Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part One: The Past

Chapter 1: DESTINY DOESN’T WAIT

I can’t say much about the first sensations that reach me upon waking. The soft touch of the pillows against my skin, the cozy warmth under the blankets, and how hard it is to open my eyes each morning are anything but normal. I’ve always been a great dreamer, and not just because I love to sleep —which I do— but also because I keep dreaming of the day my family won’t have to struggle so hard to stay afloat in this commercial zone.

I groan, annoyed by the morning light sneaking through the window, the birds singing outside, and the slight dampness that brushes against my dry lips. I know I should get up, drink some water, and go to the bathroom if possible, but the fatigue of the week hits me like a hammer. I barely manage to gather the strength to open my eyes and fix them on a spot on the wall.

Slowly, almost as if it were a celestial joke, the platinum-colored clouds still hanging in the sky begin to clear. Oh, right… I remembered now that it had rained heavily the night before. The good thing is that at least we had enough water to avoid depending on the government’s supply; after all, my father, a genius craftsman, had been the one to install the water tank on the roof years ago. The bad thing was that the district’s streets would be covered in mud up to the ankles.

Unintentionally, a deep sigh escapes my lips.

As the sun’s rays grow stronger, I let my mind wander. Exactly a year and a day ago I turned sixteen. Yesterday, I turned seventeen.

What a shame. I wish I’d been born on any other day. Besides one other poor wretch, I don’t know anyone who’s had such bad luck from the start.

Resigned to fate, I close my eyes for a moment before throwing the covers aside. The cold hits me immediately, forcing me to wake up once and for all.

I have to begin the day.

In the end, it’s not as if I can do much about it. Putting in the effort is the only thing I have left these days… even more so since that time when Dad went out to buy meat for my birthday… and didn’t make it back before sunset. Or any sunset after that.

“Brother, it’s cold… cover me again,” a delicate, sweet voice banishes me from my deepest thoughts, making me lower my head. Then I see it: golden hair, shining, the same color as mine, peeking out from beneath the blankets.

A small smile escapes the corner of my lips.

“Or else what, you spoiled little brat?” I murmur, slowly leaning closer to the ball of hair that snuck into my bed last night without me noticing. “Are you going to tell Mom on me?” I tease as I gently grab her shoulders. She shivers at the touch and tries not to laugh.

“I’ll tell Mom,” she answers lazily, not even showing her face from behind her messy hair.

I can’t help but smile wider. These moments are one of my few joys, so, seizing the good mood, I look at her mischievously.

“Oh yeah? Then I’ll take the risk!” I pounce on her, tickling her armpits and neck until she squirms uncontrollably.

She, three times smaller than me, struggles in vain to break free. All she manages is to make me laugh along with her as I hug her affectionately.

A while later, amid laughter and play, I settle beside her. I pull her close to my chest, feeling her warmth and comforting presence… that stability I can count on every morning.

I lower my gaze toward the little troublemaker responsible for me being late to work. She looks back at me with those enormous green eyes full of light, still smiling brightly.

That ten-year-old girl is Liora Vale, my younger sister. Her eyes, big like lucky clovers, shine with curiosity and tenderness. Her blonde hair glimmers in the morning light, and her skin looks like porcelain. But no matter how much I pinch her cheeks, they never seem close to breaking.

“Good morning, brat,” I smile warmly as I kiss her forehead.

She just giggles, leaving us wrapped in that brief moment of familiarity and comfort I treasure so much.

“Good morning, Caelan!”

Yes, that’s my name. Caelan Vale. My family has been part of the merchants’ guild for generations, though lately we barely manage to keep the business afloat. Beyond personal requests or pickaxe repairs for the mines, blacksmithing is as broad as it is demanding.

I spent a little more time with my dear sister before finally deciding to get out of bed. The cold today doesn’t matter much. Neither do the morning chores. I don’t have to worry about school today, since this particular day lets me sleep in a little. But aside from that, there isn’t much else I’d call pleasant.

I couldn’t help but roll onto my back before finally standing and putting on the same pants I’ve worn for at least three years. I’ve grown so much in the last year that now they end above my ankles. At least the boots I got by trading a quality pick and three rabbits protect me from the cold and the muddy puddles covering the streets outside.

I blew into my hands, making sure no steam came out. If there isn’t, it means no one will freeze to death at home… today. Though it’s the beginning of spring, winter’s cold still clings stubbornly. But there’s little we can do: firewood is expensive, and the coal we buy goes straight to the forge. We only use some at home when we can’t endure it anymore… or when I fear Liora might get sick.

I put on a worn black shirt, so thin it feels like a mockery. Over time it’s frayed so much that, if not for the dye still clinging to it, it would probably be completely colorless. Even so, there’s one thing I do keep with care: a precious garment I inherited from my father before his death.

I turned toward the bed. Liora had already fallen back asleep, wrapped in the blankets she dragged with her last night. I couldn’t help but smile. She was half uncovered, so I gently pulled the covers over her again. Please, don’t let her get sick.

The birds were singing, sunlight spilled through the window, and although the golden glow on my sister’s hair created a beautiful image, I felt a weight pressing on my chest. I kept staring at her for a long while, unable to bear the idea that, in just two years, she’d have to face what my friends and I are about to endure today.

I stroked her head tenderly, maybe trying to calm my racing heart… or to suppress that trembling thought forming on my tongue.

It’s been fifty years since the revolution of the thirteen districts failed. As punishment, District 13 was annihilated and the rest subjected to a cruel tradition: the Hunger Games, created by the Capitol to remind everyone of the price of rebellion.

Fifty years since that bloody, pointless end. Today, just the day after my birthday, the Reaping takes place. The day when two youths —a boy and a girl, between twelve and eighteen— are chosen to take part in this bloody circus.

It’s disgusting. Abominable.

But we in the district can’t do anything. We just accept it.

After a while, I stood from the edge of the bed and let Liora sleep a little longer. She’s not old enough to participate, nor legally required to attend. Let her enjoy what’s left of her childhood while she still can.

I walked to the chair near the bed and grabbed my father’s black leather jacket. I threw it over my shoulders, enjoying the deer-hide lining he himself had hunted years ago. I lingered a few seconds, running my hand over the fabric, lost in nostalgia, remembering how much I miss his hugs… even his scoldings.

Only when the neighbor’s rooster crowed outside the window did I snap back.

Yes… this is District 12.

The place where we mine coal for the Capitol. Where people starve and fight to survive every day. We’re the district with the smallest population in all of Panem, living with injustice as if it were routine. Within all that, we’re “lucky” to live in the commercial zone. Those in the Seam have it much worse, I’m sure of it.

I carefully descended the stairs, letting my steps echo in the silent house until I reached the first floor, where we usually tend to customers. At that exact moment, my mother was talking to a man who, judging by his dirty clothes, soot-blackened cheeks, and the overalls he wore, could only be a miner. He was negotiating the repair of a pickaxe lying on the counter.

On the other side, arms crossed and shaking her head, stood my mother. A woman who looks terribly like Liora, though her eyes are honey-colored instead of green, and her skin shows the wear of years with deep lines and dark circles under her gaze.

I chuckled inwardly.

Yeah, I probably don’t look much better.

