Chapter 1: A Shoulder to Cry On

I stumble out of the Justice Building in a total fog. I still can't quite believe that this day is real.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am 22 years old. And today, my baby sister, Primrose, was Reaped for the 80th Hunger Games. Her final Reaping, and she has been picked for almost certain death.

I blame myself, naturally. I became too complacent, after year upon year of her safely making it through unharmed. I eventually aged out of the Reaping four years ago, but still resolutely went to support my sister. Even after Mother died soon after my final Reaping.

Rory Hawthorne, Prim's boyfriend to whom she was engaged to be married, took it worse than I did. The Peacekeepers had to drag him out. Poor boy. He had bought a golden band and everything; the wedding was set for next spring.

As I stand on the Justice Building steps, dithering in my old blue Reaping dress, I happen to spy a figure hunched down on the stone beside me, head on his knees. He has ashy blonde hair, and when - after being alerted to my presence - he raises his eyes to me, I am struck by their color. Eyes as blue as a summer sky...

Peeta Mellark, the Baker, and I were classmates once in school, though we didn't speak to each other at all. We only really interacted once and it was years ago, when we were small children. I will never forget how he threw me bread in the rain while my family and I were starving.

"Did you say goodbye to Prim?" he asks me.

"Yes," I choke out the word. I don't appreciate him reminding me that I will never again see the one person whom I am certain I love.

"Me too," he admits. "Just... had to take a minute after. To gather my thoughts."

I am struck dumb by his admission. But it makes me think back to about fifteen minutes ago, when Rory and I made a run for the doors. We were informed by the Peacekeepers that someone else was saying goodbye to my sister ahead of us. I couldn't imagine who it was, and though I deeply wanted to satiate my curiosity and learn the mysterious visitor's identity, I suddenly had to really use the bathroom and asked Rory to hold my place in line. By the time I returned, he and the Peacekeeper guards were waiting for me to usher us in, the previous visitor having gone.

I stare at Peeta intensely, wondering how I can, once again, repay him the debt I feel I now owe. "Thank you," I murmur, genuinely moved. Having only managed two Victors in the past 79 years - only one of whom is embarrassingly still alive - District 12 tributes do not get many visitors on Reaping Day, outside of friends and close family. Even the relatives resign themselves to the fact that their loved ones are as good as dead.

I wonder what words Peeta spoke to my sister, but before I can hypothesize, Peeta's voice pulls me back.

"Would you like someone to stand with you? During the broadcast?" The next three days will be preparation for the arena, live on TV. Mandatory attendance and viewing, with no exceptions. Just watching the tributes paraded around in training and interviews can leave a grating edge on a person's nerves. All the more so for me now that I am a tribute's sister.

The distrustful, independent part of me wants to rebuff Peeta's offer. But the more I think about it, the more I warm to the idea. After all, Peeta and I are connected in yet another way. Six years ago, his older brother, Rye, was Reaped for the 74th Games - his last one. Died in the Bloodbath on the first day. And the year after that, the Capitol held a special edition twist on the Games that marks every twenty-fifth anniversary, called the Quarter Quell. It's supposed to check rebellion or something. The twist was that two children would be Reaped... along with a further two adults. Peeta's parents and remaining brother were selected; and his brother's wife was also Reaped to round out the numbers. Like me, Peeta is all alone, with no family. No one to even help him through watching his loved ones be brutally murdered.

Even though I'm a tough person, this moment more than any other demands that I need a shoulder to cry on. Peeta's might as well do. Daring to take his hand, I give Peeta's fingers a squeeze. "I'd appreciate that. Thank you."