Part One

Peeta

I wake up to sunlight filtering through my window. My mind urges my body to return to the soothing numbness of sleep, but with years of early morning baking under my belt, I can get out of bed with ease. My feet creak across the cold wooden floors - I think this house was built just after the Dark Ages. Creaking floors, failing pipes, this house isn't as nice as some of other merchants' houses. Of course, the best houses are the Mayor's himself and the houses in Victor's Village.

Victor's Village. I'll have to see it's only occupant today - Haymitch Abernathy. Today is the day of the reaping. One child of District 12 will be chosen to die today. 11 more in faraway places. Most merchants are intelligent enough to see the incessant manipulation of the Capitol, but the ones who have it better off, the ones who live with the Peacekeepers, occasionally parrot about how grateful they are for the Capitol. The Capitol spared us, they will insist. District 13's fiery fate was a result of rebellion, so the Capitol is justified in punishment.

Most merchants know that's bullcrap, though.

I walk quietly toward the kitchen. It is empty. Daymen was on duty today for the morning bread batch, but he's sleeping in. I don't know why he always sleeps in on reaping day. It doesn't matter. Mother will blame me if it is not done, despite it being his work. She thrives on blame.

I start throwing together the ingredients for a classic loaf. Peasant stuff, nicer than what they get in the Seam but not the fancy bread the Mayor eats that we make around four. I've done this hundreds, if not thousands of times, and it no longer requires thought. I knead, fold and push in a practiced, smooth motion. The continuous slap of the bread hitting the slab clears the thoughts from my mind until the only thing is dough on the wood. I knead until the sun clears the bottom leaf of our scraggly apple tree. Then I add nuts and knead some more. When the sun has inched higher, I split and shape the dough into four loaves, then, pulling the heavy wooden slab off the table with ease, I place it on to the windowsill to rise.

I hear the creaking of bedsprings, and I wince. Mother is up. I want to get this into the oven before she gets in here, but it hasn't risen enough, and the last time a customer complained about flattened and weakened bread, Mother threatened to disown me.

The yelling from the next room finishes my thought. She'll be here in half an hour. I hear my brother Daymen mutter something in response. She has always hated him the most, I don't know why. Maybe because he reminds her of her first husband too much.

The oven beeps. I pull a rack of bread -from the previous day- out of the oven. Six perfect, nutty loaves. I tried a slower, overnight cooking method, hoping to enhance the flavor, but it seems to be about the same. I sigh, and a wave of weakness washes over me. Sometimes I wish I could disappear into the woods the way Katniss does. Does she find peace there? If so, I long for it.

I turn around with the rack of hot loaves in my oven mitts. "Oh!" Father has materialized in front of me. He smiles. "Careful. Don't want to lose the day's bread." He is like that, thinking of others and never himself. Not the burn he could have gotten. Just the lack of another's bread.

"Get some food in that hollow stomach, you don't want to be hungry at the reaping," he says. His eyes twinkle. "There's leftover squirrel in the icebox, and I think we can spare some butter for your bread." I raise my eyebrows. Butter is a luxury too fine for my family. Father sees the look on my face. "It's reaping day, isn't it? May as well celebrate." The ever colorful Effie Trinket's words. Most people think it's strange, the colorful trends of the Capitol, but I think it is sweet in a primary way. They are expressing art the way they know how to. As Father slips the stick of butter in my hand, I catch the mockery in his voice that Effie's voice lacks. Celebrate. Even as he walks away, I consider this.

At least he can tolerate it. The Games make me sick. I wish, not for the first time, I could live in the Capitol. I could have my own bakery, full of the feathered and dyed citizens snapping up my loaves like crawfish. Settle down with someone. Katniss is hardy enough to tolerate the loud aura of the Capitol…

I am startled from my daydream by the loud sound of my mother slapping Daymen. Screams ensue, and I realize I have made nail marks in the butter. Unclenching my hand, I start to spread it on some of last week's bread.

Unless I get picked for the reaping, I'll be stuck in this shithole forever. I don't know which is worse.

