Chapter 1: 72nd Reaping

I stand stock-still, facing the mirror as Mother puts the finishing touches on the single, simple braid running down my back. After a moment, she steps back to review her handiwork, take it in alongside the faded blue dress that once belonged to her when she was a Merchant. The frock is still a little big on me, but I'm only 14; I trust I can grow into it.

"Now you look beautiful, too," Mother says softly, though there is no smile, or even the light of one in her eyes. Just a flat affect.

"I wish I looked like you," my 10-year-old sister Prim remarks from the settee off to one side.

"Oh no," I take a seat next to her. "I wish I looked like you, Little Duck." And I mean it. Primrose inherited our mother's blonde hair, blue eyes and fair complexion. She could pass for a Merchant's child. I, on the other hand, am mostly my father and his Seam features. I tuck in the back of Prim's blouse tenderly. She might be my sister, but the way that I am with her, she feels practically like my child. And I suppose I should take some credit for that. I was the one who raised her, after our mother emotionally withdrew following Daddy's death in a mining accident. "Come on. Let's go." I say it bravely, because I am sure there are a hundred places I would rather be, one hundred other events that I would rather be going to. For today is the Reaping for the 72nd Annual Hunger Games. Mandatory attendance. To see whether your life continues as is, or if that life as you know it is over.

A few generations ago, the twelve Districts of Panem rose up against the leaders in the Capitol. The rebels were put down brutally, and as everlasting punishment, a charter was drafted establishing the Hunger Games. It is a competition in which all the districts put forward one girl and one boy of teenage years (really between the ages of 12 and 18) to be sent into an outdoor arena for a fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins, becoming a Victor to mentor future tributes into perpetuity.

Mother, Prim and I arrive in the Square in front of our district's Justice Building. It's the most imposing structure in all of District 12 - an easy assessment, since the rest of my homeland's buildings are either covered with soot from the mines or are close to falling down. I register with the Peacekeepers, consisting of a simple pinprick of blood, and make to stand with the other 14-year-old girls. Thank heavens Prim is still too young, still has this year and next of safety, as I watch her and Mother go to find places off to the side.

At precisely high noon, the ceremony begins. I use that description very lightly. Baby showers are ceremonies. Festivals are ceremonies. And though I have already vowed to never take a husband myself when I come of age, weddings are ceremonies. Even birthdays are ceremonies in their own little way. Because ceremonies are meant to be festive.

Nothing about picking two children for death is festive. At all.

Up on the platform, Mayor Undersee takes the microphone. He begins by reciting a spiel regarding the Dark Days that led to the Games. I tune this part out, for it is nothing more than a recitation. If quizzed on it, even I could regurgitate the whole speech by heart. So I spend this time scanning into the 16-year-old boys' crowd. At last, I catch his eye, looking tall and imposing even amongst his peers. My best friend and hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne.

We met not long after our fathers were killed in the same mining accident. With two starving families to feed between us, we began working together to hunt and forage for sustenance. It's an arrangement that has been going on three years. Gale finally catches my eye, and gives me a reassuring nod.

I hear the Mayor shifting to the next part of the proceedings: the reading of Past Hunger Games Victors for our district. In the last 71 years, we have had exactly two. That's right, two. Thankfully, both are still alive, as I turn my focus to the two men with seats of honor on the platform.

"The Victor of the 13th Hunger Games: Duke Vedaldi!" We all politely clap as Duke, a grandpa in his mid-70s, half-rises from his seat and gives us all some kind of vertical salute in acknowledgement. He's not actually a grandpa - in fact, I don't think he has any family - and he has a salt-and-pepper ruggedness about him that is still attractive. Elderly, yes, but not yet infirm. Give it another ten years or so. Then, he'll be considered old, at least by District 12 standards.

"The Victor of the 50th Annual Hunger Games, or Second Quarter Quell: Haymitch Abernathy!" It doesn't surprise me when most of my neighbors burst out laughing at the mere mention of his supposedly exalted name. And maybe they have every reason to, as his reputation precedes him. This is proven right when Haymitch, a paunchy, middle-aged drunk, rises staggeringly from his seat and looks as though he wants to give the Mayor a hug.