Finally, she saw me from behind the counter and gave me a warm smile, with that steady, contained energy only a woman like her could hold, even amid so much exhaustion.

“Good morning. There are rice balls in the dining room,” she said with a wink.

“Thanks, Mom.”

It didn’t take me long to find a plate with three rice balls, covered in a thick sauce that, honestly, looked at least two months old. I couldn’t help but think of food poisoning… but knowing the effort she must have put into making it, I forced myself to take a bite.

It wasn’t the best food in the world. Not even close. But knowing my mother had prepared it was enough to make it taste like glory. I know perfectly well there’s no better mother in this world. As I savored the strange mix of rice and sauce, I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the wild turkey I hunted yesterday. It wasn’t very big, not enough to sell in parts, but large enough to feed the four of us at home. I’d brought it for that purpose.

I wonder where it is…

“You can leave early today,” my mother said, interrupting my thoughts. “You don’t need to do repairs.”

I looked up quickly, smiling ear to ear. That was great! Normally I’d work until sunset at the forge, and although I expected a half day because of the Reaping, I hadn’t thought she’d give me the whole day off.

I grinned like a child allowed to play in the rain. She let out a quiet laugh and kissed my forehead just before I darted out the shop’s door, heading for the woods. The same woods I sneak into on weekends, or, with some luck, in the afternoons when the few clients we have don’t bring in the largest pickaxes I’ve ever seen in my life (and I’m not exaggerating: some are easily the size of my torso).

And they’re made of terrible material, barely lasting a few weeks, and reforging them is a headache of Olympic proportions. Tedious, slow, frustrating.

We should charge more… but if we did, no one would hire us.

What a piece of crap.

Damn it, now I wanted another turkey. But, given the current situation, maybe the best idea would be to take it to the Hob, that old coal container turned black market, and sell it in parts. I could trade it for something decent, maybe enough for an extravagant dinner. A small luxury in honor of the hard times we’ve endured together as a family.

Yes, that sounded like a good idea.

Maybe I should worry a bit about the Peacekeepers. You know, since all of this is illegal and all. But they’re usually not a big problem… as long as you don’t mess with them directly or commit a crime that’s too visible. No rebellious acts, of course. And much less standing out for the wrong reasons. Believe me, you don’t want one of them fixating on you. There’s no way to come out of that unscathed.

Although, fun fact: apparently the commander really likes turkey breast. They say he pays quite well for it.

I couldn’t help but laugh, trying to shake those thoughts away. I reminded myself that, in the end, those men in white uniforms with rifles are people too.

But the longer time goes on, the more I see what they do… the harder it is to believe.

I frown just thinking about it. After all, my father is living proof of what they’re capable of.

I shake my head. There’s no point tormenting myself further.

My feet move on their own, almost by instinct. They know the terrain, every stone and corner. It doesn’t matter if the ground is slippery or if the mud reaches my ankles, I know how to move. Within minutes, I’m already at the district’s edge.

There’s the metal fence, about two or three meters tall. Supposedly always electrified —they say it’s to keep predators and other dangers out— though we all know its real purpose is to keep us in. Old, rusted signs warn with words long illegible, from our great-grandparents’ time. And when the fence really is active, you hear the unmistakable buzz of electricity running through the wires.

It looks tricky to cross, but it’s not so bad.

Power goes out constantly in the District. Most of the day the fence has no current, so I’ve learned to crawl underneath, through a gap between the rusty base and the loose soil. Once on the other side, I sprint through the brush until I reach the freedom of the trees.

The forest borders the district, and although it’s strictly forbidden to enter, it’s an open secret that many of us do.

Maybe I knew it thanks to my father… or maybe I would’ve discovered it anyway, with the help of my friends. Many of them also like wasting time among these trees.

Although, well… hunting isn’t exactly a waste of time.

Once on the other side, I wander into the trees and rummage through the old hiding spots my father showed me over the years. I find a bow, already worn from use, a small bundle of arrows wrapped in weathered leather, and a medium-sized hatchet. Perfect for butchering animals or skinning them, though it all depends on how accurate my arrow is. Damage the pelt, and the value drops. Simple.

Setting that aside, I begin moving slowly through the forest. My worn boots, along with the careful steps I take, leave no trace. My movements are silent, velvety. I always make sure to stay upwind. Animals outmatch us by far in smell; if you don’t control that, you’re lost before you start.

Without the dilemmas of illegal hunting —or the damn reminder that today is Reaping Day— you could say this forest, which has seen me grow up for as long as I can remember, is truly beautiful. Water runs free among the stones. Trees rise majestically, covering the sky with their foliage. Branches creak under the weight of mockingjays, while dry leaves whisper old stories under my feet.

I stop beside a huge oak, leaning my back against its bark. From there, I watch a squirrel moving along the branches. It’s not much —one squirrel isn’t enough to feed everyone— but it looks big enough to fill one or two stomachs.

And that, these days, is already tempting.

I slide the bow off my back and take an arrow. With the automatic gesture of someone who has done this a thousand times, I set it on the string and pull back hard, feeling my back muscles respond to the tension. I breathe slowly. Visualize the trajectory. It’s not science… it’s memory. Instinct.

Release.

The arrow flies at precise speed, slicing the air until it sinks into the animal’s eye. I don’t need to check to confirm. The squirrel falls like a stone, dead before it hits the ground.

I lower the bow and run to it. I pick it up carefully in my hands. Its fur is soft, still warm. The arrow entered clean, without piercing through. That’s good: better pelt, intact meat. Increases its value. Those little details make the difference.

Over the years, I’ve perfected my technique. Every mistake corrected, every prey properly used, has meant extra income for my family. More food on the table. Fewer nights with an empty stomach.

You could say… this is the good thing about living in this district.

“Seems you finally decided to come back,” said a voice behind me.

I startled. It was careless not to keep watch of my surroundings, but knowing who was behind me… it would’ve been stranger if I had noticed. After all, holding second place in the unofficial ranking of best hunters in the district is him: the boy now laughing at me with his usual playful tone.

My dear friend: Burdock Eveerden.

I met him more than ten years ago. Our parents were close, mostly because of the multiple business dealings that involved the miners’ picks. That was one of the reasons the family business survived even after my father’s death: the contacts and the affection people in the district had for him were what kept us standing.

I smile back at him and toss a little twig I had in my hand, straight at his face.

“Hey! Don’t do that, you know I don’t like getting hurt.”

“Come on, it’s not like you had much to take care of in the first place,” I reply, holding back a laugh.

“Well, sorry, not all of us are Prince Charming,” he snorts, giving me a gentle shove with his shoulder.

I can’t help but laugh. It’s impossible not to. It’s no mystery that I’m not exactly handsome or attractive. If you don’t believe me, ask Haymitch, that bastard who, just by crossing paths once with the love of his life, ended up her boyfriend.

What envy I have for him.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Burdi,” I mutter as I rise from my crouched position. I pull the arrow from the squirrel’s eye and tuck it into the light bag slung over my shoulder. It weighs nothing. Pure hide, clean meat.

“You should care about yourself a bit more, Caelan.”

I glance at him sideways and shake my head. Better to change the subject.

“So, how’s it going with Asterid? Any chance?”

