Chapter 1
It rains the morning of the reaping. I wake to the sound coming through my open window, and I quickly pull on shorts and a fleece. My bare feet are cold on the linoleum floor of our fishing cabin, but I don't bother with shoes as I try to slip out unnoticed. I have no such luck. I open the door to my bedroom only to see that my father is already up, sipping a mug of something hot at the small dining table. August Odair seems exhausted, a look of mourning permanently etched on his features. He nods in greeting.
"I thought you'd take the chance to sleep in," I state mildly. The fishing crews are usually up before dawn every morning, but the Reaping Day is considered something of a holiday. My father shakes his head.
"Couldn't fall back to sleep. There's coffee on the stovetop." I hesitate, eager to get down to the beach, then choose to take a mug down from the drying rack and fill it with bitter coffee. I sit on the wooden chair across from my dad, tucking my legs up under myself. I take a slow sip, wishing there was sugar in the house. The stock of baking supplies on hand has dwindled to almost nothing since my mom passed away. We sit in uncomfortable silence until—
"What's the talk at school been?" Dad asks curiously, "Has anyone said they are going to volunteer?" I have to steady my hand from shaking as I reach for my mug. For a second I thought my dad had guessed my plan. No, he was just wondering. Worried like any parent that this year there would be no volunteer. That the seventeen and eighteen year olds would decide they'd rather live to see adulthood after all. I give a noncommittal shrug.
"I heard a few kids discussing it."
"That's good, I suppose."
"How is the salmon season going?"
He sighs. "The Capitol quotas are getting harder and harder to reach. We're overfishing already. Making surplus is going to be difficult without sailing outside of District 4 waters. I expect some hard times ahead."
I nod. It's not completely unexpected, but it's still hard to hear. Under ideal conditions, the sea can provide more than enough to feed the population of 4 and fulfill the Capitol's demands. In fourteen years of living on the coastline, I haven't known true hunger. But we all know how fragile the ecosystem can be. My father, a fishing boat captain for decades, has seen more than a few seasons where the nets come up next to empty, or the fish tainted by mercury. In those situations, the Capitol shipments are priority and 4 limps along.
"I'm going down to the beach," I inform him. He nods. Every family, specifically every kid, has their own ritual for the morning of the reaping, but most choose to spend it by the ocean. We can never be sure it won't be our last chance.
"Be back by eleven. Your sister is coming over for brunch." Hearing my dismissal in those words, I stand up, take one last sip of coffee, and fly out the back door. I hurry down the crumbling asphalt path, taking the occasional steps two at a time. The walk normally takes a good five minutes—I make it to the sand in two. I toss my fleece aside as I wriggle my toes into the damp sand, enjoying the gritty sensation on my feet and the salt breeze on my face. The rain turns the sea such an incredible color, and although it is a little cold and a little impractical, I head down to the water's edge immediately. The water laps at my ankles, cold as ice. I wade in at a snail's pace, my thoughts serious. This afternoon, hundreds of children between the ages of twelve and eighteen will assemble in the main square for this absurd annual event. The steps are always the same. Septimus Fletcher, our ever-smiling escort, plays the Capitol propaganda reel and then pulls a girl's name. The girl barely reaches the stage before volunteers are asked for, and an 18 year old usually steps forward. Followed by the boys. This same thing every year. Some years, the good years, a tribute returns to us. In a way, it is a comfort to come from a Career district. It is a comfort to know that the weakest among us should never have to fear the arena.
Now up to my waist, I steel myself and dive underneath the upcoming wave. I swim out further past the breaking waves where my feet no longer touch. I float on my back, feeling the waves lift my body, the raindrops splash around me, occasionally getting saltwater into my eyes and throat but never minding. I am a fish. I could stay here forever and never mind it. I could find my peace away from the training, the Capitol's propaganda, the peacekeepers' heavy handed justice, and the Games. What would my life be like without the Games? I've spent most of my free time training. A lot of us have, if our families can spare the labor. The last several years of my life have been spent learning how to handle weapons, survive in the wilderness, and wipe out a target. This work is supplemented by the athleticism it takes to swim out far in the ocean, to spear fish and hold my breath for minutes, to weave and untie knots. Practical skills. But really, when it comes down to it, how much of that matters in the arena? No one but the gamemakers knows the location ahead of time. I've seen so many young people die on the television screen, seen how random and unfair the end results can be. The solemn truth is we are being raised for the entertainment value our deaths will bring. And recently I've found I don't want to continue.