Gale

I'm hurtling through the air, swooping over trees and houses, over the Hob, and into Katniss's house. I fly through the walls of her house, as if they were a mirage, but there's no Katniss. Only Prim and her mother, heads down on the table. Prim's shoulders shake, and I get a festering feeling in my gut. Frantic, I check the woods, the Hob everywhere she could be. Then it's like my strings are cut, and I'm falling, falling out of the sky. The ground rushes toward me as I look for Katniss one more time. Finally I see her - but something is wrong. She is speeding away on a train with the Capitol's emblem. In my head, I hear her voice. I can't hear what she's saying, she's speaking in a language of snakes and curses and her face is wrong, not her own. The ground rushes up to meet me and I can feel the pressure of fear behind my eyeballs -

I wake up drowning in my own sweat, breathing hard like I have run a long distance. As I slowly remember where and when I am, my breathing slows. Reaping day throws everyone off, I guess.

The sun has not yet risen, but I need to be up. I am not usually up this early, though I hunt in the early morning. I want to get something for Katniss - I know she will not have had breakfast, the tesserae run thin before the reaping and they depend on that just as much as my family does.

I rise from my bed, seeing Rory still asleep next to me. Even at twelve, his face is already lined with hardship. I pull the covers back over him. It is best not to wake him. I take my hunting jacket from the bedpost, lace up my boots, and swing out the door, taking care to grab the game bag from the night before.

The streets are still silent and cold. I know many shopkeepers are awake - mine is not the only job that requires an early start. Rooba and the others in the Hob are likely still asleep - she doesn't wake until we bring the game, and the others' stuck come from outside sources as well. The market, however, will largely be open - the Capitol trains bearing resources come soon and the merchants have to be ready to collect their share.

I take a left and turn into the square. There is even a hierarchy within the merchants: if you tried to trade a shot squirrel with one of the merchants on the East side, such as Hawkins or Patchouli, you'd get dragged by the ear to the nearest Peacekeeper and promptly arrested. The bakery I am heading to, the Mellarks, is poorer and kinder than that - they eat as many of Katniss' squirrels as I do.

Of course, they have nothing to complain about - they've never been truly hungry. They don't know what it's like to watch your sister lose four pounds in eight days, or how it feels to live meal to meal, to have to be conscious about conserving energy just to survive.

The bell rings as I enter the warm shop. I can see the silhouette of the baker. Mr. Mellark, behind the window. He sees me and comes forward. "What would you like today?" he smiles. He always says 'What would you like?' instead of 'What can you pay me for?' which would be more accurate. It's hard to hate him for it, though: he's nearly as kind as Prim in that aspect. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a blond haired boy walking away. Peeta Mellark. Soft, popular kid at school. He's nice as his father, but with an ugly undertone: always speaking like he's trying to manipulate people. I shift so I don't have to look at him and say, "Some nutty bread, please." I say stiffly. I don't like it in the market, with the uppity residents. I much prefer the Hob, with its laughter and reckless joy. "You're in luck," says the baker warmly. "We just baked a fresh batch today. I'll have it for you in a moment."

As he walks to the back of the bakery, I lean against the glass counter and inspect the cakes I'll never eat. Prim always admires these. The bright designs with some incredible detail. I would be jealous if I cared. But hunting is my strength, not frivolous art, drawn on things too expensive for me to even sample.

The baker comes back with the nutty loaf. "Two squirrels?" I say. That's his standard. But today he shakes his head. "One today." Instinctively, I know it is because of the reaping. I instantly feel guilty for mentally mocking him. This is very gracious, and something I do not deserve. But I pull a squirrel out of my game bag, anyway, because who can pass up free food? Fine quality at that too. The baker skips the pretense of ringing me up. We both know I don't have money, and even if there was any change, what would it be? An eyeball? The tail?

l nod and depart quickly. I can't wait until I get into the woods, to see her.

The houses blur by me. I'm going to be late if I go any slower, so I pick up the pace until shopkeepers peer out their windows in response to my speed.

Let them stare. I will be the one feeding their children. I will have the last laugh.