the forest,” I suggest. “Climb the trees.”

Before my mad dash to the woods, I wade back into the horn to salvage a few precious supplies. My binoculars. My knife and rifle. A burlap sack I know contains some food, and a backpack marked with a first-aid cross. Despite the weight of the items, I’m able to climb a tree. Billie perches a few branches above me, breathing hard.

It was a good call, the forest. The thick canopy of leaves keeps as partly dry. I cough, goosebumps erupting down my bare arms. For the first time since the Games began, I am cold. My clothes are soaked. My hair is drenched. I think I swallowed a gallon of rainwater.

“We got too comfortable,” declares Billie. “Can’t have a good life in the days before we die, can we?”

“How’s your medication?” I ask, my voice raspy. “Do you have enough?”

“Oh, yeah. The vial they sent will last another two days.” She pulls down her shirt to expose it. “If they hadn’t sent the patches, it would be ruined.”

Examining my hands for damage, I discover my fingers are bare. Panic lodges in my throat. I search my pants pockets and even my bra, but it’s not there. I’ve lost the ring Father gave me. It must’ve been washed away in the flood or—actually, I don’t remember when I lost it. All that remains of it is a faint pink indent around my finger, my last reminder of District 1.

The broken pocket watch has survived, though, tucked away in my pants pocket all along. I resist the urge to fling it against a tree trunk and smash it to pieces. Perhaps Remus could use it as a garrote if his gift got ruined.

When darkness falls, the boy from 8 appears in the sky. Remus and Jett were correct about his identity, after all. The anthem echoes through the arena, and when it stops, the rain does as well.

The mud is a minefield of debris, thorns, and other hazards. I trip and stumble over hidden logs. Dragging the soles of my feet along the ground, I encounter only sharp edges and squishy mosses. “Gross,” I mutter, seeing my muddy pant leg stuck to my skin.

Our supplies are scattered throughout the sand circle. I gather apples and oranges in my shirt. Plastic packages of nuts and chocolate have been torn open. A first-aid kit is soaked. Our book, with our precious map, disintegrates between my fingers. I find spears and swords and ropes between the trees.

“Good news is we can dry some of this,” comments Jett.

“Yeah,” scoffs Billie. “Except the food.”

The food! “We still have the bags in the trees,” I say, a wave of relief washing over me. “Remember?”

“I don’t think the bags were waterproof,” says Remus grimly. “But we wrapped a few loaves of bread…and you have that backpack…”

Severna, mud splattered across her arms and chest, declares, “There will be no dinner tonight. This is the Gamemakers’ way of telling us they want more action. They don’t want to watch us eat berries and drink milk.” She cracks her knuckles. “Some of the weapons that were swept away are probably in the hands of other tributes. They’re preparing us for a fight.”

The rainwater makes my bug bites feel a little better. They’re still red and inflamed, but the rush of climbing the tree made me not think about them. I haven’t been scratching as much, so they’ve formed little red scabs.

We take the drenched tarp out of the Cornucopia for the night. I place my backpack in the sand to use as a pillow and lay on my back, knowing it’ll be a while before sleep comes. My stomach growls. At least we have water, the containers and canteens heavy or lodged in the sand. “I’ll keep watch,” Remus offers.

The temperatures drop further. My teeth chatter and snot drips from my nose. My soaked shirt becomes frozen stiff. All of our blankets are wet and therefore unusable. In the darkness, I say, “Let’s make a fire.”

Jett and Severna pile the wood while Billie unearths a dry match from my backpack. I gather as many of our wet blankets as I can, and try to string another clothesline from the Cornucopia to a metal plate so that it hangs right over the fire.

The flame is sheer bliss. “Oh…” sighs Severna, reaching out to warm her hands. Remus takes off his shirt and holds it directly over the fire, laughing. “Nice try!” calls Jett. “But it’ll take more than a little rain to kill us!”

Showtime indeed, I think. I dry my clothes, then my hair, over the fire. Remus collects more branches to keep it burning. Billie tries to heat some slices of wet bread, eating them anyways. Out of desperation, I spear an apple onto a branch and cook it over the fire. It does little to satiate my grumbling stomach, and I imagine our second trap got washed away.

So, this is how the Sharp Clan lives, I think bitterly.

“Did any of those painkillers survive?” asks Billie, a new hopelessness seeping into her voice.

I check the first-aid kit in my backpack. It doesn’t have any painkillers, and I take out some of the bandages to dry them over the fire. “Sorry,” I say. “But if we raid District 4’s camp, we might find some.”

We vote unanimously to do that as soon as the sun rises. We can’t afford another flood or heatwave; we’ve been too lucky already. But just in case, we put together a waterproof tarp full of emergency food, water, medicine, blankets, matches, and knives. I’m tempted to add the rifle, but decide to bury it in the sand instead.

Worry creeps in, and I find myself scratching my mosquito bites.