Just mentioning the most beautiful girl in the merchant district makes him blush. It’s no secret that Burdock has a crush on her. Unfortunately, it’s also one of those impossible loves everyone knows won’t go anywhere.

Ah, friend… You have about the same odds as the rebels fifty years ago against the Capitol.

He laughs nervously, and I finally stop teasing him.

We spend a good while hunting together. It’s our way of clearing our minds from reality. To forget, at least for a little while, what today means. Besides, with luck, we could earn a few coins or get enough food for a couple of days.

Despite the stigma surrounding the merchant district folks—that they have more money, that they don’t get their hands dirty—the truth is I’m in no position to waste opportunities.

I really can’t.

Leaving that aside, time went quickly, and before we realized it, we had six squirrels, four crows, more than two handfuls of wild berries, and a few medicinal herbs I could later trade at the Marchs’ pharmacy for some money before heading home.

Before I could finish separating the skins/feathers from the meat, I heard heavy footsteps behind me. I turned and saw a boy about my age, dark-haired and relatively tanned. If I had to say whether he leaned more toward scrawny or overly muscular, I’d place him somewhere in between.

Though that didn’t take away the sly, troublemaker look on his face.

“Well, look who we’ve got here… my favorite bartender,” I say with a crooked smile.

I stand up from the ground and shake his hand.

“You can’t say much. We haven’t seen you around here in days,” says Haymitch.

“Well, I have to mind the shop and forge whatever needs forging. It’s not like I can do much about that,” I reply in a resigned tone.

Haymitch can’t help but chuckle under his breath. My worries may seem trivial compared to the people in the Seam, and maybe he’s right, so I don’t say more on the matter.

They say the Abernathys have rebellion in their blood, that they constantly get into trouble because of it, and that one way or another, they always end up tangled in schemes and dilemmas. But honestly, I don’t know much about that. I only know Haymitch, his brother, and his mother, and the three don’t strike me as that type.

Not that I despise rebels. On the contrary, I admire them… quite a lot.

“Yeah, whatever you say, Vale,” Haymitch answers, as if he knows more than he lets on.

We don’t say much else. We both know I’m not in the best financial situation. And it’s not like we were doing well before my father’s death… only that, inevitably, things got worse afterward.

“Hey, by the way, want to hear something? I’ve been practicing a new song lately,” Burdock interrupts after a while of conversation. Apparently, he wants to catch us up.

And then he sings. His voice doesn’t sound even the slightest bit off-key. And as if the mockingjays were listening to their master, they echo the same melodies that just left his mouth.

Damn. Every time I hear him, it’s unbelievable.

“Stop showing off your voice,” I complain, bumping him with my shoulder.

“Yeah, please, understand that some of us have the talent of doing absolutely nothing,” adds Haymitch, with a tone of mock indignation.

But before we could keep complaining about our friend’s talent, we heard a voice protesting from above.

“Who’s squawking at my birds?” demands a female voice.

Everyone in the area knew who it was. Even more so Haymitch, who looks at her with those shining eyes, typical of someone utterly smitten. No matter how much I think about it, it’s impossible to imagine those two ever parting ways. I hope they marry and have a beautiful family.

They’re my friends. I can’t help but wish a good future for them.

And there she was, about twenty feet up, sprawled on a branch as if she lived there. Crooked pigtails, dirty bare feet, munching on an apple while holding a little cloth-bound book in her hand.

Burdock tilted his head and laughed.

“Hi, cousin. They let you be here alone? Surely not,” Burdock said.

“Well, I haven’t seen you.”

“Nor I you. Toss us a few, will you?”

In response, the girl stood on a thick branch of the tree and began bouncing on it over and over. It wouldn’t be strange to say it literally rained apples, which we quickly divided evenly among the three of us. Not much, but enough to feed us for a few days.

That was excellent.

I didn’t hesitate to pull out the sack I carried with my bow and start packing my share, while Burdock ran off to grab his. We both used the same kind of weapon, but in terms of care, I win. Who leaves their most prized possession lying around? Well… when only we pass through here, I guess it’s normal to trust like that.

While Burdock ran off, the girl climbed down the branches and jumped to the ground. She wasn’t one of Burdock Everdeen’s direct cousins, though I’d heard she had some distant ones on her mother’s side. I’d seen her at school and she seemed shy, but that was hardly reason enough to start a conversation. She didn’t seem in a hurry to either, and just stood there, planted, looking between Haymitch and me… until I broke the silence.

“Well, all right. I’m off,” I said, looking up at the sky. The promised time was near.

They both smiled at me in thanks. Apparently, the couple wanted to spend some time alone. Funny thing: Lenore Dove has my same surname on her father’s side, but doesn’t use it, and we’re not related at all. We only share the name, which is rare in a district as small as 12. We don’t even look alike: she has tanned skin and dark hair, like her eyes. More similar to Haymitch than to me, so… nothing to do with me.

Anyway. Not like I could do much else.

I said goodbye to the lovebirds and headed straight for the Hob to trade my game for something useful for the future. I retraced the same paths I’d entered through, hid my weapons from potential thieves, slipped under the fence, and went directly to the Hob.

Once again, my steps led me to that old warehouse within minutes. The smell of the place was unmistakable: a pungent mix of damp mud, aged wood, and dead charcoal that seemed to have soaked into the walls over the years. Dust swirled in the beams of sunlight, and the soot clinging to the old storage sheds painted black the few surfaces still standing. I wasn’t entirely sure, but I knew this place had served for years as a kind of black market, working as a trading spot for both peacekeepers and district folk.

Ignoring the sensations that overwhelmed me and the suffocating familiarity of the place, I politely greeted some people, smiling and wishing them good afternoon. It’s not like that’s the rule here—actually, it’s pretty rare in our district—but it’s something my father taught me growing up.

Greet people, wish them a good day and the best of luck. You don’t have to do it out of obligation; it’s enough to show the best version of yourself. But if a simple smile can brighten someone’s day, why not offer it? Sometimes the smallest gesture of courtesy is all someone needs to keep going.

Still, I couldn’t help but feel happy… or at least, relatively happy (as much as possible in this district). For the people who, thanks to this place, could eat or at least make it through the day. Not to mention the peacekeepers who turned a blind eye to places like this. Normally, the Capitol would forbid markets like these, either destroying them or imposing fines no one here could pay. But, as is obvious, since this is a black market, it doesn’t pay taxes. That makes it illegal, sure, but also much more accessible to everyone.

And that’s why the peacekeepers tolerate it. They benefit from it too. I don’t know if they do it out of cynicism or sheer indifference, but the truth is they’re here, trading like anyone else (of course, with certain perks). And as long as that continues, this place will probably stand.

At least until the commander in charge gets replaced.
But for something like that to happen, something really serious would have to occur, and I didn’t expect to live long enough to know what caused such a thing in the first place.

Shaking off my thoughts, I moved quickly among the familiar people working and hanging around this place.

First of all, I stopped by Greasy Sae’s food stall. She stirred a huge steel pot cooking some kind of thick stew, full of undefined ingredients I preferred not to ask too many questions about… especially when bubbles rose to the surface with noises and movements that were, to say the least, suspicious. Even so, the smell was surprisingly appetizing, making it a walking contradiction.