I try to ignore this fact. I am a part of the sea today.
Before long, other figures appear on the shoreline. Tristan Angler and his younger sister Emma, Myla Rothstein who is in my class at school, Annie Cresta, tall for her age. This is Annie's first time in the drawing, and Tristan's last.
"Finnick!" Tristan shouts out to me, laughter in his tone. "You're going to freeze."
"Come on in! The water's fine," I reply. He takes it as a challenge—as I hoped he might, and runs full force into the waves. He is waist deep before the cold really hits him. He curses, and half runs half stumbles back to shore.
"That's enough to wake anyone up," he grins. The girls are more cautious, letting the smallest waves creep over their toes.
"No one can catch me!" I claim—shouting over the crashing waves, jumping up and over to keep my balance. Annie smiles slowly, I can read her lips as she states that she can.
Tristan, Emma, and Myla cheer us on alternately as she steps steadily into the surf, the waves buffeting her frame. I turn my attention quickly back to the bay and move out further, attempting to evade her. She's almost into the calm now. I'm treading water, waiting now, seeing if she'll really come out this far. But as I scan back towards the shore, I realize I've lost sight of Annie. I worry for a brief moment—was she knocked under?
A splash to my right pulls me out of my thoughts. It's just Annie. She's crept up on me. The twelve year old girl stares at me, her eyes and forehead her only feature out of the waves. I splash her and she swims away. A game of chase begins, too sweet and lighthearted for a day such as this. The cold water saps our energy, and before too long we return to shore. The others have split off, joining others from school just now arriving. Annie and I settle onto the sand, watching the waves through the mist. Nothing is said, and my secret rests heavily on the tip of my tongue. I cannot help it when I finally whisper my resolve in her ear.
"I'm going to volunteer today."
As promised, I am back up at the house by eleven, helping dice strawberries for brunch. Mags will be by shortly with her fresh baked seaweed bread, and so will Jemma with her husband Isaac, Nell, and Reyna. My dad anxiously checks on the casserole, wanting the family recipe to be perfect just for today. I remember this tradition stretching back to when it was Jemma in the reaping, not me. Back when my mom was still around.
Mags is practically family now. Everyone in the community knows her. Our oldest victor, one of the few who remember the rebellion. When my mom got sick, she was invaluable to our family. Making meals, keeping up the house. District 4 has no hospital, so when mom was at her worst, Jemma and I stayed the night at Mags' huge Victor's house on the peninsula.
When everyone arrives, we waste no time in digging into the food in front of us. Tuna casserole with cheese, strawberries and fresh cream, and fresh baked bread. A veritable feast compared to my dad's and my usual fare. My nieces are already in their nice clothes for the afternoon: matching sky blue sun dresses. Seated around the table, I notice my brother-in-law is conspicuously missing. When I go to ask about Isaac, Jemma stops me with a jerk of her head. Whatever it is, she doesn't want Nell and Reyna to hear. Of all the days to find trouble…My attention is drawn back when the conversation turns to the Games.
"You're going to the Capitol this year, Mags?" My dad asks.
"Yes, August. I promised Harry I'd go in his place this year."
"Understandable. How is he?"
"Overjoyed. I saw him holding his newborn last week. I've never seen the man look so at peace."
Before Jemma and the girls leave, I pull her to the side. I know something isn't right.
"Peacekeepers," she tells me. "He didn't tell me what sort of trouble he was caught up in this time. There was only the knock on the door and he left with them."
"I'm sure it's nothing. He'll be in the square this afternoon, you'll see. He has you and the twins to think of, he wouldn't do anything rash." I suddenly feel guilty. All of this insecurity, and I am planning on stepping away from it all without warning. But it isn't the same. I am not responsible for anyone. In fact, I am the burden in my household. What I plan isn't criminal, unlike whatever Isaac has gotten himself into.
Only a few short hours later, the town is assembled in the main plaza. It's raining harder now, and huge puddles form in the courtyard not built for drainage. The boys are grouped together on the right, the girls on the left. I am uncomfortable in dress slacks and a button down shirt, with stiff shoes. On the steps of the justice building, a hastily-erected canopy keeps the equipment and officials dry. The jars of names, irrelevant for so many years running, are there as well. Still menacing. The propaganda reel plays on a large screen, but I know I am not the only one paying it no attention.
