ebook converter DEMO - - BINGHAMTON HIGH SCHOOL - Homekieferbing.weebly.com › uploads › 1 › 3 › 7 › 6 › 13762989 › collins... · 2019-11-29 · weak spots in the fence,

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TableofContents

TitlePage

TheHungerGames

CatchingFire

Mockingjay

AbouttheAuthor

AlsoAvailable

Copyright


Contents

TitlePage

Dedication

PartI:“TheTributes”

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

PartII:“TheGames”

10


11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

PartIII:“TheVictor”

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26"******ebookconverterDEMO-www.ebook-

27


WhenIwakeup,theothersideofthebediscold.Myfingers

stretchout,seekingPrim’swarmthbutfindingonlytherough

canvascoverofthemattress.Shemusthavehadbaddreamsand

climbedinwithourmother.Ofcourse,shedid.Thisisthedayof

thereaping.

Ipropmyselfupononeelbow.There’senoughlightinthe

bedroomtoseethem.Mylittlesister,Prim,curleduponher

side,cocoonedinmymother’sbody,theircheekspressed

together.Insleep,mymotherlooksyounger,stillwornbutnot

sobeaten-down.Prim’sfaceisasfreshasaraindrop,aslovely

astheprimroseforwhichshewasnamed.Mymotherwasvery

beautifulonce,too.Orsotheytellme.


SittingatPrim’sknees,guardingher,istheworld’sugliest

cat.Mashed-innose,halfofoneearmissing,eyesthecolorof

rottingsquash.PrimnamedhimButtercup,insistingthathis

muddyyellowcoatmatchedthebrightflower.Hehatesme.Orat

leastdistrustsme.Eventhoughitwasyearsago,Ithinkhestill

remembershowItriedtodrownhiminabucketwhenPrim

broughthimhome.Scrawnykitten,bellyswollenwithworms,

crawlingwithfleas.ThelastthingIneededwasanothermouthto

feed.ButPrimbeggedsohard,criedeven,Ihadtolethimstay.

Itturnedoutokay.Mymothergotridoftheverminandhe’sa

bornmouser.Evencatchestheoccasionalrat.Sometimes,whenI

cleanakill,IfeedButtercuptheentrails.Hehasstoppedhissing

atme.

Entrails.Nohissing.Thisistheclosestwewillevercometo

love.

Iswingmylegsoffthebedandslideintomyhuntingboots.

Suppleleatherthathasmoldedtomyfeet.Ipullontrousers,a


shirt,tuckmylongdarkbraidupintoacap,andgrabmyforage

bag.Onthetable,underawoodenbowltoprotectitfromhungry

ratsandcatsalike,sitsaperfectlittlegoatcheesewrappedin

basilleaves.Prim’sgifttomeonreapingday.Iputthecheese

carefullyinmypocketasIslipoutside.

OurpartofDistrict12,nicknamedtheSeam,isusually

crawlingwithcoalminersheadingouttothemorningshiftat

thishour.Menandwomenwithhunchedshoulders,swollen

knuckles,manywhohavelongsincestoppedtryingtoscrubthe

coaldustoutoftheirbrokennails,thelinesoftheirsunkenfaces.

Buttodaytheblackcinderstreetsareempty.Shuttersonthe

squatgrayhousesareclosed.Thereapingisn’tuntiltwo.Mayas

wellsleepin.Ifyoucan.

OurhouseisalmostattheedgeoftheSeam.Ionlyhaveto

passafewgatestoreachthescruffyfieldcalledtheMeadow.

SeparatingtheMeadowfromthewoods,infactenclosingallof

District12,isahighchain-linkfencetoppedwithbarbed-wire


loops.Intheory,it’ssupposedtobeelectrifiedtwenty-fourhours

adayasadeterrenttothepredatorsthatliveinthewoods—

packsofwilddogs,lonecougars,bears—thatusedtothreaten

ourstreets.Butsincewe’reluckytogettwoorthreehoursof

electricityintheevenings,it’susuallysafetotouch.Evenso,I

alwaystakeamomenttolistencarefullyforthehumthatmeans

thefenceislive.Rightnow,it’ssilentasastone.Concealedbya

clumpofbushes,Iflattenoutonmybellyandslideunderatwo-

footstretchthat’sbeenlooseforyears.Thereareseveralother

weakspotsinthefence,butthisoneissoclosetohomeIalmost

alwaysenterthewoodshere.

AssoonasI’minthetrees,Iretrieveabowandsheathof

arrowsfromahollowlog.Electrifiedornot,thefencehasbeen

successfulatkeepingtheflesh-eatersoutofDistrict12.Inside

thewoodstheyroamfreely,andthereareaddedconcernslike

venomoussnakes,rabidanimals,andnorealpathstofollow.But

there’salsofoodifyouknowhowtofindit.Myfatherknewand


hetaughtmesomebeforehewasblowntobitsinamine

explosion.Therewasnothingeventobury.Iwaseleventhen.

Fiveyearslater,Istillwakeupscreamingforhimtorun.

Eventhoughtrespassinginthewoodsisillegalandpoaching

carriestheseverestofpenalties,morepeoplewouldriskitif

theyhadweapons.Butmostarenotboldenoughtoventureout

withjustaknife.Mybowisararity,craftedbymyfatheralong

withafewothersthatIkeepwellhiddeninthewoods,carefully

wrappedinwaterproofcovers.Myfathercouldhavemadegood

moneysellingthem,butiftheofficialsfoundouthewouldhave

beenpubliclyexecutedforincitingarebellion.Mostofthe

Peacekeepersturnablindeyetothefewofuswhohuntbecause

they’reashungryforfreshmeatasanybodyis.Infact,they’re

amongourbestcustomers.Buttheideathatsomeonemightbe

armingtheSeamwouldneverhavebeenallowed.

Inthefall,afewbravesoulssneakintothewoodstoharvest

apples.ButalwaysinsightoftheMeadow.Alwayscloseenough


torunbacktothesafetyofDistrict12iftroublearises.“District

Twelve.Whereyoucanstarvetodeathinsafety,”Imutter.Then

Iglancequicklyovermyshoulder.Evenhere,eveninthemiddle

ofnowhere,youworrysomeonemightoverhearyou.

WhenIwasyounger,Iscaredmymothertodeath,thethings

IwouldblurtoutaboutDistrict12,aboutthepeoplewhoruleour

country,Panem,fromthefar-offcitycalledtheCapitol.

EventuallyIunderstoodthiswouldonlyleadustomoretrouble.

SoIlearnedtoholdmytongueandtoturnmyfeaturesintoan

indifferentmasksothatnoonecouldeverreadmythoughts.Do

myworkquietlyinschool.Makeonlypolitesmalltalkinthe

publicmarket.DiscusslittlemorethantradesintheHob,which

istheblackmarketwhereImakemostofmymoney.Evenat

home,whereIamlesspleasant,Iavoiddiscussingtrickytopics.

Likethereaping,orfoodshortages,ortheHungerGames.Prim

mightbegintorepeatmywordsandthenwherewouldwebe?

InthewoodswaitstheonlypersonwithwhomIcanbe


myself.Gale.Icanfeelthemusclesinmyfacerelaxing,mypace

quickeningasIclimbthehillstoourplace,arockledge

overlookingavalley.Athicketofberrybushesprotectsitfrom

unwantedeyes.Thesightofhimwaitingtherebringsonasmile.

GalesaysIneversmileexceptinthewoods.

“Hey,Catnip,”saysGale.MyrealnameisKatniss,butwhen

Ifirsttoldhim,Ihadbarelywhisperedit.SohethoughtI’dsaid

Catnip.Thenwhenthiscrazylynxstartedfollowingmearound

thewoodslookingforhandouts,itbecamehisofficialnickname

forme.Ifinallyhadtokillthelynxbecausehescaredoffgame.

Ialmostregretteditbecausehewasn’tbadcompany.ButIgota

decentpriceforhispelt.

“LookwhatIshot.”Galeholdsupaloafofbreadwithan

arrowstuckinit,andIlaugh.It’srealbakerybread,nottheflat,

denseloaveswemakefromourgrainrations.Itakeitinmy

hands,pulloutthearrow,andholdthepunctureinthecrustto

mynose,inhalingthefragrancethatmakesmymouthfloodwith


saliva.Finebreadlikethisisforspecialoccasions.

“Mm,stillwarm,”Isay.Hemusthavebeenatthebakeryat

thecrackofdawntotradeforit.“Whatdiditcostyou?”

“Justasquirrel.Thinktheoldmanwasfeelingsentimental

thismorning,”saysGale.“Evenwishedmeluck.”

“Well,weallfeelalittleclosertoday,don’twe?”Isay,not

evenbotheringtorollmyeyes.“Primleftusacheese.”Ipullit

out.

Hisexpressionbrightensatthetreat.“Thankyou,Prim.

We’llhavearealfeast.”SuddenlyhefallsintoaCapitolaccent

ashemimicsEffieTrinket,themaniacallyupbeatwomanwho

arrivesonceayeartoreadoutthenamesatthereaping.“I

almostforgot!HappyHungerGames!”Heplucksafew

blackberriesfromthebushesaroundus.“Andmaytheodds—”

Hetossesaberryinahigharctowardme.

Icatchitinmymouthandbreakthedelicateskinwithmy

teeth.Thesweettartnessexplodesacrossmytongue.“—beever


inyourfavor!”Ifinishwithequalverve.Wehavetojokeabout

itbecausethealternativeistobescaredoutofyourwits.

Besides,theCapitolaccentissoaffected,almostanything

soundsfunnyinit.

IwatchasGalepullsouthisknifeandslicesthebread.He

couldbemybrother.Straightblackhair,oliveskin,weeven

havethesamegrayeyes.Butwe’renotrelated,atleastnot

closely.Mostofthefamilieswhoworktheminesresembleone

anotherthisway.

That’swhymymotherandPrim,withtheirlighthairand

blueeyes,alwayslookoutofplace.Theyare.Mymother’s

parentswerepartofthesmallmerchantclassthatcatersto

officials,Peacekeepers,andtheoccasionalSeamcustomer.They

rananapothecaryshopinthenicerpartofDistrict12.Since

almostnoonecanafforddoctors,apothecariesareourhealers.

Myfathergottoknowmymotherbecauseonhishuntshewould

sometimescollectmedicinalherbsandsellthemtohershopto


bebrewedintoremedies.Shemusthavereallylovedhimto

leaveherhomefortheSeam.ItrytorememberthatwhenallI

canseeisthewomanwhosatby,blankandunreachable,while

herchildrenturnedtoskinandbones.Itrytoforgiveherformy

father’ssake.Buttobehonest,I’mnottheforgivingtype.

Galespreadsthebreadsliceswiththesoftgoatcheese,

carefullyplacingabasilleafoneachwhileIstripthebushesof

theirberries.Wesettlebackinanookintherocks.Fromthis

place,weareinvisiblebuthaveaclearviewofthevalley,which

isteemingwithsummerlife,greenstogather,rootstodig,fish

iridescentinthesunlight.Thedayisglorious,withabluesky

andsoftbreeze.Thefood’swonderful,withthecheeseseeping

intothewarmbreadandtheberriesburstinginourmouths.

Everythingwouldbeperfectifthisreallywasaholiday,ifallthe

dayoffmeantwasroamingthemountainswithGale,huntingfor

tonight’ssupper.Butinsteadwehavetobestandinginthe

squareattwoo’clockwaitingforthenamestobecalledout.


“Wecoulddoit,youknow,”Galesaysquietly.

“What?”Iask.

“Leavethedistrict.Runoff.Liveinthewoods.YouandI,

wecouldmakeit,”saysGale.

Idon’tknowhowtorespond.Theideaissopreposterous.

“Ifwedidn’thavesomanykids,”headdsquickly.

They’renotourkids,ofcourse.Buttheymightaswellbe.

Gale’stwolittlebrothersandasister.Prim.Andyoumayaswell

throwinourmothers,too,becausehowwouldtheylivewithout

us?Whowouldfillthosemouthsthatarealwaysaskingfor

more?Withbothofushuntingdaily,therearestillnightswhen

gamehastobeswappedforlardorshoelacesorwool,stillnights

whenwegotobedwithourstomachsgrowling.