The important thing wasn’t so much the contents of the pot, but the woman behind it. Greasy Sae often bought squirrel meat or even crow meat from me at a good price—at least compared to what the rest of the people here offered, or worse, the peacekeepers themselves. She knew how to value the effort it took to hunt beyond the district limits, and that, in a place like this, was worth more than any Capitol coin.

Not like I had anyone to complain to about it.

“Good day, boy. I see it was a good harvest,” Greasy Sae told me with a sly smile.

I laughed at her attempt at a joke. It wasn’t rare for her to try and lighten the mood, especially on days like this.

“Do I really look that bad?” I replied as I pulled the canvas bag from my backpack and handed it over.

She liked to receive crows that way, well-hidden, so the peacekeepers who usually patrolled around couldn’t easily identify what people were really eating. Once I asked if she wasn’t worried about that, and she just shrugged, showing me a smile missing several teeth, while saying:

“Crow meat or deer meat… it’s all the same when it all goes in the soup. It all tastes the same.” She winked and, as she often did, slipped me a few extra coins to secure my silence.

As far as I was concerned, more than fine. It was extra money for my family.

“Just a bit,” she said, pulling me from my thoughts as she opened the bag, examined the contents, and nodded in satisfaction.

“Don’t worry,” she added, “you’ve only got a few more years left before you’re out. Just be patient.”

Then she pulled a small leather pouch from somewhere in her apron and tossed it at me without warning. I caught it clumsily, surprised by the weight. Heavier than expected.

When I opened it, I couldn’t help but freeze: there were far more coins than she owed me. Far more.

I looked at her, confused, but before I could say a word, she gave me that same toothy grin of hers.

“What are you staring at, boy? Go on! You’ve got better things to do.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I didn’t want her to notice the emotion tightening my chest. I only nodded silently, turned around, and nearly jogged off toward the merchant district, where my next customers awaited.

Still, a genuine, quiet smile crept onto my face. It wasn’t much… but on days like this, that gesture meant everything.

Before I knew it, I’d arrived at the merchant district. It was a place far busier than other parts of the district, though this time it seemed even more agitated than usual. Unlike the Seam, here there were plenty of light-haired people, like me—a characteristic trait of this part.

Despite being a “better” area, the truth was there weren’t even paved streets, not even cobbled. Mud covered everything, like the rest of the district. It was almost like an inevitable fate.

I remembered these places perfectly; I’d walked them my whole life, hand in hand with my father. He was the one who taught me to use the bow, the axe, to forge metal, and to survive. The one responsible for preparing me with the skills I’d need to care for my family if tragedy ever struck.

Without a doubt, he was a great man.

Before I realized it, I was already standing in front of the Mellark bakery. The mother of that family often bought squirrels from me in exchange for a loaf or two, depending on how well the meat was preserved.

It wasn’t hard to know when you were approaching: the distinctive smell of freshly baked pastries filled the air, warm and inviting, and a light mist of steam rose from the chimney, making my mouth water.

I could bet they were one of the families that ate best in the district. They had a steady food source and, as long as business went well, they could keep producing without interruption. After all, their frequent customers were the mayor and his family, the peacekeepers, and on rare occasions, a Capitol official.

In short, they were some of the few lucky ones who could eat regularly.

I knocked on the door three times. I heard voices on the other side, conversations mingling with the sounds of work, until footsteps approached. When the door opened, a familiar figure appeared before me.

“Otho,” I greeted.

“Caelan,” he replied with a nod of recognition, his eyes drifting to the canvas bag hanging at my side. He studied it for a moment and then nodded, immediately understanding.

“Wait a moment. I’ll call my mother,” he said, smiling faintly before turning back and walking into the shop.

Otho Mellark. Burdock’s romantic rival. He had features quite similar to mine; we could even pass for cousins, with the difference that he was slightly taller and our eyes didn’t match.

Still, I always liked him. I had seen him a few times at school, though he barely spoke or made moves toward his crush. He didn’t seem too concerned about it either, which might cost him dearly.

Shortly after, an older woman appeared, gray streaks running through her tired hair, though her eyes were incredibly gentle. She was the one who usually traded me bread for squirrels.

“Good afternoon, sweetheart. Did you bring me the usual?” she asked with a warm smile.

I returned her smile as I handed her the bag of squirrels. She took it with practiced ease, opened it, and began counting the animals.

“Wonderful,” she said, visibly pleased. “Every time I see these squirrels, I know you had an excellent teacher.”

Her words caught me off guard, leaving me a little uneasy with my own thoughts. According to my mother, in her youth, Mrs. Mellark had once been interested in my father, but he chose my mother instead of her.

Following that logic, shouldn’t she hold some sort of grudge against us? And yet, she always treated me kindly. It was strange, but comforting.

She gladly accepted the squirrels, smaller and more common animals than turkeys or deer, though the latter were far more valuable and difficult to bring back to the district.

I thanked her with a nod, and she handed me another bag, still warm. Freshly baked bread. I couldn’t help but smile, and that expression seemed to please her enormously, in a way I couldn’t quite understand.

Inside the bag, I found three loaves of bread. I was about to thank her when she suddenly took me by the shoulders and gently pushed me away, toward the heart of the district.

“Go on, you need to be with your family on days like this. Don’t miss the chance.”

She ruffled my hair affectionately, took a few steps back, looked at me as if she were seeing someone else—her eyes even seemed to glisten—before disappearing back into the bakery.

Yes, it was strange. But I couldn’t help feeling deeply grateful.

I tucked the loaves into my pack and jogged toward one of my last stops. I still had a few herbs to trade, and with luck, this time the payment would be in coin, which, along with the burner, might even make for a surprise. I still had time, maybe about an hour.

The air was heavy, no breeze to clear it, which meant a storm was coming. My stomach churned at the sight of the square plastered with posters and swarming with Peacekeepers, their white uniforms and weapons ever-present.

Lately, the slogan had been “If there is no peace,” and we were bombarded with it everywhere:

IF THERE IS NO PEACE, THERE IS NO BREAD! IF THERE IS NO PEACE, THERE IS NO SECURITY! IF THERE ARE NO PEACEKEEPERS, THERE IS NO PEACE! IF THERE IS NO CAPITOL, THERE IS NO PEACE!

Hanging behind the temporary stage in front of the Justice Building was a massive banner with President Snow’s face and the words “PANEM’S GREATEST PEACEKEEPER.” To be honest, sometimes I thought that man loved himself in a wildly disproportionate way. Of course, if I ever said that in public, I might not live to see the next day, so I kept my mouth shut.

At the back of the square, Peacekeepers were marking where the reaping participants would stand. The line where I was heading was short, or nearly nonexistent, so I could get it over with quickly.

The apothecary had a Panem flag hanging in the window, which unsettled me a little. Still, it was where I’d get the best deal for my medicinal herbs. Inside, the strong smell of chemicals stung my nose. It clashed with the faint, sweet scent of chamomile flowers waiting in a jar to be brewed into tea and medicine. I knew Burdock had gathered them in the woods. He’d recently started adding herbs to his hunting after seeing me do the same.

The shop was empty except for my classmate and neighbor, Asterid March, arranging tiny bottles on a shelf behind the counter. A long blonde braid hung down her back, though the humid heat had freed a few strands that framed her perfect face. Asterid was the beauty of town—and wealthy (as, supposedly, I was too)—compared to most of District 12’s residents.

