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We sit in silence at the window. We need no words; we both know what the other is thinking. I suppose that's the only downside to being so close to someone. Even when I want to keep something to myself, I can't, because Cato can read me like a book. He knows that I won't be able to do this, even if he doesn't say so. In fact, he doesn't say anything, just stays next to me on the plush, velvet sofa that sits by the window, and puts his arms around me. I can feel the heat radiating off them and onto back, and it brings me comfort. We sit for what must be about twenty minutes, embracing each other, drinking these perfect moments. We won't be able to sit like this for much longer though, because in a few minutes, Thalia, our escort from the Capitol, will come bouncing into the room in her ridiculous stilettos. She really is ludicrous. She's always so happy, but most of the time I think that it's an act. She doesn't really want to be here, with us, but she must keep a positive attitude in an attempt to keep our spirits up as we are sent off to our deaths.

These moments with Cato make me realize how limited my time with him now is. I must spend it preciously, I decide, staying with him for as long as possible before we are sent into the dreaded arena. I drag my gaze away from the window and turn towards his face, to find that he has been looking at me intently for some time. We look at each other for a while, trying to decipher the other's thoughts, and just when I think that he's figured out completely how my head works, he starts to smirk.

'What is it?' I ask, suddenly annoyed. 'Why are you laughing at me?'

'I'm not laughing at you.' He replies, but does nothing to hide the huge smile that now dominates his face.

'Yes you are! Tell me! Do you find this funny or something?' I demand, furious that he is so happy at a dreadful time like this.

'It's just…you.' He replies, 'It's so obvious that you hate everything. Your facial expressions show how much you openly despise the Capitol. You'd better learn to hide your feelings, or we'll be in trouble when we have our interviews.'

I decide to ignore him for the rest of the night. That will teach him to tease me at a time like this. I turn away from him, and go back to staring out of the window as another district fades into the sunset. Something puzzles me about Cato's words, and I discover that I am so unnerved by them because he is right. I am a career. I must act like I adore the Hunger Games, and can't wait to get into the arena. I must make my face into a brutal mask, in a similar way to what I did at the reaping, when I gave the cameraman a fright with my cold, death stare. Was that only a few hours ago? Surely it can't be. But it was. I was at home, back in District Two, seven hours ago. Not even. So much has happened since then, I can't quite believe it. I give a rather large sigh, and fall back into Cato's arms, knowing there's no point in being mad at him, because our time together is so limited. From the moment my name was pulled out of that bowl, I no longer controlled my own fate. It has been put into the hands of my mentor, my stylists, my sponsors. That's if I even get sponsors. Cato sits and strokes my hair, which is soothing, but I still worry about him. He will probably win the games, but I think of all the tributes he will have to kill to do so. Is he really that brutal?

After dinner, we will watch a recap of the reapings, and we will be able to see our opponents for the first time. I'm not sure if I want to, but I shall have to watch it if I want to get an idea of who I'm up against. Usually, the tributes from outlying districts, such as Ten, Eleven and Twelve, are pretty pathetic because the trade for their districts do nothing to help them at all. They're normally starving, so haven't got any physical power either. This is why the tributes from District Two have such an advantage. Our district trains the military and the peacekeepers, so in the schools that we go to up to the age of twelve, we learn about weapons and military strategies. This helps us a lot before we even go to The Academy. This is the first time I'm glad of my district; without it I don't think I'd even stand a chance getting away from the Cornucopia alive once the gong sounds and the games begin.

Rylie, our mentor, wanders aimlessly into the room, briefly registers our presence, then forgets what he came here for, and wanders back out. I do worry about him. He won the games in the year I was born, in what was apparently the most brutal year in the history of the Hunger Games. This made Rylie a superstar in the Capitol, and from what I know, he has thousands of adoring fans. I don't think he likes the attention though. He just wants to be left alone. Left alone so he can be with…who? I don't think I've ever seen him with a wife, or girlfriend, or anyone for that matter. Every day I see him sitting on a bench in the park by my house, staring aimlessly into the distance. I wonder if he has anyone left. Maybe his family died in the flu epidemic we had a few years ago. I know a few relatives of mine did. My mother suffered too, but it wasn't one of the worst cases. It took a few weeks, but slowly she began to recover. I don't know what I would've done without her, she works so hard to provide for my family, I doubt we'd even be alive without her. The only bad thing is that she was so desperate to have a child compete in the games. She didn't, and her parents were so disappointed, I don't think they ever treated her in the same way after she turned nineteen.

Rylie never really talks to anyone, so none of us know much about him, other than what we gathered from the games. He was fifteen when he won, which is quite young to be a victor, but there have been younger. I don't think he was the most vicious or bloodthirsty, but apparently he's the most skilled fighter District Two has known. I can see how that could be. He is thirty years old now, but is still as strong and athletic as he used to be. He has powerful, broad shoulders and is almost as tall as our mayor, which is really saying something. Thinking about him makes me sad, because if Cato really does win these games, I don't want him to end up living like Rylie, with no friends, nothing to do all day but think about the terrors of the arena. But Cato's strong-willed. He could manage. I hope.

I don't pay much attention to what Thalia tells us over dinner. It's some nonsense about her life in the Capitol and how excited we must be about going there. My excitement about seeing the Capitol is currently on level zero. I don't care about the strange but immensely powerful city that controls us. I've seen pictures of the people who live there, and that puts me off it straight away. Cato and I always used to joke about how ludicrous they all looked. Fancy wigs, sparkly suits, you name it, they wear it. Most of the citizens dye their skin all sorts of colours in an attempt to stay on top of the fashion there. How odious their lives must be, only caring about appearances. They must be so delusional; I suppose anyone who can enjoy the Hunger Games so much they make a celebration of it, must be in an odd sort of mental state.

I tune into the conversation when Thalia starts talking about the Tribute's parade. I know how important this will be, because it will be the first time for us to make a lasting impression on potential sponsors. We will be dressed in a costume that reflects our district, and so most years the majority of the tributes look ridiculous. Not that it matters though, as long as you smile and wave and act confident, the Capitol citizens will eat you up. I dread to think of what get up mine and Cato's stylists will dress us in. Thalia tells us that we will be sent to our prep teams at one o clock, and they will alter us until we look presentable and are fit to see our stylists. I dread to think what they class as 'presentable'. I seem to become lost in my thoughts, so tune out of Thalia's ramblings after this. I focus on Cato, who seems to be paying as much attention to Thalia as I am. He has his plate piled high with food, obviously trying to eat as much as he can before we get into the arena. It's not a bad idea actually, because one we are there, it will be a lot more difficult to get our hands on food. We will have to hunt whatever animals roam the arena, which can't be that hard, and I have such an accurate aim with my knife, I doubt hunting will turn out to be a big problem. My thoughts wander to the arena, and I start to think about what horrors await us, when a harsh, squeaky voice interrupts me.

'Are either of even listening to me?' demands Thalia, her facial expression offended but angry. 'I'm just trying to help you, the least you could do was pay attention!'

The look she gets from both Cato and me must tell her immediately the level of care we have about what she has been saying. So much so that she throws her silk napkin down onto the crisp, white table cloth, and storms out of the room. But before she leaves, she turns and says,

'Fine, you do whatever you like, but you'll regret not listening to me when you have no sponsors and die a long, painful, merciless death in that arena. Then I'll be the one laughing.'

I am at a loss for words. I have never seen Thalia like this. What she has said was harsh, especially because my chances of dying in the arena are so high. But something inside me stirs with fear as I realize one important factor.

She is right.