“Ineverwanttohavekids,”Isay.

“Imight.IfIdidn’tlivehere,”saysGale.

“Butyoudo,”Isay,irritated.

“Forgetit,”hesnapsback.


Theconversationfeelsallwrong.Leave?HowcouldIleave

Prim,whoistheonlypersonintheworldI’mcertainIlove?And

Galeisdevotedtohisfamily.Wecan’tleave,sowhybother

talkingaboutit?Andevenifwedid...evenifwedid...where

didthisstuffabouthavingkidscomefrom?There’sneverbeen

anythingromanticbetweenGaleandme.Whenwemet,Iwasa

skinnytwelve-year-old,andalthoughhewasonlytwoyears

older,healreadylookedlikeaman.Ittookalongtimeforusto

evenbecomefriends,tostophagglingovereverytradeandbegin

helpingeachotherout.

Besides,ifhewantskids,Galewon’thaveanytrouble

findingawife.He’sgood-looking,he’sstrongenoughtohandle

theworkinthemines,andhecanhunt.Youcantellbytheway

thegirlswhisperabouthimwhenhewalksbyinschoolthatthey

wanthim.Itmakesmejealousbutnotforthereasonpeople

wouldthink.Goodhuntingpartnersarehardtofind.

“Whatdoyouwanttodo?”Iask.Wecanhunt,fish,or


gather.

“Let’sfishatthelake.Wecanleaveourpolesandgatherin

thewoods.Getsomethingnicefortonight,”hesays.

Tonight.Afterthereaping,everyoneissupposedto

celebrate.Andalotofpeopledo,outofreliefthattheirchildren

havebeensparedforanotheryear.Butatleasttwofamilieswill

pulltheirshutters,locktheirdoors,andtrytofigureouthow

theywillsurvivethepainfulweekstocome.

Wemakeoutwell.Thepredatorsignoreusonadaywhen

easier,tastierpreyabounds.Bylatemorning,wehaveadozen

fish,abagofgreensand,bestofall,agallonofstrawberries.I

foundthepatchafewyearsago,butGalehadtheideatostring

meshnetsaroundittokeepouttheanimals.

Onthewayhome,weswingbytheHob,theblackmarket

thatoperatesinanabandonedwarehousethatonceheldcoal.

Whentheycameupwithamoreefficientsystemthattransported

thecoaldirectlyfromtheminestothetrains,theHobgradually


tookoverthespace.Mostbusinessesareclosedbythistimeon

reapingday,buttheblackmarket’sstillfairlybusy.Weeasily

tradesixofthefishforgoodbread,theothertwoforsalt.Greasy

Sae,thebonyoldwomanwhosellsbowlsofhotsoupfroma

largekettle,takeshalfthegreensoffourhandsinexchangefora

coupleofchunksofparaffin.Wemightdoatadbetter

elsewhere,butwemakeanefforttokeepongoodtermswith

GreasySae.She’stheonlyonewhocanconsistentlybecounted

ontobuywilddog.Wedon’thuntthemonpurpose,butifyou’re

attackedandyoutakeoutadogortwo,well,meatismeat.

“Onceit’sinthesoup,I’llcallitbeef,”GreasySaesayswitha

wink.NooneintheSeamwouldturnuptheirnoseatagoodleg

ofwilddog,butthePeacekeeperswhocometotheHobcan

affordtobealittlechoosier.

Whenwefinishourbusinessatthemarket,wegototheback

doorofthemayor’shousetosellhalfthestrawberries,knowing

hehasaparticularfondnessforthemandcanaffordourprice.


Themayor’sdaughter,Madge,opensthedoor.She’sinmyyear

atschool.Beingthemayor’sdaughter,you’dexpecthertobea

snob,butshe’sallright.Shejustkeepstoherself.Likeme.Since

neitherofusreallyhasagroupoffriends,weseemtoendup

togetheralotatschool.Eatinglunch,sittingnexttoeachotherat

assemblies,partneringforsportsactivities.Werarelytalk,which

suitsusbothjustfine.

Todayherdrabschooloutfithasbeenreplacedbyan

expensivewhitedress,andherblondehairisdoneupwithapink

ribbon.Reapingclothes.

“Prettydress,”saysGale.

Madgeshootshimalook,tryingtoseeifit’sagenuine

complimentorifhe’sjustbeingironic.Itisaprettydress,but

shewouldneverbewearingitordinarily.Shepressesherlips

togetherandthensmiles.“Well,ifIendupgoingtotheCapitol,

Iwanttolooknice,don’tI?”

Nowit’sGale’sturntobeconfused.Doesshemeanit?Oris


shemessingwithhim?I’mguessingthesecond.

“Youwon’tbegoingtotheCapitol,”saysGalecoolly.His

eyeslandonasmall,circularpinthatadornsherdress.Real

gold.Beautifullycrafted.Itcouldkeepafamilyinbreadfor

months.“Whatcanyouhave?Fiveentries?IhadsixwhenIwas

justtwelveyearsold.”

“That’snotherfault,”Isay.

“No,it’snoone’sfault.Justthewayitis,”saysGale.

Madge’sfacehasbecomeclosedoff.Sheputsthemoneyfor

theberriesinmyhand.“Goodluck,Katniss.”

“You,too,”Isay,andthedoorcloses.

WewalktowardtheSeaminsilence.Idon’tlikethatGale

tookadigatMadge,buthe’sright,ofcourse.Thereaping

systemisunfair,withthepoorgettingtheworstofit.You

becomeeligibleforthereapingthedayyouturntwelve.That

year,yournameisenteredonce.Atthirteen,twice.Andsoon

andsoonuntilyoureachtheageofeighteen,thefinalyearof


eligibility,whenyournamegoesintothepoolseventimes.

That’strueforeverycitizeninalltwelvedistrictsintheentire

countryofPanem.

Buthere’sthecatch.Sayyouarepoorandstarvingaswe

were.Youcanopttoaddyournamemoretimesinexchangefor

tesserae.Eachtesseraisworthameageryear’ssupplyofgrain

andoilforoneperson.Youmaydothisforeachofyourfamily

membersaswell.So,attheageoftwelve,Ihadmyname

enteredfourtimes.Once,becauseIhadto,andthreetimesfor

tesseraeforgrainandoilformyself,Prim,andmymother.In

fact,everyyearIhaveneededtodothis.Andtheentriesare

cumulative.Sonow,attheageofsixteen,mynamewillbeinthe

reapingtwentytimes.Gale,whoiseighteenandhasbeeneither

helpingorsingle-handedlyfeedingafamilyoffiveforseven

years,willhavehisnameinforty-twotimes.

YoucanseewhysomeonelikeMadge,whohasneverbeen

atriskofneedingatessera,cansethimoff.Thechanceofher


namebeingdrawnisveryslimcomparedtothoseofuswholive

intheSeam.Notimpossible,butslim.Andeventhoughtherules

weresetupbytheCapitol,notthedistricts,certainlynot

Madge’sfamily,it’shardnottoresentthosewhodon’thaveto

signupfortesserae.

GaleknowshisangeratMadgeismisdirected.Onother

days,deepinthewoods,I’velistenedtohimrantabouthowthe

tesseraearejustanothertooltocausemiseryinourdistrict.A

waytoplanthatredbetweenthestarvingworkersoftheSeam

andthosewhocangenerallycountonsupperandtherebyensure

wewillnevertrustoneanother.“It’stotheCapitol’sadvantage

tohaveusdividedamongourselves,”hemightsayiftherewere

noearstohearbutmine.Ifitwasn’treapingday.Ifagirlwitha

goldpinandnotesseraehadnotmadewhatI’msureshethought

wasaharmlesscomment.

Aswewalk,IglanceoveratGale’sface,stillsmoldering

underneathhisstonyexpression.Hisragesseempointlesstome,


althoughIneversayso.It’snotthatIdon’tagreewithhim.Ido.

ButwhatgoodisyellingabouttheCapitolinthemiddleofthe

woods?Itdoesn’tchangeanything.Itdoesn’tmakethingsfair.It

doesn’tfillourstomachs.Infact,itscaresoffthenearbygame.I

lethimyellthough.Betterhedoesitinthewoodsthaninthe

district.

GaleandIdivideourspoils,leavingtwofish,acoupleof

loavesofgoodbread,greens,aquartofstrawberries,salt,

paraffin,andabitofmoneyforeach.

“Seeyouinthesquare,”Isay.

“Wearsomethingpretty,”hesaysflatly.

Athome,Ifindmymotherandsisterarereadytogo.My

motherwearsafinedressfromherapothecarydays.Primisin

myfirstreapingoutfit,askirtandruffledblouse.It’sabitbigon

her,butmymotherhasmadeitstaywithpins.Evenso,she’s

havingtroublekeepingtheblousetuckedinattheback.

Atubofwarmwaterwaitsforme.Iscruboffthedirtand


sweatfromthewoodsandevenwashmyhair.Tomysurprise,

mymotherhaslaidoutoneofherownlovelydressesforme.A

softbluethingwithmatchingshoes.

“Areyousure?”Iask.I’mtryingtogetpastrejectingoffers

ofhelpfromher.Forawhile,Iwassoangry,Iwouldn’tallow

hertodoanythingforme.Andthisissomethingspecial.Her

clothesfromherpastareveryprecioustoher.

“Ofcourse.Let’sputyourhairup,too,”shesays.Ilether

towel-dryitandbraidituponmyhead.Icanhardlyrecognize

myselfinthecrackedmirrorthatleansagainstthewall.

“Youlookbeautiful,”saysPriminahushedvoice.

“Andnothinglikemyself,”Isay.Ihugher,becauseIknow

thesenextfewhourswillbeterribleforher.Herfirstreaping.

She’saboutassafeasyoucanget,sinceshe’sonlyenteredonce.

Iwouldn’tlethertakeoutanytesserae.Butshe’sworriedabout

me.Thattheunthinkablemighthappen.

IprotectPrimineverywayIcan,butI’mpowerlessagainst


thereaping.TheanguishIalwaysfeelwhenshe’sinpainwells

upinmychestandthreatenstoregisteronmyface.Inoticeher

blousehaspulledoutofherskirtinthebackagainandforce

myselftostaycalm.“Tuckyourtailin,littleduck,”Isay,

smoothingtheblousebackinplace.

Primgigglesandgivesmeasmall“Quack.”

“Quackyourself,”Isaywithalightlaugh.Thekindonly

Primcandrawoutofme.“Comeon,let’seat,”Isayandplanta

quickkissonthetopofherhead.

Thefishandgreensarealreadycookinginastew,butthat

willbeforsupper.Wedecidetosavethestrawberriesandbakery

breadforthisevening’smeal,tomakeitspecialwesay.Instead

wedrinkmilkfromPrim’sgoat,Lady,andeattheroughbread

madefromthetesseragrain,althoughnoonehasmuchappetite

anyway.

Atoneo’clock,weheadforthesquare.Attendanceis

mandatoryunlessyouareondeath’sdoor.Thisevening,officials


willcomearoundandchecktoseeifthisisthecase.Ifnot,

you’llbeimprisoned.

It’stoobad,really,thattheyholdthereapinginthesquare

—oneofthefewplacesinDistrict12thatcanbepleasant.The

square’ssurroundedbyshops,andonpublicmarketdays,

especiallyifthere’sgoodweather,ithasaholidayfeeltoit.But

today,despitethebrightbannershangingonthebuildings,

there’sanairofgrimness.Thecameracrews,perchedlike

buzzardsonrooftops,onlyaddtotheeffect.

Peoplefileinsilentlyandsignin.Thereapingisagood

opportunityfortheCapitoltokeeptabsonthepopulationas

well.Twelve-througheighteen-year-oldsareherdedintoroped

areasmarkedoffbyages,theoldestinthefront,theyoungones,

likePrim,towardtheback.Familymemberslineuparoundthe

perimeter,holdingtightlytooneanother’shands.Butthereare

others,too,whohavenoonetheyloveatstake,orwhonolonger

care,whoslipamongthecrowd,takingbetsonthetwokids


whosenameswillbedrawn.Oddsaregivenontheirages,

whetherthey’reSeamormerchant,iftheywillbreakdownand

weep.Mostrefusedealingwiththeracketeersbutcarefully,

carefully.Thesesamepeopletendtobeinformers,andwho

hasn’tbrokenthelaw?Icouldbeshotonadailybasisfor

hunting,buttheappetitesofthoseinchargeprotectme.Not

everyonecanclaimthesame.