Haymitch used to tease her about it until once, when I accompanied her to the Seam to treat a neighbor who’d been whipped for talking back to a Peacekeeper. She carried an ointment she had prepared herself and then made us leave quietly, without mentioning payment. Since then, she had been the person people turned to whenever a loved one suffered under the lash. I supposed Asterid had more substance than people gave her credit for.

And as everyone already knew, Burdock was crazy about her. That was why I had played mediator between them on more than one occasion. Though, to be honest, my friend had about as much chance with Asterid as a mockingjay with a swan. Town girls rarely married Seam boys, unless something truly extraordinary happened. But I honestly hoped those two would make it work—they were both my friends, after all.

“Asterid, good morning. How are you?” I greeted her warmly as we hugged across the counter. We had known each other since we were very young, so it was no wonder we got along fairly well. The strange thing would have been if we didn’t.

After a moment, we pulled apart, only for her to give me a scrutinizing look.

“Caelan, didn’t you tidy yourself up? It’s almost time for the reaping.”

“Yes, yes. Oh, by the way, look what I brought for you.” I placed several small bags of different herbs on the table. She smiled in delight, though her expression quickly turned serious.

“Are you trying to change the subject?”

“Not at all. And by the way, it would help me a lot if you could pay me in coin, you know how things are around here.” I winked playfully, earning a sigh full of disbelief.

“You and your ways.”

“Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?”

“Take it however you want,” she replied, finally pulling money from beneath the counter, counting it, and handing it to me. I counted quickly and knew it was right. Everything was in order, so I tucked the coins into my pocket.

“Thanks, dear. I’ll see you this afternoon, if all goes well.”

“Don’t say that. You know the reaping makes me nervous.”

“Come on, it’s not that bad. I’m sure we’ll all be fine.” The truth was I didn’t know. I was barely educated enough to work as a miner and poacher, but it was better to say this than doom us all aloud.

Thankfully, she couldn’t read my mind. After hearing my words, her mood brightened, and she gave me a smile, calmer than before.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she said with a nod. In the end, I bid her farewell and headed for the door, only to pause when I noticed the Panem flag in the window again. Just looking at it turned my stomach.

“We didn’t want to put it up. The Peacekeepers insisted.”

What would they have done if they hadn’t complied? Smashed the shop? Shut it down forever? Probably both, if they could. My mother and I had suffered the same, year after year. I understood perfectly.

“So, you had no choice.” I turned back to her, only to notice a chamomile flower resting delicately in her hair. I smiled, amused, and she seemed to notice.

“What? If you want, I can give you one. They say they bring good luck,” she said, a bit shyly as she touched her hair.

“Who says that? Burdock?” I asked, watching her blush.

Well, it seemed my matchmaking efforts were paying off. Maybe I had miscalculated my friend’s odds.

“Maybe it was him, I don’t remember,” she replied.

“Well, we could all use a little luck today.”

I looked down at my feet, shaking my head. Since this morning, something inside me told me something strange was going to happen, and I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling. My errands had kept me distracted for now, but the closer the reaping drew, the sicker I felt.

“Caelan, are you all right?” Asterid’s voice pulled me back to the present. I smiled to ease her worry.

“Yes, don’t worry. You look even more beautiful with the flower, dear. Don’t doubt it.”

She fell silent for a moment before speaking again as I stepped toward the door.

“Don’t you want a flower for yourself? Like you said, maybe we all need luck today.”

I hesitated briefly, then shook my head.

“You know how I am. I don’t believe in superstitions. See you later. We’ll meet again after.”

She gave me only a sad smile and nodded.

Without another word, I left the shop, the chime of the bell ringing behind me. I quieted the intrusive thoughts running through my head, trying to silence them and let myself be carried by the moment.

Finally, after a few minutes, I reached the Donner sweet shop, just a few steps from the apothecary. This time it wasn’t Mr. Donner behind the counter, but Merrilee Donner, who was in my class. She greeted me in a brand-new pink dress with matching ribbons woven into her dark blonde hair. No one would catch the Donners looking shabby, especially on a day like today.

I smiled at her warmly.

“Mery! How are you? You look beautiful today,” I said cheerfully, hugging her over the counter.

The Donners and the Vales had been close for generations. Some even said our friendship dated back before the institution of the reaping. Whether true or not, we had always gotten along well. It was inevitable when your parents never stopped talking after work.

“Thank you! My mom helped me pick out the ribbons. She says they match my hair,” she replied with a soft laugh.

“Your mother has good taste. I don’t think anything could suit you better,” I said, pulling out my money pouch and counting the coins for the purchase. I knew the price by heart.

“My mom’s the best.”

“Not better than mine,” I said, shaking my head with a grin. Despite the years, Mery hadn’t changed much, so different from her twin sister.

“Whatever you say, princess,” I teased as I handed her the coins, already counted. Without even checking them, she asked:

“The usual?” I nodded.

“The usual.”

She pulled out a small white paper bag she had already prepared under the counter and handed it to me delicately.

“Thank you,” I said, opening the bag to peek inside.

“You’re welcome, you’re one of our best customers,” she replied with a smile.

I couldn’t help smiling too, seeing the little marshmallows inside, colored from soft blue to pale red. They were Liora’s favorite. She swore each color had a different flavor. To me, they all tasted the same, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was seeing her smile. That expression could brighten my entire day. Over time, it became a custom: at least once a week, I bought her these sweets. You could call it brotherly affection.

“Caelan…”

“Yes?” I looked up at the sound of her voice, seeing only the worried face of a sweet girl I had known since childhood. Something inside my chest softened at the sight. Without another word, I stepped closer, and we embraced across the counter.

“It’s all right, it’s fine, we’ll be okay.” I whispered empty words into her ear as I gently stroked her back. Her behavior before every reaping had worsened over the years.

Sometimes it was her screams that woke me in the mornings. Other times, her sobs filled the classrooms. To me, she was like another sister, only older. And as a brother, I felt I had to protect her, calm her, even if just a little.

After all, little Mery had a sister who would also be in the reaping. It wasn’t just her life at stake. Not like me—I had at least two more years before another member of my family would enter this twisted lottery. And to make matters worse, it was her twin sister.

If my sister were at risk of vanishing forever in just a few hours, I wouldn’t be able to help feeling the same.

A few minutes passed, my hands soothing her back, warming and comforting her, somehow calming her down. Her quiet sobs grew softer, the frequency lessening, until she finally steadied herself.

“Feeling better now, Mary? Do you need anything else?” She slowly lifted her head from my chest, shaking it softly.

“No, I’m fine,” she said, trying to sound firm. Hard to believe when you’re drying your tears on your dress, your face trembling with each word.

“Good, I’m glad,” I told her, gently stepping back to give her space to compose herself. I noticed her cheeks flush slightly, perhaps because even from inside the shop, people outside had stopped to watch through the window, curious about the scene.

She patted the skirt of her new dress a couple of times, regaining her composure, so I decided to help her dignity by changing the subject.

“How’s Meysi? Getting ready?” I asked, to which she nodded.