Duke springs from his seat with remarkable agility for someone at... 75, I think, as he grabs Haymitch and literally wrestles him back into his seat, not unlike how Mother sometimes had to wrestle Prim into her high chair.

The Mayor looks relieved at the nice save by Duke, and even more relieved as he cedes the floor to Effie Trinket, our escort from the Capitol. Her fashion sensibilities get more outlandish each year, and her Capitol dialect is grating on the ears.

"Welcome, welcome!" she chirps. "Today, we have the privilege of selecting one young man and woman for the honor of representing District 12 in the 72nd Annual Hunger Games. As always, ladies first!"

I don't have time to prepare myself, don't have time to shut my eyes and pray as Effie whisks a slip of paper out of the Girls' Reaping Bowl.

"Katniss Everdeen!"

Oh. My. God.

I wipe the shock off my face the way miners wipe soot off their brows - quickly and forcefully. Keeping my expression neutral, I slowly take the stage.

"Wonderful!" Effie chirps again. "And now for the boys!" She selects my district partner with the same speed and sting, the way one quickly rips off a Band-Aid.

"Reuben Cartoly!"

A boy from the 18-year-olds emerges from the crowd. I can tell right away from his looks that he is a Merchant. Has two or three inches on Gale. Yet, he looks as gaunt as a drowned rat. He must be one of the poorer Merchants, to be not as well fed despite his favorable looks. There isn't a middle class in Twelve between Merchant and Seam, but if there was, Reuben Cartoly would be in it. He's a Merchant, but barely.

Effie makes us shake hands before we are escorted by the Peacekeepers into the Justice Building.

I am locked in an ornate, private room. Lovely curtains hang from the single window, accompanying a cushioned seat with matching coloring. I sit down and stare out the window stoically and silently, waiting. At last, the door opens and I hear a Peacekeeper say, "You have five minutes." I turn to see my mother and Prim. My little sister tearfully throws herself into my arms.

"Just try to win, if you can!" she blubbers. Then, she hands me a small pendant. I recognize it as the mockingjay pin I gave her for her birthday this year. "To protect you." I kiss her forehead.

My final goodbye with my mother is not nearly as tender. All I tell her is that now it is her responsibility to look after Prim. She nods mutely, but I still feel moved to give her a hug. I've been cold to her, and for good reason, but I would never be cruel. A Peacekeeper comes to collect them, and the door closes with damning finality.

For a moment, there is quiet. I wonder if anyone else has come to visit me. I tentatively approach the door, and can just make out voices on the other side. As I reach out my hand to try the doorknob, it suddenly turns of seemingly its own accord, and then opens.

I jump, startled, and shrink back, staring as Gale appears. Of course. He would not leave me. I fling myself into his arms.

"Are you OK?" he asks, and I am surprised to hear the choking in his voice. Gale is someone who rarely gets emotional, if ever.

"I'm all right," I assure him, though I really think this statement is meant to calm myself. "I'm fine." We draw away so that he can look me in the face.

"Listen to me: you're stronger than they are. You are. You know how to hunt. Get to a bow. And if they don't have one for you, then you make one."

I blink widely, trying to process all he is telling me. "What about... my mentors?"

"Haymitch is useless; he might as well not even be there. But they say old Duke is at least sane," Gale tells me assertively. "Do whatever the old man tells you."

We spend the rest of the time going over what are probably my last wishes. Gale will continue to feed both his family and mine, doubling his snares and efforts. All too soon, the Peacekeepers are there to take him away. I pull him in for one last hug.

"Take care of them, Gale, and whatever you do, don't let them starve!"

"I'll see you soon, OK?" he tells me confidently, just before the door slams in my face.

Not long after, I am escorted from my comfy prison to meet up with Reuben, Effie, Duke and Haymitch. Duke just nods in my direction. Haymitch, meanwhile, is swaying and slurring. I want to roll my eyes - it's not like he would register it, anyway - but refrain from doing so. How could someone who's only pushing 40 look so pathetic?

"Bartender! Another!" Haymitch barks to the air, towards some non-existent concierge of fine wine.

Duke gives the rest of us an apologetic smile, as the Peacekeepers finally wave us on towards the media, and the train. The old man now loops an arm through Haymitch's to keep him upright. But also likely to make him haul ass. "Come on, Haymitch, time to see the doctor..."