Anyway,GaleandIagreethatifwehavetochoosebetween

dyingofhungerandabulletinthehead,thebulletwouldbe

muchquicker.

Thespacegetstighter,moreclaustrophobicaspeoplearrive.

Thesquare’squitelarge,butnotenoughtoholdDistrict12’s

populationofabouteightthousand.Latecomersaredirectedto

theadjacentstreets,wheretheycanwatchtheeventonscreensas

it’stelevisedlivebythestate.

IfindmyselfstandinginaclumpofsixteensfromtheSeam.

Weallexchangetersenodsthenfocusourattentiononthe


temporarystagethatissetupbeforetheJusticeBuilding.It

holdsthreechairs,apodium,andtwolargeglassballs,onefor

theboysandoneforthegirls.Istareatthepaperslipsinthe

girls’ball.TwentyofthemhaveKatnissEverdeenwrittenon

themincarefulhandwriting.

TwoofthethreechairsfillwithMadge’sfather,Mayor

Undersee,who’satall,baldingman,andEffieTrinket,District

12’sescort,freshfromtheCapitolwithherscarywhitegrin,

pinkishhair,andspringgreensuit.Theymurmurtoeachother

andthenlookwithconcernattheemptyseat.

Justasthetownclockstrikestwo,themayorstepsuptothe

podiumandbeginstoread.It’sthesamestoryeveryyear.He

tellsofthehistoryofPanem,thecountrythatroseupoutofthe

ashesofaplacethatwasoncecalledNorthAmerica.Heliststhe

disasters,thedroughts,thestorms,thefires,theencroachingseas

thatswallowedupsomuchoftheland,thebrutalwarforwhat

littlesustenanceremained.TheresultwasPanem,ashining


Capitolringedbythirteendistricts,whichbroughtpeaceand

prosperitytoitscitizens.ThencametheDarkDays,theuprising

ofthedistrictsagainsttheCapitol.Twelveweredefeated,the

thirteenthobliterated.TheTreatyofTreasongaveusthenew

lawstoguaranteepeaceand,asouryearlyreminderthattheDark

Daysmustneverberepeated,itgaveustheHungerGames.

TherulesoftheHungerGamesaresimple.Inpunishment

fortheuprising,eachofthetwelvedistrictsmustprovideone

girlandoneboy,calledtributes,toparticipate.Thetwenty-four

tributeswillbeimprisonedinavastoutdoorarenathatcould

holdanythingfromaburningdeserttoafrozenwasteland.Over

aperiodofseveralweeks,thecompetitorsmustfighttothe

death.Thelasttributestandingwins.

Takingthekidsfromourdistricts,forcingthemtokillone

anotherwhilewewatch—thisistheCapitol’swayofreminding

ushowtotallyweareattheirmercy.Howlittlechancewewould

standofsurvivinganotherrebellion.Whateverwordstheyuse,


therealmessageisclear.“Lookhowwetakeyourchildrenand

sacrificethemandthere’snothingyoucando.Ifyoulifta

finger,wewilldestroyeverylastoneofyou.Justaswedidin

DistrictThirteen.”

Tomakeithumiliatingaswellastorturous,theCapitol

requiresustotreattheHungerGamesasafestivity,asporting

eventpittingeverydistrictagainsttheothers.Thelasttribute

alivereceivesalifeofeasebackhome,andtheirdistrictwillbe

showeredwithprizes,largelyconsistingoffood.Allyear,the

Capitolwillshowthewinningdistrictgiftsofgrainandoiland

evendelicacieslikesugarwhiletherestofusbattlestarvation.

“Itisbothatimeforrepentanceandatimeforthanks,”

intonesthemayor.

ThenhereadsthelistofpastDistrict12victors.Inseventy-

fouryears,wehavehadexactlytwo.Onlyoneisstillalive.

HaymitchAbernathy,apaunchy,middle-agedman,whoatthis

momentappearsholleringsomethingunintelligible,staggers


ontothestage,andfallsintothethirdchair.He’sdrunk.Very.

Thecrowdrespondswithitstokenapplause,buthe’sconfused

andtriestogiveEffieTrinketabighug,whichshebarely

managestofendoff.

Themayorlooksdistressed.Sinceallofthisisbeing

televised,rightnowDistrict12isthelaughingstockofPanem,

andheknowsit.Hequicklytriestopulltheattentionbacktothe

reapingbyintroducingEffieTrinket.

Brightandbubblyasever,EffieTrinkettrotstothepodium

andgiveshersignature,“HappyHungerGames!Andmaythe

oddsbeeverinyourfavor!”Herpinkhairmustbeawigbecause

hercurlshaveshiftedslightlyoff-centersinceherencounterwith

Haymitch.Shegoesonabitaboutwhatanhonoritistobehere,

althougheveryoneknowsshe’sjustachingtogetbumpeduptoa

betterdistrictwheretheyhavepropervictors,notdrunkswho

molestyouinfrontoftheentirenation.

Throughthecrowd,IspotGalelookingbackatmewitha


ghostofasmile.Asreapingsgo,thisoneatleasthasaslight

entertainmentfactor.ButsuddenlyIamthinkingofGaleandhis

forty-twonamesinthatbigglassballandhowtheoddsarenotin

hisfavor.Notcomparedtoalotoftheboys.Andmaybehe’s

thinkingthesamethingaboutmebecausehisfacedarkensand

heturnsaway.“Buttherearestillthousandsofslips,”IwishI

couldwhispertohim.

It’stimeforthedrawing.EffieTrinketsaysasshealways

does,“Ladiesfirst!”andcrossestotheglassballwiththegirls’

names.Shereachesin,digsherhanddeepintotheball,andpulls

outaslipofpaper.Thecrowddrawsinacollectivebreathand

thenyoucanhearapindrop,andI’mfeelingnauseousandso

desperatelyhopingthatit’snotme,thatit’snotme,thatit’snot

me.

EffieTrinketcrossesbacktothepodium,smoothestheslip

ofpaper,andreadsoutthenameinaclearvoice.Andit’snot

me.


It’sPrimroseEverdeen.


Onetime,whenIwasinablindinatree,waitingmotionless

forgametowanderby,Idozedoffandfelltenfeettothe

ground,landingonmyback.Itwasasiftheimpacthadknocked

everywispofairfrommylungs,andIlaytherestrugglingto

inhale,toexhale,todoanything.

That’showIfeelnow,tryingtorememberhowtobreathe,

unabletospeak,totallystunnedasthenamebouncesaroundthe

insideofmyskull.Someoneisgrippingmyarm,aboyfromthe

Seam,andIthinkmaybeIstartedtofallandhecaughtme.

Theremusthavebeensomemistake.Thiscan’tbe

happening.Primwasoneslipofpaperinthousands!Herchances

ofbeingchosensoremotethatI’dnotevenbotheredtoworry


abouther.Hadn’tIdoneeverything?Takenthetesserae,refused

toletherdothesame?Oneslip.Oneslipinthousands.Theodds

hadbeenentirelyinherfavor.Butithadn’tmattered.

Somewherefaraway,Icanhearthecrowdmurmuring

unhappilyastheyalwaysdowhenatwelve-year-oldgetschosen

becausenoonethinksthisisfair.AndthenIseeher,theblood

drainedfromherface,handsclenchedinfistsathersides,

walkingwithstiff,smallstepsuptowardthestage,passingme,

andIseethebackofherblousehasbecomeuntuckedandhangs

outoverherskirt.It’sthisdetail,theuntuckedblouseforminga

ducktail,thatbringsmebacktomyself.

“Prim!”Thestrangledcrycomesoutofmythroat,andmy

musclesbegintomoveagain.“Prim!”Idon’tneedtoshove

throughthecrowd.Theotherkidsmakewayimmediately

allowingmeastraightpathtothestage.Ireachherjustassheis

abouttomountthesteps.Withonesweepofmyarm,Ipushher

behindme.


“Ivolunteer!”Igasp.“Ivolunteerastribute!”

There’ssomeconfusiononthestage.District12hasn’thada

volunteerindecadesandtheprotocolhasbecomerusty.Therule

isthatonceatribute’snamehasbeenpulledfromtheball,

anothereligibleboy,ifaboy’snamehasbeenread,orgirl,ifa

girl’snamehasbeenread,canstepforwardtotakehisorher

place.Insomedistricts,inwhichwinningthereapingissucha

greathonor,peopleareeagertorisktheirlives,thevolunteering

iscomplicated.ButinDistrict12,wherethewordtributeis

prettymuchsynonymouswiththewordcorpse,volunteersareall

butextinct.

“Lovely!”saysEffieTrinket.“ButIbelievethere’sasmall

matterofintroducingthereapingwinnerandthenaskingfor

volunteers,andifonedoescomeforththenwe,um...”she

trailsoff,unsureherself.

“Whatdoesitmatter?”saysthemayor.He’slookingatme

withapainedexpressiononhisface.Hedoesn’tknowmereally,


butthere’safaintrecognitionthere.Iamthegirlwhobringsthe

strawberries.Thegirlhisdaughtermighthavespokenofon

occasion.Thegirlwhofiveyearsagostoodhuddledwithher

motherandsister,ashepresentedher,theoldestchild,witha

medalofvalor.Amedalforherfather,vaporizedinthemines.

Doesherememberthat?“Whatdoesitmatter?”herepeats

gruffly.“Lethercomeforward.”

Primisscreaminghystericallybehindme.She’swrappedher

skinnyarmsaroundmelikeavise.“No,Katniss!No!Youcan’t

go!”

“Prim,letgo,”Isayharshly,becausethisisupsettingme

andIdon’twanttocry.Whentheytelevisethereplayofthe

reapingstonight,everyonewillmakenoteofmytears,andI’ll

bemarkedasaneasytarget.Aweakling.Iwillgivenoonethat

satisfaction.“Letgo!”

Icanfeelsomeonepullingherfrommyback.Iturnandsee

GalehasliftedPrimoffthegroundandshe’sthrashinginhis


arms.“Upyougo,Catnip,”hesays,inavoicehe’sfightingto

keepsteady,andthenhecarriesPrimofftowardmymother.I

steelmyselfandclimbthesteps.

“Well,bravo!”gushesEffieTrinket.“That’sthespiritofthe

Games!”She’spleasedtofinallyhaveadistrictwithalittle

actiongoingoninit.“What’syourname?”

Iswallowhard.“KatnissEverdeen,”Isay.

“Ibetmybuttonsthatwasyoursister.Don’twantherto

stealalltheglory,dowe?Comeon,everybody!Let’sgiveabig

roundofapplausetoournewesttribute!”trillsEffieTrinket.

TotheeverlastingcreditofthepeopleofDistrict12,notone

personclaps.Noteventheonesholdingbettingslips,theones

whoareusuallybeyondcaring.Possiblybecausetheyknowme

fromtheHob,orknewmyfather,orhaveencounteredPrim,who

noonecanhelploving.Soinsteadofacknowledgingapplause,I

standthereunmovingwhiletheytakepartintheboldestformof

dissenttheycanmanage.Silence.Whichsayswedonotagree.


Wedonotcondone.Allofthisiswrong.

Thensomethingunexpectedhappens.Atleast,Idon’texpect

itbecauseIdon’tthinkofDistrict12asaplacethatcaresabout

me.ButashifthasoccurredsinceIsteppeduptotakePrim’s

place,andnowitseemsIhavebecomesomeoneprecious.At

firstone,thenanother,thenalmosteverymemberofthecrowd

touchesthethreemiddlefingersoftheirlefthandtotheirlips

andholdsitouttome.Itisanoldandrarelyusedgestureofour

district,occasionallyseenatfunerals.Itmeansthanks,itmeans

admiration,itmeansgood-byetosomeoneyoulove.

