Chapter 1

I lean all of my weight onto the back of the struggling deer, the blood from its fatal wound coating my hands. It's a white-tail buck, a little over a hundred and twenty pounds and the first one I've ever taken down alone. It's an accomplishment, but the shot went wide of its mark and now the animal is slowly bleeding to death. I can see the helpless panic in its wide amber eyes and something in my chest squeezes painfully. I don't usually get sentimental, for me, food's food, but no one should suffer, especially not when I can help it.

"A little help here," I call out. I need to get a knife into it and I only have two hands. The animal is weak, injured, but still dangerous. Plus it probably outweighs me by at least ten pounds.

"Nay, sweetheart you've got it," Haymitch yells from my left. I risk looking away from the deer to glare at him. He's casually leaning against a tree, taking a long pull from the flask in his hand. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his hunting jacket before turning to the camera. "Whoo! This girl is on fire, today!"

The buck under me gives a shudder and I'm finally able to reach the knife tucked into my boot. I'm still kicking myself for not getting the knife out before coming up to the deer, but the animal didn't move at first and I'd thought the kill was clean. After four years of hunting, I should have known better.

I slash the knife across the animal's throat, releasing a weak spray of blood before it goes completely still beneath me. Breathing hard, I wipe the blood from my hands and knife onto some nearby grass and stand up on wobbly feet. The camera isn't on me anymore, both cameramen are focusing on Haymitch as he finally decides to walk over to the dead animal and explains the proper methods for cleaning and field dressing.

I make my way to the makeshift kitchen area where my best friend, Gale Hawthorne, is waiting for me, towel in hand. He has a smile on his face and I rip the towel from him. I try to look angry, but I can feel myself smiling back at him. Gale's one of the only people in the world who can make me smile. I use the towel to wipe the rest of the blood from my face and cover my mirth.

"You're got to be more careful, Catnip," he says. "You know better than that."

I scowl at him, but I know he's right. I've been hunting since I was a little girl, first with my father and then, when both our fathers died in the same accident, with Gale.

I hardly knew him before, but he became my hunting partner, my best friend. Almost everything I know about hunting comes from him. He also got me this job as a hunting assistant on Chef of the Wild, billed as only gourmet game show on channel 12. Ha, ha.

The show's host, Haymitch Abernathy, is about as gourmet as a toilet bowl, but the job pays well enough to keep me, my mother and my sister, Prim, alive. It was a close call, too, in those days after my father died and my mother developed fibromyalgia, hunting with Gale and this job were the only things between us and starvation.

Gale hefts a large tray of perfectly sectioned deer and takes it to where Haymitch will start grilling in a few minutes, before going back into the kitchen to help our food prep girl, Madge, start dicing the vegetables.

I go to the trailer we all share and takes a shower in the tiny cubicle. I've be expected back on set in fifteen minutes to chat with Haymitch on camera as he cooks and to tell him how good everything smells. After the shower, I go to my section of the trailer where my "uniforms" are stored. It's what I wear after the real hunting is done. The uniform consists of a pair of skintight jeans and a variety of midriff baring plaid shirts. My hair in a single braid completes the package. What can I say, it's ridiculous, but it pays the bills.

I check my face in the mirror. The gray eyes, too wide in my serious face stare back at me. Channel 12 is too cheap to give us a makeup artist, so I just smooth some tinted moisturizer on my face and I'm out with three minutes to spare.

The rest of the taping goes well and Haymitch pulls off his venison stew, venison chops, and venison burgers without a hitch despite being completely drunk. It's mostly thanks to Madge who always makes sure we have the final dishes prepared ahead of time, so no matter how bad Haymitch screws up, everything still looks edible in the final cut. She should be the host, everything she makes is delicious. The whole crew always fights over who will take her food home. She's not like me and Gale, her family's rich and she only works because she wants to.

After we wrap, all six of us, me and Gale, Haymitch, Madge, and the two cameramen pile into the van. The thing has the logo of the show, a giant deer with exed out eyes as a full wrap decal. I'm only glad it covers the windows so I don't have to be seen riding in it.

We're heading home when Haymitch starts cursing from the backseat. "We've got to meet the pains and the producers at the office this afternoon," he slurred.