I will not die afraid, I vow, sitting on my hands. I chew on the ends of my shoulder-length hair instead. My binoculars hang around my neck.

Remus and Severna fall asleep by the fire. Jett and I keep it alight. Completely opposite to what I wanted earlier, I suddenly wish it were warm again. I wish I had my ring. I wish I could go home, to see Auron and Sunny and Valor and Mother and Father and Prosper. My family members’ faces visit my dreams, one by one. Sunny pushes me on a swing; that’s how I know it’s a dream. Valor works at Jett’s father’s shop. Father says, “Diamonds are formed under pressure.” Prosper shakes a coin purse, coins jingling.

The jingling gets louder, even when the dream shifts and Prosper disappears.

I wake with a start, sitting up in the sand.

I can still hear the jingling.

My blood runs cold, and it’s not from the frigid temperatures. Because from across the sand circle, a pair of yellow eyes glow, and a dark shadow emerges, growing larger and larger with every step. The bag around its neck. That’s what’s causing the jingling.

I jostle Severna awake. “Run.”

Chapter Text

The school in District 1 has a running track. It’s made of beaten-down red dust and gravel, with crooked white lines spray-painted to mark the starting point and four lanes. As part of the curriculum, we’re required to run four laps around it, twice a year, to test our fitness. The athletics teacher times us.

The last time I ran the four-lap was unpleasant. Sweat dripped from my armpits, sticking to my clothes. The red dust got into my shoes and made my skin dry. My throat felt raw and scratched toward the end of the third lap, but I forced my legs to keep moving. Step by step in the boiling heat, my fingers tingling, I finished the four laps.

“Six minutes, twenty-seven seconds,” the athletics teacher said, checking the stopwatch.

I thought the four-lap run was the most painful, least pleasant type of run in the world. But it was nothing compared to this.

I ran into the woods without considering direction or a plan. Stinging nettles slap my ankles, the pain erupting. I vault over a fallen log, my hand almost slipping on a patch of moss. Birds take flight from the trees, as if trying to escape from me. My throat burns from exertion, a million times stronger than running the four-lap.

The world zips by before my eyes can properly register anything. I see only flashes of green and brown, slivers of blue sky, streaks of sunlight, a scampering squirrel, possibly another tribute. My bug bites grate against the inside of my cargo pants, guaranteed to rip open. Occasionally, something sharp pricks the sole of my foot. I don’t stop to check what it is.

That awful jingling sound echoes in my ears, perpetually behind me. Another pair of footsteps thuds against the forest floor. Severna? Jett? Remus? Is it too much to hope that Billie got away? That’s the only consoling thought that crosses my mind. If the bear is pursuing me, it’s not chasing Billie.

I burst into a meadow. I leave a trail in the knee-high grass and yellow flowers, the landscape flat ahead of me and to the sides. A moment later, Jett bursts from the forest, quickly catching up to me. We plow through the meadow, onto a sandy patch not unlike the one surrounding the Cornucopia—

And right into a pitched tent.

It’s pandemonium. I get tangled in the material and scream as I try to stand up. Jett’s hand reaches down and grabs my wrist. I hear the material rip, someone swearing, and birds shrieking and that awful jingling.

Time stands still. The bear is running through the meadow. It’s definitely a mutt, its claws razor-sharp and teeth dripping saliva. Rummaging through the broken tent, my fingers wrap around a metal pole.

A spear.

Another hand grabs the spear and attempts to tear it away from me. I hold firm, my leg kicking out to connect with my opponent’s chest. Levee from District 4 stumbles backwards, tripping on the sandbank and falling on her butt into the river. It’s shallow, so she gets up quickly. By that point, I’m already running, wishing for a tree or a rock to climb.

“Get up! Get up!” a male voice is screaming. It’s Harbor, Levee’s district partner. He’s holding a harpoon gun and struggling to load one of the weapons into it.

Jett and I are outnumbered two to four. Rayle and Alloy come to Harbor’s aid, Rayle clutching a knife and Alloy wielding a machete. When the bear advances, though, it’s like we all have the same thought at once. It’s no longer Jett and I versus them. It’s all of us, versus that creature.

I dive to the side and drive my spear into the bear’s fur. It’s like trying to stab a slab of overcooked steak. The bear hardly seems to notice and roars. Jett snatches the harpoon gun from Harbor and successfully loads it and fires directly into the bear’s snout. That disorients the animal, but there’s no blood.

What? Wrapping both hands around the spear, I shove it into the bear’s back leg as hard as I can. It’s no use. My weapon bounces off, the force knocking me over. Rayle throws her knife at the bear and it lodges in the bear’s neck, just above the jingling bag.

Up close, I can see that the symbol on the bag is not a Capitol seal.

It’s a target.

I never get the chance to scream my discovery to the other five. The bear pushes through them, and clamps its jaws around Levee’s leg.

Levee screams. Harbor throws himself at the bear. Rayle takes off running.