“Yes, apparently she stayed longer in the workshop with my father, so she’ll take a while.”

I glanced at the sunlight streaming through the shop window. I’d better hurry.

“I see,” I said, adjusting my pack. “I have to get ready too.”

“Wait!” she grabbed my arm, making me turn, though she quickly let go. Without another word, she fumbled in her skirt pocket and pulled out a small object. I glanced at it—it looked like a locket.

She walked slowly toward me, nervous, unsure whether to meet my eyes or not, until she finally stopped in front of me, took my hand, and placed the pendant in my palm with more force than necessary.

“It’s your birthday gift. From all of us.” Said like that, it’s impossible to refuse. There’s something solemn in her voice that forces me into silence. I lower my gaze and study the pendant more carefully, the craftsmanship was remarkable.

It’s a kind of necklace: a circular medallion, finely worked, that at first glance looks much more valuable than it must actually be. The outer edge, a muted golden hue, tightly frames the figure of a tree whose trunk rises from the center. The most striking part is the roots and branches: they don’t stay confined within the circle, but weave into the frame, as if trying to cling to it.

The roots coil downward, stretching with force until they merge with the medallion’s lower rim, as though trying to anchor themselves to the world. In contrast, the branches curve upward, and some even break past the boundary of the circle to tangle with the top, creating a harmonious, almost living image of something entirely held in balance.

A dark, sturdy cord discreetly emerges from one of the upper branches, ready to place the pendant around my neck.

I know it isn’t gold—not that it matters. It’s probably copper, maybe even iron. But that’s irrelevant. What truly moves me is the intention behind the gift. My heartbeat quickens. I press the pendant to my chest with my hand.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Mery smiles, satisfied.

“You’re welcome.”

Without saying another word, I leave the shop, walking quickly toward home. This time, with a new decoration hanging from my neck. As my steps carry me forward, I can’t avoid colliding once more with reality.

In less than an hour, everything would begin.

I reached home and greeted my little sister with a kiss on her forehead. She was finishing drying off with Mother’s help after a shower. She would probably cling to Mom’s hand for the duration of the Reaping.

“Son, you should bathe,” said my mother, as dear as always, placing her hand gently on my face. She looked at me with that tenderness of hers that always overflows the heart. “You look tired. Go on, relax for a while.”

I can’t ignore her words. Soon after, I’m already immersed in the tub with the hot water we usually save for especially hard days. Steam rises around me, easily fogging my weary sight. I lean back, close my eyes, and let the heat envelop me. For a moment, I stare at the bathroom ceiling and lose myself in memories: the jokes with my father as we prepared for the Reaping, his humor, his character, even his thick but always well-kept beard. All of it still alive in my mind.

When I snap out of my reverie, the water has already turned cold and the steam no longer rises from it. I stand and begin to get ready, wearing an old outfit as I used to on these days—at least until Mother enters with a set of new clothes, neatly folded in her arms.

“Happy birthday, son. Sorry for the delay.” I smile at her, fighting back tears at the sight of the gift. The clothes looked completely new. It must have taken her great effort to get something like this, especially considering what we’ve been through lately. In the end, I stop thinking about it and just let her caress my head as she did when I was a child.

“I love you, Mom.”

“And I love you, son.”

I nod, understanding what she’s trying to say. Finally, I put on the new clothes: a crisp beige shirt, simple gray trousers, and brown leather shoes. Once dressed, I looked at myself in the mirror. And, for an instant, I remembered him. My father.

I frowned—it felt strange.

It was likely that Mother had altered Father’s trousers to fit me, as well as the shirt, and bought the shoes, which gleamed brightly, so I saw no need to polish them further.

I studied my hair, noticing how it had fallen after the bath. Normally I would leave it as it was, since that’s how I usually wear it, but today was special. I had to comb it neatly enough for the Capitol. Otherwise, I might end up whipped in the public square for not showing proper respect to their dead. What they never considered was that we lost even more people during those days.

I shook my head. I shouldn’t dwell on that.

With my hair combed to one side and the gifted medallion resting over my shirt, I left my room and headed for the shop’s front door, where Mother and my sister were waiting.

I carefully brushed my hair with an old comb, and once satisfied, I grabbed the other gift I’d left on my bed, placing the medallion Merrilee had given me over my shirt.

I turned toward an object covered with a cloth atop an old box. It was something important, and I had set it there intentionally so I wouldn’t forget it. I picked it up and slipped it into one of my pockets.

Once finished, I stepped out of the room and walked toward the exit, where Mom and Liora were waiting for me at the door.

“You look so handsome, my boy,” said Mom.

“You know I don’t like dressing up like this.”

“Yes, I know. But we have no choice.” She turned as I felt a tug on my trousers. It was Liora, gazing up at me with her wide, sparkling eyes.

“My brother is very handsome, yes!” She looked so happy I couldn’t help but smile. I couldn’t resist kneeling and hugging her tightly, rewarded with her playful giggle. Yes, it’s better for her to stay this way—living in ignorance most of the time is what a parent should want for a child in situations like these.

Two years from now, I’d see her standing in the front row of youth, waiting and praying it wouldn’t be her year. Just remembering how terrified they were last year, wiping tears and snot from their faces, trembling like flies begging not to be chosen, filled me with panic.

I decided it was best to say goodbye as I always did, so I kissed my sister’s soft cheek and handed her the packet of sweets I’d kept for her, which made her bounce like the ball we used to play with during recess at school.

I smiled at her with all the joy I could muster, ruffled her hair, and told her to be careful, not to open to strangers, and above all to wait for us for dinner. She just nodded innocently, leaving my heart much calmer.

Without much else to say, I stood and left through the door, closing behind me the shop I saw every day.

I walked beside Mother, who held Liora’s hand gently, as we made our way to the building where the Reaping took place each year: the Justice Building of District 12, where the mayor resided and where, with a fake smile, this “tradition” was held.

The structure was imposing, built of white marble, though it rarely looked clean. The coal dust, endlessly drifting from the mines, coated it with a grayish layer that they only blasted away with pressured water jets right before the Capitol’s delegation arrived. As if washing it could erase what this day truly meant.

As we neared the square, the crowd thickened, bringing with it noise, tense stares, and the heavy presence of Peacekeepers patrolling the area. Finally, I reached the wide open space I recognized from previous years—the same place where every block of children of different ages lined up, waiting for fate not to claim them this year, clinging desperately to the little hope left in their shrunken hearts. Yes, with this undeniable reality before me, I clearly understood the moment had come.

I took my place in one of the registration lines, and to my surprise, barely fifteen minutes passed before my turn arrived. One of those cold, unpleasant machines pricked my finger, drawing a drop of blood to confirm my data: name, age, district. That was all it needed. Without a word, they shoved me forward and forced me into position among the boys aged fourteen to sixteen, where silence and tension pressed heavier than ever.

Yet, I couldn’t stop myself from lifting my gaze to witness what was forming ahead.

The enormous screens flanking the stage had lit up with the waving flag honoring the Hunger Games. About fifty years ago, the districts rose against the Capitol’s oppression, igniting a bloody civil war in Panem. We lost, and as punishment, on July 4th the districts must send two tributes each, a girl and a boy aged twelve to eighteen, to fight to the death in the arena. Whoever survived was crowned victor.

