Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games

What's in a Name?

"You must be joking. We can't call him that!"

"Why not?" my wife asks.

"Why not? Why would you?"

"Because ... aren't you tired of all the names we have?"

"What do you mean?" I demand indignantly. "Our names have meaning and tradition behind them!"

"Really?"

"Yes."

"And what does my name mean to you, Velvet?"

I hesitate. "It means you're soft and fluffy. Which is nice! And you're, er, a proud citizen of District 8."

She looks at me sceptically. "Really?" she asks again. "Because to me, Cotton means a soft, white downy substance made of hairs from a plant, attached to the seeds of a type of plant and used to make fabrics. Also that I'm easy to set on fire."

"What?"

"Always was bright, that girl," her aged mother (senile status: unknown) remarks sagely from the corner. "Knows her stuff."

"Wait, wait, wait. You're missing the point. Names about our trades or district – they tell us who we are."

"So why don't we just call him Factory? Or how about Victor, in case he's in the Hunger Games?"

"Victor's a good name in the Capitol," says her mother.

"Oh, yes, I did hear that."

"He's not going into the Hunger Games!" I state loudly. They look at me. I try to remember that my wife has recently given birth and decide that her mother probably is senile. They're not in their right minds. "Look, it's not as though I'm naming him something ridiculous, like, I don't know, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy but-"

"Wouldn't work, that," her mother interjects.

"What?"

"You'll be confusing the poor boy if you give him all of those. Which one is he meant to be?"

"I wasn't-"

"Exactly," Cotton says. "Calling children after fabrics or trades, it's just a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"What the ... I don't even ... fine, we can do plants then, like in District 11. How about Resin? He'll be strong. A protector. And flame-resistant, since that matters to you."

"Do you seriously want your son to be named after tree secretion and slash or a polymer used in pipes?"

"Where are you getting this from?" I ask despairingly.

"Told you, lad. She's bright."

"Look, you're putting too much thought into this. I mean, has anyone ever even tried to set you on fire?"

"No. I've avoided that because I'm easy to set on fire, if you remember."

I try to understand this but give up.

"Look," I say instead, "all I'm saying is that if we go with my name, he'll have a solid start in life. If we go with yours, he'll be noticed. Different."

"Unique. There you go, that's a good meaning."

"Everyone has to be unique," her mother chips in.

"Come on, be reasonable," I plead.

"OK, fine. He's my son and rights go to the mother. We'll leave you if we have to."

"...What?"

"You heard me."

"You're joking, right? You'll leave me over a name?"

"See," she says triumphantly. "You've just said it yourself. It's just a name. So let's be different!"

"I'd give up if I were you," her mother adds.

"OK, fine," I mutter and storm out of the room. My brother is waiting outside.

"So?"

"Robert."

"Robert?"

"His name."

"Oh dear."

"Poor boy is going to be picked on every day of his life and when he asks me what I did to stop it, what can I tell him?" I sigh. "I'll just have to say, son, I'm sorry. I fought for you. I lost. But if it had been up to me, you'd have been fine: you would have been called Dupioni."

Fin