"Oh, hello, Doctor. How are you?" Haymitch engages a nearby reporter, who merely replies by snapping a camera bulb flash in his face.

Duke gives a really forced laugh, followed by a gritty and extremely fake smile, as he redirects Haymitch to the train car. "No, no, no, not that one..."

Effie mercifully pulls the door to as soon as we are all onboard. In the next moment, we are pulling away from District 12. Possibly forever.

There is, it turns out, a Capitol physician on hand in the train. For the District 12 entourage, his job is to make sure that Haymitch doesn't drink beyond the life-supporting limit. Apparently, the mission of keeping old Abernathy under the legal limit had been given up long ago.

Dinner that night is a quiet affair. I eat more than I have in two lifetimes, ignoring Effie Trinket's obvious discomfort at my lack of manners. At last, Reuben takes it upon himself to break the silent ice.

"So:" and he leans his elbows on the table. "What's your best advice?"

"Here's some advice: stay alive!" Haymitch practically bellows. Then he cracks up, pausing only to take a long swig from what must already be his fifth bottle today. Duke gives his partner a heavy side-eye before turning back to Reuben with his best smile.

"You'll have to excuse Haymitch. That's just our motto."

Reuben frowns. "What's a motto?"

"Nothing, what's the 'motto' with you? Ah-ha-ha-ha!" Haymitch cackles a little too loudly and a little too long.

Reuben glances from one man to the other, a mixture of disbelief and anger gathering on his face like storm clouds. Finally, he stands up abruptly and leaves the dining car without another word. I don't exactly blame him. Between a half-crazed alcoholic and an old guy who seems powerless to curb the former's behavior, I can see why Reuben would be unimpressed with our District's Victors. Although to be fair, he's not exactly impressive himself, if he doesn't know what a motto is. I thought Merchant kids were supposed to be well-educated.

Besides, Duke may be old, but he's not hopeless, like Haymitch. Yet, I recall my mother telling me that there was a time when our first Victor was a drug addict. Mother says she has memories as a little girl of Duke coming into her family's apothecary shop for over-the-counter substances. He apparently quit the habit once he produced a Victor in Haymitch. Probably to focus all his energies on protecting his so-far only successful apprentice.

By now, Haymitch is passed out in his chair, even snoring. I pause in my musings as I notice Duke staring out and over me, no doubt at the wilderness flashing by the train windows.

"Look around you," he breathes, and my ears detect something that - between the cacophonies of the Reaping, getting on the train and Haymitch's antics - I hadn't noticed before. There's an accent to his voice; a brogue, really, whose origins I can't quite place. I think back to my Other World Cultures class I had in school. Is it... Irish? Scottish? One of the two. I think of his age and realize: he would have been a small toddler when the Rebellion happened. Did his family or ancestors move from one of those past, distant places, to whatever country existed here before the dictatorial Panem? "It's teeming life. Flowers and trees and frogs. It's all part of the wheel. Always changing, always growing - like you, Katniss; your life is never the same." He finally focuses his Seam-gray eyes on me, staring at me earnestly. "You were once a child. Now you are about to become a woman. Who knows? Very soon, you might... go out, just like the flame of a candle. You'll make way for new life. That's a certainty, the natural order of things. And then..." He gestures to the sleeping alcoholic beside him. "there's us. What Haymitch and I have, you can't call it living. We just... are; we're like... rocks, stuck on the side of a stream."

He leans forward, his voice now barely above a whisper. "Listen to me. Katniss, you're entering a dangerous competition. The minute that gong goes off, they'll be trampling all over each other to get to those weapons. If there's one thing I've learned about tributes after mentoring them for 60 years, it's that many will do anything - anything - not to die. And yet, at the same time, they'll do anything to keep from living their life. Or even know why it should be maintained. Do you really want to try and win without knowing what it is your fighting for?" He cocks his head to one side, regarding me quizzically. "I've just got to make you understand."

The intensity of his gaze, and the words that he's saying, makes me uncomfortable. "I don't want to die. Is that wrong?"

"No," and Duke's smile is soft, gentle, almost grandfatherly. "No tribute does. No human does. But... it's part of the wheel. You can't have living... without dying. Don't be afraid of death, Katniss. Be afraid of the un-lived life. You don't have to live forever as a Victor. You just have to live as you are, with the time that is given to you. At the same time, know what it is you're fighting for. Why your live deserves to be preserved. You never feel more alive than when you are fighting to stay that way."