NowIamtrulyindangerofcrying,butfortunately

Haymitchchoosesthistimetocomestaggeringacrossthestage

tocongratulateme.“Lookather.Lookatthisone!”hehollers,

throwinganarmaroundmyshoulders.He’ssurprisinglystrong

forsuchawreck.“Ilikeher!”Hisbreathreeksofliquorandit’s

beenalongtimesincehe’sbathed.“Lotsof...”Hecan’tthink

ofthewordforawhile.“Spunk!”hesaystriumphantly.“More


thanyou!”hereleasesmeandstartsforthefrontofthestage.

“Morethanyou!”heshouts,pointingdirectlyintoacamera.

Isheaddressingtheaudienceorishesodrunkhemight

actuallybetauntingtheCapitol?I’llneverknowbecausejustas

he’sopeninghismouthtocontinue,Haymitchplummetsoffthe

stageandknockshimselfunconscious.

He’sdisgusting,butI’mgrateful.Witheverycamera

gleefullytrainedonhim,Ihavejustenoughtimetoreleasethe

small,chokedsoundinmythroatandcomposemyself.Iputmy

handsbehindmybackandstareintothedistance.Icanseethe

hillsIclimbedthismorningwithGale.Foramoment,Iyearnfor

something...theideaofusleavingthedistrict...makingour

wayinthewoods...butIknowIwasrightaboutnotrunning

off.BecausewhoelsewouldhavevolunteeredforPrim?

Haymitchiswhiskedawayonastretcher,andEffieTrinket

istryingtogettheballrollingagain.“Whatanexcitingday!”

shewarblesassheattemptstostraightenherwig,whichhas


listedseverelytotheright.“Butmoreexcitementtocome!It’s

timetochooseourboytribute!”Clearlyhopingtocontainher

tenuoushairsituation,sheplantsonehandonherheadasshe

crossestotheballthatcontainstheboys’namesandgrabsthe

firstslipsheencounters.Shezipsbacktothepodium,andIdon’t

evenhavetimetowishforGale’ssafetywhenshe’sreadingthe

name.“PeetaMellark.”

PeetaMellark!

Oh,no,Ithink.Nothim.BecauseIrecognizethisname,

althoughIhaveneverspokendirectlytoitsowner.Peeta

Mellark.

No,theoddsarenotinmyfavortoday.

Iwatchhimashemakeshiswaytowardthestage.Medium

height,stockybuild,ashyblondhairthatfallsinwavesoverhis

forehead.Theshockofthemomentisregisteringonhisface,

youcanseehisstruggletoremainemotionless,buthisblueeyes

showthealarmI’veseensoofteninprey.Yetheclimbssteadily


ontothestageandtakeshisplace.

EffieTrinketasksforvolunteers,butnoonestepsforward.

Hehastwoolderbrothers,Iknow,I’veseentheminthebakery,

butoneisprobablytoooldnowtovolunteerandtheotherwon’t.

Thisisstandard.Familydevotiononlygoessofarformost

peopleonreapingday.WhatIdidwastheradicalthing.

Themayorbeginstoreadthelong,dullTreatyofTreasonas

hedoeseveryyearatthispoint—it’srequired—butI’mnot

listeningtoaword.

Whyhim?Ithink.ThenItrytoconvincemyselfitdoesn’t

matter.PeetaMellarkandIarenotfriends.Notevenneighbors.

Wedon’tspeak.Ouronlyrealinteractionhappenedyearsago.

He’sprobablyforgottenit.ButIhaven’tandIknowIneverwill.

...

Itwasduringtheworsttime.Myfatherhadbeenkilledin

themineaccidentthreemonthsearlierinthebitterestJanuary

anyonecouldremember.Thenumbnessofhislosshadpassed,


andthepainwouldhitmeoutofnowhere,doublingmeover,

rackingmybodywithsobs.Whereareyou?Iwouldcryoutin

mymind.Wherehaveyougone?Ofcourse,therewasneverany

answer.

Thedistricthadgivenusasmallamountofmoneyas

compensationforhisdeath,enoughtocoveronemonthof

grievingatwhichtimemymotherwouldbeexpectedtogeta

job.Onlyshedidn’t.Shedidn’tdoanythingbutsitproppedupin

achairor,moreoften,huddledundertheblanketsonherbed,

eyesfixedonsomepointinthedistance.Onceinawhile,she’d

stir,getupasifmovedbysomeurgentpurpose,onlytothen

collapsebackintostillness.NoamountofpleadingfromPrim

seemedtoaffecther.

Iwasterrified.Isupposenowthatmymotherwaslockedin

somedarkworldofsadness,butatthetime,allIknewwasthatI

hadlostnotonlyafather,butamotheraswell.Atelevenyears

old,withPrimjustseven,Itookoverasheadofthefamily.


Therewasnochoice.Iboughtourfoodatthemarketandcooked

itasbestIcouldandtriedtokeepPrimandmyselflooking

presentable.Becauseifithadbecomeknownthatmymother

couldnolongercareforus,thedistrictwouldhavetakenus

awayfromherandplacedusinthecommunityhome.I’dgrown

upseeingthosehomekidsatschool.Thesadness,themarksof

angryhandsontheirfaces,thehopelessnessthatcurledtheir

shouldersforward.IcouldneverletthathappentoPrim.Sweet,

tinyPrimwhocriedwhenIcriedbeforesheevenknewthe

reason,whobrushedandplaitedmymother’shairbeforeweleft

forschool,whostillpolishedmyfather’sshavingmirroreach

nightbecausehe’dhatedthelayerofcoaldustthatsettledon

everythingintheSeam.Thecommunityhomewouldcrushher

likeabug.SoIkeptourpredicamentasecret.

Butthemoneyranoutandwewereslowlystarvingtodeath.

There’snootherwaytoputit.IkepttellingmyselfifIcould

onlyholdoutuntilMay,justMay8th,Iwouldturntwelveand


beabletosignupforthetesseraeandgetthatpreciousgrainand

oiltofeedus.Onlytherewerestillseveralweekstogo.We

couldwellbedeadbythen.

Starvation’snotanuncommonfateinDistrict12.Who

hasn’tseenthevictims?Olderpeoplewhocan’twork.Children

fromafamilywithtoomanytofeed.Thoseinjuredinthemines.

Stragglingthroughthestreets.Andoneday,youcomeupon

themsittingmotionlessagainstawallorlyingintheMeadow,

youhearthewailsfromahouse,andthePeacekeepersarecalled

intoretrievethebody.Starvationisneverthecauseofdeath

officially.It’salwaystheflu,orexposure,orpneumonia.But

thatfoolsnoone.

OntheafternoonofmyencounterwithPeetaMellark,the

rainwasfallinginrelentlessicysheets.Ihadbeenintown,

tryingtotradesomethreadbareoldbabyclothesofPrim’sinthe

publicmarket,buttherewerenotakers.AlthoughIhadbeento

theHobonseveraloccasionswithmyfather,Iwastoo


frightenedtoventureintothatrough,grittyplacealone.Therain

hadsoakedthroughmyfather’shuntingjacket,leavingme

chilledtothebone.Forthreedays,we’dhadnothingbutboiled

waterwithsomeolddriedmintleavesI’dfoundinthebackofa

cupboard.Bythetimethemarketclosed,IwasshakingsohardI

droppedmybundleofbabyclothesinamudpuddle.Ididn’t

pickitupforfearIwouldkeeloverandbeunabletoregainmy

feet.Besides,noonewantedthoseclothes.

Icouldn’tgohome.Becauseathomewasmymotherwith

herdeadeyesandmylittlesister,withherhollowcheeksand

crackedlips.Icouldn’twalkintothatroomwiththesmokyfire

fromthedampbranchesIhadscavengedattheedgeofthe

woodsafterthecoalhadrunout,myhandsemptyofanyhope.

Ifoundmyselfstumblingalongamuddylanebehindthe

shopsthatservethewealthiesttownspeople.Themerchantslive

abovetheirbusinesses,soIwasessentiallyintheirbackyards.I

remembertheoutlinesofgardenbedsnotyetplantedforthe


spring,agoatortwoinapen,onesoddendogtiedtoapost,

huncheddefeatedinthemuck.

AllformsofstealingareforbiddeninDistrict12.Punishable

bydeath.Butitcrossedmymindthattheremightbesomething

inthetrashbins,andthosewerefairgame.Perhapsaboneatthe

butcher’sorrottedvegetablesatthegrocer’s,somethingnoone

butmyfamilywasdesperateenoughtoeat.Unfortunately,the

binshadjustbeenemptied.

WhenIpassedthebaker’s,thesmelloffreshbreadwasso

overwhelmingIfeltdizzy.Theovenswereintheback,anda

goldenglowspilledouttheopenkitchendoor.Istood

mesmerizedbytheheatandthelusciousscentuntiltherain

interfered,runningitsicyfingersdownmyback,forcingme

backtolife.Iliftedthelidtothebaker’strashbinandfoundit

spotlessly,heartlesslybare.

SuddenlyavoicewasscreamingatmeandIlookeduptosee

thebaker’swife,tellingmetomoveonanddidIwanthertocall


thePeacekeepersandhowsickshewasofhavingthosebrats

fromtheSeampawingthroughhertrash.Thewordswereugly

andIhadnodefense.AsIcarefullyreplacedthelidandbacked

away,Inoticedhim,aboywithblondhairpeeringoutfrom

behindhismother’sback.I’dseenhimatschool.Hewasinmy

year,butIdidn’tknowhisname.Hestuckwiththetownkids,so

howwouldI?Hismotherwentbackintothebakery,grumbling,

buthemusthavebeenwatchingmeasImademywaybehindthe

penthatheldtheirpigandleanedagainstthefarsideofanold

appletree.TherealizationthatI’dhavenothingtotakehomehad

finallysunkin.MykneesbuckledandIsliddownthetreetrunk

toitsroots.Itwastoomuch.Iwastoosickandweakandtired,

oh,sotired.LetthemcallthePeacekeepersandtakeustothe

communityhome,Ithought.Orbetteryet,letmedierightherein

therain.

TherewasaclatterinthebakeryandIheardthewoman

screamingagainandthesoundofablow,andIvaguely


wonderedwhatwasgoingon.Feetsloshedtowardmethrough

themudandIthought,It’sher.She’scomingtodrivemeaway

withastick.Butitwasn’ther.Itwastheboy.Inhisarms,he

carriedtwolargeloavesofbreadthatmusthavefallenintothe

firebecausethecrustswerescorchedblack.

Hismotherwasyelling,“Feedittothepig,youstupid

creature!Whynot?Noonedecentwillbuyburnedbread!”

Hebegantotearoffchunksfromtheburnedpartsandtoss

themintothetrough,andthefrontbakerybellrungandthe

motherdisappearedtohelpacustomer.

Theboyneverevenglancedmyway,butIwaswatching

him.Becauseofthebread,becauseoftheredwealthatstoodout

onhischeekbone.Whathadshehithimwith?Myparentsnever

hitus.Icouldn’tevenimagineit.Theboytookonelookbackto

thebakeryasifcheckingthatthecoastwasclear,then,his

attentionbackonthepig,hethrewaloafofbreadinmy

direction.Thesecondquicklyfollowed,andhesloshedbackto


thebakery,closingthekitchendoortightlybehindhim.

Istaredattheloavesindisbelief.Theywerefine,perfect

really,exceptfortheburnedareas.Didhemeanformetohave

them?Hemusthave.Becausetheretheywereatmyfeet.Before

anyonecouldwitnesswhathadhappenedIshovedtheloavesup

undermyshirt,wrappedthehuntingjackettightlyaboutme,and

walkedswiftlyaway.Theheatofthebreadburnedintomyskin,

butIclutchedittighter,clingingtolife.

BythetimeIreachedhome,theloaveshadcooled

somewhat,buttheinsideswerestillwarm.WhenIdroppedthem

onthetable,Prim’shandsreachedtotearoffachunk,butImade

hersit,forcedmymothertojoinusatthetable,andpoured

warmtea.Iscrapedofftheblackstuffandslicedthebread.We

ateanentireloaf,slicebyslice.Itwasgoodheartybread,filled

withraisinsandnuts.

Iputmyclothestodryatthefire,crawledintobed,andfell

intoadreamlesssleep.Itdidn’toccurtomeuntilthenext


morningthattheboymighthaveburnedthebreadonpurpose.

