In my family, turning nineteen is a big deal. It is a time of celebration—not just for us, but for most people in the Districts. Because when one turns nineteen, they are no longer eligible for the Hunger Games.

My older brother, Glenn, is the birthday boy. He is having fun, enjoying our mother's famous creamy carrot soup. I smile and fake a laugh when he tells a joke. He is having a good time, and I don't want to ruin it.

But no matter what I did, my brother noticed my uneasiness.

"You okay, Jo?" he asks.

I nod slightly, trying greatly to show no emotion. But that doesn't work, either.

"Johanna, you hate it when I call you Jo. Something is definitely wrong—spill it."

I can't hold it in anymore. "You know what's wrong?" I scream. "I'm not nineteen. I still have to go to the Reaping for four more years, and I can get chosen just like that! And you're wondering why I'm not in a celebratory mood?"

The chatting stops. I am now the center of attention. In those few seconds, I realize how selfish I just sounded—childish, even. I regret what I said, but that doesn't stop me from going outside.

No one follows me as I grab a knife from the kitchen table. It is getting dark outside, but that doesn't stop me from doing my favorite stress reliever. Living in District 7 means you are constantly surrounded by trees; there are about three big oak trees in my back yard, each with many notches that were made from previous tamper tantrums. The funny thing is, I remember the story behind all of them. Why? I don't know. Maybe my mind is only programmed to memorize only bad things. Let's add another one to the list.

I make about five notches before I throw my knife too hard in the bark. I walk up to the tree and attempt to retrieve it, but the knife is deeper than I expected. I struggle to pull it out. Just before I do, I hear the door open. Then the knife is finally free, but it slips from my hands. I hear a grunt.

I turn to my brother looking at me in horror, the very same knife stuck in his right eye.

I wake up to my screaming, like I do almost every night. Fortunately, my brother didn't die, though he now has to wear an eye patch for the rest of his life. I changed since that day a year ago, and not for the better.

Since that day, I've had an irrational fear of knifes, always so careful when I have one in my hands. Each time I see one my chest fills with guilt, and I am reminded of that horrible day. Glenn has since forgiven me, but our relationship dwindled as the year went on; we go days without talking or seeing each other. My parents treat me different now—I am no longer their little princess, but their hard worker. I do many chores around the house and work at the mill, both of which made me stronger and self-reliant. Doing work like that takes my mind off of Glenn's accident, and for that I am grateful.

I look outside; it is pitch black out, meaning it's early in the morning. Good. I spring out of bed and slip on my work clothes. Just before I head out the door, I remember what day it is and stop in my tracks.

Reaping Day. I took many work hours in attempt to forget it, but the day is here. Today, at fifteen, I might get chosen for the 69th Hunger Games.

Damn, I think. I clench my teeth, squint my eyes. I swell up with anger, and for a moment I feel as though I'm about to punch a hole in the wall.

But I'm interrupted.

"Jo, you're awake?" It's Glenn, dressed in his work gear. He is standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes—no, eye. Oops.

"Yeah, heading to the mill?" I ask.

"You bet. I thought this was your day off…because, you know…"

I nod grimly. "I didn't remember until I got dressed."

"Guess you can sleep in for once, then."

"No," I say. The last thing I need to do is dream. "How about I walk with you?"

"Could use the company."

"Okay then. Let's go."

Usually our District is packed with people going about their business, but in the morning the streets are quiet, filled only with workers going to the mill. I shiver; it's cold in the morning. I glance at the trees blowing in the wind, birds chirping in their nest. The sound mixes with chainsaws and falling trees. At the same time, there's a crunch as we step on leaves that fall to the ground. Just a normal day in District 7.

The other mill workers take notice of us, some mumbling, others pointing. Our incident became infamous around the community.

"Ignore them," Glenn says.

"I am," I reply. "It's been a year now, though…how can they not be over it by now?"

"You stabbed my eye out. That's kind of a detail you can't forget. And I do wear an eye patch, so it reminds them."

"Right," I mumble. "I'm never going to escape this."

"Relax," he says. "It'll go away eventually."

I sigh. "What else will I be known for, other than the girl who stabbed her brother's eye out?"

We pass the town square, where dozens of people are setting up the stage for the reaping.

"How about the girl who won the Hunger Games?" he suggests.

I laugh. "What did you just say?"

"If you win the Hunger Games, they'd forget all about it."

"True…but I don't want to get reaped just to make them forget about something."

"Are you worried, Johanna?" he asks, his tone serious. "About the reaping, I mean."

"Who isn't?"

"I heard your screaming. I really hope you're okay."

"I'm fine," I lie. "Never been better."

Truth is, I'm a mess. Apart from dreaming about what I did to my brother, I dream of the reaping. A week ago, I dreamed that I got picked, and the second that I got called the entire crowd mesmerizes on me and come at me with a knife.

But I don't tell Glenn anything.

"That's good. You shouldn't be worried, Johanna. Even if you do get picked, you will win. I know you will." A pause. "Well, almost there. You should get back before mom gets worried."

I nod, and we part ways.