I hate this dream, it's always the same. The Hunger Games. I never dream about any of the other movies. I never wake up in Firehouse Dog or Bridge to Terabithia.

I thought it was gone for good, I hadn't had it in months, but getting to dye my hair blonde again for the last scene, stepping back into that world one more time, must have triggered it. And it's always the first movie, my mind seems stuck here, the story always ending right before my character's name is called at the reaping.

Which means it always starts in the bakery. Not the bakery. The bakery from the movie was just a shell, this is the sepia tone one my mind conjures up during these episodes. It's what top restaurants in Beverly Hills would call "rustic," a room full of rickety, half peeling furniture and rows after row of baking bread—and this was the kid who was supposed to be well off—anyway, I resign myself to the dream and walk over to "Dad" who is bent over one of the tables slicing away at bread. The movie didn't cast the character, but that doesn't stop my mind, I guess. He's nothing like my real dad, but blond and heavyset.

"You ready for the reaping, boy," the man asked. "Bout time to get going."

For some reason, my dreams always give the characters strong Kentucky accents.

"You know that's really fuuc…I mean messed up, right? Letting the government murder kids every year?" Dream dad or not, it doesn't seem right to curse in front of him. The man gives me a hard look.

"You know better that to talk like that," the man huffed. "You'll get us all dragged off to the gallows if anyone heard you say that."

"Are you, are you coming to the tree," I sing tunelessly.

The baker grabs my forearm in a vise grip and clamped his hand down over my mouth. "What is wrong with you," he hisses. "Have you gone crazy, singing that here? Today of all days?"

I pull my arm out of his grasp, the skin still throbbing. "Fine," I say, rubbing my tender skin. "Didn't know fictional characters were so touchy."

He ignores this and walks toward the stairs. "We're leaving in five minutes."

My dream family emerges from upstairs moments later. Two other blond brothers and a small graying woman with cold, mean eyes. In these dreams, it's usually the actress who played my mother for about a minute, a nice lady who had me sign a copy of the Hunger Games for her daughter. A few time it's been Julianne Moore. Once it was my actual mother and that dream freaked me out. But this woman is none of them. I avoid her. Even in a dream, I don't want to be near her.

We head out of the door and into the town square. I congratulate myself on having a better imagination that the guys in our design department. The other District 12 shops, the banners hanging from the roofs, even the smells are sharp and distinctive. As we walk along, I go over to one of my "brothers."

"Hey, you ready for today," one of them says. I'm guessing it's the middle brother.

"I've always wanted to know… what's your name? The book never says," I say. "I thought of asking Suzanne, but never got around to it."

"What," he stammers. "You know my name."

"Stop being an idiot, Peeta," the other one says. He looks older, maybe twenty, which still makes him two years younger than me. I sigh out loud. I really do have to stop playing teenagers.

We enter the square where they have the kids penned off. One of the… peacekeepers… I almost forgot what they're called…uses the butt of his gun to force me into one of the lines. I end up separated from my dream brothers and with surrounded by a group of kids somewhere in the middle. The tension is almost palatable and my own heartbeat ratchets up.

I'm really hating this dream now. I bit my tongue, trying to force myself out of this dream, but nothing happens. A man gets up and goes to the microphone.

He go through the whole story about the dark days and the war and the Hunger Games. It takes forever, but I'm barely listening because this should be over. I should be waking up. None of the dreams have lasted this long. I start breathing hard.

The Effie Trinket character, who is Elizabeth Banks, trots up to the microphone. She looks like Elizabeth, but her voice is bizarre, not at all the pseudo British accent Elizabeth goes for. Full of nasal sounds high enough that your ears ache, this speech is almost unintelligible, but I do make out the name "Primrose Everdeen."

The crowd gives a collective gasp. I roll my eyes. It's amazing this shit is so popular.

I see the girl walking toward the stage and she is not Willow. This girl looks smaller, more delicate than Willow ever did, tiny and alone. I'm look around, ready for Jen to pop up and say, "I volunteer as tribute."

"I volunteer as tribute," a soft lyrical voice calls out right on cue. A very, not Jennifer Lawrence voice. This girl is short, from here it looks like she's barely dusting five feet. And damn, did Ve get the hair wrong. The braid is gorgeous, swept up from her aquiline features and elaborately wrapped high. For the first time since this dream started, I smile. Jen would have hated sitting still long enough to get that done.

The peacekeepers usher her onto the stage and dream Prim is carted away by dream Gale who is not Liam. Effie talks to Not!Jen Katniss and everything follows the book. A drunken Haymitch who is not Woody falls off the stage. Effie Trinket asks for applause, the audience refuses and gives the three finger salute instead.

It really is touching, so touching that I find myself raising my own hand in respect. But then I look at my arm. The one dream dad grabbed. There are bruises. Bruises shaped like a hand. Bruises you don't get in dreams. A strange buzzing fills my ears as I stare down at these darkening marks and the impossibility of what they mean.

"Peeta Mellark," Effie announces from the stage.

Meanwhile…

"Josh, Josh" a voice calls. I shut my eyes tighter to block out the harsh white light seeping in under my eyelids.

"Josh," the voice calls out again. "I'm so sorry. How was I supposed to know that horse would kick you? You have to wake up, Joshy."

Warm drops of water splash down on my face, dripping down my cheek. I finally open my eyes to see one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen, leaning down over me. That is, beautiful until she rears back, her face completely contorted. She reaches for something hanging down alongside the bed. A bright red button. She grabs in in both hands and presses the plastic button repeatedly until a short, dark skinned woman races into the room. Her eyes dart to the girl.

"Ms. Lawrence?" she says, her voice making it a question. The woman pulls up short when she sees me.

"Oh, he's awake. Good," the woman says. "How are you feeling, Mr. Hutcherson? You've had a pretty serious concussion."

I turn around to see if she could be talking to someone else, but she's looking directly at me. I open my mouth to tell her she's got the wrong person, when the girl speaks.

"What's wrong with his eyes?" the girl asks. "They're a completely different color."

The woman, who must be a doctor, comes over and peers into my eyes. Then lifts up my arm to read the plastic bracelet on my wrist.

"This says his eyes were blue when we got him and they're blue now," the woman says. She's close enough that I can read the name embroidered on her white coat: Joan Mathers M.D.

"Josh's eyes are hazel," the girl says. "I know because I've been looking at him for years." She pulls out a small rectangular box. Doctor Mathers goes over to the girl and the girl swipes repeatedly at the screen. "See."

The doctor frowns and comes back over to the bed, this time with a miniature flashlight in hand. I wait in silence as she passes the light over my eyes. When she's done, her frown has only deepened.

"I don't know what she's talking about," I get out. "My eyes have always been blue and my name isn't Josh. You have the wrong guy."

The girl standing in the corner makes a strangled noise, but the doctor raises her hand, silencing her.

"And what is your name?" Dr. Mathers asks quietly.

"Peeta Mellark," I answer.