Jett quickly tears into the group’s tent and snatches a backpack before gesturing for me to follow him into the meadow. I take only the spear, in case the bear pursues us. As we reach the end of the meadow, the grass turning into thick forest, the cannon fires.

Jett stops running to glance backwards, towards District 4’s camp. Then he says quietly, “Come on,” and continues walking.

It’s easy to find our way back. We just follow the trail of destruction. Berry bushes torn out of the ground. Claw marks on trees. Uprooted flowers. As I lift my foot off a white daisy, the flower is spotted with blood. My blood. My pants are wet as well, and it doesn’t smell like sweat. I have sunburnt patches of skin where my shirt and pants are torn. One of my toenails is broken. A fresh swarm of mosquitoes ambushes us, and I swat at them with my spear, screaming obscenities.

“Opal! Opal!”

I become dimly aware of someone shouting my name. But I continue thrashing the spear, tearing bark off the trees, driving it into the soil. Only now do Levee’s screams choose to register in my mind, pained and scared and desperate.

A tiny hand slaps me across the face, shocking me back to reality.

“Stop it!” Billie reaches up to grab my chin. “You’re safe. It’s over.”

My voice feels as though I’m underwater. The words gargle out of my mouth. “The bear—the meadow—I saw—the cannon—” My hands jump to my hair, and I hear my pulse jackhammering in my ears. Then my knees bend against my will, and I collapse on the forest floor. “Is it gone?”

Billie shrugs. “I guess the Capitol had enough action for one day.”

“Severna?” I croak.

“She’s safe. We ran into the woods together and climbed a tree.” Billie points to the sky. “We climbed really high, so if the bear tried to follow us, the branches would break and it would fall and die.”

“And…Remus?”

Billie swallows. “We heard him screaming.”

“But there was only one cannon,” says Jett quickly. “For the girl from 4. I saw the bear attack her.”

“I’m right here, you dolts.”

Remus spreads his arms, as if he’s going to hug us. Blood pours down the side of his head and his shirt is torn across the chest. “I tried to strangle it,” he says, his voice rough. “But it bucked me off and scratched me.”

“It’s impenetrable,” I say, my voice finally returning to me. “Except the neck. There’s a bag with a target painted on it.” I yank my spear out of the ground. “That must be its weak spot.”

“Or the eyes,” grunts Remus. “If we can blind it, we can capture it.”

We go quiet, listening for the jingling sound. Only birdsongs answer. With the rush of adrenaline wearing off, I trudge back to the Cornucopia.

As if the flood wasn’t enough, the bear didn’t just attack us. I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle my scream at the sight of the damage. Claw marks rip into the metal of the Cornucopia. Our burlap sacks are torn open, our fruits scattered, our jar of olives smashed. One of our water containers lays empty beside a metal plate. The tarp covering the boys’ outhouse hangs from a tree branch. It even got into our emergency tarp, scattering the supplies, but didn’t destroy them.

“I got this,” Jett says, showing everyone the backpack he stole from District 4.

Severna emerges from inside the Cornucopia. She hops the broken olive jar and runs across the sand to throw her arms around me. I hug her back, my fingers wrapping around the fabric of her shirt.

“Come on,” Severna says, putting me down. “Let’s get cleaned up and have lunch.”

My limbs are shaking as I retrieve a bar of soap from the sand, and Billie’s bucket of water, which somehow stands upright at the back of the Cornucopia. It has a single, ominous claw mark in the middle. Then I shut myself in the outhouse and tear off all my clothes. As I suspected, I peed my pants. Crouching on the edge of the hole, I scrub my underclothes, trying to keep focus.

My thoughts are racing. What happened to Rayle and Alloy and Harbor? Should I take comfort knowing one of my fiercest opponents is dead? That I’m one tribute closer to exiting this arena? Think about acrobatics, I tell myself, conjuring the mental image of Prosper in a leotard. Think about acrobatics.

I place my clothes on the roof of the Cornucopia to dry—the sun is boiling again—and wrap myself in one of the torn blankets. I hope President Snow isn’t too bothered by nudity. I do my best to scrape all the sand off my body, open one of our last surviving first aid kits, and set about patching myself up.

I start by running my hands over my head and face, finding only tiny scratches and two bug bites. My neck has a cut that I cover with a plaster. As for my arms…several drops of hydrogen peroxide, six stitches, and half a roll of bandages later, I’ve staunched the bleeding. Severna has to place more stitches in my abdomen because my hands are shaking again.

Surprisingly, the injury that bothers me most is the ripped callus on my right hand. It’s my dominant hand and the pink skin is exposed and the palm is sensitive.

My legs have fared better, protected by the pants, but my feet look awful. Thankfully, most of it is dirt. I align my broken toenail as best as I can, then wrap it and the toe next to it in a sterile dressing. Then I put my whole foot in a plastic bag and tighten a piece of cord around my ankle.