Everyone in the van groans. The pains are what we call the only other cooking show on channel 12. The real name of the show is Le Pain, which thanks to four years of high school French, I know means bread, but in our slightly unhealthy, one-sided competition, it morphs into the pains.

Le Pain is the channel favorite. With their highbrow, French inspired baking, Le Pain always manages to get national advertisers and the channel loves them for it. With our fishin' and huntin', the best we can hope for are local lawyer ads.

"What time?" Gale asks, turning the car back toward the city.

"About five minutes ago," Haymitch answers.

Gale breaks every speed limit to get to our channel's office downtown. It's in a rundown building that should have been demolished ten years ago, but I hear that the rent is cheap for downtown. I drag Haymitch into the building while Gale attempts the nearly impossible task of finding a parking space. More than likely the meeting is just for Haymitch, anyway. The local execs don't have a lot to say to the grunt workers.

The elevator takes us up to the third floor where the meeting is being held and I pull Haymitch along the corridor. Part of it is his being drunk, the other part is him really not wanting to go. I pull harder.

We finally make it to the door and I try to stand Haymitch up on his own two feet. "Get it together," I whisper into his ears.

Part of me is afraid that if they know how bad his drinking is, they'll cancel the show. His drinking is supposed to be part of the good ole boy gimmick, but he's not supposed to bring it to the boardroom. I need this job. I'm the only one in my family with a job. The little money from my father's death benefits and my mother's disability claims wouldn't keep the lights on for a month.

Haymitch turns his blurry eyes on me for a second and I see understanding in their depths, maybe he's not as drunk as he seems. He stands up straighter and turns the knob.

"Numbers are down for this quarter for both shows, even more than projected…" the bland voice breaks off and five pairs of eyes turn in our direction. The baker who hosts Le Pain has brought along two of his sons who assist him on the show. They sit like ducks in a row, all blond haired and blue-eyed in their nice designer clothes.

I only know one of them by name, Peeta Mellark. I take in the surprised look in his blue eyes before they flit from my face down to the bare midriff of the costume I'm still wearing. I shift nervously under his gaze and I can't help trying to pull the darn top down. But of course, it stays firmly above my navel.

The exec smiles a bland smile, "Chef, thank you for finally showing up. We were just discussing the dire straits we find ourselves in."

The man offers Haymitch a folder which Haymitch immediately hands to me without looking at it.

"According to you, Cray, we are always in dire straits," Haymitch says dryly. He plops himself into one of the vacant seats at the table and I slide in next to him, right in front of Peeta Mellark.

The only reason I know the name is because of something that happened years ago, right after my father died. Le Pain is not only the name of their show, but the name of the trendy bakery where they tape their show. At the time, I didn't know any of this, all I knew was that the place looked busy and they had bread sitting right out in the open. So, after looking around, I stole a loaf.

I have no excuse, it wasn't just to ease a physical hunger, even though that was a part of it. Stealing the bread relieved a lingering numbness I felt in the wake of my father's death. It made me feel something again. So, a few days later, I did it again and again after a week. The fourth time, the security guard caught me red handed. He was about to call the police when a young man who worked there, a boy with ash blond hair and blue eyes stopped him. He looked about my age, about fifteen.

"I'm sorry I didn't get you a bag for your bread," the boy said brightly.

The guard and I exchanged equally dumbfounded looks.

"She was stealing," the guard said. "This is the second time I've seen her in here."

"No, we have a standing order with Ms.…" those blue eyes turned to me questioningly.

"Everdeen, Katniss Everdeen," I mumbled.

"Ms. Everdeen, that's right. We have a standing order with Ms. Everdeen for a loaf of raisin walnut bread each week." he finished.

The guard looked between the two of us, but the boy stood his ground and after a few more seconds of scrutiny, he shrugged and walking away.

"Let me wrap this up for you," the boy said. He walked over to a table with wax paper and brown bags. "Would you like it sliced?"

I shook my head slowly, still mute with shock.

"Good choice, pre-slicing just makes the bread go stale faster," he said conversationally.

I couldn't figure out why he was doing this. He had to know there was no such standing order. Or was there? Was there a customer who looked like me that he'd confused me with? The boy deftly wrapped the bread up. As he handed me the loaf, his eye slide over to an older woman working behind the counter. When she didn't look up, he smiled.