The Reaping meant drawing the names of those chosen from the glass bowls. Two pens had been roped off, one for the girls and one for the boys. Traditionally, twelve-year-olds stood in the front, and behind them the older kids arranged by age until eighteen. Attendance was mandatory for the whole population, though I knew Mother stood with Liora in the back among the adults, so I didn’t bother searching for her.

Normally, I wouldn’t torment myself with the odds of that woman’s hand pulling a slip with my name, but given my circumstances, I couldn’t help it.

Today, there are twenty-five slips with my name in the Reaping.

Every child automatically gets one for each year they’re eligible, but I had more—I’d had to sign up for tesserae to keep my family fed since Father died.

One tessera provides a ration of canned oil and a sack of flour stamped “Courtesy of the Capitol,” collected monthly at the Justice Building. In exchange, your name goes into that year’s lottery one more time for each tessera you take. And those slips stay with you, adding up.

It’s been twenty months since I began requesting tesserae every month to help my family, two months after Father’s death. Add those twenty to the five automatic slips from my years in the Reaping, and that leaves me with twenty-five slips bearing my name.

But to make matters worse, this year is the Second Quarter Quell, marking the fiftieth anniversary of the Hunger Games. Each district must send double the usual tributes. Which, in my case, feels like having fifty slips in the bowl. And I don’t like my odds.

That’s exactly why Asterid and Merrilee were worried. Neither of them had particularly high odds of being chosen, though if there’s a “bright side” —if such a thing even exists here— their families are far better off than mine. They’d never had to request tesserae, so each of them only had five slips in the glass bowl. Still, five is no small number when the stake is your life.

The crowd kept growing, and I noticed one of the twelve-year-old boys at the front trying to hide his tears. My heart shrank just thinking of Liora.

I wondered if it would be me or Mother who would sit with her someday to explain her role in the Reaping: that she must look presentable, keep her mouth shut, and cause no trouble. Even if the unthinkable happened and her name was called, she’d have to endure it, gather all the courage she could, and walk up to the stage, because resistance was not an option.

After all, if necessary, the Peacekeepers would drag her there, no matter how much she screamed or kicked, so at least one should go with some dignity. And always remember that, whatever happened, her family would love her and be proud of her forever.

And if Liora asked, “But why do I have to do it?” the only answer we could give was, “Because that’s the way things are.”

Ha, Haymitch’s girlfriend, Lenore Dove, would probably hate that last part. But it’s the truth.

“Worried?” said a voice at my side. I didn’t jump; I knew instantly who it was by the sound alone. The King of Rome.

“Very.”

“For the little one?”

“Yes,” I replied, genuinely weighed down by it all. The weight of what was coming pressed into my chest. “For her, and for everything else.”

“I can’t say I don’t understand,” he muttered.

“Sid…” I whispered.

“Yes,” he said, staring straight ahead at the children grouped in their assigned blocks. “It weighs on me just imagining that in two years Sid will be standing there. I don’t know what to think of it, but I can understand your dread.”

Before I could respond, someone bumped our shoulders from behind.

“Happy birthday, idiots.” Just turning around and seeing that “brilliant” grin told me who it was—Burdock, in a threadbare suit, with our friend Blair, who wore a dress shirt inherited from his older brother, three sizes too big for him.

Blair handed each of us a small packet of roasted peanuts, brought from the Capitol’s shop.

“And may all your wishes come true,” he added mockingly.

“Thanks,” we both answered at once, though in different rhythms and tones.

“You didn’t need to dress up for me,” Haymitch said with his crooked smile.

“Really, I appreciate the gifts, guys,” I said sincerely. Then I remembered mine. Earlier I’d grabbed Haymitch’s gift from atop an old box, so without much thought, I dug into my pocket and handed him the cloth-wrapped object.

“Here, consider it my birthday gift to you.” Haymitch, a bit hesitant, began unwrapping the cloth I’d given him, revealing a small metallic object. His eyes—and everyone else’s—widened in surprise.

“A harmonica!” Haymitch exclaimed.

“Are you crazy?” muttered Burdock, dumbfounded.

“Now I feel like my gift is crap.” Blair looked at the peanut bag with regret. I chuckled, a little amused by their reactions, but shook my head to reassure them.

“It was my father’s. He used it when we went into the woods.” Instantly, their expressions shifted from disbelief to concern.

“Caelan, are you sure about this? Maybe—”

“Yes,” I cut him off before he could finish. “The harmonica never meant much to me, and even less to Liora. Besides, I know you’d rather give something like this to your girl than keep it yourself, so consider it also a small gesture of unconditional support for the two of you.”

The three of them went silent for a few seconds. I felt slightly uneasy at the quiet, so I laughed softly to ease the mood.

“Come on, don’t look at me like that. You know I wouldn’t give something like this away if I wasn’t completely sure.” With that, they seemed to snap out of their daze and back into reality.

“Well, at least you’re aware you’re an idiot,” Blair said.

“Yeah, you’ve got to be pretty unlucky to be born a day before and on the very day of the Reaping,” Burdock added, which made me shake my head. Haymitch, on the other hand, kept staring at the harmonica a moment longer, then carefully rewrapped it and tucked it into his pocket.

“Thanks. I’ll be grateful for this all my life.”

“Come on, no need to get dramatic,” I replied with a grin, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “We’re just two idiots with bad luck. The difference is, one of us has salt in his blood, and it’s not me.” Burdock nodded beside us, agreeing.

“He’s the type who thrives on challenges,” he added.

“I just play the hand I’m dealt. But you know what they say: ‘Unlucky in games, lucky in love.’” Haymitch adjusted a chamomile tucked into his shirt pocket. “Hey, look what your girlfriend gave me, Burdie.”

We turned toward where the girls were. Asterid was chatting with Merrilee and her twin sister, Maysilee. The two of them looked as always: beautiful, serene, as if the fear consuming us inside couldn’t touch them.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

“Do your friends know about you two, Everdeen?” Blair asked.

“There’s nothing to know,” he replied with a smile. “At least not yet.”

The loudspeakers suddenly came alive, yanking us back to reality. My eyes wandered for a moment, caught by the light flight of two small birds—mockingjays, perhaps—that danced above us, letting out the occasional trill that, in another context, could sound like joy. They seemed oblivious to all this. Maybe they truly were.

Sometimes the concept of ignorance crosses my mind. It might well be the greatest and most powerful tool humanity has ever had. Parents use it to shield their children from the world, like a massive wall, and the Capitol, vast and relentless as it is, wields it as a weapon of mass destruction.

Naively, we cling to what we think protects us, without realizing it’s just a blindfold that covers our eyes, not ourselves.

The anthem’s recording blared across the square, making my teeth chatter.

Mighty jewel of Panem...
Oh mighty city...

We’re supposed to sing it, but in truth, no one does. We just mumble whatever comes to mind, moving our lips when we think it fits. The massive screens projected the image of the Capitol’s overwhelming power: battalions of Peacekeepers on land, fleets of hovercraft in the sky, tanks parading through the wide Capitol avenues toward the Presidential Mansion. Everything spotless, gleaming, unrealistically beautiful, looking both expensive and deadly.