Remus wears a bandage around his head. Jett takes off his shirt to air out the numerous scratches on his back, some requiring stitches. Severna and Billie have fared better, but start complaining about bug bites.

For lunch, we start by eating what we can salvage from the Cornucopia. Severna collects the olives and stashes the broken glass in a package from a bandage. Jett puts cheese between slices of moist bread to make three sandwiches. I ration a torn pack of dried apple slices. Remus opens the backpack Jett took from District 4’s camp and grins, pulling out the canteen that got stolen earlier.

Between the bug bites and scratches, my entire body feels swollen and stiff. I feel as though shards of glass are stabbing my feet when I walk. One of the bites on my ankle is oozing blood and pus. I squeeze the pus out after I finish eating half a sandwich and a few apple slices, not really in the mood for food anyways.

“I’m going to collect more berries,” Billie announces. “Who wants some?”

I dab peroxide against the bite on my ankle, hissing when it stings. “Whatever.”

Somehow, all our gifts survived. The soap got ripped, but it’s still usable. Remus’s garrote is intact. Severna’s hair wrap sits folded on a box. Jett was wearing his running shoes. Billie reassures that her medicine is still attached to her chest and pumping, waving as she disappears into the woods.

What if the binoculars were for me?

I lift them up for closer examination. They’re a standard pair, no fancy settings besides night vision mode and zooming in and out. Too bad there’s a scratch on one of the lenses.

Except when I turn them over to check, there’s no scratch. I look through them again, and there’s a scratch. How is that possible? I angle them at Remus’s back, at the dark material of his shirt.

Sure enough, there’s more than one marking. I didn’t notice them because they’re around the edges of the lens. Two straight lines. A short one pointing directly to the right, east on a compass. A longer one, pointing up, or north. If the shorter one were extended, the two would touch in the middle, like a slice of pie, perfectly cutting the top-right corner.

I don’t have time to think about what this could mean because another cannon fires.

I leap to my feet and grab my spear, knowing in my gut whose death it signals. Instead of fear, I feel only a dash of rage. My heart hammers in anticipation, my arm rising into position as the familiar jingling sound reaches my ears.

Remus is ready, brandishing a sword. Severna’s eyes peer around the Cornucopia, a glint of knives between her fingers. Jett has a dagger.

When the bear plows through the trees, I imagine President Snow leaning forward in his chair, watching me on television. First Lady Livia biting her nails. Embra and Wick covering their eyes. With the audience’s attention on me, I give them the show they want.

The bear rumbles across the sand. It has a slash across one of its yellow eyes; guess Harbor got a few hits in after we ran. My eyes find the bag around its neck, the round target, beckoning for a weapon.

I throw my spear directly into the bear’s neck, hitting the target.

The bag bursts like a balloon, spilling a shower of tiny, shiny, metal bits into the sand.

The bear roars when my spear enters its body. Blood spurts down its fur. It stops moving, pawing at the spear, and Remus rushes forth to stab his sword into the bear’s neck, over and over and over.

The mutt slumps in the sand, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. Jett laughs, running over to stand on its back, stabbing his dagger into the air. What an image for the viewers; they’re probably screaming in adoration.

I bow, throwing my arms to the sides. Showtime.

Remus reaches down to scoop a handful of sand and metal, letting them rain between his fingers. “What are these?”

I recognize the contents of the bag in a heartbeat.

Bullets.

Chapter Text

Excitement or sorrow? I don’t know what to feel. This results in me standing awkwardly in the sand, scratching a bug bite on my neck, as the reality sinks in. The bear mutt is dead. The bag around its neck was full of bullets. A bag that I ripped open. All around me, waiting to be used, are bullets.

I squat in the sand to pick up a few. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. All I need to do is load the bullets into the rifle, track down the other tributes, and I will be exiting this arena alive. My chances of living in this existence just got a lot better.

A hovercraft appears above my head, descending into the forest to my left. I don’t follow it. I don’t want to see what the bear mutt did to Billie. My throat tightens as I imagine Billie’s last moments. Picking berries off a bush. Berries to feed the rest of us. Berries that I never want to see again because I’ll think of her.

When the hovercraft appears in the sky again, it is carrying a tangle of skin and bones and organs that doesn’t begin to resemble a body. Among it, a few curls of black hair and a tattered ribbon of cloth. As it flies above the Cornucopia, it dribbles blood on the sand, and a drop hits my arm. It looks almost like berry juice.

Levee and Billie. Two tributes dead in a matter of hours. That should keep the Capitol entertained long enough for us to recover. Twelve tributes remaining. Halfway there, I think grimly.

I’m not sure how it is in other districts, but there are certain rewards for placing higher in the Hunger Games. Placing in the top twelve gets your family a small cash reward from District 1 and a medal from the mayor. Right now, Mayor Merrill is polishing those medals, as I gather the bullets in my pockets. Tonight, he will go to my house and Jett’s, and present them the money. It will be more meaningful to Jett’s family than mine, as mine already has everything they could possibly need.