Mighthavedroppedtheloavesintotheflames,knowingitmeant

beingpunished,andthendeliveredthemtome.ButIdismissed

this.Itmusthavebeenanaccident.Whywouldhehavedoneit?

Hedidn’tevenknowme.Still,justthrowingmethebreadwasan

enormouskindnessthatwouldhavesurelyresultedinabeating

ifdiscovered.Icouldn’texplainhisactions.

Weateslicesofbreadforbreakfastandheadedtoschool.It

wasasifspringhadcomeovernight.Warmsweetair.Fluffy

clouds.Atschool,Ipassedtheboyinthehall,hischeekhad

swelledupandhiseyehadblackened.Hewaswithhisfriends

anddidn’tacknowledgemeinanyway.ButasIcollectedPrim

andstartedforhomethatafternoon,Ifoundhimstaringatme

fromacrosstheschoolyard.Oureyesmetforonlyasecond,

thenheturnedhisheadaway.Idroppedmygaze,embarrassed,

andthat’swhenIsawit.Thefirstdandelionoftheyear.Abell

wentoffinmyhead.Ithoughtofthehoursspentinthewoods


withmyfatherandIknewhowweweregoingtosurvive.

Tothisday,Icannevershaketheconnectionbetweenthis

boy,PeetaMellark,andthebreadthatgavemehope,andthe

dandelionthatremindedmethatIwasnotdoomed.Andmore

thanonce,Ihaveturnedintheschoolhallwayandcaughthis

eyestrainedonme,onlytoquicklyflitaway.IfeellikeIowe

himsomething,andIhateowingpeople.MaybeifIhadthanked

himatsomepoint,I’dbefeelinglessconflictednow.Ithought

aboutitacoupleoftimes,buttheopportunityneverseemedto

presentitself.Andnowitneverwill.Becausewe’regoingtobe

thrownintoanarenatofighttothedeath.ExactlyhowamI

supposedtoworkinathank-youinthere?Somehowitjustwon’t

seemsincereifI’mtryingtoslithisthroat.

ThemayorfinishesthedrearyTreatyofTreasonandmotions

forPeetaandmetoshakehands.Hisareassolidandwarmas

thoseloavesofbread.Peetalooksmerightintheeyeandgives

myhandwhatIthinkismeanttobeareassuringsqueeze.Maybe


it’sjustanervousspasm.

WeturnbacktofacethecrowdastheanthemofPanem

plays.

Oh,well,Ithink.Therewillbetwenty-fourofus.Oddsare

someoneelsewillkillhimbeforeIdo.

Ofcourse,theoddshavenotbeenverydependableoflate.


Themomenttheanthemends,wearetakenintocustody.I

don’tmeanwe’rehandcuffedoranything,butagroupof

PeacekeepersmarchesusthroughthefrontdooroftheJustice

Building.Maybetributeshavetriedtoescapeinthepast.I’ve

neverseenthathappenthough.

Onceinside,I’mconductedtoaroomandleftalone.It’sthe

richestplaceI’veeverbeenin,withthick,deepcarpetsanda

velvetcouchandchairs.Iknowvelvetbecausemymotherhasa

dresswithacollarmadeofthestuff.WhenIsitonthecouch,I

can’thelprunningmyfingersoverthefabricrepeatedly.Ithelps

tocalmmeasItrytoprepareforthenexthour.Thetimeallotted

forthetributestosaygood-byetotheirlovedones.Icannot


affordtogetupset,toleavethisroomwithpuffyeyesandared

nose.Cryingisnotanoption.Therewillbemorecamerasatthe

trainstation.

Mysisterandmymothercomefirst.IreachouttoPrimand

sheclimbsonmylap,herarmsaroundmyneck,headonmy

shoulder,justlikeshedidwhenshewasatoddler.Mymother

sitsbesidemeandwrapsherarmsaroundus.Forafewminutes,

wesaynothing.ThenIstarttellingthemallthethingstheymust

remembertodo,nowthatIwillnotbetheretodothemforthem.

Primisnottotakeanytesserae.Theycangetby,ifthey’re

careful,onsellingPrim’sgoatmilkandcheeseandthesmall

apothecarybusinessmymothernowrunsforthepeopleinthe

Seam.Galewillgethertheherbsshedoesn’tgrowherself,but

shemustbeverycarefultodescribethembecausehe’snotas

familiarwiththemasIam.He’llalsobringthemgame—he

andImadeapactaboutthisayearorsoago—andwill

probablynotaskforcompensation,buttheyshouldthankhim


withsomekindoftrade,likemilkormedicine.

Idon’tbothersuggestingPrimlearntohunt.Itriedtoteach

heracoupleoftimesanditwasdisastrous.Thewoodsterrified

her,andwheneverIshotsomething,she’dgettearyandtalk

abouthowwemightbeabletohealitifwegotithomesoon

enough.Butshemakesoutwellwithhergoat,soIconcentrate

onthat.

WhenIamdonewithinstructionsaboutfuel,andtrading,

andstayinginschool,Iturntomymotherandgripherarm,

hard.“Listentome.Areyoulisteningtome?”Shenods,alarmed

bymyintensity.Shemustknowwhat’scoming.“Youcan’t

leaveagain,”Isay.

Mymother’seyesfindthefloor.“Iknow.Iwon’t.Icouldn’t

helpwhat—”

“Well,youhavetohelpitthistime.Youcan’tclockoutand

leavePrimonherown.There’snomenowtokeepyouboth

alive.Itdoesn’tmatterwhathappens.Whateveryouseeonthe


screen.Youhavetopromisemeyou’llfightthroughit!”My

voicehasrisentoashout.Initisalltheanger,allthefearIfelt

atherabandonment.

Shepullsherarmfrommygrasp,movedtoangerherself

now.“Iwasill.IcouldhavetreatedmyselfifI’dhadthe

medicineIhavenow.”

Thatpartaboutherbeingillmightbetrue.I’veseenher

bringbackpeoplesufferingfromimmobilizingsadnesssince.

Perhapsitisasickness,butit’sonewecan’tafford.

“Thentakeit.Andtakecareofher!”Isay.

“I’llbeallright,Katniss,”saysPrim,claspingmyfaceinher

hands.“Butyouhavetotakecare,too.You’resofastandbrave.

Maybeyoucanwin.”

Ican’twin.Primmustknowthatinherheart.The

competitionwillbefarbeyondmyabilities.Kidsfromwealthier

districts,wherewinningisahugehonor,who’vebeentrained

theirwholelivesforthis.Boyswhoaretwotothreetimesmy


size.Girlswhoknowtwentydifferentwaystokillyouwitha

knife.Oh,there’llbepeoplelikeme,too.Peopletoweedout

beforetherealfunbegins.

“Maybe,”Isay,becauseIcanhardlytellmymothertocarry

onifI’vealreadygivenupmyself.Besides,itisn’tinmynature

togodownwithoutafight,evenwhenthingsseem

insurmountable.“Thenwe’dberichasHaymitch.”

“Idon’tcareifwe’rerich.Ijustwantyoutocomehome.

Youwilltry,won’tyou?Really,reallytry?”asksPrim.

“Really,reallytry.Iswearit,”Isay.AndIknow,becauseof

Prim,I’llhaveto.

AndthenthePeacekeeperisatthedoor,signalingourtimeis

up,andwe’reallhuggingoneanothersohardithurtsandallI’m

sayingis“Iloveyou.Iloveyouboth.”Andthey’resayingit

backandthenthePeacekeeperordersthemoutandthedoor

closes.Iburymyheadinoneofthevelvetpillowsasifthiscan

blockthewholethingout.


Someoneelseenterstheroom,andwhenIlookup,I’m

surprisedtoseeit’sthebaker,PeetaMellark’sfather.Ican’t

believehe’scometovisitme.Afterall,I’llbetryingtokillhis

sonsoon.Butwedoknoweachotherabit,andheknowsPrim

evenbetter.WhenshesellshergoatcheesesattheHob,sheputs

twoofthemasideforhimandhegivesheragenerousamountof

breadinreturn.Wealwayswaittotradewithhimwhenhiswitch

ofawifeisn’taroundbecausehe’ssomuchnicer.Ifeelcertain

hewouldneverhavehithissonthewayshedidovertheburned

bread.Butwhyhashecometoseeme?

Thebakersitsawkwardlyontheedgeofoneoftheplush

chairs.He’sabig,broad-shoulderedmanwithburnscarsfrom

yearsattheovens.Hemusthavejustsaidgood-byetohisson.

Hepullsawhitepaperpackagefromhisjacketpocketand

holdsitouttome.Iopenitandfindcookies.Thesearealuxury

wecanneverafford.

“Thankyou,”Isay.Thebaker’snotaverytalkativemanin


thebestoftimes,andtodayhehasnowordsatall.“Ihadsome

ofyourbreadthismorning.MyfriendGalegaveyouasquirrel

forit.”Henods,asifrememberingthesquirrel.“Notyourbest

trade,”Isay.Heshrugsasifitcouldn’tpossiblymatter.

ThenIcan’tthinkofanythingelse,sowesitinsilenceuntil

aPeacemakersummonshim.Herisesandcoughstoclearhis

throat.“I’llkeepaneyeonthelittlegirl.Makesureshe’s

eating.”

Ifeelsomeofthepressureinmychestlightenathiswords.

Peopledealwithme,buttheyaregenuinelyfondofPrim.Maybe

therewillbeenoughfondnesstokeepheralive.

Mynextguestisalsounexpected.Madgewalksstraightto

me.Sheisnotweepyorevasive,insteadthere’sanurgency

abouthertonethatsurprisesme.“Theyletyouwearonething

fromyourdistrictinthearena.Onethingtoremindyouofhome.

Willyouwearthis?”Sheholdsoutthecirculargoldpinthatwas

onherdressearlier.Ihadn’tpaidmuchattentiontoitbefore,but


nowIseeit’sasmallbirdinflight.

“Yourpin?”Isay.Wearingatokenfrommydistrictisabout

thelastthingonmymind.

“Here,I’llputitonyourdress,allright?”Madgedoesn’t

waitforananswer,shejustleansinandfixesthebirdtomy

dress.“Promiseyou’llwearitintothearena,Katniss?”sheasks.

“Promise?”

“Yes,”Isay.Cookies.Apin.I’mgettingallkindsofgifts

today.Madgegivesmeonemore.Akissonthecheek.Then

she’sgoneandI’mleftthinkingthatmaybeMadgereallyhas

beenmyfriendallalong.

Finally,Galeishereandmaybethereisnothingromantic

betweenus,butwhenheopenshisarmsIdon’thesitatetogo

intothem.Hisbodyisfamiliartome—thewayitmoves,the

smellofwoodsmoke,eventhesoundofhisheartbeatingIknow

fromquietmomentsonahunt—butthisisthefirsttimeIreally

feelit,leanandhard-muscledagainstmyown.


“Listen,”hesays.“Gettingaknifeshouldbeprettyeasy,but

you’vegottogetyourhandsonabow.That’syourbestchance.”

“Theydon’talwayshavebows,”Isay,thinkingoftheyear

therewereonlyhorriblespikedmacesthatthetributeshadto

bludgeononeanothertodeathwith.

“Thenmakeone,”saysGale.“Evenaweakbowisbetter

thannobowatall.”

Ihavetriedcopyingmyfather’sbowswithpoorresults.It’s

notthateasy.Evenhehadtoscraphisownworksometimes.

“Idon’tevenknowifthere’llbewood,”Isay.Anotheryear,

theytossedeverybodyintoalandscapeofnothingbutboulders

andsandandscruffybushes.Iparticularlyhatedthatyear.Many

contestantswerebittenbyvenomoussnakesorwentinsanefrom

thirst.

“There’salmostalwayssomewood,”Galesays.“Sincethat

yearhalfofthemdiedofcold.Notmuchentertainmentinthat.”

It’strue.WespentoneHungerGameswatchingtheplayers


freezetodeathatnight.Youcouldhardlyseethembecausethey

werejusthuddledinballsandhadnowoodforfiresortorchesor

anything.ItwasconsideredveryanticlimacticintheCapitol,all

thosequiet,bloodlessdeaths.Sincethen,there’susuallybeen

woodtomakefires.

“Yes,there’susuallysome,”Isay.