"Oh, yeah, and here is your change," he said. He laid a bill in my hand. It was a hundred dollar bill.

The bland smile on the execs' face doesn't waver, but a deep crease appears in his forehead. "Chef Abernathy, your show is in serious danger of being cancelled. Our projections state that we will be better off showing reruns of the Andy Griffith Show in your time slot if rating don't pick up soon. Le Pain is doing slightly better, but rating are still down. No one wants to see old-school instructional cooking anymore."

"Well, what do you suggest?" Chef Mellark says. Mellark may be a brilliant pastry chef, but his quiet personality probably doesn't translate well on television.

"The Hunger Games," the other exec announces. She is not bland. From her pink tipped blond hair, to the red bottomed soles of her heels, this woman was the living antonym of the word bland.

"Effie Trinket, executive producer at Capitol Television," the woman says. "I'm here to personally invite representatives from channel 12 to this year's Hunger Games."

I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. The Hunger Games are the Olympics of the food world. Two representatives, charmingly called "tributes" from each channel owned by Capitol Television compete in a championship tournament that tests cooking ability and food knowledge until only one contestant is left. The final contestant is named victor and receives a multimillion dollar contract on the channel of their choice as well as genuine celebrity status. The show is always number one in rating, every year. No one from channel 12, ever wins. That is except…I look at Haymitch out of the corner of my eye.

Fifteen years ago, during the network's tenth Games, Haymitch Abernathy became victor. How he won, I will never guess, but he did. And he decided to come back to channel 12 instead of going off to one of the fancier channels. It's one of the reasons the channel execs tolerates him, even years later, being a victor garners special status.

But, I still don't see what Effie Trinket is getting at. They have the Games every year and Haymitch and usually Chef Mellark go every year. Haymitch always manages to piss someone off in the first round and come right back home and the baker doesn't stay on much longer than that. No one cares.

"This year," Effie Trinket says with theatrical flair, "For our twenty-fifth Games, we are going to do things a bit differently. Raising the stakes. We want our network to be younger, edgier. We've seen the hosts of some of the shows compete time and time and time again. We're ready to inject the Games with a new vigor, especially for our smaller channels." She pauses here to cast a sympathetic look around the room. "So, in addition to the victor receiving the usual contract and the endorsements, the shows of the losing representatives will all be canceled and their contracts revoked."

"You… you can't do that. Half our brand recognition comes from that show!" Peeta's brother starts.

I allow myself an eye roll for that. They're worried about brand recognition when the only thing I can think about is how I will feed my family without this stupid show. My family and Gale's are relying on Chef of the Wild.

"Now, if you read your contracts carefully, you'll see that we have the right to set the prizes and losses for the Hunger Games," Effie Trinket says. Then a secretive smile crosses her red lipsticky lips. "Within reason, of course. And in addition to this change, the tributes for the twenty-fifth Games have been selected by the network from among the cast and crew."

I glance over to the Le Pain side of the table to gauge their reactions. The father looks sadly thoughtful, like he's already resigned to losing the show, the older brother's angry, but Peeta Mellark is looking right at me with those twinkling blue eyes. And I stare right back.

"Chef of the Wild, first," Effie Trinket says. For us to even have a chance at winning, it needs to be Madge. She can cook. She's nice. She's pretty and blonde. Madge is our best bet. I will the paper to say Madge.

"Katniss Everdeen, you shall represent channel 12 and Chef of the Wild. I am glad you are here so I can congratulate you personally," Effie Trinket beams.

I didn't know it was possible to be so annoying. This woman has to be the most irritating person alive. Peeta's still looking at me, but now with the faintest hint of a smile. I can tell he's laughing at me. Okay, so it's possible to be even more irritating.

"And we have chosen Peeta Mellark for Le Pain. Congratulations to you as well."

"So I can go, now?" Haymitch interrupts. He doesn't look distressed that the future of his show is in the hands of a teenaged girl. In fact, he looks relieved.

"No so fast, Chef Abernathy," Effie Trinket trills, "We at Capitol don't forget our past victors. As part of these extra-special Games, our new tributes will be mentored by a past victor from their channel and since you're the only one from 12, the honor goes to you."

"So I still have to go to the Hunger Games," Haymitch says flatly.

"Yes, as a mentor. Congratulations!"

"Lady, I don't know who you are, but I hate you."