I unearth my rifle from the depths of the Cornucopia. Stashing the bullets in a plastic bag from a loaf of bread, I load spend several minutes examining and cleaning the weapon. Between the oozing wound on my plastic-covered ankle, the bug bites, and the cuts that are beginning to swell, I’m in no mood or shape for another hunt.

Jett yanks my spear out of the bear mutt’s neck. As soon as he does, another hovercraft descends to collect the corpse. Good riddance. Remus shows the hovercraft the middle finger as it flies away. Severna joins me inside the Cornucopia, tears glimmering in the corners of her dark brown eyes. Eyes so similar to Billie’s.

“Should we arrange a funeral?” she whispers.

“A funeral?” I repeat. “We don’t even have a body to bury.” That sounds like something Billie would say. Smirking, sassy, Billie who will never speak another clever retort or tell me to hurry up in the bathrooms. That was, what, five days ago? “At least the bear is gone.”

Severna picks at a loose thread on her shirt. “In District 2, when someone dies, we bury them with a few of their favorite items. Their family members get a day off work to arrange the funeral. Even if there isn’t a body to bury—sometimes people get blown up in weapons testing—we still create a headstone.”

I wish I had the ring Father snuck me. My bloody, swollen knuckles could use some decoration. “In District 1,” I say quietly, “We dress the person in white. Our cemetery is outside the city limits and surrounded by a fence. Sometimes, children try to jump the fence, as a challenge.” I swallow. “All our headstones are identical. We write the person’s date of birth and how old they were when they died, but not the death date. We try to forget that. And we don’t get a day off work. We just continue living.”

“When my grandfather died, I didn’t even know until after he’d been buried.” Jett comes into the Cornucopia, munching on a squishy bread roll. “I realized I hadn’t seen him in a few days and when I asked my parents, they said, ‘Oh, he’s dead.’ I’d been at school during the funeral and burial.”

“That’s horrible,” says Severna. “You didn’t even get to mourn.”

“Oh, we don’t really mourn in District 1. We’ll see them again in the next existence. The absence is temporary.” Jett sits in the sand. “I had a baby brother that died shortly after birth. I didn’t even know he existed until years later, when Mother flipped through some photo albums and mentioned, ‘Oh, that was Regal.’”

“Some District 1 families are so big, you don’t get to meet all the members,” I add. “If you go back in time far enough, all of us are probably related somehow.”

“In 2, some people’s marriages are arranged,” says Severna. “A Peacekeeper can show up at your door and say you’re marrying such-and-such tomorrow. It usually happens to unmarried women in their thirties.”

Jett laughs. “In District 1, if you’re not married by twenty-two, you’re stale bread.”

Severna’s eyes widen. “In District 2, twenty-two is the minimum. Not legally, of course, just socially. I briefly volunteered at a hospital and most of the women having children were at least thirty.”

“I heard District 2 has a university,” says Jett.

“It’s true.” Remus stands at the mouth of the Cornucopia, partly blocking the sunlight. “If you’re really smart, you can transfer to the university in the Capitol. You get sent back to the district when you finish.”

“District 1 used to have one,” I say. “It was closed partly because of low enrolment. When the plague hit, there was virtually no one left to attend or teach. The building is still around, though. The Preppers hide stuff in it.”

“What’s a Prepper?” asks Remus.

I realize that Preppers are unique to District 1. “They believe that the Dark Days will come again,” I explain. “So, they prepare for it by stashing food and weapons around the district, practicing evacuation drills, and surviving in the desert.”

“I though District 1 had a Capitol military base,” says Severna. “Why not just join that?”

The military base in question is home to District 1’s Peacekeepers. The occasional town citizen is permitted to join, someone with a clean slate and loyalty to the Capitol. I remember Valor considering it, because he had insider information about the Sharp Clan from his childhood. “It’s…not entirely operational,” I say.

Speaking of the military—I need to finish cleaning the rifle. It gives my mind something to focus on, the bullets now jingling in my pockets, against the broken watch, the binoculars thumping against my chest. For dinner, we eat the last of the spilled olives, then cook potatoes over a fresh fire.

There’s a silence over the meal. Splitting the food four ways instead of five. Jett spears a slice of bread, a chunk of cheese, and another slice of bread on a stick and holds it over the fire. Remus digs through what’s left and salvages a few soggy tomatoes we’ve been avoiding. Then, Severna brings a handful of berries and spreads them on a fluffy roll. “These were the last thing she brought us,” she whispers.

I half-expect Billie to emerge from the woods. I’m not dead, you rich nitwits! It aches, how clearly that I can hear her voice, despite knowing I’ll never hear it again. Despite this, I load the rifle, strap it to my back, and venture into the woods with the bread roll. Severna follows, carrying her knives.