“Katniss,it’sjusthunting.You’rethebesthunterIknow,”

saysGale.

“It’snotjusthunting.They’rearmed.Theythink,”Isay.

“Sodoyou.Andyou’vehadmorepractice.Realpractice,”

hesays.“Youknowhowtokill.”

“Notpeople,”Isay.

“Howdifferentcanitbe,really?”saysGalegrimly.

TheawfulthingisthatifIcanforgetthey’repeople,itwill

benodifferentatall.

ThePeacekeepersarebacktoosoonandGaleasksformore

time,butthey’retakinghimawayandIstarttopanic.“Don’tlet


themstarve!”Icryout,clingingtohishand.

“Iwon’t!YouknowIwon’t!Katniss,rememberI—”he

says,andtheyyankusapartandslamthedoorandI’llnever

knowwhatitwashewantedmetoremember.

It’sashortridefromtheJusticeBuildingtothetrainstation.

I’veneverbeeninacarbefore.Rarelyevenriddeninwagons.In

theSeam,wetravelonfoot.

I’vebeenrightnottocry.Thestationisswarmingwith

reporterswiththeirinsectlikecamerastraineddirectlyonmy

face.ButI’vehadalotofpracticeatwipingmyfacecleanof

emotionsandIdothisnow.Icatchaglimpseofmyselfonthe

televisionscreenonthewallthat’sairingmyarrivalliveandfeel

gratifiedthatIappearalmostbored.

PeetaMellark,ontheotherhand,hasobviouslybeencrying

andinterestinglyenoughdoesnotseemtobetryingtocoverit

up.Iimmediatelywonderifthiswillbehisstrategyinthe

Games.Toappearweakandfrightened,toreassuretheother


tributesthatheisnocompetitionatall,andthencomeout

fighting.Thisworkedverywellforagirl,JohannaMason,from

District7afewyearsback.Sheseemedlikesuchasniveling,

cowardlyfoolthatnoonebotheredaboutheruntiltherewere

onlyahandfulofcontestantsleft.Itturnedoutshecouldkill

viciously.Prettyclever,thewaysheplayedit.Butthisseemsan

oddstrategyforPeetaMellarkbecausehe’sabaker’sson.All

thoseyearsofhavingenoughtoeatandhaulingbreadtrays

aroundhavemadehimbroad-shoulderedandstrong.Itwilltake

anawfullotofweepingtoconvinceanyonetooverlookhim.

Wehavetostandforafewminutesinthedoorwayofthe

trainwhilethecamerasgobbleupourimages,thenwe’re

allowedinsideandthedoorsclosemercifullybehindus.The

trainbeginstomoveatonce.

Thespeedinitiallytakesmybreathaway.Ofcourse,I’ve

neverbeenonatrain,astravelbetweenthedistrictsisforbidden

exceptforofficiallysanctionedduties.Forus,that’smainly


transportingcoal.Butthisisnoordinarycoaltrain.It’soneof

thehigh-speedCapitolmodelsthataverage250milesperhour.

OurjourneytotheCapitolwilltakelessthanaday.

Inschool,theytellustheCapitolwasbuiltinaplaceonce

calledtheRockies.District12wasinaregionknownas

Appalachia.Evenhundredsofyearsago,theyminedcoalhere.

Whichiswhyourminershavetodigsodeep.

Somehowitallcomesbacktocoalatschool.Besidesbasic

readingandmathmostofourinstructioniscoal-related.Except

fortheweeklylectureonthehistoryofPanem.It’smostlyalot

ofblatheraboutwhatweowetheCapitol.Iknowtheremustbe

morethanthey’retellingus,anactualaccountofwhathappened

duringtherebellion.ButIdon’tspendmuchtimethinkingabout

it.Whateverthetruthis,Idon’tseehowitwillhelpmegetfood

onthetable.

ThetributetrainisfancierthaneventheroomintheJustice

Building.Weareeachgivenourownchambersthathavea


bedroom,adressingarea,andaprivatebathroomwithhotand

coldrunningwater.Wedon’thavehotwaterathome,unlesswe

boilit.

Therearedrawersfilledwithfineclothes,andEffieTrinket

tellsmetodoanythingIwant,wearanythingIwant,everything

isatmydisposal.Justbereadyforsupperinanhour.Ipeeloff

mymother’sbluedressandtakeahotshower.I’veneverhada

showerbefore.It’slikebeinginasummerrain,onlywarmer.I

dressinadarkgreenshirtandpants.

Atthelastminute,IrememberMadge’slittlegoldpin.For

thefirsttime,Igetagoodlookatit.It’sasifsomeonefashioned

asmallgoldenbirdandthenattachedaringaroundit.Thebirdis

connectedtotheringonlybyitswingtips.Isuddenlyrecognize

it.Amockingjay.

They’refunnybirdsandsomethingofaslapinthefaceto

theCapitol.Duringtherebellion,theCapitolbredaseriesof

geneticallyalteredanimalsasweapons.Thecommontermfor


themwasmuttations,orsometimesmuttsforshort.Onewasa

specialbirdcalledajabberjaythathadtheabilitytomemorize

andrepeatwholehumanconversations.Theywerehomingbirds,

exclusivelymale,thatwerereleasedintoregionswherethe

Capitol’senemieswereknowntobehiding.Afterthebirds

gatheredwords,they’dflybacktocenterstoberecorded.Ittook

peopleawhiletorealizewhatwasgoingoninthedistricts,how

privateconversationswerebeingtransmitted.Then,ofcourse,

therebelsfedtheCapitolendlesslies,andthejokewasonit.So

thecenterswereshutdownandthebirdswereabandonedtodie

offinthewild.

Onlytheydidn’tdieoff.Instead,thejabberjaysmatedwith

femalemockingbirds,creatingawholenewspeciesthatcould

replicatebothbirdwhistlesandhumanmelodies.Theyhadlost

theabilitytoenunciatewordsbutcouldstillmimicarangeof

humanvocalsounds,fromachild’shigh-pitchedwarbletoa

man’sdeeptones.Andtheycouldre-createsongs.Notjustafew


notes,butwholesongswithmultipleverses,ifyouhadthe

patiencetosingthemandiftheylikedyourvoice.

Myfatherwasparticularlyfondofmockingjays.Whenwe

wenthunting,hewouldwhistleorsingcomplicatedsongsto

themand,afterapolitepause,they’dalwayssingback.Not

everyoneistreatedwithsuchrespect.Butwhenevermyfather

sang,allthebirdsintheareawouldfallsilentandlisten.His

voicewasthatbeautiful,highandclearandsofilledwithlifeit

madeyouwanttolaughandcryatthesametime.Icouldnever

bringmyselftocontinuethepracticeafterhewasgone.Still,

there’ssomethingcomfortingaboutthelittlebird.It’slike

havingapieceofmyfatherwithme,protectingme.Ifastenthe

pinontomyshirt,andwiththedarkgreenfabricasa

background,Icanalmostimaginethemockingjayflyingthrough

thetrees.

EffieTrinketcomestocollectmeforsupper.Ifollowher

throughthenarrow,rockingcorridorintoadiningroomwith


polishedpaneledwalls.There’satablewhereallthedishesare

highlybreakable.PeetaMellarksitswaitingforus,thechairnext

tohimempty.

“Where’sHaymitch?”asksEffieTrinketbrightly.

“LasttimeIsawhim,hesaidhewasgoingtotakeanap,”

saysPeeta.

“Well,it’sbeenanexhaustingday,”saysEffieTrinket.I

thinkshe’srelievedbyHaymitch’sabsence,andwhocanblame

her?

Thesuppercomesincourses.Athickcarrotsoup,green

salad,lambchopsandmashedpotatoes,cheeseandfruit,a

chocolatecake.Throughoutthemeal,EffieTrinketkeeps

remindingustosavespacebecausethere’smoretocome.But

I’mstuffingmyselfbecauseI’veneverhadfoodlikethis,so

goodandsomuch,andbecauseprobablythebestthingIcando

betweennowandtheGamesisputonafewpounds.

“Atleast,youtwohavedecentmanners,”saysEffieaswe’re


finishingthemaincourse.“Thepairlastyearateeverythingwith

theirhandslikeacoupleofsavages.Itcompletelyupsetmy

digestion.”

ThepairlastyearweretwokidsfromtheSeamwho’dnever,

notonedayoftheirlives,hadenoughtoeat.Andwhentheydid

havefood,tablemannersweresurelythelastthingontheir

minds.Peeta’sabaker’sson.MymothertaughtPrimandmeto

eatproperly,soyes,Icanhandleaforkandknife.ButIhate

EffieTrinket’scommentsomuchImakeapointofeatingthe

restofmymealwithmyfingers.ThenIwipemyhandsonthe

tablecloth.Thismakesherpurseherlipstightlytogether.

Nowthatthemeal’sover,I’mfightingtokeepthefood

down.IcanseePeeta’slookingalittlegreen,too.Neitherofour

stomachsisusedtosuchrichfare.ButifIcanholddownGreasy

Sae’sconcoctionofmicemeat,pigentrails,andtreebark—a

winterspecialty—I’mdeterminedtohangontothis.

Wegotoanothercompartmenttowatchtherecapofthe


reapingsacrossPanem.Theytrytostaggerthemthroughoutthe

daysoapersoncouldconceivablywatchthewholethinglive,

butonlypeopleintheCapitolcouldreallydothat,sincenoneof

themhavetoattendreapingsthemselves.

Onebyone,weseetheotherreapings,thenamescalled,the

volunteerssteppingforwardor,moreoften,not.Weexaminethe

facesofthekidswhowillbeourcompetition.Afewstandoutin

mymind.Amonstrousboywholungesforwardtovolunteer

fromDistrict2.Afox-facedgirlwithsleekredhairfromDistrict

5.AboywithacrippledfootfromDistrict10.Andmost

hauntingly,atwelve-year-oldgirlfromDistrict11.Shehasdark

brownskinandeyes,butotherthanthat,she’sverylikePrimin

sizeanddemeanor.Onlywhenshemountsthestageandtheyask

forvolunteers,allyoucanhearisthewindwhistlingthroughthe

decrepitbuildingsaroundher.There’snoonewillingtotakeher

place.

Lastofall,theyshowDistrict12.Primbeingcalled,me


runningforwardtovolunteer.Youcan’tmissthedesperationin

myvoiceasIshovePrimbehindme,asifI’mafraidnoonewill

hearandthey’lltakePrimaway.But,ofcourse,theydohear.I

seeGalepullingheroffmeandwatchmyselfmountthestage.

Thecommentatorsarenotsurewhattosayaboutthecrowd’s

refusaltoapplaud.Thesilentsalute.OnesaysthatDistrict12

hasalwaysbeenabitbackwardbutthatlocalcustomscanbe

charming.Asifoncue,Haymitchfallsoffthestage,andthey

groancomically.Peeta’snameisdrawn,andhequietlytakeshis

place.Weshakehands.Theycuttotheanthemagain,andthe

programends.

EffieTrinketisdisgruntledaboutthestateherwigwasin.

“Yourmentorhasalottolearnaboutpresentation.Alotabout

televisedbehavior.”

Peetaunexpectedlylaughs.“Hewasdrunk,”saysPeeta.

“He’sdrunkeveryyear.”

“Everyday,”Iadd.Ican’thelpsmirkingalittle.Effie


TrinketmakesitsoundlikeHaymitchjusthassomewhatrough

mannersthatcouldbecorrectedwithafewtipsfromher.

“Yes,”hissesEffieTrinket.“Howoddyoutwofindit

amusing.Youknowyourmentorisyourlifelinetotheworldin

theseGames.Theonewhoadvisesyou,linesupyoursponsors,

anddictatesthepresentationofanygifts.Haymitchcanwellbe

thedifferencebetweenyourlifeandyourdeath!”

Justthen,Haymitchstaggersintothecompartment.“Imiss

supper?”hesaysinaslurredvoice.Thenhevomitsalloverthe

expensivecarpetandfallsinthemess.

“Solaughaway!”saysEffieTrinket.Shehopsinherpointy

shoesaroundthepoolofvomitandfleestheroom.