I am fourteen. I should stand here comfortable in the knowledge that the 18 year olds volunteer. They always do. They have the best chance of winning for our district, of returning alive, not packed into some wooden box. Instead I can hear my blood pounding in my skull as I try to remember my decision. I am about to change my life.
The same man as always, short, unnatural arching eyebrows and burgundy hair, our very own Septimus Fletcher, pulls the names.
"Ladies first…Myla Rothstein." My classmate. 15 years old, her father works at the packing plant. Too bony, too frail. She stumbles onto the raised platform in front of the justice building and waits for the expected.
"Do we have a volunteer?" Septimus asks, his voice magnified by the little microphone under the canopy.
"I volunteer as tribute." The voice belongs to Molly Amberwood. A heavyset and determined 18 year old, ready for her last opportunity to join the games. She is not beautiful, but she is fit. If she can make alliances quick and think fast in the arena, she will stand a fair chance. Not like Myla. Now Septimus Fletcher will pull a boy's name. Despite myself, I feel sweat start to bead along my brow.
"Dillan Gross." I don't know this one. The boy walks steadily to the stage. Septimus Fletcher doesn't even finish asking for volunteers before I step forward.
"I volunteer as tribute."
There is silence. I feel the intensity of hundreds of stares as everyone's attention turns to me. I don't look at Mags as I walk steadily towards the stage.
"Everyone give a big cheer for our volunteers from District 4… Molly Amberwood and Finnick Odair!" There is a smattering of applause. Molly is cheered on especially by her friends. I know the cameras are rolling, so I try my best to find an expression that conveys determination, and makes me look older than I am.
We are whisked away into the justice building. I sit in a small office, waiting for the visit from my family members. I tap my foot against the bench, excitement and anxiety all rolled into one. I leap to my feet when the peacekeeper opens the door and ushers my family inside.
My father's embrace seems stiff and formal. I breathe in the scent of wood smoke and seawater that clings to his clothes.
"Make us proud," Is all he says, and then stands off to the side as my sister and nieces swarm around me.
"You are strong. Brave. If you can manage to get hold of a trident or even a spear— play to your strengths, Finnick. You are very likeable. Make them love you and you'll get all sorts of sponsors," Jemma advised. Whispered words of advice, tears dampening the fabric of my shirt collar. My sister, grown up, a family of her own to care for. Could I count on her to take care of our father into his old age if I don't come back?
I get on my knees to hug Nell and Reyna, my twin nieces. They are 6 years old, just starting school, still several years away from being entered into the drawing themselves. I face the fact that in all likelihood I will never see their faces again. I will probably never see any of the friendly faces from my village again; Tristan, my best friend, Emory, the foreman at the shipyard, Annie, the girl who would never leave the ocean if she could.
"Mom says you'll be on TV, Uncle Finnick," Nell tells me.
"Yeah, I suppose she's right." I give a half-hearted smile.
"You're going to the Capitol?" asks Reyna with awe.
"I am. When I return I'll tell you all about it." I promise them both. Jemma just shakes her head sadly.
"I don't really want to know why you did it. Just try and come back, okay."
"I didn't volunteer so I could lose."
Another round of hugs, and the four of them leave as quickly as they came. I am surprised when the door is opened again, and Tristan enters the office.
"You are a dead man, Finnick Odair."
"I'll miss you too," I reply sarcastically. Tristan Angler is 18 years old, a wiry athlete and fellow career. I realize as he appears in the doorway of the Justice Building's room that he had planned to volunteer today. I very well could have saved his life.
"Why did you do it?"
"No one needs me," I mutter quietly. "Besides, I'm bored of training. Maybe I want to see what the Capitol looks like. Maybe I think I can win."
"You're 14. Just a kid. I don't think anyone that young has ever won."
"Then I'll be the first." He looks at me with a pained expression. It's funny. I never realized how close Tristan and I had become until this final goodbye.
"You'd better be," he laughed hollowly, "You've stolen my chance at glory, after all." And we embraced. Clumsily at first, then closer. My life for his, and I hadn't even realized it.
I feel numb as Molly and I are lead to the Capitol's bullet train waiting on the platform. I know that before too long I'll have to face Mags and start preparing for the arena. For now I breathe in the smell of eucalyptus and sea breeze that is 4, and say one last mental goodbye.