It’s not hard to find the spot she died. It’s mere steps from the sand circle. Blood covers the forest floor, a curl of hair stuck to a leaf. Gingerly, I kneel beside the half-dried pool of blood, then set the bread roll beside it. Severna adds a wildflower, a red one, its name unknown to me.

I already got my revenge by spearing the bear, but anger consumes me once again. It takes every ounce of restraint to stop myself from reaching for the rifle and blasting a hole in Severna’s skull, then finishing off Remus and Jett just for the sake of it. Only one of us can live; I’ll be damned if it’s not me, especially now that I have this gun.

As night falls, the temperatures are pleasant enough to sleep on a tarp. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the cannon. When the anthem plays and the Capitol seal appears in the sky, I cover my ears. Watching Billie’s and Levee’s faces appear for the last time. Somewhere, Harbor must be plotting his own revenge.

I mention that idea to Severna in the morning. “He doesn’t know the bear is dead, though,” she points out. “He’s not going to come hunting for us.”

“Then we will hunt him.” I aim the rifle at the trees and mime firing it. “We take turns searching the arena for the others, starting with District 4.” After last night’s dinner and today’s breakfast, our food is running dangerously low. We can’t survive off berries and rabbits forever. “I want to talk to District 11. I wonder how they’re faring.”

“Oh, they’re probably hidden away in a grove of trees somewhere,” Severna speculates. “Besides the initial fight, all the deaths have been ours.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Lemma. Cord. Loom. Then the bear killed Billie and Levee. They’re gatherers, not hunters.”

“If you were District 11, where would you have gone?” I ask.

Severna places her head on her hands. “As far away as possible, near a reliable food source, and with lots of hiding places.”

“If they took water from the Cornucopia, it’s probably running low.” I blow dust off my rifle. “Let’s walk along the river.” If I recall correctly, Wick suggested not staying in one place for too long. Rayle knows we’re here, and if she’s still with Harbor, she can lead him directly to us. And if District 11 are near the river—well, we need to find them before Rayle and Harbor do.

Leaving Remus as a guard, the rest of us head out. We walk through the woods in the same general direction as the bear chased us. There’s not a single sign of another tribute, which makes me wonder how big this arena really is, and how far we might have to go to find them. I don’t want to hike for miles barefoot and getting eaten alive by mosquitos.

Beyond the meadow, we find only disappointment. What remains of District 4’s riverside camp is a torn, collapsed tent and a rotten apple core. Jett pokes through the tent with his spear, unearthing sand and a few seashells. I use my binoculars to scan the landscape in all directions, checking for hidden tributes. If they were here, they would have killed us already.

We pass the hours by walking upriver. The meadow transforms into lush greenery bearing every time of fruit you can imagine, as well as some that I’ve never seen before. Bees buzz in the air and bright flowers bloom beneath our feet. It’s like a maze, with a new surprise at every turn, all of it smelling sweet and natural.

This is where I would go if I were District 11.

Between the trees and hedges, we also find caves. The hair rises on my arms when I come across a sleeping bag and a length of rope inside one of them. Instinctively, I raise my rifle. Nothing happens, no one comes. Still, I take the length of rope with me, adding it to my pack. Severna, Jett, and I eat lunch in that cave, helping ourselves to various fruits from the trees.

“These are modified,” I say after the first bite.

They taste so impossibly sweet, I worry it’s to mask poison. Too late, though, the apple disappears into my belly. I wait in silence for several minutes, and remain alive and fine, so perhaps the fruit isn’t poisoned.

Our feast is interrupted by a cannon shot.

“Was that Remus?” Severna squeaks.

It could be, but the odds are in his favor. He’s armed and fed, and there’s eight other tributes remaining. Well, seven now. Eleven total, including us. And I’m sure some of them were starving, poisoned, stuck… “It’s not him,” I say. “No way.” We’ll find out tonight anyways.

Returning to our hike across the arena, I hear a rustling sound among the trees.

And a voice.

A female voice.

Rifle raised, I hedge toward the source of the sound. Severna has her knives and Jett has his spear. We find the most confusing yet astounding sight: two tributes, tangled in a net, suspended several feet in the air.

“Hey,” I call up to them.

The female voice answers, “Have you come to kill us?”

I recognize it at once. Low cadence, grumpy, a little disoriented. We’ve found Violet and Ambrose of District 11. “How long have you been up there?” I ask.

“Long enough that I know he’s going to be back soon.”

Her warning comes not a second too late. I whirl at the sound of footsteps, and make my first shot with the rifle, at the same time Severna throws a knife.

Both of us hit the target. Her in the shoulder, me in the gut. The cannon fires a second later, confirming what we already knew.

Anther of District 10, the brilliant trapper who got the highest score in training, is dead.   

Chapter Text

Last year, one of the favorites to win the Hunger Games was the boy from District 2. He got a high score in training and resembled Remus in terms of sheer strength and muscular build. A few of the girls in my class giggled when the interviews were broadcast during home economics. Gambling is legal in District 1, but it’s strictly regulated. Valor took Sunny to bet on the winner.