Forafewmoments,PeetaandItakeinthesceneofour

mentortryingtoriseoutoftheslipperyvilestufffromhis

stomach.Thereekofvomitandrawspiritsalmostbringsmy

dinnerup.Weexchangeaglance.ObviouslyHaymitchisn’t

much,butEffieTrinketisrightaboutonething,oncewe’rein

thearenahe’sallwe’vegot.Asifbysomeunspokenagreement,

PeetaandIeachtakeoneofHaymitch’sarmsandhelphimto

hisfeet.

“Itripped?”Haymitchasks.“Smellsbad.”Hewipeshishand

onhisnose,smearinghisfacewithvomit.

“Let’sgetyoubacktoyourroom,”saysPeeta.“Cleanyouup

abit.”


Wehalf-leadhalf-carryHaymitchbacktohiscompartment.

Sincewecan’texactlysethimdownontheembroidered

bedspread,wehaulhimintothebathtubandturntheshoweron

him.Hehardlynotices.

“It’sokay,”Peetasaystome.“I’lltakeitfromhere.”

Ican’thelpfeelingalittlegratefulsincethelastthingIwant

todoisstripdownHaymitch,washthevomitoutofhischest

hair,andtuckhimintobed.PossiblyPeetaistryingtomakea

goodimpressiononhim,tobehisfavoriteoncetheGames

begin.Butjudgingbythestatehe’sin,Haymitchwillhaveno

memoryofthistomorrow.

“Allright,”Isay.“IcansendoneoftheCapitolpeopleto

helpyou.”There’sanynumberonthetrain.Cookingforus.

Waitingonus.Guardingus.Takingcareofusistheirjob.

“No.Idon’twantthem,”saysPeeta.

Inodandheadtomyownroom.IunderstandhowPeeta

feels.Ican’tstandthesightoftheCapitolpeoplemyself.But


makingthemdealwithHaymitchmightbeasmallformof

revenge.SoI’mponderingthereasonwhyheinsistsontaking

careofHaymitchandallofasuddenIthink,It’sbecausehe’s

beingkind.Justashewaskindtogivemethebread.

Theideapullsmeupshort.AkindPeetaMellarkisfarmore

dangeroustomethananunkindone.Kindpeoplehaveawayof

workingtheirwayinsidemeandrootingthere.AndIcan’tlet

Peetadothis.Notwherewe’regoing.SoIdecide,fromthis

momenton,tohaveaslittleaspossibletodowiththebaker’s

son.

WhenIgetbacktomyroom,thetrainispausingata

platformtorefuel.Iquicklyopenthewindow,tossthecookies

Peeta’sfathergavemeoutofthetrain,andslamtheglassshut.

Nomore.Nomoreofeitherofthem.

Unfortunately,thepacketofcookieshitsthegroundand

burstsopeninapatchofdandelionsbythetrack.Ionlyseethe

imageforamoment,becausethetrainisoffagain,butit’s


enough.Enoughtoremindmeofthatotherdandelioninthe

schoolyardyearsago...

IhadjustturnedawayfromPeetaMellark’sbruisedface

whenIsawthedandelionandIknewhopewasn’tlost.Iplucked

itcarefullyandhurriedhome.IgrabbedabucketandPrim’s

handandheadedtotheMeadowandyes,itwasdottedwiththe

golden-headedweeds.Afterwe’dharvestedthose,wescrounged

alonginsidethefenceforprobablyamileuntilwe’dfilledthe

bucketwiththedandeliongreens,stems,andflowers.Thatnight,

wegorgedourselvesondandelionsaladandtherestofthe

bakerybread.

“Whatelse?”Primaskedme.“Whatotherfoodcanwe

find?”

“Allkindsofthings,”Ipromisedher.“Ijusthaveto

rememberthem.”

Mymotherhadabookshe’dbroughtwithherfromthe

apothecaryshop.Thepagesweremadeofoldparchmentand


coveredininkdrawingsofplants.Neathandwrittenblockstold

theirnames,wheretogatherthem,whentheycameinbloom,

theirmedicaluses.Butmyfatheraddedotherentriestothebook.

Plantsforeating,nothealing.Dandelions,pokeweed,wild

onions,pines.PrimandIspenttherestofthenightporingover

thosepages.

Thenextday,wewereoffschool.ForawhileIhungaround

theedgesoftheMeadow,butfinallyIworkedupthecourageto

gounderthefence.ItwasthefirsttimeI’dbeentherealone,

withoutmyfather’sweaponstoprotectme.ButIretrievedthe

smallbowandarrowshe’dmademefromahollowtree.I

probablydidn’tgomorethantwentyyardsintothewoodsthat

day.Mostofthetime,Iperchedupinthebranchesofanoldoak,

hopingforgametocomeby.Afterseveralhours,Ihadthegood

lucktokillarabbit.I’dshotafewrabbitsbefore,withmy

father’sguidance.ButthisI’ddoneonmyown.

Wehadn’thadmeatinmonths.Thesightoftherabbit


seemedtostirsomethinginmymother.Sherousedherself,

skinnedthecarcass,andmadeastewwiththemeatandsome

moregreensPrimhadgathered.Thensheactedconfusedand

wentbacktobed,butwhenthestewwasdone,wemadehereata

bowl.

Thewoodsbecameoursavior,andeachdayIwentabit

fartherintoitsarms.Itwasslow-goingatfirst,butIwas

determinedtofeedus.Istoleeggsfromnests,caughtfishin

nets,sometimesmanagedtoshootasquirrelorrabbitforstew,

andgatheredthevariousplantsthatsprungupbeneathmyfeet.

Plantsaretricky.Manyareedible,butonefalsemouthfuland

you’redead.Icheckedanddouble-checkedtheplantsIharvested

withmyfather’spictures.Ikeptusalive.

Anysignofdanger,adistanthowl,theinexplicablebreakof

abranch,sentmeflyingbacktothefenceatfirst.ThenIbegan

toriskclimbingtreestoescapethewilddogsthatquicklygot

boredandmovedon.Bearsandcatsliveddeeperin,perhaps


dislikingthesootyreekofourdistrict.

OnMay8th,IwenttotheJusticeBuilding,signedupformy

tesserae,andpulledhomemyfirstbatchofgrainandoilin

Prim’stoywagon.Ontheeighthofeverymonth,Iwasentitled

todothesame.Icouldn’tstophuntingandgathering,ofcourse.

Thegrainwasnotenoughtoliveon,andtherewereotherthings

tobuy,soapandmilkandthread.Whatwedidn’tabsolutely

havetoeat,IbegantotradeattheHob.Itwasfrighteningto

enterthatplacewithoutmyfatheratmyside,butpeoplehad

respectedhim,andtheyacceptedme.Gamewasgameafterall,

nomatterwho’dshotit.Ialsosoldatthebackdoorsofthe

wealthierclientsintown,tryingtorememberwhatmyfatherhad

toldmeandlearningafewnewtricksaswell.Thebutcherwould

buymyrabbitsbutnotsquirrels.Thebakerenjoyedsquirrelbut

wouldonlytradeforoneifhiswifewasn’taround.TheHead

Peacekeeperlovedwildturkey.Themayorhadapassionfor

strawberries.


Inlatesummer,IwaswashingupinapondwhenInoticed

theplantsgrowingaroundme.Tallwithleaveslikearrowheads.

Blossomswiththreewhitepetals.Ikneltdowninthewater,my

fingersdiggingintothesoftmud,andIpulleduphandfulsofthe

roots.Small,bluishtubersthatdon’tlooklikemuchbutboiled

orbakedareasgoodasanypotato.“Katniss,”Isaidaloud.It’s

theplantIwasnamedfor.AndIheardmyfather’svoicejoking,

“Aslongasyoucanfindyourself,you’llneverstarve.”Ispent

hoursstirringupthepondbedwithmytoesandastick,

gatheringthetubersthatfloatedtothetop.Thatnight,wefeasted

onfishandkatnissrootsuntilwewereall,forthefirsttimein

months,full.

Slowly,mymotherreturnedtous.Shebegantocleanand

cookandpreservesomeofthefoodIbroughtinforwinter.

Peopletradedusorpaidmoneyforhermedicalremedies.One

day,Iheardhersinging.

Primwasthrilledtohaveherback,butIkeptwatching,


waitingforhertodisappearonusagain.Ididn’ttrusther.And

somesmallgnarledplaceinsidemehatedherforherweakness,

forherneglect,forthemonthsshehadputusthrough.Prim

forgaveher,butIhadtakenastepbackfrommymother,putup

awalltoprotectmyselffromneedingher,andnothingwasever

thesamebetweenusagain.

NowIwasgoingtodiewithoutthateverbeingsetright.I

thoughtofhowIhadyelledathertodayintheJusticeBuilding.I

hadtoldherIlovedher,too,though.Somaybeitwouldall

balanceout.

ForawhileIstandstaringoutthetrainwindow,wishingI

couldopenitagain,butunsureofwhatwouldhappenatsuch

highspeed.Inthedistance,Iseethelightsofanotherdistrict.7?

10?Idon’tknow.Ithinkaboutthepeopleintheirhouses,

settlinginforbed.Iimaginemyhome,withitsshuttersdrawn

tight.Whataretheydoingnow,mymotherandPrim?Werethey

abletoeatsupper?Thefishstewandthestrawberries?Ordidit


lieuntouchedontheirplates?Didtheywatchtherecapofthe

day’seventsonthebatteredoldTVthatsitsonthetableagainst

thewall?Surely,thereweremoretears.Ismymotherholding

up,beingstrongforPrim?Orhasshealreadystartedtoslip

away,leavingtheweightoftheworldonmysister’sfragile

shoulders?

Primwillundoubtedlysleepwithmymothertonight.The

thoughtofthatscruffyoldButtercuppostinghimselfonthebed

towatchoverPrimcomfortsme.Ifshecries,hewillnosehis

wayintoherarmsandcurlupthereuntilshecalmsdownand

fallsasleep.I’msogladIdidn’tdrownhim.

Imaginingmyhomemakesmeachewithloneliness.This

dayhasbeenendless.CouldGaleandIhavebeeneating

blackberriesonlythismorning?Itseemslikealifetimeago.

Likealongdreamthatdeterioratedintoanightmare.Maybe,ifI

gotosleep,IwillwakeupbackinDistrict12,whereIbelong.

Probablythedrawersholdanynumberofnightgowns,butI


juststripoffmyshirtandpantsandclimbintobedinmy

underwear.Thesheetsaremadeofsoft,silkyfabric.Athick

fluffycomfortergivesimmediatewarmth.

IfI’mgoingtocry,nowisthetimetodoit.Bymorning,I’ll

beabletowashthedamagedonebythetearsfrommyface.But

notearscome.I’mtootiredortoonumbtocry.TheonlythingI

feelisadesiretobesomewhereelse.SoIletthetrainrockme

intooblivion.

Graylightisleakingthroughthecurtainswhentherapping

rousesme.IhearEffieTrinket’svoice,callingmetorise.“Up,

up,up!It’sgoingtobeabig,big,bigday!”Itryandimagine,for

amoment,whatitmustbelikeinsidethatwoman’shead.What

thoughtsfillherwakinghours?Whatdreamscometoherat

night?Ihavenoidea.

Iputthegreenoutfitbackonsinceit’snotreallydirty,just

slightlycrumpledfromspendingthenightonthefloor.My

fingerstracethecirclearoundthelittlegoldmockingjayandI


thinkofthewoods,andofmyfather,andofmymotherandPrim

wakingup,havingtogetonwiththings.Isleptintheelaborate

braidedhairmymotherdidforthereapinganditdoesn’tlook

toobad,soIjustleaveitup.Itdoesn’tmatter.Wecan’tbefar

fromtheCapitolnow.Andoncewereachthecity,mystylistwill

dictatemylookfortheopeningceremoniestonightanyway.I

justhopeIgetonewhodoesn’tthinknudityisthelastwordin

fashion.

AsIenterthediningcar,EffieTrinketbrushesbymewitha

cupofblackcoffee.She’smutteringobscenitiesunderher

breath.Haymitch,hisfacepuffyandredfromthepreviousday’s

indulgences,ischuckling.Peetaholdsarollandlookssomewhat

embarrassed.