I think I understand what he is telling me. Duke is preparing me for the probability of my imminent death, while simultaneously encouraging me to win. But with that winning comes a warning. And that warning is not to lose myself along the way. Stay true to who I am. And even if I do succeed in becoming a Victor, it will be a hard life.

When we finally arrive in the Capitol, the media is on us in an instant.

The night's rest during and following Duke's speech to me in the dining car must have done wonders for Haymitch, for he is remarkably more sober. Either that, or Duke told him to get it together, for the old drunk does an annoyingly good job of keeping me under his gaze. At least, he shields me from the cameras - a welcome service, as I have never liked attention anyway. Huh. Maybe old Abernathy isn't as useless as Gale had me presume.

Our first appointment is to meet with our stylists. I like mine, Cinna, right away. He seems to adhere to the simpler things in life, despite the omnipresent temptation to be big and bold and loud, from fashion to eating. Reuben's stylist, Portia, seems sweet and motherly. Our mentors and Effie leave us to be beautified for the rest of that day, in preparation for the Tributes' Parade in the City Circle that evening.

When I rejoin my crew at the horse stables around dusk, I have been outfitted in a tight black jumpsuit. Reuben matches me. Cinna then hands us little buttons that resemble those pressed on television quiz shows. We are to activate them when we feel ready.

Reuben and I climb into the chariots once we hear the roar of the crowd from the first horses pulling away. The one advantage of being from District 12 is that we at least have plenty of time to compose ourselves. For someone as anti-social as me, this is a godsend.

Once the District 12 horses have cleared the stables, Reuben and I press the buttons. All at once, I feel a strange sensation heat my body, my core. It reminds me, rather scandalously, of the warm feeling one apparently experiences in their core during sexual relations - a topic we painfully had to study in school. Yet this fire is one that warms me from the outside.

That's when I realize: it is fire. Our clothes are on fire. And yet, neither Reuben nor I burn up. And whatever is happening must have an amazing effect on the audience. By the time, we reach the City Circle, the Capitol citizens are calling our names, particularly mine.

"KATNISS! KATNISS! KATNISS!"

President Snow takes a high podium and makes a welcoming speech. He looks even more slippery and sinister than he does on TV. After that, we are turned loose to our entourage. Our mentors, stylists and Effie escort us into the Tribute Training Center, where we will be staying on - appropriately - Floor 12. The penthouse.

Training begins the very next day, on the Center's ground floor. Thanks to Effie's timely (or untimely, depending on one's vantage point) "Big, big, big day!" alarm, Reuben and I are some of the first tributes there after breakfast. Atala, the Head Trainer, announces the rules and then we are free to explore. I recall Duke's advice to us at our morning meal: Learn something you don't know. And never show off your talents to the other tributes.

So I ignore the archery station, as well as the edible plants station, heading instead for anything involving blades. I lose myself in the training, not bothering to check on what Reuben is doing. In fact, I hardly register that any of my competition is even there. Only a brief lunch break is called for, and then we keep going before our entourages call us up to dinner.

This goes on for the next three days. On the final afternoon, we enter one by one to show our private talents to the Gamemakers. I go second-to-last, ahead of Reuben, as is tradition. I show the Gamemakers my shooting skills and knowledge of plants before I am released.

That very same night, Caesar Flickerman, the Capitol's resident TV host, broadcasts out scores. For each one, Duke sits with a legal pad in hand, taking copious notes after every pronouncement. With a pair of reading glasses pushed down to the bridge of his nose, he even looks like a lawyer. I don't pay nearly as much attention, at least until Caesar calls my name.

"And for the lovely Katniss Everdeen, we have a score of..." He pauses, then checks the pad again, as if there must be some mistake. "11."

11!

Effie squeals, and even Haymitch cackles, sloshing his beer bottle around in his hand. Duke looks over the rim of his spectacles at me with a smile. Reuben doesn't say anything; in fact, he doesn't have time to, for Caesar is now announcing his score of 8 - a respectable one, especially for our District. Cinna ends the night by pouring champagne and toasting us, their tributes.