When the boy from District 2 died, taking fourth place overall, there was a ‘mysterious’ fire outside the town square, and a fistfight in the middle of the street. So, I imagine, right now, a lot of people are upset with me and Severna. My actions may’ve cost them a pretty penny.

The opinions of the districts about tributes don’t really matter, but if the Capitol dislikes someone, that spells trouble. Anther pulled a good amount of sponsors, and I bet some of them are throwing their feathered hats on the ground and stomping on them right now. I am their enemy now, and they may punish me for it.

“What are you waiting for?” Jett asks, jabbing his spear in the air. “Shoot them!”

I keep my rifle down. “Actually, I was thinking they might be useful.”

Jett lowers the spear. “Useful for what? We barely have enough food left for the four of us. These two—”

“Exactly,” I say. “District 11. They’re clever with plants and I’m sure they can make a decent snare. Right, District 11?”

“Sure,” mutters Ambrose, squirming. His glasses have fallen off his face and caught in the net, dangling precariously.

I reach up and carefully remove the glasses from the net. Then I polish the lenses on a clean square of my shirt, and place them in my pocket. “We’re going to release you,” I say. “You can come to the Cornucopia with us.”

“Why?” grunts Violet. “So you can make a show out of slaughtering us?”

This girl will be the death of me. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” I dust off my hands. “But, if you want, you can stay where you are. We’ll let Harbor and Rayle and Alloy decide what to do with you.”

“We’re not going to kill you,” Severna says gently. “In case you haven’t noticed, the Gamemakers don’t like it when alliance members kill each other. They send bears and floods and other tributes after you. We’re rewriting the rule book.”

I’m not sure what the Capitol audience will think of that. Some of the districts probably like it. “This is the Hunger Games,” I say. “There are no rules. We can do whatever we want. Besides, there’s been two deaths already.” I make a point of looking over my shoulder at Anther’s body, right as a claw descends from a hovercraft to collect him. “I think the Capitol has had enough bloodshed for today. Let’s make some nice, wholesome content for the children. Dance around a bonfire and sing happy songs. Deal?”

“There’s ten of us left,” Severna says. “If you join us, it becomes six against four. Odds are that one of us will get to go home.”

“Only one, though,” snorts Violet. She reminds me a little of Billie, just more unpleasant. “I bet you’ve already decided amongst yourselves who that’s going to be.”

Jett nudges my arm. “Let’s go.”

“Can I have my glasses back, please?” asks Ambrose.

I borrow one of Severna’s knives and reach up to saw through the ropes of the net. It’s harder than I expect; the ropes are thick and it feels like trying to cut through a wall. When the rope finally breaks, it’s not large enough to free either Violet or Ambrose. Severna sighs and joins me, and after a minute of sawing, Ambrose slips out of the net. The first thing he does is reach up to help Violet get down safely.

I give him back his glasses. As we head back towards the Cornucopia, taking the same route we took here, we pluck as many fruits as we can carry. Jett has two apples bulging in his pants pockets. Violet and I munch on ours as we walk.

“So,” I ask Ambrose, figuring he’s the more talkative of the two, “Were you here the whole time?”

He hesitates, then tells us the whole story: He and Violet grabbed minimal supplies from the Cornucopia, then fled into the forest. They’d planned ahead of time to meet up; Ambrose lit a fire to signal his location. Once they found each other, they set out in search of food and water, and found the fruit trees after two days. “I hid my scythe in the woods,” says Ambrose, “but I really don’t remember where. I doubt I’ll find it now.”

“Seen any other tributes?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “One of the boys—we passed him in the valley. He was curled up and shaking and crying. I think he might’ve been the one who died this morning.”

That means it wasn’t Harbor. But that would’ve been too easy. The Gamemakers are setting up for a grand finale, like always. I intend to drag this out for another day or two at least, then put on a last show. Ambrose and Violet can live—for now. Once Harbor and Rayle and Alloy and whoever else is left are dead, then I’ll shoot her first.

No. Scratch that. Ambrose deserves a quick, merciful death. Perhaps even a bouquet of flowers to cover the bullet wound I’ll put in his chest. Miss Clever Pants will bleed and beg a little before she dies, I’ll make sure of that.

When I can see the sand circle and the glint of the Cornucopia between the trees, Ambrose tugs his shirt collar. “Has it always been this hot?”

“No, just here,” Violet says. “The trees provided shade, at least. That horn must intensify it.”

Severna fans herself. “Better too hot than too cold. And it can be freezing at night.”

Now Violet looks truly bewildered. “What are you talking about? In the trees, the temperature stayed the same.” It dawns on her. “Oh. Must’ve been the Gamemakers, keeping the fruit alive.”