“Sitdown!Sitdown!”saysHaymitch,wavingmeover.The

momentIslideintomychairI’mservedanenormousplatterof

food.Eggs,ham,pilesoffriedpotatoes.Atureenoffruitsitsin

icetokeepitchilled.Thebasketofrollstheysetbeforeme


wouldkeepmyfamilygoingforaweek.There’sanelegantglass

oforangejuice.Atleast,Ithinkit’sorangejuice.I’veonlyeven

tastedanorangeonce,atNewYear’swhenmyfatherboughtone

asaspecialtreat.Acupofcoffee.Mymotheradorescoffee,

whichwecouldalmostneverafford,butitonlytastesbitterand

thintome.ArichbrowncupofsomethingI’veneverseen.

“Theycallithotchocolate,”saysPeeta.“It’sgood.”

Itakeasipofthehot,sweet,creamyliquidandashudder

runsthroughme.Eventhoughtherestofthemealbeckons,I

ignoreituntilI’vedrainedmycup.ThenIstuffdownevery

mouthfulIcanhold,whichisasubstantialamount,beingcareful

tonotoverdoitonthericheststuff.Onetime,mymothertold

methatIalwayseatlikeI’llneverseefoodagain.AndIsaid,“I

won’tunlessIbringithome.”Thatshutherup.

Whenmystomachfeelslikeit’sabouttosplitopen,Ilean

backandtakeinmybreakfastcompanions.Peetaisstilleating,

breakingoffbitsofrollanddippingtheminhotchocolate.


Haymitchhasn’tpaidmuchattentiontohisplatter,buthe’s

knockingbackaglassofredjuicethathekeepsthinningwitha

clearliquidfromabottle.Judgingbythefumes,it’ssomekind

ofspirit.Idon’tknowHaymitch,butI’veseenhimoftenenough

intheHob,tossinghandfulsofmoneyonthecounterofthe

womanwhosellswhiteliquor.He’llbeincoherentbythetime

wereachtheCapitol.

IrealizeIdetestHaymitch.NowondertheDistrict12

tributesneverstandachance.Itisn’tjustthatwe’vebeen

underfedandlacktraining.Someofourtributeshavestillbeen

strongenoughtomakeagoofit.Butwerarelygetsponsorsand

he’sabigpartofthereasonwhy.Therichpeoplewhoback

tributes—eitherbecausethey’rebettingonthemorsimplyfor

thebraggingrightsofpickingawinner—expectsomeone

classierthanHaymitchtodealwith.

“So,you’resupposedtogiveusadvice,”IsaytoHaymitch.

“Here’ssomeadvice.Stayalive,”saysHaymitch,andthen


burstsoutlaughing.IexchangealookwithPeetabeforeI

rememberI’mhavingnothingmoretodowithhim.I’m

surprisedtoseethehardnessinhiseyes.Hegenerallyseemsso

mild.

“That’sveryfunny,”saysPeeta.Suddenlyhelashesoutat

theglassinHaymitch’shand.Itshattersonthefloor,sendingthe

bloodredliquidrunningtowardthebackofthetrain.“Onlynot

tous.”

Haymitchconsidersthisamoment,thenpunchesPeetainthe

jaw,knockinghimfromhischair.Whenheturnsbacktoreach

forthespirits,Idrivemyknifeintothetablebetweenhishand

andthebottle,barelymissinghisfingers.Ibracemyselfto

deflecthishit,butitdoesn’tcome.Insteadhesitsbackand

squintsatus.

“Well,what’sthis?”saysHaymitch.“DidIactuallygeta

pairoffightersthisyear?”

Peetarisesfromthefloorandscoopsupahandfulofice


fromunderthefruittureen.Hestartstoraiseittotheredmark

onhisjaw.

“No,”saysHaymitch,stoppinghim.“Letthebruiseshow.

Theaudiencewillthinkyou’vemixeditupwithanothertribute

beforeyou’veevenmadeittothearena.”

“That’sagainsttherules,”saysPeeta.

“Onlyiftheycatchyou.Thatbruisewillsayyoufought,you

weren’tcaught,evenbetter,”saysHaymitch.Heturnstome.

“Canyouhitanythingwiththatknifebesidesatable?”

Thebowandarrowismyweapon.ButI’vespentafair

amountoftimethrowingknivesaswell.Sometimes,ifI’ve

woundedananimalwithanarrow,it’sbettertogetaknifeinto

it,too,beforeIapproachit.IrealizethatifIwantHaymitch’s

attention,thisismymomenttomakeanimpression.Iyankthe

knifeoutofthetable,getagripontheblade,andthenthrowit

intothewallacrosstheroom.Iwasactuallyjusthopingtogeta

goodsolidstick,butitlodgesintheseambetweentwopanels,


makingmelookalotbetterthanIam.

“Standoverhere.Bothofyou,”saysHaymitch,noddingto

themiddleoftheroom.Weobeyandhecirclesus,proddingus

likeanimalsattimes,checkingourmuscles,examiningour

faces.“Well,you’renotentirelyhopeless.Seemfit.Andonce

thestylistsgetholdofyou,you’llbeattractiveenough.”

PeetaandIdon’tquestionthis.TheHungerGamesaren’ta

beautycontest,butthebest-lookingtributesalwaysseemtopull

moresponsors.

“Allright,I’llmakeadealwithyou.Youdon’tinterfere

withmydrinking,andI’llstaysoberenoughtohelpyou,”says

Haymitch.“ButyouhavetodoexactlywhatIsay.”

It’snotmuchofadealbutstillagiantstepforwardfromten

minutesagowhenwehadnoguideatall.

“Fine,”saysPeeta.

“Sohelpus,”Isay.“Whenwegettothearena,what’sthe

beststrategyattheCornucopiaforsomeone—”


“Onethingatatime.Inafewminutes,we’llbepullinginto

thestation.You’llbeputinthehandsofyourstylists.You’renot

goingtolikewhattheydotoyou.Butnomatterwhatitis,don’t

resist,”saysHaymitch.

“But—”Ibegin.

“Nobuts.Don’tresist,”saysHaymitch.Hetakesthebottle

ofspiritsfromthetableandleavesthecar.Asthedoorswings

shutbehindhim,thecargoesdark.Therearestillafewlights

inside,butoutsideit’sasifnighthasfallenagain.Irealizewe

mustbeinthetunnelthatrunsupthroughthemountainsintothe

Capitol.Themountainsformanaturalbarrierbetweenthe

Capitolandtheeasterndistricts.Itisalmostimpossibletoenter

fromtheeastexceptthroughthetunnels.Thisgeographical

advantagewasamajorfactorinthedistrictslosingthewarthat

ledtomybeingatributetoday.Sincetherebelshadtoscalethe

mountains,theywereeasytargetsfortheCapitol’sairforces.

PeetaMellarkandIstandinsilenceasthetrainspeeds


along.ThetunnelgoesonandonandIthinkofthetonsofrock

separatingmefromthesky,andmychesttightens.Ihatebeing

encasedinstonethisway.Itremindsmeoftheminesandmy

father,trapped,unabletoreachsunlight,buriedforeverinthe

darkness.

Thetrainfinallybeginstoslowandsuddenlybrightlight

floodsthecompartment.Wecan’thelpit.BothPeetaandIrunto

thewindowtoseewhatwe’veonlyseenontelevision,the

Capitol,therulingcityofPanem.Thecamerashaven’tliedabout

itsgrandeur.Ifanything,theyhavenotquitecapturedthe

magnificenceoftheglisteningbuildingsinarainbowofhues

thattowerintotheair,theshinycarsthatrolldownthewide

pavedstreets,theoddlydressedpeoplewithbizarrehairand

paintedfaceswhohavenevermissedameal.Allthecolorsseem

artificial,thepinkstoodeep,thegreenstoobright,theyellows

painfultotheeyes,liketheflatrounddisksofhardcandywecan

neveraffordtobuyatthetinysweetshopinDistrict12.


Thepeoplebegintopointatuseagerlyastheyrecognizea

tributetrainrollingintothecity.Istepawayfromthewindow,

sickenedbytheirexcitement,knowingtheycan’twaittowatch

usdie.ButPeetaholdshisground,actuallywavingandsmiling

atthegawkingcrowd.Heonlystopswhenthetrainpullsintothe

station,blockingusfromtheirview.

Heseesmestaringathimandshrugs.“Whoknows?”he

says.“Oneofthemmayberich.”

Ihavemisjudgedhim.Ithinkofhisactionssincethereaping

began.Thefriendlysqueezeofmyhand.Hisfathershowingup

withthecookiesandpromisingtofeedPrim...didPeetaput

himuptothat?Histearsatthestation.Volunteeringtowash

Haymitchbutthenchallenginghimthismorningwhen

apparentlythenice-guyapproachhadfailed.Andnowthe

wavingatthewindow,alreadytryingtowinthecrowd.

Allofthepiecesarestillfittingtogether,butIsensehehasa

planforming.Hehasn’tacceptedhisdeath.Heisalready


fightinghardtostayalive.WhichalsomeansthatkindPeeta

Mellark,theboywhogavemethebread,isfightinghardtokill

me.


R-i-i-i-p!IgritmyteethasVenia,awomanwithaquahair

andgoldtattoosabovehereyebrows,yanksastripoffabricfrom

myleg,tearingoutthehairbeneathit.“Sorry!”shepipesinher

sillyCapitolaccent.“You’rejustsohairy!”

Whydothesepeoplespeakinsuchahighpitch?Whydo

theirjawsbarelyopenwhentheytalk?Whydotheendsoftheir

sentencesgoupasifthey’reaskingaquestion?Oddvowels,

clippedwords,andalwaysahissontheletters...nowonder

it’simpossiblenottomimicthem.

Veniamakeswhat’ssupposedtobeasympatheticface.

“Goodnews,though.Thisisthelastone.Ready?”Igetagripon

theedgesofthetableI’mseatedonandnod.Thefinalswatheof


myleghairisuprootedinapainfuljerk.

I’vebeenintheRemakeCenterformorethanthreehours

andIstillhaven’tmetmystylist.Apparentlyhehasnointerest

inseeingmeuntilVeniaandtheothermembersofmyprepteam

haveaddressedsomeobviousproblems.Thishasincluded

scrubbingdownmybodywithagrittyfoamthathasremovednot

onlydirtbutatleastthreelayersofskin,turningmynailsinto

uniformshapes,andprimarily,riddingmybodyofhair.Mylegs,

arms,torso,underarms,andpartsofmyeyebrowshavebeen

strippedofthestuff,leavingmelikeapluckedbird,readyfor

roasting.Idon’tlikeit.Myskinfeelssoreandtinglingand

intenselyvulnerable.ButIhavekeptmysideofthebargainwith

Haymitch,andnoobjectionhascrossedmylips.

“You’redoingverywell,”sayssomeguynamedFlavius.He

giveshisorangecorkscrewlocksashakeandappliesafreshcoat

ofpurplelipsticktohismouth.“Ifthere’sonethingwecan’t

stand,it’sawhiner.Greaseherdown!”


VeniaandOctavia,aplumpwomanwhoseentirebodyhas

beendyedapaleshadeofpeagreen,rubmedownwithalotion

thatfirststingsbutthensoothesmyrawskin.Thentheypullme

fromthetable,removingthethinrobeI’vebeenallowedtowear

offandon.Istandthere,completelynaked,asthethreecircle

me,wieldingtweezerstoremoveanylastbitsofhair.IknowI

shouldbeembarrassed,butthey’resounlikepeoplethatI’mno

moreself-consciousthanifatrioofoddlycoloredbirdswere

peckingaroundmyfeet.

Thethreestepbackandadmiretheirwork.“Excellent!You

almostlooklikeahumanbeingnow!”saysFlavius,andtheyall

laugh.

IforcemylipsupintoasmiletoshowhowgratefulIam.

“Thankyou,”Isaysweetly.“Wedon’thavemuchcausetolook

niceinDistrictTwelve.”

Thiswinsthemovercompletely.“Ofcourse,youdon’t,you

poordarling!”saysOctaviaclaspingherhandstogetherin


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ebook converter DEMO - - BINGHAMTON HIGH SCHOOL - Homekieferbing.weebly.com › uploads › 1 › 3 › 7 › 6 › 13762989 › collins... · 2019-11-29 · weak spots in the fence,