When the anthem finally ended, Mayor Allister climbed the podium and read the Treaty of Treason, which was, basically, the different terms of surrender from the war.

It wouldn’t be sacrilege to say most of District 12’s residents hadn’t even been born back then, but we paid the price of our ancestors all the same—that much was certain. The mayor tried her hardest to keep a neutral tone, but her distaste was so obvious it’s likely she’d be dismissed soon.

That’s what usually happens to decent mayors.

And sure enough, without much delay, the Capitol’s new arrival appeared: Drusilla Sickle, a woman with a doll-like face (in the worst sense) who “accompanies” us every year through the selection process of our district’s tributes, escorting them to the Hunger Games.

Honestly, I don’t even know how old she is. Her face is so disfigured I can’t guess her age, but it’s known she’s been coming since the first Quarter Quell. Just looking at her gives me chills—the number of pins holding her skin taut around her face makes me want to vomit.

Last year she had the pins decorated with little circular saw blades (maybe to mark how many surgeries she’d had, I don’t know); but this year the theme seemed to be the number fifty, which, I have to say, is in terrible taste. As for the outfit itself, she clearly tried to incorporate the Capitol’s latest fashion trend (which I honestly don’t know), but it looked militaristic and gaudy. The result left much to be desired: the outfit she wore now was a lemon-yellow Peacekeeper jacket matched with thigh-high boots and a top hat with a visor brim. From the top of the hat sprouted a fan of feathers, giving her the look of a deranged daffodil. Even so, no one laughed at how ridiculous she looked, because at that moment she was the face of evil.

Two heavily armed Peacekeepers take their place on either side of the podium, each carrying a giant glass ball filled with the many slips of paper of the tributes. After setting the urns down with a dull thud in their places—

The Russian roulette begins.

“Ladies first,” Drusilla says as she plunges her hand into the ball on the right and pulls out a single slip of paper. “And the lucky one is…” She pauses theatrically, twirls the name between her fingers, and smiles before driving in the knife. “Louella McCoy!”

My insides twist. Louella McCoy lives in the Seam, but I know her through Haymitch, and I know she’s the smartest and bravest thirteen-year-old girl in the world. I don’t need to look at my friend to know he’s shattered by the news, and to be honest, I’m not doing any better.

A murmur of anger ripples through the crowd, and I feel Blair and Burdock tense sharply at my sides when they see Louella climbing the steps to the stage. She tosses back her beautiful black pigtails and frowns as hard as she can to try to look tough. I can’t help it—I feel like I’m going to vomit. After all, she’s just a child.

“And this year, ladies again right after! Joining Louella will be…” Drusilla stirs the papers in the ball and fishes out another name. “Maysilee Donner!”

My legs immediately give way, and I would have collapsed forward if Burdock and Haymitch hadn’t grabbed my arms. The world spins, I feel sick, deeply worried, and suffocated by the reality crashing down on me.

I pull myself together as best I can and search the crowd for Maysilee. Along with her sister and Asterid, she’s one of the friends I’ve spent the most time with—I love them like family—and this news hits me like a ten-kilo brick straight to the head.

The crowd reacts again, this time more surprised than angry, because Maysilee is a town girl and, according to the stigma, unbearably haughty. Not to mention, as I’ve said before, the Donners are merchants, and everyone agrees her father will probably succeed Mayor Allister. City kids like us (with a few exceptions like me) are rarely chosen as tributes, since they generally don’t take out as many tesserae (or none at all) compared to those from the Seam.

Through my blurred vision I scan the group of girls our age. Maysilee grips Asterid’s hand tightly while little Merrilee, sobbing, clings to her, so the three blonde heads press together in a tight knot. Then Maysilee carefully frees herself and smooths out her dress, as beautiful as her twin’s but lavender instead of pink.

Normally I tease her because she almost always walks around with her chin held high, but now she raises it higher than ever on her way to the stage. Unlike other times, though, I find it more than fitting today. As she passes the line of male tributes, she briefly seeks me out, and when our eyes finally meet, she simply nods and smiles faintly, as if to tell me she’s fine.

Even though I know the right thing is to smile back, I can’t hide the disgust I feel at her terrible luck in this reaping.

Now it’s the boys’ turn. I brace myself for the worst as Drusilla plunges her hand into the giant sphere on the left. I can’t stop a few tears from slipping out before I quickly wipe them away, pulling myself together in silence, heart tight and eyes fixed on the stage.

“And the first gentleman to join the ladies is… Wyatt Callow!”

It’s been months since I last saw Wyatt Callow at school, which probably means he turned eighteen and started working in the mine. I’d like to say I know a lot of people, but Wyatt isn’t one of them. He lives on the opposite side of the Seam from where I usually visit Haymitch, and he almost always walks with his head down.

Instead of relief, desperation begins to creep in. How is either of the two girls supposed to make it home? If it were up to me, it would be both of them, but I know that’s impossible, and the only thought that crosses my mind is to volunteer. But no madness could be greater than that, and no one in our history has ever done it.

All I can do is watch him as he moves steadily toward the stage. His face shows nothing, his expression blank. As much as I can, I feel sorry for him. Wyatt must be close to turning nineteen, an age of great importance in the districts—after all, it’s when you’re finally free from the reaping.

When the boy finally reaches the stage, he looks down at us, watching silently from above. Once he’s taken his place, Drusilla—probably delighted to be leaving this district—reaches into the ball again. I start thinking about the odds that one of my friends will be chosen, and I can’t control the frantic pounding of my heart as the seconds pass.

Maybe in a few hours I’ll be far from this cursed square, hugging Merrilee and Asterid as I try to soothe their desperate sobs. The thought doesn’t calm me or fill me with hope—it only makes my chest heavier and my lungs strain to draw in air.

Drusilla takes a look at the last name.

“And boy number two is… Woodbine Chance!”

A hiss of breath escapes my friends’ lips, echoed by several boys nearby. I try to feel calm, but I can’t stop myself from looking at the last boy chosen for this slaughter. I didn’t know him well, but I would talk to him occasionally on the street or at school. I saw him often enough, though I couldn’t call him a friend.

Woodbine is the youngest and most handsome of the wild Chance brothers. They lose their minds so badly when they drink that Haymitch’s mentor at her business refuses to sell them white liquor, afraid they’ll cause trouble with the Peacekeepers, so they have to buy it from old Bascom Pie, who has no scruples and sells it to anyone who can pay.

If the Abernathys have a reputation for being rebels, the Chances practically radiate it, and I’ve lost count of how many family members of theirs have ended up on the gallows in the last three or four years.

My eyes follow Woodbine unconsciously as he stands a few rows ahead of me, projected onto the big screen. At first, he looks like he’s going to follow in Wyatt’s steps, but a spark of defiance flashes in his gray eyes a few steps later. Without a second thought, he turns and bolts toward a nearby alley. His relatives shout words of encouragement and instinctively move to block the Peacekeepers.

A thousand possibilities whirl in my mind—maybe the boy will escape the massacre he was about to be dragged into, maybe he’ll slip past the fence and we’ll never see him again, maybe he’ll start a family and live a full life.

Just when I think he’s going to make it—the Chances run as if fire were licking at their feet—a shot from the roof of the Justice Building blows out the base of Woodbine’s skull.