That means someone in the Capitol is paying good money to keep Violet alive. Without their meddling, there’s no way she would’ve survived this many days. With Ambrose, of all people? Good thing we rescued them.

Violet doesn’t seem too impressed by our stash. She sniffs a few items of food and declares that they’re rotten—which is odd, because they look and smell fine to me. She didn’t strike me as a picky eater. When we show her the makeshift outhouses, she looks happy for the first time. “A hole in the sand is better than nothing,” she murmurs.

“Well, if you don’t like the food, let’s go find something better.” Remus has his ropes and cords and garrote. “Come on.”

Severna and Jett stay behind as guards. Wandering back into the woods, I notice that fresh calluses and scabs have formed on my heels. My bug bites are half the size they used to be, and Violet and Ambrose appeared to have been spared from the mosquitos. The two of them marvel at this portion of the woods, commenting on all the different plants they see.

Violet plucks some of the berries Billie used to gather. “These are edible.”

I think of Billie’s cannon and the hovercraft carrying bloody remains. “Yeah, we know. We’ve been eating them for days.”

Violet gathers a solid collection of roots and plants, using her shirt as a basket to hold them. Ambrose points at the trees and says, “I recognize that birdsong. We have them District 11, but they’re pretty rare, so we only eat them on special occasions.”

I use the rifle to shoot two of the birds. They’re some species of wild geese, apparently, or so Violet says. I wouldn’t know; we don’t have many birds in District 1. When we return to the Cornucopia, Severna and Jett have already gathered wood for a fire and fashioned a spit.

Violet takes a knife to the birds to prepare them for roasting. A silver parachute descends two steps from Ambrose’s feet, and he cheers in triumph and holds up a pot. “Geese and soup,” he says, almost crying from joy. “Oh, we are going to have a feast.”

While the birds cook and Ambrose puts Violet’s collection of plants and roots into the pots, I take the girl inside the Cornucopia. I have a feeling she might know something we don’t. Never taking my eyes off her, I hand her the broken pocket watch. “Have you ever seen something like this before?”

Violet gets that stupid look on her face, with her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide and bugged. “It’s a clock.”

“Well, obviously.” I tap the face of it and twist the tiny knob on the side. The minute hand rotates a little. “It doesn’t work, though. Jett opened it and said it’s because there’s no batteries. But why would the Gamemakers give us this watch—”

“It’s a mystery to me,” says Violet, shrugging.

She cannot possibly be this stupid. “Fine. Then I’m going to solve the mystery myself.”

Violet laughs. “It probably belonged to some Capitol person. They decided they wanted to get rid of it, so the Gamemakers threw it into the arena for fun. Maybe there’s no mystery here. It’s just a piece of garbage.”

Night falls, and the anthem plays and the Capitol seal appears in the sky. Sipping on the soup, we watch intently. Anther is the first to appear. The second is the boy from 12. What was his name? Chase, I think. He was the one that died this morning, cause unknown to us.

“Besides us and Harbor’s crew,” says Violet, “That leaves only the boy from 6.”

“You saw him?” asks Severna.

“Only on the first day,” Violet says. “He’s probably hiding somewhere.”

“Harbor first,” I say. “We haven’t had any problems with 6 so far. If we’re lucky, a drought or mutt will kill him first.”

Violet eats a bite of her roasted goose. A drop of grease sticks to her chin. “I think we have a few days before the Capitol gets bored.” She pulls her knees to her chest. “They’ll probably replay Anther’s death for a bit and talk about his training scores and what went wrong, then once they get bored of that—”

“No one is watching the Games during the night,” I say. “Some people only watch the initial bloodbath and then tune in again when there’s, like, three tributes left. Even then, it can take days before anything happens, because those final tributes are tired or dehydrated.”

Later in the Games, gifts can be an ominous sign. It means the Capitol is preparing for a fight, and they want the remaining tributes to be fed and healed for the best show possible. Luckily, we’re about five tributes away from that situation. For now, I remind myself.

“So…we go hunting tomorrow,” I conclude.

Violet is drawing patterns in the sand, not really listening. “Sure.”

Remus and Jett put out the fire and Ambrose packs up the remaining goose pieces. I offer to keep watch first, because playing guard isn’t Ambrose’s strength and I don’t entirely trust Violet. Something about her is off. It would be easier to just shoot her in her sleep tonight. No, I tell myself. Wait for the right moment.

Except Violet doesn’t sleep. She wanders around the sand circle, long after the sun has gone down. Poking the metal plates. Drawing in the sand. Collecting small rocks and pieces of charred wood. Ambrose snores next to Jett and Remus. “Aren’t you tired?” I ask her eventually.

Violet doesn’t answer. She just continues her little routine, moving from metal plate to metal plate, spinning in circles. She even catches a tiny frog that hops through the sand, and cradles it against her chest. When exhaustion starts tugging my eyelids, I wake Jett.

The last thing I remember is Severna’s breathing against my face.