The fourth and final day is spent preparing for our interviews with Caesar Flickerman that evening. I am dismayed to discover that Haymitch has been assigned as my interview coach. From the little I've learned about him, I know that he and I are of the same surly, sarcastic, sour temperament. I begin to wonder if Duke has made a mistake. Does he really think Haymitch and I are not going to kill each other when left alone in a room together? Perhaps the older man doesn't care - compared to me, his mentoring of Reuben should be a breeze.

After hours of going through possible interview questions, I conclude that, actually, the session could have been a lot worse. But it could have been a lot better, also. Haymitch didn't make it easy on me, his tough-love-bordering-on-cruel approach forcing me to think faster, communicate more eloquently - the latter feat of which is like pulling teeth for me. At one point, he literally threw his notepad to the floor, and growled, "I give up, sweetheart. Just go up there, and act like you have a pulse."

The evening finally comes. As always, I am second-to-last, so I have plenty of time to observe. If I didn't necessarily learn anything from Haymitch, maybe I can learn something from watching the other tributes.

I pick up several tips from the first few, initially. Every tribute seems to be going for some kind of angle. But after a time, each interview starts to run together. I cannot even believe it when the buzzer rings yet again, and I feel Reuben nudging at me to stand up and start walking forward.

I shake Caesar's hand in a fog - such a big one, in fact, that I completely miss the first question. "What?" I blurt out, with the stupidity of a sloth.

Thankfully, Caesar is more than accommodating. "Uh oh, I think someone's a little nervous," he chortles. "I asked: what do you like the most about the Capitol?"

I remember how much Haymitch drilled me to think fast on my feet, so I spew whatever comes into my head first: "The lamb stew."

"Ohhhhhh, the one with the dried plums?" I nod. "Oh, I eat it by the bucketful." Caesar exaggerates holding his stomach in pain. "It doesn't show, does it?"

"No, no!" the audience cries and there is a brief pause in the proceedings as they clap and cheer. It gives me time to find Duke and Haymitch in the crowd. Duke is laughing and smiling at me encouragingly; Haymitch looks non-plussed. Hell, I'm non-plussed. Lamb stew? Really?

"Now: this dress," Caesar says to me. "It won't burn up like Cinna's other creations, will it?"

Oh, I can capitalize on this. I smile. "As a matter of fact, Caesar, it can." I face the audience. "Would you like to see?"

There are excited whoops and cheers, as I stand and proceed to spin about, per what Cinna had advised me to when he dressed me earlier in the evening. As I spin, flames suddenly appear at the hem of my red dress, lapping up it but doing nothing to singe or burn the fabric. I finally have to sit down due to dizziness, rambling out an apology, but it's OK. Caesar looks positively delighted.

After we've caught our breath from the excitement, Caesar turns serious. "I have one more question for you. It's about your family. What did you say to them when you saw them after the Reaping?"

For a minute, I begin to panic. How does he know they visited me? How would he know I even have a family at all? Are there cameras in those Justice Building rooms? Is our privacy that compromised? And even if it isn't, I don't feel in the mood to share my most precious of secrets with these Capitol elites. However, the fact remains: I have a part to play. So I play it.

"I told my sister, Prim - she's ten and I love her more than anything - that I would try to win. That I would try to win for her." As I finish my answer, I look to Duke. His brow is furrowed, but he seems pleased. And I know he's thinking of our conversation in the dining car: Know what it is you're fighting for...

"And try you will." Caesar kisses my hand, the buzzer sounds and he dismisses me, calling me Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire.

The night is still as I return to bed from getting a glass of water. While passing through the penthouse suite on the way back to my room, I encounter Haymitch, a glass of spirits in his hand.

"You ready for tomorrow?" he asks without any preamble. He doesn't need to elaborate; tomorrow is when I will be entering the arena.

"I... I think so," and I am surprised and concerned over how nervous I sound.

Haymitch takes in my reply with a nod, thinking. Finally, he announces out of the blue: "You can win, Sweetheart." And then he resumes knocking back his bottle and watching the TV.

I practically run back to my room, my head spinning. Despite my enduring annoyance at Haymitch's insistence on calling me 'Sweetheart,' his declaration nonetheless shocks me. I never thought he had that much faith in me. I didn't even think he liked me. Can I really win?

I haven't come to a conclusive answer even after I fall asleep.